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Captured and Crowned
Janette Kenny


The arrogant King’s untouched brideDemetria Andreou has only a few hours of freedom left! Playboy Prince Kristo Stanrakis must take his brother’s place as King of Angyra – and he’s planning to take Demetria, his brother’s fiancée, for his queen. Only Kristo realises innocent Demetria was his for the taking a year ago – when, as strangers, they nearly made love on sun-baked white sands.The arrogant King’s contempt for his reluctant bride is only matched by his burning desire to finish what they started…







She was never to be trusted, and yet the thought of her in his brother’s arms had enraged him.

Except now she was in his arms. Now she was his.



There was no reason to keep her at arm’s length any longer. He wanted her. He’d have her.



He ripped out a rough growl and tightened his hold on her, and the throb of her own desire pulsed through him as well.



“No,” she breathed, eyes huge and shadowed with a clear understanding of just what erotically dangerous emotion she’d awakened by baiting him.



“Yes,” he rasped, on fire for her.



A heartbeat later his mouth claimed hers in a kiss that was long and lusty and sizzling with all the emotions he’d held in check. Always he held back with women.



Except with her.





Captured and Crowned


By




Janette Kenny











www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




About the Author


For as long as JANETTE KENNY can remember, plots and characters have taken up residence in her head. Her parents, both voracious readers, read her the classics when she was a child. That gave birth to a deep love for literature, and allowed her to travel to exotic locales—those found between the covers of books. Janette’s artist mother encouraged her yen to write. As an adolescent she began creating cartoons featuring her dad as the hero, with plots that focused on the misadventures on their family farm, and she stuffed them in the nightly newspaper for him to find. To her frustration, her sketches paled in comparison with her captions.

Her first real writing began with fan fiction, taking favourite TV shows and writing episodes and endings she loved—happily ever after, of course. In her junior year of high school she told her literature teacher she intended to write for a living one day. His advice? Pursue the dream, but don’t quit the day-job.



Though she dabbled with articles, she didn’t fully embrace her dream to write novels until years later, when she was a busy cosmetologist making a name for herself in her own salon. That was when she decided to write the type of stories she’d been reading—romances.



Once the writing bug bit, an incurable passion consumed her to create stories and people them. Still, it was seven more years and that many novels before she saw her first historical romance published. Now that she’s also writing contemporary romances for Mills & Boon, she finally knows that a full-time career in writing is closer to reality.



Janette shares her home and free time with a chow-shepherd mix pup she rescued from the pound, who aspires to be a lap dog. She invites you to visit her website at www.jankenny.com She loves to hear from readers—e-mail her at janette@jankenny.com




Prologue


“I DON’T want to marry the Crown Prince, Papa.”

It had taken Demetria Andreou two days to work up the courage to say that to her father. She’d waited until Sandros Andreou was relaxing by the pool by the palace guesthouse, with plates of meze and a bottle of ouzo before him. She’d waited until she was sure there was no hope that the relationship would miraculously change between her and her fiancé.

Now, as she watched the olive tinge of her father’s skin take on an ugly ruddy hue, she knew his anger was about to explode. And her insides seized up—for his rage was a terrible thing to witness.

“I care little about what you want,” her father said. “The King of Angyra selected you to be the Crown Prince’s wife when you were twelve years old. It’s an honor! A duty to your family and your country!”

It was also a boon to Sandros Andreou, for being the father of the Queen would elevate his status.

“But I don’t love him, and he certainly doesn’t hold me in any affection.”

“Love!” Her father spat the word out as if it were a curse. “Foolish girl! By the time you are twenty-three years old you’ll be the Queen of your own kingdom. Young, rich beyond measure, and never having to want for anything.”

Anything but love. Anything but the freedom to do what she wished to do with her life. Like her dream to design clothes. But her father wouldn’t understand that.

Neither had Crown Prince Gregor, when she’d broached the subject to him last night over their annual night on the town, which was meant to show him and his young fiancée having fun. A façade—a pretense of what a normal affianced couple in love would do.

He had merely shrugged and said she was free to pursue it now, but after they were married such a career would be frowned upon. However, he would consider her request to embark on it as a hobby when the time came for such decisions.

She’d known then that arguing the finer points would be useless. She knew that her life as Queen would be lonely. Cold. Miserable.

Surely she wasn’t the only woman who’d be suitable as the Queen of Angyra! Surely the Crown Prince could find favor with another woman.

“Perhaps if you spoke with the King this evening he’d reconsider…”

“No! That is out of the question,” her father said, the underlying threat in his voice chilling her to the bone. “You will marry Crown Prince Gregor Stanrakis one year from today, as your King demands. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Father.”

But moments later her heart ached for what would be her very brief career as she took the well-tended path from the palace guesthouse to the equally private beach.

The austere King and her domineering papa had planned her future for her. At least she had a year to make a name for herself in the design world, to follow her dream if only briefly.

For ten years Sandros Andreou had brought his family to the island kingdom of Angyra as guests of the Royal House of Stanrakis. It was an enchanted place, where the sea sparkled like blue topaz against white sand beaches.

Frangipani and bougainvillea bloomed in profusion, perfuming the air with their sweet spice. Lush stands of olive and cypress covered the rugged mountains that rose majestically against a cloudless sky.

This was old world. Life moved at a slower pace here. The people openly adored their King and Queen. Already they regarded Demetria with open affection.

Her future had loomed as a fairy tale to her when she was young, with the paparazzi snapping photos of her and the handsome Crown Prince on their yearly “date.” But now she knew better.

Crown Prince Gregor had only given her a sad smile when she’d brought her worries up to him. “Royalty must marry for duty, not love. That is the way it has always been. I’ll be kind to you. All I demand in return is your fidelity until you have given me heirs.”

The fact that he still treated her like a child hurt, but not nearly as badly as the cold fate that awaited her. She was to be the virgin bride to a man who didn’t even desire her.

Lost in that troubled thought, she left the pristine private beach for the wild lands bordering the royal palace. She walked until the sounds coming from the bustling seaport faded into obscurity. She walked until the palace was no more than a speck in the distance, until the only sound was the wild crash of waves against the rocky shore.

On a slim, deserted stretch of beach littered with driftwood and seaweed she crawled onto a jutting slab of rock and stared out to sea. Life was not fair!

She’d known the Crown Prince for a decade but he was still a stranger to her. After this last visit she held little hope that she’d ever become close with her future husband.

Gregor, ten years older than she, was stoic in the extreme. She’d yet to enjoy her time alone with him. They had nothing in common, which made for very stilted conversations. He’d never even given her more than a perfunctory kiss, and she was sure he’d done that just for show!

There was no romance between them. No passion.

No love.

“What are you doing here?” a man asked, startling her with his closeness.

She shielded her eyes and stared down at the stranger, hoping he wouldn’t recognize her. He in turn stared back at her as if he’d never seen her before.

Either a local or a tourist. She decided on the latter, since he was unaware of her identity.

She took a breath and gave the man a closer study. He wore low-slung shorts and sandals, and a knowing smile that took her breath away.

Without a doubt he was the most handsome man she’d ever had the pleasure of meeting. The wind had tousled his wealth of black hair and the sun had turned his tall, muscular body a rich bronze.

And his dark eyes…They glowed with a mesmerizing combination of amusement and desire. All directed at her!

“Well?” he asked when she continued to gape.

“I’m enjoying the view as well as the peace and quiet,” she said, and hoped that the turmoil of emotions churning within her weren’t written on her face, that he couldn’t tell her heart was racing and her insides were tied in knots. “What about you? Why are you here?”

He pointed at the beach, where his footprints remained in the sand. “I’ve been inspecting the nesting grounds of chelonia mydas. Green sea turtles.”

“You’re a conservationist?” she asked.

This time his devilish smile was brief. “This beach is closed to locals and tourists. You should leave.”

Yes, she should—but not for the reason he cited. This handsome man who embodied the sand and the surf and all things wild was a danger to her senses, for already he was making her feel things she’d only read about. Dreamt of one day having with her husband. And this dark-haired stranger hadn’t even touched her, yet alone kissed her!

Kissed her? Heat flooded her face at the wicked thought.

Yes, she should leave. Put as much distance as possible between her and this charismatic man.

Instead she heard herself say, “Tell me more about your work here.”

“It is—”

He broke off at the odd sound of thrashing in the water. His gaze jerked toward the sea and he muttered an oath.

Before she could register what had changed his mood, he’d vaulted onto the slab of rock beside her, sitting so close she felt the heat of his powerful length brand her, so close each breath she managed to drag in brought his unique scent of the wild sea deep into her lungs.

“No,” she said when he wrapped an arm around her waist and yanked her against him. “Let me go!”

But the last words almost never left her, because he’d clamped his hand over her mouth. Her pulse raced like the wind, for she was no match for the steely strength she felt in him.

Helpless in a man’s hold again.

Before full-blown panic overtook her, he whispered in her ear, “Don’t make a sound or you’ll startle them.”

She tore her gaze from his intense one and looked to the sea. Emerging from the surf were lumbering sea turtles, all moving in a mass up the beach as if they were certain of their destination.

They were simply magnificent to watch. The tension gripping her eased and she relaxed against his warm, muscular chest, awed to see this slice of nature up close. Hands that had pushed against him slipped around his torso now, holding him tight as he held her.

And that was how they stayed for an hour or more, arms entwined and bodies pressed together. Two people lucky enough to witness an amazing tableau.

When the last turtle had laid her eggs and returned to the sea, she looked up at the man she clung to and smiled. “That was the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen.”

He flashed his devilish smile and stroked his fingers along her cheek, the feather-like touch sending ripples of sensual awareness crashing through her. “I’ve never enjoyed it more than at this moment, agapi mou. You made this special.”

The endearment melted her heart, but the passion kindled from his nearness left her trembling for more. This was new. Powerful. Addictive.

A part of her brain registered that what she was feeling and wanting was wrong, that being here in this handsome stranger’s arms could only lead to heartache.

But she couldn’t find the strength to pull away.

Her body naturally bowed into his, her face lifting in silent entreaty. “I hate for it to end.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

If she’d had a protest it was silenced when his mouth swooped down onto hers, commanding, and brimming with all the desire her lonely heart ached for. She clung to him as he pushed her back onto the rock, soon lost in drinking from his kisses like one delirious with thirst.

The rock was hard and hot beneath her, but so was the earthy man stretched out beside her. Without breaking the kiss, she was barely aware of his hand sliding under her T-shirt, of the electrifying sensations of his bare skin brushing hers.

His big hand cupping her bared breast thrilled and shocked her. A sliver of sanity prevailed. “No—”

“Yes,” he said, thumbing one nipple into such a hard peak that she squirmed and moaned.

Resistance was laughable when all she wanted was more of his touch, his kiss. And he granted her that wish by shoving her shirt out of the way and capturing her breast in his mouth.

He suckled hard. New sensations exploded within her and her back arched off the rock. Her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close, as she reveled in her very first taste of passion.

She couldn’t imagine voicing a protest when his hand slipped inside her shorts to fondle that very private part of her. No man had ever touched her so, and though she’d read of it the reality was far more erotic.

And when he slipped his fingers inside her thoughts simply ceased as a new and powerful need consumed her. She closed her eyes and clutched at him as she was carried up toward the sun on a tight spiral.

A rainbow of lights exploded behind her eyes. Bells sang out, just as she’d always imagined it would be at this moment.

Bells?

No! Those weren’t the bells of passion she heard but the tolling of the village church bells. Five times. In one hour she had to present herself at the royal palace for dinner with the royal family.

She should be fussing over what to wear instead of frolicking on the beach with a stranger. Instead of granting him this intimacy that should be reserved for her husband. How could she have let this happen?

She shoved away from her pagan god from the sea, shaken by the desire still swirling within her like a whirlpool, threatening to drag her back into the languid depths of passion once more if she let it.

“Stop it,” she said, and frantically righted her clothes with fingers that felt awkward.

“As the lady wishes,” he said, the beautifully chiseled lips that had adorned her body now pulled into a wry smile.

She shook her head, ashamed at what she’d done. Shamed that her body still yearned for more of the same.

Without another word she scrambled off the rock and ran. But even when she was back in the guesthouse, in her room, she realized that she’d never forget this stolen moment with a stranger.



Prince Kristo Stanrakis strode into his father’s royal office, wishing he were anywhere but here. Though he loved his homeland, his passions rested elsewhere.

Then too he didn’t look forward to being present for this dinner tonight, with the Andreou family. After that first one ten years ago, where the King had announced that Gregor was to marry Andreou’s daughter, with the too-big eyes and rail-like form, he’d managed to miss every visit. Until now.

This was a royal decree and nobody, not even a grown prince, could ignore it. Not without incurring the King’s wrath.

He strode straight to the King and went down on a knee. “You look well, Your Majesty.”

His father snorted. “How good of you to tear yourself away from the gaming tables.”

“My duties as ambassador can be taxing,” he said—a joke, for if that was all he did with his time he’d be bored out of his mind.

As usual, his father scowled at the offhand remark. For years the King had found disfavor with Kristo for his errant ways, expecting him to spend more time on Angyra. Anything that took time away from official duties was inconsequential to the King, so Kristo had ceased bringing the subject up anymore.

“Rest assured I will be present when the State Council convenes next week,” Kristo said, and earned a wave of dismissal from the King.

They both knew he’d leave Angyra as soon as that duty was satisfied. Or perhaps not this time, he thought as he crossed to his brothers.

After the interesting diversion he’d had this afternoon on the beach, staying could prove interesting. He’d never met a woman who was as entranced by the wilds of nature as he. He’d never shared that kind of moment with anyone before.

That fact had made the explosive passion all the more sweet. Even now his body stirred at the memory of holding such perfection in his arms.

If the church bells hadn’t tolled, there was no telling how far she would have let him go.

“About time you showed up,” Gregor said.

Kristo took the glass of tsipouro the server handed him and took a sip before answering the Crown Prince. “The sea turtles were nesting, so I couldn’t leave until they did. Where is your fiancée?”

“She just arrived,” Gregor said, and yet no sign of elation or pleasure showed on his features. “If you’ll excuse me?”

Kristo smiled at his other brother. “He is just like Father—far too intense.”

“He’ll be a good king,” his younger brother Mikhael said. “The question is will he be a good husband to his young Queen?”

Kristo imagined that Gregor would follow in their father’s footsteps there as well. His marriage hadn’t been a love match, and he doubted the Crown Prince’s was either.

“Your Majesty,” Gregor said, his voice ringing with authority. “I present my betrothed—Demetria, the future Queen of Angyra.”

Kristo turned, and the welcoming smile on his face froze. No! It couldn’t be her!

But it was.

The beautiful woman his brother was escorting toward them was the same one he’d kissed to distraction an hour ago!

No, not just kissed.

The delicate stem of his wineglass popped in his tight grip, and his blood roared angrily through his veins.

Just an hour ago he’d tasted Demetria’s full, sensual lips. He’d held the weight of her lush breasts in his hands, known the silken texture of the skin, the tight budding of her nipples.

Gregor, unaware of the fury building within Kristo, escorted his fiancée toward him. Her polite smile vanished the moment their gazes locked. Her soft lips parted. Her face drained of color.

“Demetria, this is my brother, Prince Kristo,” Gregor said. “I doubt you remember him, since it’s been some time since you’ve seen him.”

An hour ago, Kristo thought morosely. One damned hour ago, when he’d brought her to a shuddering climax.

Yet how could he tell his brother that the woman he was to marry was unfaithful? He was just as much to blame for not recognizing her.

“Your Highness,” she said, and dipped into a deep curtsy that felt like a mockery in the face of what had transpired between them.

“My pleasure, Demetria,” he said, hating the coil he was caught in with her.

She forced a smile and mumbled an appropriate greeting.

In that moment he knew she’d not confess her sin either. And why should she?

Wealth and position awaited her.

Damn her for her perfidy! He hated her more than he did anyone on earth.

After today, he vowed to avoid the royal palace and his brother’s unfaithful fiancée.




Chapter One


PRINCE KRISTO STANRAKIS had never thrown a royal fit of anger in his life, but he was moments away from doing so just now. He flung his tuxedo jacket on a red brocade Louis XV chaise and ripped open his stark white shirt, sending a row of diamond studs flying. One pinged off an inlaid table before falling to the gold Kirman carpet, while another chinked as it hit a window.

This urgent meeting with the future King, his lawyers and the highest officials was over. Angyra would face change yet again.

His life had just been turned on its heel and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to evade his fate.

No! His duty!

He paced the impressive length of his apartment. Duty! How he hated that word. How he hated her!

Just one month ago they’d buried their father, the beloved King of Angyra. She’d come to the funeral and sat with her father and sister, looking solemn and royal and aloof. Looking sexy as hell in a black sheath that had hugged her luscious curves.

He hadn’t seen her in almost a year, yet the moment their eyes had met he’d been slammed him back to that day on the beach. A roiling mix of guilt, rage and desire had boiled in him.

He wanted nothing to do with her. Yet he still wanted her more than he’d ever wanted a woman.

Being near her needled him with guilt for betraying his brother and he did not like that feeling one bit. But he’d been prepared to suffer through her return in less than two weeks to marry King Gregor. Except that would not happen now!

The rap at his door was preceded by its opening. He whirled to find Mikhael striding into his suite, with a bottle of ouzo under his arm and two glasses clutched in one hand.

“I thought you could use this,” Mikhael said, and promptly poured two drinks.

He took the offered liquor and tossed it back, relishing the bite to his senses. “Did you have any idea that Gregor was ill?”

Mikhael shook his head. “He’s seemed tired of late, and complained of headaches, but I attributed it to the stress of assuming Father’s duties.”

The same thought had crossed Kristo’s mind. He’d never dreamed that Gregor had secretly seen a doctor just before the King’s death, only to discover two days ago that he had inoperable cancer.

The prognosis was grim. With death imminent, Crown Prince Gregor had chosen to abdicate before the State Council proclaimed him King of Angyra tomorrow.

That official announcement had been made just one hour ago.

By order of birth, the crown now passed to Kristo. He was now Crown Prince, which had thrown the council into emergency session. Unless they deemed him truly unfit to rule—which was possible, considering his reputation—the accession ceremony would take place tomorrow promptly at eleven in the morning.

As if that weren’t jarring enough, he was now forced to assume his brother’s betrothal agreement as well! He had to marry Demetria Andreou—in less than two weeks, if he kept to the schedule that had been set in place.

Damn the fates!

Desirable, unfaithful Demetria would be his wife. His Queen.

“I don’t look forward to tomorrow.”

“For what it’s worth, I think you’ll be a good King,” Mikhael said.

Kristo wasn’t so sure. Though he’d done his duty to the State Council, and sat in on required meetings, he’d paid little heed for he’d been in reality no more than a figurehead.

However, he’d taken his role as ambassador much more seriously, as that had allowed him to wine and dine dignitaries around the world. Gambling and carousing, as his father had called it.

At times that had been true. But the setting had allowed him to do what came naturally. In turn, being away from Angyra had allowed him the freedom to do what he really wanted.

But that would soon be in the past.

“Has he contacted Andreou yet?” Kristo asked.

“He was speaking with him by phone when I left.”

How would Demetria take the change of plans?

Kristo stopped before the palatial window and looked out on the terraced garden that stepped down to the cerulean sea. He splayed his hands on the casing so hard that he felt the heavy moldings imprint on his flesh.

Dammit, he didn’t want to be King! And by hell’s thunder he certainly didn’t want to marry Demetria!

But the only way to surmount his fate was by death or abandonment of his country. Though he’d joked that he could walk away from Angyra and never miss it, the truth of the matter was that he couldn’t shirk his duty.

“Gregor felt certain that Andreou wouldn’t balk at the change of plans,” Mikhael said. “He suspects that the lady might feel differently.”

“How she feels doesn’t matter. She has a duty to uphold.”

“True, but you are a stranger to her.”

In some ways, but in others they were intimately acquainted. But that was his guilty secret to bear.

“As Gregor pointed out today, the betrothal contract simply states that Demetria is to marry the Crown Prince,” Kristo said, chafing over the fact that he was now that man. “Surely she is aware of that fact.”

“You are being callous about this, brother.”

“I’m simply being pragmatic,” Kristo said. “Demetria and I are bound by the same laws. There is nothing left to discuss.”

The Royal House of Stanrakis had one ancient and non-breakable rule. All future rulers must be of noble Greek blood. As the Stanrakis family continued to produce males, their Crown Princes had only to find a noble bride of Greek blood.

Easier said than done. But then, they weren’t marrying for love. Even if such a thing existed, it wasn’t ordained for a Stanrakis prince.

It certainly wouldn’t be for him!

Demetria had been handpicked by the King. She had been groomed to be the next Queen of Angyra.

She possessed the right lineage. Her maternal grandfather was Greek—one of the old noblemen like Kristo’s father. And her mother had married a Greek, even though Sandros Andreou’s blood wasn’t as pure.

That man had pricked his temper more times than naught over business dealings. As for Demetria—she fired his lust as well as his anger.

“I still think it would be wise for the sake of your marriage if you would take Demetria aside tomorrow and talk to her,” Mikhael said. “It would go a long way in allaying her fears.”

Kristo stared into his glass, his smile slow to come. “Yes, you’re right.”

He’d talk to her, all right. He’d let her know that he’d not tolerate her flirtations. That he’d have her watched carefully since he knew she was not to be trusted.



But the following day at the accession ceremony Demetria was embarrassingly absent.

“Please forgive her, Your Majesty,” Sandros Andreou implored as he bent in as deep a bow as a man with such a considerable girth could manage. “Demetria went on a shopping jaunt for her wedding trousseau hours before Crown Prince Gregor abdicated. I haven’t been able to reach her on her mobile phone to tell her of the news.”

“She is alone?”

The old Greek shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

“Don’t you know where she went?” Kristo asked, furious that the man hadn’t kept a closer eye on his daughter. “Couldn’t you send a messenger to find her?”

Sandros Andreou’s face turned an ugly purple. “I wasn’t sure where to send him, Your Majesty. Her sister thought she went to Istanbul, but the maid thought she went to Italy.”

“This is intolerable,” Kristo growled. She could be anywhere, with anyone. She could even be entertaining some man!

“Rest assured that when she returns I will have her contact—”

Kristo silenced the man with one wave of his hand that looked surprisingly like the dismissing gesture his father had employed. The wave he’d hated.

“I will see to it myself. Considering the turn of events, it would be wise if your daughter stayed here at the palace until the wedding.”

“For twelve days?” Then, as if remembering who he was addressing, Sandros quickly demurred. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

“You and your family are welcome to avail yourselves of the guesthouse the day before the wedding.”

“The day before?” Andreou repeated.

“Yes. That is all.”

The old Greek attempted another bow before taking his leave.

Kristo pushed from his chair and stalked to the window, more restless than he recalled being in years. His gaze fixed on the ridge of mountains in the distance.

Graceful cypresses and thickets of olives blanketed the rugged terrain and helped to conceal Angyra’s most treasured commodity. Rhoda gold—a pure metal kissed with a rosy blush and prized all over the world.

The ore taken from the Chrysos Mine had made the Stanrakis family rich beyond measure. It had turned this island kingdom into a mecca that now brought tourists here in droves to buy a trinket made of Rhoda gold.

But an equally rare treasure was the sea turtles. Protecting their nesting ground was his personal challenge, and that had evolved into his secretly backing similar programs worldwide. But who would pick up that challenge now?

“What are you going to do?” Mikhael asked.

The answer was simple. At least to him. “Find Demetria and bring her here.”

“But the wedding is less than two weeks away. Women have much to do before such an event.”

“She can attend to anything that needs be done here.” And he could keep a close watch on her that way.

She would not take a stroll along the beach and entertain a stranger the day before their wedding!

“What if the lady refuses?”

He cut his brother a knowing look. “I am not giving her a choice.”

Mikhael’s eyes went wide. “You can’t mean to kidnap her?”

“I most certainly do.”



In a small shop in Istanbul, Demetria Andreou unwrapped a yard of Egyptian cotton from the bolt, blissfully unaware of the drama taking place on Angyra. She tested the way the soft fabric shot with silver, copper and gold flowed over her arm like a molten waterfall. Her heart raced with excitement, for when cloth seemed this much alive she knew a garment made of it would positively explode with motion.

“How many bolts of this do you have?” she asked.

“Just this one,” the Turkish supplier said. “You like?”

She loved the fabric. It fell naturally into folds when bunched, and it felt gloriously sensuous gliding against bare skin.

It was a wonderful find. To know he only had one bolt almost ensured that no other designer would come out with a garment using the exact same cloth.

Originality was further aided by the fact that she preferred buying fabric from lesser-known markets. Fabric defined style. The best designer in the world was nothing without the appropriate cloth. A design didn’t pop until the right fabric was paired with the right fashion.

That was when magic happened. That was when she knew she had created something that could eventually compete side by side with the top fashion houses.

“This is perfect,” she told the draper, and earned a smile as she handed him the bolt. “I’ll take this one.”

He laid it atop the others she’d chosen, and scampered off to select another of his high-end specialty fabrics. She ran a finger over the rich fabric, elated with her finds and yet feeling bittersweet that she wouldn’t be able to oversee the making of her designs.

How quickly life had changed for her since the King’s death.

In two weeks she’d marry Gregor and become Queen. She’d never get the opportunity to stand in the wings while willowy models sashayed down the catwalks in one of her designs.

But she could still select the fabric for her designs. The fashion show in Athens was two weeks away, and her partner would have precious little time to prepare for what was to be their debut into the fashion world.

While Yannis was living their dream in the design world, she’d be marrying King Gregor Stanrakis.

Chills danced over her skin at the thought, and with it came the flood of shame that she’d have to face Kristo again. How could she possibly marry his brother when it was Kristo she lusted for? How could she sit across a table from her husband’s brother and not be tormented by memories of him kissing and fondling her on that beach?

The answers continued to elude her as the draper bustled from the back room, bearing more bolts of fabric. She pushed her worries to the back of her mind and focused on the selections before her.

The first two bolts were easy choices, as they were exactly what she’d envisioned for several of the garments she and Yannis intended to make for their debut line. But her heart raced with delight as light played over the cloth on the last bolt. Was it blue? Green? A combination of both, plus it was shot with magenta.

A midnight carnival of color that constantly moved and changed. The warmth of reds and golds twined with blues and silvers to create a marriage of color that commanded attention.

The cloth was beyond rich. It was regal. Royal.

“I am sorry to have picked this one up,” the draper said, and made to take it from her. “This has been damaged in transit and is to be destroyed.”

Toss out such beauty?

She refused to relinquish the fabric. This would be the perfect cloth for her signature creation. A loose dress. Flowing. Flirty. A dress that would force her husband to notice her.

The fact there was very little of it left undamaged on the bolt only increased its value.

This was her personal find. The perfect dress for her to wear in her new role as Queen. A garment designed by her for her personal use.

“I will take what you have of it.”

“But there is only seven meters. Maybe less.”

“It’s enough—and please wrap it separately.” She’d take this one with her for it was her find. Her treasure.

With the last bout of shopping over, she paid her bill with a degree of sadness. When she married, jaunts like this would be unheard-of. She’d have guards around her. She’d have obligations. She’d in essence be a prisoner of her duty.

After securing delivery of the material to Yannis, who was at her flat in Athens, Demetria left the draper’s shop with a sense of dread. Freedom as she knew it was quickly ending for her. The next twelve days would certainly fly by too quickly.

Since she’d forgone lunch, and eaten only a piece of fruit for breakfast, she decided to sate her hunger with takeaway food. But even that she’d have to hurry. She dared not miss the ferry back to Greece or her papa would fly into a fury again.

She’d started up the lane when a sleek limo whipped around her and stopped. Before she could register that it had blocked her way, the doors flew open and two men jumped out.

Both were huge. Both wore menacing frowns. Both came at her.

Her instincts screamed run. But before she could force her legs to move a third man emerged from the limo.

Demetria froze as her gaze locked with the one man who’d haunted her dreams.

Prince Kristo of Angyra. His aristocratic features and impressive physique seemed inconsequential under the chill of his cold dark eyes.

“Kaló apóyevma, Demetria,” he said, but there was no welcoming smile to match the polite form of address. No softening of his chiseled features.

She swallowed hard, unnerved at coming face-to-face with Kristo Stanrakis again. “What is the meaning of this?”

“I am here to escort you to Angyra,” he said. “Your marriage to the King will take place in twelve days.”

“I’m well aware of when I must marry Gregor, but there is no reason for me to arrive that soon before the wedding.”

“Ah, you have not heard the news.” His eyes glittered with a startling mix of anger and passion. “Gregor stepped down yesterday.”

Had she heard him right? “What?”

“Please—in the car. I do not wish to discuss this further on the street.”

As if she had a choice, she thought, as the two large men flanked her. With her stomach now in knots, she moved toward the man she’d kissed to distraction one year ago.

He clasped her elbow, and she jolted as if shocked, for the energy from that touch set her aflame inside. Set her to quivering with a need she’d tried to forget.

She steeled herself against the magnetic pull of him and focused on the startling fact that Gregor was not King. It was too impossible to believe, for surely he’d just taken the crown.

Yet if what Kristo said was true, then why had he said she was to marry the King in less than two weeks?

Just what was going on here?

Knowing she wouldn’t get any answers unless she complied, Demetria slid onto the rear seat and scooted to the far side. Kristo climbed in beside her, and despite the roomy interior he simply filled the space with his commanding presence.

“What is this about Gregor stepping down?” she asked.

“Shortly before the King died Gregor discovered that he had a brain tumor,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact. “As he didn’t wish for Angyra to suffer two Kings dying so close together, or leave a young widow behind, he decided to step down now.”

She pressed a hand to her mouth, genuinely stunned to hear he’d fallen victim to such a fate. Her heart ached for Gregor, for though there was no affection between them it pained her to think that his life would be cut short.

“That poor man. I’m deeply grieved to hear this.”

“Spare me your false sympathy. We both know you care nothing for my brother. If you did, you never would have offered yourself so freely to a stranger.”

She reeled back, as if slapped by the accusation. Denial was pointless, for she had succumbed to Kristo. Yet she wouldn’t sit here and take his verbal abuse either.

“Yes, I committed a grave error of judgment, and I have regretted my lapse of morals every day since,” she said, refusing to cower when his dark brows snapped together over his patrician nose. “But I was powerless to stop the fierce attraction I felt for you.”

There. She’d said it at last. But her confession only seemed to anger him more.

Where was the carefree beach bum she’d met that day? Who was this hard, cold stranger who stared at her with open disgust?

“Are you victim to these fierce attractions often, Demetria?”

“Never before or since.”

He snorted and stared out the window. “Of course you’d say that.”

As the car smoothly drove on, she stilled the urge to scream in frustration, and asked as calmly as she could manage, “Since you clearly find it so disagreeable to be in my company, why did you come for me?”

“I told you why. I’m escorting you to Angyra.”

“This makes no sense,” she said. “If Gregor has abdicated, why would I still be required to marry him?”

The beautifully sculpted mouth that had ravished her before pulled into a mockery of a smile. “You won’t. The moment my brother rescinded his duty, birth order demanded that I assume the crown and his contractual obligations. I am the King of Angyra. You will marry me.”

Never! But she bit back that retort. “You can’t force me to marry you.”

“Ah, but I can, Demetria. I can.”




Chapter Two


“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.




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