Captured and Crowned (6 page)

No, there was only a keen sense of wariness that bubbled between them.

He didn't trust her. She clearly didn't like him.

It was not the way to start a marriage.

But then theirs wasn't a union based on emotion or attraction. Duty forced them together. Forced him to be bound to his brother's betrothed—a woman who hadn't hesitated to betray Gregor.

No, all they had in common was smoldering desire. To his annoyance that had only grown stronger. But would it abate once they finally sated this driving need?

Would they then become like his own parents? Two people who had rarely spoken to each other, who for the most part had lived separate lives?

“I didn't realize we'd be alone,” she said, her soft voice holding a quaver of uncertainty now.

He pressed the glass into her hand, noting the increased pulse in her slender neck. “Does being with me sans guests make you nervous?”

“Of course not!”

“You are not a good liar.”

She set her glass aside without touching a drop of the vintage wine. “Very well. I'm uncomfortable being around someone who thinks so ill of me.”

“How can you expect me to do anything but? You were unfaithful to my brother! You broke your betrothal vows.”

“With you!”

A cynical snort ripped from him. “Ah, so now
I
am to blame for your lapse of morals?”

She crossed her arms over her chest, looking hurt and proud at the same time. “I refuse to discuss this, for you've already made up your narrow mind to paint me as a floozy when you were the one who seduced me.”

He paused, for in truth he had done just that. He'd seen a beautiful woman and gone after her.

She'd seen him as a man—not a prince, not a rich man who could better her life. She'd seemed fascinated by the work he was doing, and that was the most potent turn-on he'd ever experienced.

“You could have said no,” he said, but guilt had served to strip his tone of its caustic bite.

She shook her head, looking shamed. Miserable. Guilty. “I tried, but simply couldn't.”

At least she was honest about the powerful magnetic pull of desire that had yet to lose its strength for either of them. “What is done is done. There is no sense rehashing it.”

She walked to the railing, her back straight and her shoulders held tight. “There's just one thing I must know. Why didn't you tell Gregor about us?”

Such a simple question, and yet so damned hard to answer. “I was certain Gregor and the King would believe that I was as much at fault as you.”

“So you held your tongue for selfish reasons. My God, you
only think of your own needs. You don't respect my wishes. My desires.”

“Respect? You've done nothing to earn my respect.” He tossed back his liquor and slammed the glass down, but the memory of that moment with her in his arms refused to dim.

“Nor have you done anything to earn mine!”

He stalked toward her, backing her up against the railing. Moving close to her until there was barely a breath of air between them. Until he breathed in her floral scent tinged with anger.

He caught her chin under a bent finger and nudged her face up to him, thinking a man could drown in her turbulent eyes. “Why do you persist in placing the blame on me?”

“Because during the ten years I was betrothed to Gregor we should have known each other.” She batted his hand away and slipped from him, her narrowed gaze glittering with censure. “Of course for that to have happened you would have to have been in attendance more than the first time I visited Angyra.”

Of course she'd shift the blame back to him again! Did she really think he'd believe she'd kept her head in the sand all these years? That she'd been out of touch with the events of the world in the months preceding her last visit to Angyra?

“The fact remains I had not seen you since you were twelve years old,” he said, and let his gaze run admiringly over her curvaceous form once more. “You have changed considerably.”

“As have you,” she shot back.

“Yet I can't believe you never saw my name or my picture in countless gossip magazines,” he said.

Everywhere he'd turned over the years, especially in that tense time frame, he'd seen himself and a woman he'd had a brief affair with emblazoned on every cover. The fickle
woman who'd failed to tell him that she was married. Who was responsible for him vowing to avoid marriage until he was at least forty—for he'd been sure it would take that long before he'd ever trust a woman again.

And then he'd met Demetria.

The object of his desire and anger wrinkled her pert nose, as if even the thought of being aware of such celebrity news was distasteful. “I never read them—even when I see them clustered on the news racks.”

He had trouble believing that. His father had never read those magazines either, and yet he'd been well aware of the vicious gossip that had ensnared Kristo and the married woman. Hell, everyone on Angyra knew of his dalliance!

The King had been so enraged by his conduct that he'd threatened to remove him from his duties to the crown. But while he wouldn't have minded having someone else take over the role of ambassador, Kristo had refused to relinquish his position safeguarding Angyra's natural treasures, which included the Chrysos Mine.

He'd had to talk long and hard to convince the King to give him another chance. And that was why he'd kept his mouth shut about him and Demetria.

Yes, she was right. His reasons were selfish—but not entirely the ones she believed.

“It was in Angyra's best interests to let the matter of our tryst remain secret,” he said.

“Angyra's interests or your own?”

He swirled the liquor in his glass, the chink of ice loud in the ensuing silence. She persisted in thinking the worst of him while seeing herself as the one put upon.

Yet in this they were alike. They were both passionate about their personal interests. Both at fault.

“What of you, Demetria? It is obvious you place your career
above your duty,” he said, and had the satisfaction of seeing her body stiffen in silent admission.

Ah, that was her sore spot. Her career. Wasn't it said that the artistic crowd were a sensitive lot when it came to their craft?

She certainly was defensive of her desire to be a designer. Yet if that were true, why hadn't she taken the easy way out when she'd had the chance?

“If you had confessed what you'd done, the King would have been eager to release you from your betrothal contract,” he said, watching her closely now that he'd put her on the spot. “Gregor certainly wouldn't have wished to have anything to do with you.”

“Or with you?” she countered.

“You are a fine one to talk when you are consumed with this notion of designing clothes,” he said. “Why did
you
keep what we'd done secret?”

She refused to look at him, which only convinced him that she wouldn't be forthcoming with the truth. “My father would have been enraged.”

No doubt that was true, yet with her career unfolding she could have managed well without him. “There must be more to it than that.”

“There wasn't.”

Yes, she was still lying to him. But why? What was she hiding?

“Enough talk about the career you failed to grasp when you had the chance,” he said. “First and foremost you are groomed to be Queen. Nothing more.”

Her features looked as smooth and cold as porcelain. “I am well aware of my duty, Your Majesty. I only ask to be allowed to design my wedding gown. Are you denying me that now as well?”

He stared at her, sorely tempted to pull her flush against
him and prove that she would respond freely to his touch. That this tension that sizzled between them was as much born from pent-up desire as from anger and a good dose of frustration.

“Go ahead and create your wedding gown,” he said. “Let it be your one shining moment in the design world.”

“I will.” Affecting a dismissal that would have done his mother proud, she whirled and strode to the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To my room.” She flung it open, and then paused to look back at him. “I've lost my appetite. Do forgive me.”

She strode out without waiting for his permission.

Kristo fumed silently, torn between going after her and letting the matter drop for tonight. Enough had been said already.

Duty bound them together, just as it had generations of kings and queens of Angyra.

Like any delicate business endeavor, he must handle Demetria diplomatically. Twelve days seemed an eternity before he could claim her as he longed to do.

He was not one who sat around waiting for events to unfold. He struck first. He
made
things happen, for then he was in control.

This was no different.

He wanted her, and he wasn't above seducing her into his arms. Next time she wouldn't walk away from him.

T
HE
sun was just peeking above the verdant mountains that lay black and sleeping by the time Demi finished sketching the design for her wedding gown. It had taken her two attempts before she'd finally envisioned a gown that suited her.

At least she had something to be proud of for her night's work. Something that she could present to the King of Arrogance today.

Just thinking of him set her insides quivering anew, just as they'd been when she'd returned to her room last night. She'd been so furious with his high-handedness that she could have screamed.

Yet that anger had been tempered when she'd returned to find that her personal effects had been delivered in her absence. And that wasn't the only surprise.

A sewing machine, serger and a variety of sundries she'd requested had also been set up, creating a studio that outshone the one she had in Athens. A studio that was a designer's dream.

For a long moment she'd just stood there, stunned that Kristo had kept his promise. That everything she'd need was right at her disposal.

In that exhilarating spate of time she'd been on the verge of rushing back to the terrace to thank Kristo.

But sanity had prevailed—for she'd known in her heart if
she did that she'd not return to her room that night. She'd end up in his arms. In his bed.

She'd not find the willpower to break free of him a second time. Already she was weary of fighting the inevitable.

But she was determined to gain the upper hand over this raging desire. She had to. She would not let her passions control her, weaken her, as they had surely ruled her mother!

In less than two weeks she'd be the Queen of this country. She'd be Kristo's wife. But though she was giving up her career, she refused to lose the essence of who she was.

She studied her new sketch with a critical eye. It was a blend of modern and traditional lines purely from her imagination. New. A bit daring.

This reflected the woman she was now, not the fanciful girl she'd been.

The dream gown of a woman.

A design nobody had ever seen. A style that people would remember forever for the romantic vein it captured while still looking sophisticated.

It was a very simple classical design, with a delicate golden-embroidered edging on the bell skirt. A nearly sheer lace cream shawl shot with gold softened a simple strapless bodice and lent a seductively mysterious air.

The ivory color would complement her light olive complexion. The addition of gold would set it apart from the majority of gowns.

And that touch of gold would lessen its appeal to the masses who wanted virginal white or palest cream. It would set the bride too far from tradition.

Her shoulders slumped as that fact hit home.

For that reason alone she feared the King would dismiss it straight away. He'd likely want a more opulent style, encrusted with pearls. A style that screamed wealth and old world and
was totally unlike her. Something in the order of the lavish gown Gregor had commissioned.

She rubbed her forehead, unable to think clearly anymore. She crossed to the sofa on legs that feel wooden.

She desperately needed sleep, and if she was lucky she would be too exhausted to dream of one tall, arrogant King.

 

Kristo let himself into Demetria's room midmorning, with the intention of asking her to join him for a walk. He wanted to get her away from the palace for a while. He wanted to start over fresh with her before they embarked on this arranged marriage.

But his impatience to put the strained past behind them froze when he caught sight of her curled on the sofa, fast asleep. She looked like an angel, with her dark hair spilling to the floor and her long lashes sweeping her sun-kissed cheeks.

He frowned, noting the darker smudges beneath her eyes. Had she stayed up all night?

He noticed the sketchpad lying on the table, as well as the pages ripped out and lying helter-skelter. Some were of completed gowns. Others were clearly half-formed ideas that she'd discarded for one reason or another.

The one finished design on the sketchpad caught his attention. The detailing was minute, with neatly printed notes explaining the finer points.

He could picture her wearing it and knew she'd turn all heads her way. She'd surely capture
his
attention with her creamy shoulders covered with only the sheerest strip of cloth kissed with threads of gold.

Kristo's gaze lifted to Demetria, lost in sleep. He wasn't a stranger to working all night and grabbing a nap when he could. But he hadn't thought she would work this hard to
create a design for her wedding gown. He hadn't thought she was this dedicated.

Again, she wasn't behaving like the conniving woman he'd envisioned. What other surprises would he discover about her?

He paused at the sofa and reached down to slide his hand beneath the dark hair falling over the pillow. His fingers slipped through the mass as if it were spun silk—another memory that had tormented him.

He'd toyed with a woman's hair before, but he'd never felt this deep erotic pull. Never been so distracted by a woman. Never had his pulse quicken and his breath catch just watching her sleep.

He knew her hair and body held the scent of exotic flowers and the sea. He'd been tormented by the brief memory of those long strands brushing against his naked body. But he wanted more. He wanted to bury his hands in her hair when they were in the throes of passion. When he finally made her his.

How much he'd thrill to have her glorious hair blanket them both after they'd sated their need, to sink into her again.

His mouth thinned. She'd lost a night's sleep with her sketches, but his inability to get her out of his thoughts had deprived him of the same for nearly a year.

At this moment he was in the same uncomfortable place he'd been before he'd sought sleep—wanting her with a ravenous hunger. Surely that overwhelming need would be sated once they'd made love. Once she was his and his alone.

She wouldn't invade his thoughts during the day. She wouldn't weave in and out of his dreams at night.

Eleven days before the royal wedding. It seemed a lifetime away.

Kristo let her dark hair fall from his fingers to the pillow, impatient to get her alone. To claim her as his own.

He crossed to the sketches again, no longer taking care to be quiet. Her talent was remarkable. She surely would have made a name for herself among the top designers.

Her soft gasp ribboned toward him on a sense of earthy awareness. “How long have you been here?”

“Only a few minutes.” He canted the sketchpad her way. “Is this the design you favor?”

She huddled in the corner of the sofa, a fringed throw drawn around her, cheeks tinged a dusty coral that emphasized the dark half-moon smudges beneath her luminous eyes. Eyes that were surely red-rimmed, proving she hadn't been asleep long.

“Yes. What do you think?”

That her talent was unparalleled. That while Angyra gained a Queen, the world of fashion would lose a budding star.

“It's nice,” he said instead. “If your ability to sew is as good as your talent for design, you will certainly be the most gorgeous bride that Angyra has ever had.”

A deeper flush stole over her cheeks, giving him the impression she was unused to such compliments. “I'm relieved you approve. With your permission, I'll return to the draper in Istanbul and select the cloth.”

He shrugged and dropped the sketchpad on the table, where it landed with a muffled thud.

“It's out of the question for you to travel alone.”

Her brow pulled into a deep frown. “Are you always this controlling?”

“I am always this cautious.”

“What a convenient answer.”

“You are the bride-to-be of the King of Angyra,” he said. “From now on you don't leave the palace without a bodyguard.”

She slumped back against the sofa and hugged her arms against her pert breasts like a petulant child might do, but the
pensive glance she cast out the window confirmed she hadn't considered the need for high security.

“I've always been free to come and go.” She shook her head and lifted her gaze to his, a storm of annoyance brewing in her eyes. “How do you adjust to the loss of privacy?”

He gave an impatient shrug. “You are asking me something I have never known—not as you have.”

Her lips firmed in a tight line and a chill glinted in her eyes. “Of course—what was I thinking? A man of privilege would have no idea how the other half lives.”

He muttered a curse, for she'd hit on a hot button of his own. It was the main reason he'd fought for his role as ambassador. It had carried him away from Angyra and the stiff formality that ruled in the palace.

In Cannes or Vegas or Rio he had been able to mingle with people to a degree. He had lived a somewhat normal life even though he'd had a bodyguard shadowing him.

But that role was history, for his duty now was as King of this kingdom. He had to be more careful. He could no longer take a night on the town without a horde of reporters or, worse, political adversaries of Angyra following him.

His wife would be obliged to be just as circumspect.

“The palace isn't a prison, Demetria,” he said, and swore again, for his father had said much the same to him years ago.

“But our marriage will be a life sentence unless—”

“Do not say it!” His gaze shot to hers, and he didn't try to hide the anger burning in his soul for it masked a greater fear. “There has never been a divorce in the Royal House of Stanrakis, and I won't break that tradition with you.”

“I wasn't suggesting that!”

He threaded his fingers through his hair. This topic was scraping his nerves raw. Nothing could be gained from bemoaning their fate. Nothing.

“You are not the only one who isn't pleased with this arranged marriage, but this country has seen enough unrest with my father's sudden death followed by Gregor's illness and relinquishing of his title. All of Angyra needs to see us married and united. Is that clear?”

“Quite,” she said, her chin snapping up again. “Duty above all else. A public show of support when our marriage is based on the pretense that we are happy.”

He inclined his head in a sharp decisive nod. “Angyra needs you, Demetria.
I
need you as well.”

“Do you really?”

Dammit, he'd said too much. Let his emotions be bared for a heartbeat. “I need a Queen at my side. The people know you. Like you.” Whereas they barely tolerated him.

She was his buffer. The means by which he hoped to gain favor with the people. He hated her because she was favored and he was not. But he wouldn't tell her that. He wouldn't give her that much power over him.

“How good that someone finds favor with me,” she said, her tone peevish. “But I still insist on selecting the fabric for my gown, and I need it done as quickly as possible.”

“Tell me what you want and I'll have it delivered to you.”

She rolled her eyes, as if she found his suggestion foolish. “I need to select the fabric myself. Even the most fabulous design is nothing if not paired with the right cloth.”

“I thought the gown was to be made of silk,” he said.

“There are thousands of bolts of various types of silk. I can't tell which will be the perfect one until I touch it.”

She strode into her bedroom and returned a moment later, with two garments on hangers and a length of cloth draped over her arm. A black blouse held a rich sheen, and a coral dress looked warm and alluring against her skin.

“These are made from silks I bought in Istanbul,” she said,
holding each up. “They are ideal for the selected garment, but would be all wrong for the other.”

“I will take your word for it,” he said.

She huffed out a frustrated breath. “Perhaps this will convince you. Look at this fabric I bought.” She held it up and gave the length a shake, causing a dark rainbow of colors to dance across the cloth. “Don't you see? When it moves, it looks alive.”

What he saw was an independent woman who would delight in butting heads with him. A passionate woman who fired his blood. A woman who knew what she was talking about in regards to fabric and designs.

Kristo silently admired both traits, for he didn't want a meek wife, nor one who lacked passion. He wanted Demetria.

He wanted to see the desire she felt for her designs directed at him. He longed to nip at the lush fullness of her lips, tease the corners of her mouth before he trailed kisses down the slender column of her neck. Wanted her to moan and writhe against him in a silent plea to do more. Until she begged him to take her now.

But beyond sex he wanted this strong woman to embark on this royal journey by his side. Dammit, he wanted to trust this strong, passionate woman to be his partner in all things.

Yet how could he think of such a thing when she'd been unfaithful to his brother? When she would likely betray him, given the chance? When she was still keeping a secret from him?

Their gazes collided, and he grimaced as her silent entreaty arrowed straight into him. She proved her point well.

It was her design. It was her wedding gown. She should choose the fabric, not someone else.

“Very well. I'll have the plane made ready and inform Vasos we will be leaving the palace,” he said. “We'll leave for Istanbul in the hour.”

Her face lit up. “Thank you. It will only take me a moment to change.”

She dropped the shimmering cloth on the sofa and hurried into the bedroom. In moments he heard the spray of water in the en suite bathroom.

It would be so easy to strip to his skin. To slip into the shower beside her. To take her.

He flexed his fingers. Drew in a deep breath, then another. Now wasn't the time to go to her, no matter now much he wanted her.

His gaze fell on the shimmering fabric. He fingered it and felt something clutch low in his gut. She was right. When it moved it looked alive.