Читать книгу The Royal House Of Karedes Collection Books 1-12 - Кейт Хьюит, Шантель Шоу - Страница 18

WHAT did a man do when he was obviously losing his sanity?

It had to be that because he sure as hell wasn’t into martyrdom, Alex thought as he paced through the dark garden. Maybe he deserved a medal. Better still, maybe he should get his head checked by a shrink because right now, right now, instead of burning with frustration, he could be bedding the woman he’d brought across an ocean for expressly that purpose.

Maria had been his. His for the taking.

And he’d walked away.

“Idiot,” he said, kicking a stone out of the path.

Walked away, and for what reason? She’d been as ready for sex as he was. She wasn’t an innocent. Nothing he’d have done would have shocked her.

Alex glared at the house where a light still burned in his bedroom window. He could be in the house, in that room in less than a minute.

Forget it.

He’d made his decision. For tonight, anyway. Going back would be an admission of weakness, never mind that he didn’t really know what in hell he meant by that, except that he knew it would be.

He needed sex, not Maria. That put things in perspective.

He was aroused. No problem. There were ways to deal with it. Phone one of the numbers programmed into his cell phone. There were half a dozen beautiful women who’d jump at the chance to spend the night with him. Or he could drive back into town. The bar at The Grand Hotel saw more than its share of gorgeous women, tourists hoping for a little adventure.

Except, he didn’t want another woman, and wasn’t that a laugh? He wanted Maria and he’d just walked away from her.

Alex kicked another stone and headed for his Ferrari.

He roared out of the gates, took the coast road at a speed that sent him flying past the few startled drivers on the road at this late hour. When he reached the point at which the already narrow, winding road grew more treacherous, he floored the gas pedal and the car careered through the turns like the thoroughbred it was.

Maybe that would burn away the hunger thrumming through his blood.

It didn’t.

Two hours later, he pulled through the gates of the mansion again and skidded to a stop with Maria still in his head. Images. Memories. Tastes and scents, all of them conspiring against him. The softness of her skin. The honey of her mouth. The texture of her uptilted nipples on his tongue. The scent of her desire.

She was there, in his brain, and nothing could dislodge her.

Well, yeah. One thing could.

His body hardened like a fist.

Having her would do it. Stripping off her clothes. Baring her body to his eyes. To his hands. His mouth. Clasping her wrists, holding them high over her head so she had no choice but to let him touch her everywhere until she wept with wanting him.

Then he’d sink into her. Deep, deep into her. He’d move inside her until she screamed his name, until she came and came and came…

A growl of anger, of desire, of something close to lunacy rose in his throat. He crossed his hands on the steering wheel and slammed his forehead against them. After a few minutes, he stepped from the car and entered the house.

It was quiet. Dark. The furniture cast ominous black shadows against the walls.

Alex’s mouth thinned as he stood in the entry foyer and stared up at the second floor landing.

He was no knight in shining armor. He was a man who had grown up in a world of privilege, a man who could have what he wanted when he wanted it. Especially women. The more beautiful they were, the more famous, the more they threw themselves at his feet. They begged for his possession. Preened to ready themselves for his taking, not like Maria who asked nothing of him and had packed a suitcase full of jeans to wear in her role as his mistress.

She looked beautiful in jeans.

And in that dress tonight, those sexy shoes, stuff he’d ordered over the phone just figuring anything the color of emeralds would be perfect against her dark hair and eyes…

When she’d opened that door, when he saw her… God, he’d wanted to push her back inside the room, tumble her on the bed, make love to her until she had no choice but to admit she’d dreamed of this, ached for this, that she wanted him, only him…

He swung away from the staircase, marched through the silent house to his study, poured himself a shot of brandy, slugged it down and did what he’d been doing hours ago in the garden, paced and paced and paced.

A sto diavolo! The hell with it! He was weary of the game. It was time to end it.

He took the stairs two at a time, went down the hall, stopped before the door to his bedroom, raised his fist to knock… Knock? At his own damned door? Bad enough he’d showered and dressed in his study, that he’d spent the last couple of hours driving aimlessly through the night. He cursed, ripely and creatively, grabbed the knob and turned it, ready to break the damned door down if he had to.

It opened easily.

Maria wasn’t there. The emerald dress was crumpled on a chair, the black stilettos were on the floor next to it.

The bed was untouched.

His anger vanished. Fear took its place. Where was she? Had she left? Not likely. She’d have had to phone for a taxi, and a cab would not have been able to clear the gates without alerting Security.

What, then? Had she gone for a walk? Alex’s mouth tightened. She wouldn’t have done that, would she? Not at night. Not when she didn’t know the complex layout of the gardens, the density of the surrounding trees.

The way some of the pathways ended at vistas at the very edge of the cliff.

No, he thought, forcing aside the ugly possibility. If she were wandering the grounds, motion detectors would have picked her up. Then where …?

The guesthouse!

Alex pounded down the stairs and out the door, walking fast, running, really, his anger back and hotter than ever. Did she think she could escape him? That he’d let her sleep there rather than in his bed, where she belonged? Yes. There was a faint light shining in the guesthouse window.

“Damn it, Maria,” he growled as he flung open the door, “if you think I’m going to go on being a Boy Scout …”

The furious words died on his tongue.

She was huddled in a window seat, illuminated by the flickering glow of candlelight. She wore jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, her feet were tucked up under her and when she heard his voice, she swung toward him, face pale, eyes huge and stricken and glittering with tears.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a broken whisper. “I’m sorry for everything, Alexandros. I should never have come here. I know what I agreed to but I can’t do it, I can’t, I can’t.”

By then, he’d crossed the space between them and gathered her into his arms.

“Don’t,” she said.

He ignored the plea, whispered to her in Greek the way he might have whispered to a terrified child. He stroked her hair, rocked her against him and she began to sob.

“I know I agreed to—to be your mistress, but I can’t do it. Even if it means losing the commission. I can’t. I can’t. I really thought I could but—”

“No. Of course, you can’t.” He drew her into his lap. “Shh, glyka mou. I won’t hurt you. I could never hurt you. Please, don’t cry.”

“I didn’t know who you were that night, Alexandros. I swear it. I went with you because—because… I can’t explain it. I’d never done anything like that before. I’d never even—I’d never even—” She drew a ragged breath. “I know you won’t believe me but—but I’d never been with a man before.”

Ah, dear Lord!

The sweet, sad little confession made him feel like a bastard—and filled him with joy. He did believe her; the truth was, he’d known it, deep within himself, all along. His beautiful Maria had given him her innocence. Hell, he had taken it from her. And, of course, she had not known who he was.

She was incapable of that kind of subterfuge.

Why hadn’t he believed her? How could he have been so stupid? How could he have judged her by what he knew of other women, the ones who’d tried to trap him with their lies? There had been so many of them, starting with the Greek girl who’d broken his heart when they’d both been kids. He’d been sure he loved her and when she wept and trembled and told him he’d stolen her virginity, he’d been ready to marry her—until he’d caught her laughing with her friends at his gullibility. The Italian debutante who said she’d die in sin if he didn’t take her as his wife, except it turned out she’d already slept with half the young princes in Europe. The German supermodel who’d accused him of making her pregnant. Wiser than in the past, he’d demanded a paternity test—and had not heard from her again.

But Maria was nothing like that. She was—she was Maria, sweet and smart and brave, and he’d put her through hell.

“I’ll recommend someone good, someone excellent to take my place making the necklace,” she said in a low voice. “You can let him use my design—I owe your mother that—but—”

Alex stopped the flow of words with a soft kiss.

“You owe no one anything, glyka mou. And why would I let someone take your place?” Smiling, he thumbed a strand of dark hair from her brow. “There is no one who could replace you, sweetheart. Like your design, you are one of a kind.”

“But I just told you, I can’t—”

“Maria.” He framed her face with his hands. “I’m setting you free of our agreement. You’ll stay here, create a necklace the entire world will admire—but not because we’ve made love.” He took a deep breath. “I want you, kardia mou. I want you so much it hurts. But I would never take something you would not willingly give.” His mouth twisted. “I did that to you once, and I will never forgive myself for—”

She put her fingers lightly over his mouth.

“I gave myself to you that night, Alex. I wanted you.” She swallowed, ran the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip. “I want you now.”

Could a woman’s soft words make the universe tilt? “Sweetheart. Do you know what you’re saying?”

She gave a watery little laugh. “I know exactly what I’m saying. That’s why I can’t stay here. I want you, despite what you think of me, and isn’t that terrible? To admit something that—that strips me of what little pride I have left—”

He kissed her. “Hush,” he whispered.

“It’s the truth. If I had any pride, I wouldn’t have come to Aristo with you. I wouldn’t have said I’d sleep with you. Because—because it wasn’t only the commission, Alex, it was being with you …”

He kissed her again. He meant the kiss to be gentle and that was how it began but somehow her lips parted under his. The tip of her tongue slipped into his mouth. And when she wound her arms around his neck and dragged his face down to hers, he reached blindly for one final bit of sanity.

“Maria,” he said against her mouth, “sweetheart, be sure. Be very sure—”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

Alex groaned, swept her into his arms and carried her through the moonlight to the bed.

This bed was not like his.

It was smaller. Simpler. It had been made from a centuries-old olive tree and was covered in white cotton loomed in a nearby village. It had an intrinsic, natural beauty all its own.

It was, Alex thought as he lay Maria across it, beautiful in the same way as she, with a quiet strength and an elegance that came from within.

“Alexandros,” she sighed, and raised her arms to him.

He went into her embrace and kissed her.

Two months ago, a lifetime ago, they had made love fiercely. He had all but torn off her clothes in his frenzy to bury himself inside her.

That had been sex.

Now… now, it was something more.

He kissed her again and again, until her lips were as soft as rose petals and clung hungrily to his. He framed her face, threaded his fingers into her hair, kissed her throat, nipped at the tender flesh at the juncture of neck and shoulder and when she moaned with pleasure, he could have sworn he felt his heart lift in his chest.

Slowly, he sat her up. Drew her sweatshirt over her head and discovered, to his delight, that she wore nothing beneath it or the jeans that he tossed aside.

Naked, she was a moon-kissed offering to the gods.

Beautiful. Perfect. Exquisitely feminine.

Slowly, so slowly, his eyes on hers, he stroked the contours of her body. Her breasts. Her belly. Her thighs. She sighed and moaned and made the kinds of little sounds that told him, as much as the sensual lift of her hips, that what he was doing pleased her.

Still, he had to ask.

“Do you like this?” he whispered, sucking a beaded nipple deep into the heat of his mouth. “This?” he said, kissing his way from breast to belly. “This?” he said softly, dropping a kiss on the soft curls at the juncture of her thighs.

“Alexandros,” she said, “oh God, Alexandras …”

Gently, he parted her thighs. Put his hands under her bottom. Lifted her to him, put his mouth to the delicate cleft of her flesh, found her with his mouth, his tongue, and her scream of joy shattered the night.

It was almost too much for him.

He was so close to the edge. All these weeks of wanting her. And, though it seemed crazy, all the years of wanting her, as well.

“Alexandros,” she whispered, and he kissed her mouth, her throat and knew that he, like Paris when he stole Helen centuries before, had not been able to obey the rules of the civilized world. This was what he had wanted, this woman, this lover, and he had done whatever it took to have her.

He would have given everything for this, the honeyed taste of her mouth. This, the sweetness of her nipples. This, the indentation of her navel. This, the curve of her hips.

This, he thought, just this, holding her, tasting her, watching her face as he caressed her. As he again parted the delicate petals that protected her clitoris.

He kissed her there again. Licked her until she came again. This time, when she cried out, she reached for him.

“Please, Alexandros,” she said, “please. Come into me.”

Quickly, he tore off his clothes. Came back to her, swore, reached for his discarded jacket, dug into the inside pocket and prayed he’d find a condom. He did, and he tore the little packet open, rolled the condom on. He’d forgotten to use one the first time he’d made love to her; he’d been too hungry, too out of control.

He was almost out of control now. That was what happened to him, when he was with her.

He moved up her body, took her in his arms, kissed her, let her taste the proof of their passion in his kiss. Her hands were on him now, cool against his skin. She stroked her palms along his shoulders, his chest, down his belly and when one hand moved lower and almost closed around his hard length, his breath hissed between his teeth.

“Maria,” he said in a warning whisper. “Maria, glyka mou …”

She caressed him anyway, her hand moving, moving up and down over his swollen sex, and he groaned, caught her hand and stilled it and knew he could wait no longer.

“Look at me, agapi mou. Watch me as I make you mine.”

Her lashes lifted. Her eyes met his. He clasped both her hands. Laced their fingers together. Held their hands to the sides and thrust into her.

She came instantly, her body arching to his, her cries of abandon rising into the night and still he eased forward. Deeper. Deeper until there was no way to know where he began and she ended, until their flesh, their souls, were one.

“Maria,” he said, “Maria, kardia mou, agapi mou …”

She wept and kissed his mouth, and as the muscles of her womb contracted rhythmically around him, Alexandros threw back his head and emptied himself into the sweet warmth of the woman who now belonged to him.

To me, he thought fiercely. Only to me.