Читать книгу Captured and Crowned - Janette Kenny, Janette Kenny - Страница 7

“THAT’S barbaric,” she said.

“It’s business. Your betrothal contract states you will marry the Crown Prince of Angyra, or her King if he has already ascended the throne.”

She frowned, her face leeching of color, her eyes mirroring her disbelief. Or perhaps it was shock. Perhaps she was as unaware of the exact terms as he’d been.

Not that it mattered. Duty trapped them in this together.

“It’s not more specific than that?” she asked, her voice strained now.

He shook his head. “No name is mentioned. You are marrying the title, not the man.”

“My God, how cold.”

“As I said—it is business.”

Though in truth his baser needs were just as demanding as any legality. Just as vexing right now.

It had been a year since Kristo had seen Demetria, and his memory didn’t do the lady justice. She was beautiful in a classic sense that called to something deep inside him—something that he refused to acknowledge.

But more troubling was the intense desire that gripped him. Even after a year he could clearly remember the weight of her breasts in his hands, the taste of her skin on his tongue, the sense of triumph that had flooded him when he’d brought her to climax.

And if he allowed himself to admit it there had been a moment of shared tranquility when they’d watched the turtles nesting. He’d never revealed that side of himself to a woman before. He’d never experienced that sense of rightness that had come over him as he’d held her close.

To think he’d done so with a woman who was betraying his brother!

He hated her with the same intensity he desired her, and the combination was wreaking havoc on his senses. How could he marry this woman? How could he ever trust her?

Kristo didn’t know, and his fierce attraction only complicated things. He was disgusted with himself for dreaming of the moment when he could claim those full lips again, when he could caress her skin that felt like silk.

Just like the day he’d met her on the beach, her black hair fell loose to her waist in thick curls, free and wild as her soul. Her skin was the palest olive, and looked as if it had never been kissed by the sun.

But it was her eyes that took his breath away. They were dark, yet held a patina that rivaled the finest nuggets of Rhoda gold. And they were wary and assessing him with cool regard.

She hadn’t burst into tears when he’d told her of her fate. She hadn’t begged him to forgive her or let her go.

No, she’d countered with a strong defiance of her own. And that only made him want her more, for he found her inner strength as attractive as her beauty.

Yet what good did their desire do them? He despised her for betraying his brother, and she hated him for forcing her to honor her betrothal contract. As if he had a choice!

“If the wedding is over a week away, then why must I return to Angyra now?” she asked.

Because he wanted her close by. He wanted to watch her. Touch her. Capture her lips with his and silence her protests for once and for all.

He just caught himself from tossing out that paternal wave that was coming far too naturally. “There is much unrest with the people over the King’s death and now Gregor’s abdication. They need to see that we are a united front. That they will soon have a King and Queen leading their country again. That Angyra will be stable.”

And, as his advisors had suggested, his own status among the people was tarnished from his loose lifestyle. They saw him as the wastrel son. The playboy who chose to party over duty.

As for Demetria—they loved her. She was the fairy princess they’d watched grow up. They’d waited for the day she would become their beautiful young Queen.

They didn’t know the truth about her—that she was a beguiling tease. A flirt. Thank God it had been him she’d met on the beach that day!

Just thinking of her doing the same with another man filled him with rage. Had she made a practice of this?

“I assume you’ve discussed this with my father?” she said at last, sounding resigned. Defeated.

“Yes. He is aware I am bringing you to Angyra,” he said.

“He’ll join me there, then?”

“No. Your father is invited to the palace the day before the wedding,” he said.

Her eyes rounded. “I’ll be there alone with you?”

“Come, now. We’ve already shared an intimacy.”

“To my shame,” she whispered.

“Was it, Demetria?”

Her lips parted the slightest bit, just as full and inviting as they’d been that day. He wanted her still. In truth his desire for her had not ebbed in the least.

“Now, tell me why I found you in a draper’s shop when your father told me you were off shopping for your trousseau.”

Her cheeks turned a charming pink—proof he’d caught her in a lie. “If you must know, I was buying cloth for my design partner. The Athens fashion show is in two weeks, and it was to be my debut in the design world.”

He stared at her, unsure what to say to that surprising news. “Your father allowed you to hold a job?”

“It’s a career. And, yes, my partner and I have designed clothes for the past year and a half.”

“Was Gregor aware of this?”

“He was, and he advised me a year ago that it must end when I became Queen.”

“But of course. The very idea is ludicrous. The Queen of Angyra would never hold a job.”

“Career,” she countered, in the breath of a whisper. And yet he heard the defiance in that singular word.

That explained why she was in Istanbul shopping for fabric. She was bent on living her life as a designer up until the eleventh hour, when she’d be forced to marry.

“If there is any way we can put the wedding off until after the Athens show—” she said.

“Absolutely not. The marriage must proceed as planned.”

The pleasure he’d thought to gain from besting her eluded him. Not that feelings had any place in duty. He was honor-bound to take up the reins his brother had relinquished.

“Your role is to be my faithful wife and mother to my heirs,” he said, putting emphasis on the importance of fidelity while fighting the overwhelming urge to take her in his arms and remind her that they had been very good together one stolen afternoon.

The contradictions she dredged up in him made no sense. He hated this off-balance feeling that gripped him when he was with her, for he didn’t know what to do that would make him feel steady again.

At least he wasn’t the only one afflicted with uncertainty. He saw her throat work. Saw worry and fear flicker in her eyes.

“You don’t love me,” she said, shocking the hell out of him with that statement. “You don’t even like me.”

No, but he desired her more than he’d ever desired a woman. “Our bond is about duty, Demetria. Duty to your family and my country.”

“I know that,” she said, in a voice heavy with resignation.

She fidgeted with the package she’d bought and bit her lower lip, and he was reminded again of doing the same to her on that sun-kissed slab of rock.

“Would you at least allow me to design my wedding gown? I intended to broach the subject to Gregor at our next visit, but the King’s death has set things in motion far too quickly.”

“Your gown has already been commissioned,” he said. “Gregor obviously saw to it right after the King’s demise.

Though Kristo wouldn’t have known it if the lavish gown hadn’t arrived just before he’d left the palace to fetch her. He’d had it placed in the suite he’d reserved for her. The suite adjoining his own.

It made sense that she get accustomed to her apartments now. To his as well?

The thought had crossed his mind more often than he cared to admit since he’d made the decision to bring her to the palace nearly two weeks before the wedding.

“But I wasn’t consulted at all,” she said, her voice rising in clear annoyance at his brother’s actions.

He was not surprised, for he knew that while women adored lavish gifts of jewels, they could be extremely prickly about choosing their own clothes for special occasions. And nothing could possibly be more special than a royal wedding!

In this regard Gregor was exactly like their father—both experts at orchestrating their lives as well as those around them. Hadn’t his brother done much the same with Kristo? Waiting until he’d deemed the time was right to step down from the throne without consulting him? Without alerting him of his duty to claim the crown and the woman?

“Please,” she said, and the imploring quaver in her voice drew his gaze back to her. The longing in her beguiling eyes moved him more than he would ever admit, for to do so was weakness on his part. “Allow me this one concession.”

Of course one request would lead to another, and another…

He shook his head, thinking it was incomprehensible for the future Queen to make her own clothes, let alone design them. What manner of woman was Demetria? What other secrets was she hiding from him?

“I’ll think about it,” he said as they reached the airport.

In moments they’d climbed into the tram that would deliver them to his private plane. Again she hesitated before choosing a seat, but his guards decided it for her by placing her between them.

A logical choice to hem her in—so why did he resent being denied her company? He should be glad he was being spared further requests that might pop into her head.

He slammed onto the forward seat beside his chief bodyguard Vasos, vexed with himself for softening toward her. When he was in her company it was far too easy to forget that she’d been unfaithful to Gregor. That given the chance she’d likely betray him as well.

That was what he must bear in mind all the time. She was not to be trusted. Not to be pampered one bit.

He certainly needed to know more about this partner of hers. Needed to know what she’d been doing the past year.

As for bringing Demetria to Angyra? He was asserting his power over her because he could. Because he’d thought of her too much in the past year. Because he wanted her where he could watch her, touch her, kiss her if he so desired.

She was his now. Nothing could stop him from taking her.

Despite her reluctance to return here, Demi thought the island was still breathtaking. A true emerald set amid an azure sea.

But the arrogant man sitting too close beside her was a torment she could live without—especially now, when she struggled to control her emotions around him.

Drawing a decent breath had become a battle, for she pulled his scent deep into her lungs, into her senses. Her skin tingled and an unwanted ache pulsed low in her belly.

As the limo whipped along the serpentine road up the mountain to the palace, she hoped that this time alone together would give them the opportunity to get to know one another on more than an intimate level. Perhaps they’d somehow find a common ground on which to build their future.

Thus far her future revolved around duty to the crown. Marriage. Producing the royal heir as well as other children.

If there was any affection to be had, her life wouldn’t loom so grimly. But Kristo didn’t even like her. In fact he resented her for surrendering to him one year ago.

There was nothing she could do to change that fact. Nothing.

The drive to the palace was thankfully short. In a frantic effort to put him from her thoughts, she took in the pastoral beauty of the grounds as the car sped up the curved drive. But instead of stopping at the guesthouse, where her family had always stayed during their annual visits, the car continued on toward the house.

“Won’t I be given my usual room?” she asked, heart racing more the closer they drew to the massive palace perched on the bluff.

“I’ve had a suite prepared for you in the palace.”

“Why?”

“There is no reason for you to move twice. Besides, it is a matter of security.”

Security? No, it was a matter of keeping her under lock and key. Of bending her to his will even before they married.

In the guesthouse she’d have been able to sit by the pool. Enjoy the sauna. Or lounge on the terrace and watch the ships ride the azure sea. She could have taken a walk to the beach and lost herself in thought.

But protesting would get her nowhere. In fact, if she was biddable on this count he might relent on what she really wanted to do. Make her own gown.

So she planted a serene smile on her face as the car stopped on the private terrace at the side of the palace.

Kristo untangled his long legs and got out first, and Demi drew her first decent breath of air. But her reprieve was short-lived.

Though the chauffeur opened the door with a smile, it was Kristo who extended his hand to her. He wasn’t smiling!

In fact he looked as if he could eat her whole and spit her bones into the sea. Well, in this they agreed. But there was nothing they could do about it.

She swung her legs out the door and laid her hand in his. His fingers closed over hers, sending a rush of nervous energy charging through her. But it was the naked hunger in his eyes as he stared at her bared legs that struck fire to the sensual tinder banked within her.

“Beautiful,” he said, his voice a rich rumble of sound as he helped her from the car.

Her body warmed to his. Swayed toward him. She felt the power of the man charge through her, tearing down her resistance just as he had before, on that beach.

And that memory was just what she needed to jerk her hand from his and break the spell. “Thank you,” she said, her tone too breathy.

He wanted her because she’d been groomed for this. Because her father had made this arrangement long ago. Because her bloodline was that of the old Greeks who had fought and died for their country.

The palace was as she remembered it from those stiff formal dinners she and her family had endured with the King and Gregor. Jasmine and bougainvillea covered the open-air corridor leading to the door, their mixed scent designed to soothe the senses.

But she was too stressed to appreciate the beauty that greeted her.

She walked down the vast hall paneled in exquisite white marble veined with purple. The cypress floors soon gave way to the thickest Kirman carpet. Chandeliers of glittering crystal hung suspended from twenty-foot-high domes.

Gold ornaments, embellishments and wall escutcheons gleamed a rich rosy hue. But for all its grandeur there was no warmth here.

She remembered that about the palace right away, and wondered if the young princes had ever played here. Had their laughter echoed through the vast chambers? Had they even laughed as children?

Looking at the tall, solemn man walking beside her, she couldn’t imagine it. The only time that she recalled any levity here was on the one occasion when she’d met the youngest son, Prince Mikhael.

There certainly hadn’t been any humor on her last journey here, when she’d met Kristo. No, only raging passion followed by towering anger when she came to dinner that night and realized the stranger’s identity.

At that pregnant moment she’d been sure that he would tell Gregor and her father what they’d done on that beach. She’d almost hoped that he would, for that would surely have broken the betrothal agreement.

She would have been free of this obligation she’d never wanted. But Kristo had never said a word. Neither had she, for she had feared what her father would do to her and her sister if she messed up the opportunity that would surely enrich his life.

Then too she didn’t want to follow in her mother’s footsteps and be the daughter of scandal. That had only made her last trip more fraught with anxiety.

She’d expected Kristo would tell his brother in private. So why hadn’t he? Why had he held their tryst in secret?

Those questions needled her now as he escorted her for what seemed like miles through the palace. Finally Kristo threw open double doors and motioned her inside a room. She stepped into a large suite that was thankfully modern—with the exception of its high ceilings and grand size.

The moment he closed the door and secured their privacy she was very much aware of him as a man. If only he’d smile. If only he’d show more than a glimpse of the man she’d met that day.

Her gaze flicked from his tense expression to the room. The sumptuous sofa and overstuffed chairs lost her interest as she focused on the wedding gown that had clearly been commissioned for her. It was glaringly white, and traditional in the extreme, laden with flounces and heavy beading.

She hated it on first sight. “You can’t expect me to wear that hideous gown.”

He said nothing for the longest time, but his brow furrowed the longer he stared at it. “It doesn’t look that bad to me.”

“Then perhaps you should wear it.”

His lips twitched in the barest of smiles. “I’ll stick with a tuxedo.”

“I’d prefer that over this,” she said.

“Don’t think you can sway me with this petulant display.”

She heaved a sigh, fists bunched at her sides. “Please, let me sketch the gown I have in mind. You can judge for yourself which one I should wear.”

He tipped his head back and stared at her. “You’re that sure of your ability to convince me?”

“I’m positive that what I design will be far superior to this stark white monstrosity.”

Kristo strode to the gown and fingered the stiff overskirt. “Very well. Make a list of what you need and I will see it is delivered today. But understand that the final decision on what you wear rests with me.”

Arrogantly put, and surely not a surprise. The Stanrakis men were noted for their draconian ways.

She walked straight away to the desk, and found paper and a pen. In moments she’d listed the equipment needed: sewing machine, serger, various dressmaker supplies and a dress form.

“I’ll need to choose the fabric myself,” she said, handing him the list and being careful not to touch him this time.

He eyed her as he might a rare bug on the wall. “You expect me to allow you to go on a shopping jaunt?”

“Yes.” She’d been hopeful that her name would have started to be well-known in the world of haute couture before she was forced to take up her duty and marry Gregor. “When I was at the draper’s in Istanbul yesterday, I happened on a wonderful silk.”

“If it was so wonderful, why didn’t you purchase it then?”

“Because I was busy getting ready for the show.” She stopped and shook her head, for since the King had died her life had been a whirlwind of change.

He stared at the gown for a long solemn moment, the beautifully chiseled lines of his face revealing no emotion. She fidgeted with her hands, uncertain what else she could say to convince that this froth of satin, lace and beads was all wrong for her.

“How long will it take you to make this design of yours?” he asked, neither agreeing with her request or denying it.

“A week at the most.”

“Do you always work that fast?”

“Most of the time.” And often late into the night, losing time as she became engrossed in a project. “One more thing. All of my clothes and personal belongings are at my flat in Athens. I need to have my partner send them here.”

He stroked the arrogant line of his jaw and stared at her so long she felt sweat dot her forehead and dampen the undersides of her breasts. “Very well. Phone your partner and have your things readied,” he said. “A courier will pick them up this afternoon and deliver them here by tonight.”

She smiled and retrieved her phone from her bag, too excited over being allowed to make her gown to feel annoyance that he listened to her every word.

With her call ended, she slid her phone on the table and jotted down the address to her flat. She handed that to him with a grateful smile. “Thank you. You won’t regret it.”

“Come now—you can do better than that,” he said.

She felt the sudden change in him as he strode toward her with predatory intent, as if she’d just issued a challenge he couldn’t refuse.

“What do you mean?” She backed up, suddenly desperate to keep him at arm’s reach when her body ached to do the opposite.

“I’ve just granted you your wish. This concession certainly deserves more than a mere thank-you.”

Her backside hit the wall and slammed a startled squeak from her. But he didn’t stop advancing until he was inches from her, so close her body burned from the heat radiating off his.

Any coherent thought she might have had vanished. All she could think of was how much she wanted him to kiss her. Hold her. Love her?

The intensity in his gaze changed, sparking a new emotion in his eyes. Before she could read its meaning he reached out and sifted his fingers through her hair, from the scalp to the ends that reached nearly to her waist.

“Your hair is like dark rich coffee, and holds highlights of the deepest sea and midnight sun, yet against the white it simply looks black.”

She froze in place, the gentle pull on her scalp tugging at emotions she kept carefully hidden. Yet she couldn’t deny the thread of energy that passed from him to her, tightening to draw her closer.

She tried to push him away, both palms on his chest, refusing to allow that to happen. But touching him was the wrong thing to do too.

For now she felt the beat of his heart, strong and sure, beneath her hand. The solid wall of his chest was as unyielding as the man, yet so hot that her own skin began to heat.

Sensual fire blazed in his dark eyes and her lungs felt scorched, too tight to draw breath. She burned in other places too, and a silent gathering of moisture between her thighs and the tightening of her core muscles proved her body responded on its own to his potent virility.

She hated him for waking her needs with just a look, for making her want him. Crave his touch.

Before she could think of a pithy retort to end this madness, he smiled at her. Any hint of cruelty was gone, replaced by something that took her breath away, something that reminded her of the carefree man she’d first met.

It was really nothing more than a slight curling of his sensuous lips, a knowing smirk like the gods had bestowed upon women. A telling look that told her he was well aware of just how much he affected her, that let her know he was in control, that he could tempt her to do more if he wished.

The puppeteer pulling the strings on the marionette.

Yet she couldn’t find the energy or the anger to do more than drop her hands from his chest.

It was enough for her to make a stand, to lift her chin in silent defiance. But her body defied her again, for her breasts felt heavier, straining toward him, the nipples unbearably tight and aching.

“So soft,” he said, grazing her lower lip with his thumb until it was full and tingling. His fingers skimmed down the curve of her jaw, stirring the fire of desire in her. “The sun has kissed your skin just enough to make it glow.”

Was that a compliment? Even if it was praising her in a good way, she didn’t care.

He splayed one hand on the wall by her head, while his thumb continued its meandering path down her neck to rest on the upper swells of her breasts. A pulse pounded in her throat and between her thighs, leaving her tingling with want. With a need so great she could barely draw a breath.

“You are lovely beyond words,” he said, his voice dropping to a crushed-velvet baritone that strummed her taut nerves in an erotic melody.

Demi managed a smile, and knew anything more would be a struggle. It had been a year since he’d held her prisoner by a smoldering look. She hadn’t been able to break free then. She didn’t think she could now. She didn’t know if she even wanted to try.

But she couldn’t stand here either, and let him stroke her neck and her arm and the heaving upper swells of her bosom. She couldn’t let him make love to her with his eyes when he held her in such contempt in his heart.

She grasped his thick wrists and tried to tug his hands from her. “Please. Don’t do this.”

“Why, when it is something we both take pleasure in?” His palms cupped her breasts with a familiarity that shocked her, that brought to aching life all the feelings she’d held deep in the night.

Her hands slid up his muscular arms to find purchase in the hard muscles as he weighed each one, before his hands bracketed her torso, flinging her back to that day on the beach when she’d granted a stranger far too much liberty because she’d been powerless to stop herself. Because she’d been so hungry for love.

But where she’d lacked the strength of will then, pride gave her a modicum of strength now.

“Stop it,” she said, trying to push his hands from her and failing, humiliated he could make her want him so badly that she’d let him have his way with her.

Kristo ignored her protests and continued his exploration. “You have lost weight.”

It angered her that he could tell the differences in her from before. Infuriated her that her body ached to sway into his.

His hands slid to her waist and her fingers closed over his, trying to stop him, trying not to feel anything but hatred and anger that he was putting her through this torment.

“I’ve worked long hard hours of late, in preparation for the Athens show.” Time and energy wasted now, for she wouldn’t be allowed to participate in it. “Something a royal would know nothing of.”

His palms cupped her bottom and pulled her flush against his length. “Are you insinuating that I live a life of leisure? Because I can assure you that I too put in long hard hours working.”

Her breath caught, for the hard length of his desire was pressed against her belly. His arousal should disgust her, but her body melted and bowed into him, wanting him.

“Yes, I’ve seen pictures of you in the tabloids, hard at work for Angyra,” she said, her chin lifted in defiance.

Each time she’d seen him linked with a new woman she’d been bitten with unwanted jealousy. On its heels had always come anger for allowing herself to be seduced by him in the first place.

The sensual mouth that had curled into a mesmerizing smile now pulled into a hard line. She knew she’d struck a nerve, and clearly one that was raw.

He pushed away from her so quickly that she stumbled to catch her balance, but he didn’t notice. He was already halfway to the door.

“As I said, the wedding takes place in twelve days,” he said.

“I’ll have the gown finished in one week.”

He paused at the door and glanced back at her. “I will approve the design before you begin, understand?”

She bobbed her head. “Of course.”

He gave her another exacting perusal that had her skin tingling with awareness again. “I will send a servant up to assist you.”

“I’d prefer my own assistants.”

Again that slash of white teeth against dark skin, the cocky smile of a shark who had his quarry cornered. Or so he thought.

“I am sure that you would,” he said. “But you will have to make do with what I provide for you.”

Without waiting to see if she’d argue or concede, he swept from the room and closed the door in his wake. Such arrogance!

How would she ever cope with this man? Being with him rattled her senses so much she’d forgotten to tell Yannis everything that she’d need.

She reached for her phone—but it wasn’t there. How odd. She’d finished talking to Yannis and laid it there. She hadn’t touched it again the entire time Kristo had been in her room.

Kristo! He must have taken it.

She ran to the door he’d just left by, intending to go after him. The unmistakable click of the lock froze her in place. He’d locked her in. And that drove home the fact that she wasn’t simply the bride-to-be. She was a prisoner—not just in the palace but in this room.

Kristo was firmly in control of her. He was smug in his belief that she could do nothing but blindly follow his orders, that she’d melt at his touch.

And to her shame she had—every time. She’d never lost control around any man but him. Though she’d believed it had been a fluke, that she’d resist him if ever they met again, she now knew that wasn’t true.

Her face flamed with anger and embarrassment. How could one man make her toss aside her convictions? How could he make her want him when she hated the very air he breathed?

“Damn you!” she screamed, venting the anger inside her.

But it wasn’t enough.

So, because she could, because he’d left her no other recourse after treating her like a dockside trollop being passed from one brother to the next, she crossed to the lavish gown that had been made for her.