PrideandSurrender

Julia Devlin

I want no part of messy emotions, of lust and surrender. But
none of that seems to matter to Christos Constantine. No matter how much I
resist, no matter how much I fight, he keeps coming after me…and I am
powerless.

Juliet Russo’s pride and strength of will have always kept
her safe. The armor she has built around herself is impenetrable and no one is
allowed to see beneath. She has managed to keep Christos and the attraction
that simmers between them at bay for two years, but he’s done taking no for an
answer.

An
Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

Pride and Surrender

ISBN 9781419932458

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Pride and Surrender Copyright © 2010 Julia Devlin

Edited by Mary Moran

Cover art by Darrell King

Electronic book publication December 2010

The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of
Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not
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permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home
Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons,
living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The
characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

Dedication

To India Masters, who took me under her wing a long time ago
when I was a new, floundering writer.

And to Alvania Scarborough, who always understands my vision
even when no one else does.

Thank you both for being the best critique partners and
friends a writer could have.

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark
owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Fever
, Peggy Lee: Peggy Lee Associates, LLC LTD

Fortune 5 Hundred: Time Inc Corporation

iPod: Apple Inc. Corporation

Kentucky Derby: Churchill Downs Incorporated Corporation

Mercedes: DaimlerChrysler AG Corporation

“That’s me, a constant disappointment.” My words were laced
with sarcasm and just the right amount of bite to annoy him.

“Why are you determined to fight me, Juliet?” All six foot
two inches of Christos Constantine loomed over me. Dark hair, brilliant green
eyes and unbelievably gorgeous in that hard, intimidating type of way that made
women question the point of moral purity.

I hated him.

Even as I thought the words, my heart pounded against my rib
cage and desire pulled at me. Damn chemistry. I hated that too. Hated even more
that I had it with him of all people.

He’d beaten me again when few men ever did. Even fewer
experienced a repeat victory. And every time Christos won he became that much
more irresistible.

I didn’t even want to contemplate what that said about me.

“When you know I’ll win?” His rich voice rumbled from his
throat and my knees weakened.

Why did I like this? The arrogance? It was as if I were
genetically hardwired to respond to everything he said. The more dominant he
acted the more I salivated. Like Pavlov’s dog.

He’d first popped onto my radar screen a year and a half ago
when he’d shown up on the Chicago scene and stolen the Pennington bid right out
from under me. Around forty, power poured off him. He had the kind of
commanding presence other people noticed. When Christos was in the room, men
stood straighter and women, well, they practically melted into a puddle at his
feet.

Once, I’d had the unfortunate experience of being stuck in a
reception area with him for over an hour. The sweet, little grandmother
receptionist blushed and stammered over him like a schoolgirl.

I might not be immune, but ice queen was second nature.

I put my hands on my hips, standing tall in my white blouse
and black pencil skirt. I tapped the toe of my three-inch-high slingbacks. “You
might win the business, but you’ll never win me.”

He laughed. The sound traveled through my body like the most
intimate of touches. But I stood firm, not giving in to the shudder that wanted
to overtake me.

He raised one dark brow. “Who are you trying to convince?
You or me?”

His broad shoulders blocked out the ray of sun from the
lobby windows as he stepped closer. The urge to retreat had my foot twitching,
but I fought the desire. My shoulders squared. He will not win, I thought
fiercely as I dug in my heels both figuratively and literally.

He crowded in on me, mere inches away. I held my breath.
Afraid to move, to swallow—he’d never gotten this close to me—and my heart
pounded. The heat of his body slid over my skin. My lungs burned and I sucked
in a fast burst of air, my head swimming at the intoxicating scent of him,
spice and man.

Jesus. I wanted no part in this kind of lust. This kind of
hunger.

I don’t know how I did it, but I stood my ground even though
a desperate desire to flee beat at me.

He could
not
win, not at this.

His long fingers touched the side of my neck. I jumped,
flinching under him.

What could only be pleasure sparked in his gaze.

His palm skimmed over the slender cords as he curled his
hand around my neck, his thumb stroking where my pulse thumped wildly. “Mine.”

A gasp escaped from my throat. I shook my head.

“Yes. You know it and I know it.”

“You’re wrong,” I managed in a strangled whisper. I needed
to escape, but I didn’t budge. I refused to let him see my fear, my almost
unbearable excitement.

And I was excited.

His thumb pressed against the hollow of my neck. Primal
need, unlike anything I’d ever experienced pounded through me like a stampede.
Slick, wet heat warmed my inner thighs.

God, help me. I was powerless. I’d made a grave error. With
him, retreat was always the smarter option.

His lips curved into a slow, wicked smile. “How wet are
you?” A shift of his hips and his erection nudged my belly. “How hot?”

“Stop it.” The words were stilted with no force behind them.
A plea when I wanted a curse.

“No.” He shook his head. “Stop fighting it. Stop fighting
me.”

“I can’t.”

“You’re going to lose.” He leaned down and his lips brushed
the soft skin at the curve of my neck. I ached to lean in to him. Let him take
me. The way I felt right now, I’d do anything to have his mouth on me. Anywhere
I could get it.

Thank god I had more pride than I knew what to do with. It
had kept me safe more than once, and this was no exception. It was the only
thing that stopped me from begging.

His tongued flicked against my pulse, and I couldn’t stop
the groan from slipping past my lips. I clenched my hands into fists, digging
my nails into my palms. Forced my lids to remain open when they wanted to drift
closed. His teeth scraped my flesh and I jolted, my entire body humming with
sensation.

He raised his head to the shell of my ear. “You want me to
win, Juliet.”

He was right. I did.

By my own design, no man had ever bested me. Not my
ex-husband, not the lovers I’d had since. For thirty-five years my
relationships with men had been coolly confident and distant. I had the
control. I responded if I wanted to, choose to. But there’d never been any
question that it had been my choice. And I never let anyone get too close.

That was for weak women. Not me.

On some primitive level I knew distance wouldn’t be possible
with Christos. Under the all-consuming jumble of emotions of lust and fear, was
the certain knowledge that he’d change me irrevocably. That when I lost, I’d be
stripped of everything.

That alone was worth every ounce of fight I had.

“No.” My tone surprised me with its steadiness.

He raised his head, his green eyes piercing. “Stubborn.”

“I’ll never give in.” Confidence growing as I regained my
equilibrium.

Once again his fingers tightened on my throat. The power in
his grasp not lost on me. An assertion of his dominance. “I’m patient, and if
you insist, we’ll do it the hard way.” His hand fell away, leaving behind the
imprint of his touch like a brand.

A cold chill of loss blew through me like the most frigid of
Chicago winter winds. All it had taken was one touch.

He stepped back. “Consider yourself warned.”

I picked up my dirty martini and swiped the glass with my
tongue, savoring the salt of the olive brine. My best friend and business
partner, Katherine Ames, had just left the corner bar we frequented on Friday
evenings to recap our week over well-deserved cocktails.

Normally, I left with her, but I couldn’t bear to go home to
my empty townhome yet. I’d end up pacing the floors with all my pent-up energy
obsessing about
him
.

It had been four days since he’d touched me and somehow I’d
worked myself up into a kind of sexual heat. The more I thought about him, the
more he distracted me. I walked around so turned-on I couldn’t concentrate.
Nothing worked. I’d manically given myself orgasm after orgasm in hopes of
alleviating the ache between my thighs, but I was never satisfied.

Nothing would satisfy me. Except him.

I took a sip of my drink, the alcohol stinging the back of
my throat. When had I turned into this needy, desperate girl?

“Ms. Russo.” That voice made every muscle go rigid.

Our eyes met in the mirror. It felt as if I conjured him out
of thin air.

The devil himself couldn’t be more temptation. Tonight he
looked irresistible and utterly wicked in all black.

Fingers trembling, I carefully put my glass on the polished
mahogany wood. “What are you doing here?” My tone couldn’t have been more
bratty.

In the mirror, I watched his lips quirk as though trying to
contain the smile hidden there. My eyes widened as he leaned so close I could
feel his heat against my back. He placed one hand on the bar, effectively
surrounding me, and dropped his lips to the shell of my ear. “I’m here for you.”

Every nerve sizzled and snapped to attention. I squared my
shoulders and tried to look bored. One more glance in the mirror told me it
wasn’t working. Even from a distance I could see the excited glassiness in my
brown eyes.

He shifted away and slid into Katherine’s vacated seat. A
pretty twenty-something bartender practically ran over. I picked up my martini
glass and took a sip. She looked Christos up and down and gave him one of those
hooded sex glances girls seem to think are sexy. “Hey, what can I do for you?”
She purred the words, the underlying meaning painfully clear.
Anything you
want.

I rolled my eyes. This is exactly why he would be impossible
to be around. I frowned. Wait, was I harboring some sort of fantasy? I pushed
the idea right out of my mind.

“I’ll have what she’s having.” He pointed to my drink.

The bartender gave him a blinding come-fuck-me smile, tossed
her mane of blonde hair and scurried away to do his bidding.

Irritation pricked at my skin, but I assured myself it
wasn’t jealousy. Only annoyance because girls that age assumed a woman of mine
wasn’t a viable threat. I looked at Christos, expecting to see his gaze trained
on her tight ass, and found him watching me with an intent expression. The look
made me want to squirm, irrationally sure he read my every thought.

I raised a brow. “Taking to stalking, I see.”

He laughed. The low rumble rolled over me, making me ache in
places I didn’t want to name. “Don’t pretend you’re not happy to see me.”

I sighed. “Does your ego know no bounds?”

“Why are you so determined to dislike me?” He slid his hand
over the bar rail, twisting on the stool to face me, shifting so one foot
rested on my chair.

“Do you really want to hear my long, endless list?”

The bartender chose that moment to return, but he didn’t
even glance at her. “Start a tab,” he said in a tone that indicated he wasn’t
open to conversation.

I, however, watched her lower lip puff out and give me a
what-makes-you-so-special once-over before she took her leave. I frowned. It
was a good question actually. One I’d asked myself countless times. Why me?

His finger brushed over the bare skin of my forearm. I
jerked as if I’d been scorched. “What are you thinking about, Juliet?”

I met his gaze and saw none of his customary arrogance.
Instead, he appeared thoughtful, curious. It softened the harsh lines of his
strong face and made him look almost human.

“Why me?” The question popped from my lips before I could
stop it and I clenched my teeth to keep from cringing.

“Why not you?”

I shrugged. His hand shot to my knees, so fast I about
jumped out of my seat. He swiveled my stool until I faced him then shifted his
legs so his thighs bracketed my own.

The solid warmth of him made me melt. Liquid heat slid over
my skin and I felt wetness line my panties. God, I was pathetic.

“Why not you?” he repeated. One hand retreated to the safety
of the bar while his other lightly stroked the fabric of my skirt.

I pushed him away, but he grasped my wrist and held me
still. I cocked my head to the side. “It’s the challenge, isn’t it? I’m sure it
gets boring with all those women panting to do your bidding. But I’m not some
little fuck toy. I’m not going to give in just so you can toss me out with the
trash when the fun is over and you get bored.”

“I see.” His free hand picked up the drink and took a sip.
His tongue flicked over his lips. “Dirty martini. It suits you.”

“Are you done?” My chest tightened. Panic washed over me.
I’d made a tactical error and admitted far too much. There was no excuse for my
mistake, other than he’d thrown me. I braced myself and waited for the strike
soon to come.

He placed the glass back on the bar, his gaze narrowed. “Do
you really think that little of me?”

I blinked, licked my lips. “I don’t think of you at all.”

He leaned closer, hooking his arm along my waist and tugging
me close. Far too close. I forced my breathing to remain smooth instead of
hitching the way it wanted to. He worked his hand under my black form-fitting
sweater, his palm hot against my back. “Don’t lie. And for the record, if I
wanted a fuck toy, I wouldn’t pick you.”

“Ha!” I hissed the word. “So you admit it’s about the
challenge.”

“Jesus, I only wish.” He planted a hard, fast kiss on my
lips. A punishing bruising of his mouth that was over so fast I had to brace my
hand against the bar to keep from falling into him. My mouth tingled and
already I could feel the craving for more sinking into my bones.

His free hand gripped my neck, holding me still when I would
have pulled back. “Why can’t you believe I want you every bit as much as you
want me?”

I scoffed, curling my lips into a smirk even though inside I
was a quivering mess. All hot melting center and pounding heart. “Please give
me a little credit. You could have any woman you want.”

“And I want you.”

“What is it with you?” I pressed, not willing to give an
inch. With him, I couldn’t. He’d turn me into someone I hated. “It’s not enough
to strip me of my pride by winning every project we compete for, you have to do
this too?”

A muscle in his jaw clenched, and he released me with an
abruptness that left me shaken. Sitting back on the stool, his green eyes
assessed me as he took a sip of the martini and put it back on the bar. “Do you
want to know why you always lose to me, Juliet?”

I had a feeling I didn’t want to hear this, but I couldn’t
back down now. I’d look like the coward I was. “Enlighten me.”

He ran his fingers along my jaw. “Because you hold back.
You’re so damn busy trying to be this perfect, impenetrable force—so intent on
making sure people see past your pretty face to your sharp, biting
intelligence—you forget to show passion. And in the end it’s passion that
wins.”

My head snapped back as though he’d struck me. He couldn’t
possibly know how close his words were to the day my ex-husband walked out of
our marriage. To my horror, my throat closed up tight. Not that I cared about
the bastard, but because Christos saw my fatal flaw so clearly.

“But it’s hard to be perfect with me, isn’t it? You keep
trying. But I see right through you.”

More than anything I wanted to come back with a scathing
remark. Something that would cut him to the quick. But I didn’t think I could
speak without crying. Me. Who hadn’t shed a tear since I was a teenager.

And that’s why I needed to tuck my tail between my legs and
run. It was the safer of the two options. My pride might sting, but in the end,
it would hurt much less than a broken heart.

I slid off my stool.

“Running?” he asked casually, as if he didn’t already know.

“Restroom,” I snapped, pushing the word past my tight
throat.

I forced my step to stay steady, gaze trained on the
restroom sign like my own port in the storm. I didn’t look back and I didn’t
run the way I wanted to.

I felt his eyes on me the entire time.

After what seemed an eternity, I made it to the safety of
the bathroom and pushed open the door. I walked to the row of sinks, putting my
hands on the cool granite. I hung my head.

A woman stepped out of the stall and strolled to the sink.
“You okay, hon?”

I nodded, taking deep breaths to calm my pounding heart.
Soothe the rush of adrenaline singing through my veins.

The door to the bathroom blew open, and my head lifted,
already knowing it would be Christos. The brunette next to me paused in the act
of putting on her lipstick, eyes going wide.

He flicked his gaze over her. “Please leave.”

The woman dropped the tube in her purse and left without
even a second’s hesitation. That was the way he was. One uttered command and
everyone rushed to obey. When the door closed behind her, Christos flipped the
lock. “You can’t run, Juliet.”

I turned to face him. His eyes slid down my black sweater
and slim black skirt, and I realized we matched. His gaze rested on my red
patented-leather stiletto Mary Janes. “Love the shoes.”

The coordinating bag lay on the counter next to me, the keys
to my townhome tucked inside. “I’m leaving.”

He took three steps and wrapped his arm around my waist. He
gripped my jaw. “Why?”

“I want to go home.”

“You won’t be able to sleep. So stay with me.”

This was why I hated him. He knew everything. Knew his
power, the control he had over me. Every damn thing. I jutted my chin up and
his fingers fell away. “I sleep like a baby.”

He backed me up ’til I was pressed against the edge of the
counter. “Those nights you stay up, restless and aching. I am right there with
you.”

I blinked up at him. Stunned by his admission—one I’d never
make to him—was it possible this wasn’t just a game?
Don’t believe it
.
The thought whispered through my mind and down my spine. I straightened the
best I could with the weight of his body so close to mine.

I longed to press against him. Wanted nothing more than to
give in, but I resisted. “I’m not a cure for your insomnia.”

He dipped his head, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of
my neck. The shiver he set off refused to be contained. He nipped the lobe of
my ear. “Probably not. But I’m the cure to yours.”

The heat simmering inside me received a much-needed dose of
ice water. I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, he said, “Once I have
you, I’ll need to figure out how to keep you. A job bound to keep a man up at
night.”

Why was he doing this? Anger rushed over me, and I pushed at
his chest. The palms of my hands beat against an immovable object. “Stop this.”

He caught my wrists and pulled them away. The feeling of his
fingers wrapped around my fragile bones caused desire to storm back, my nipples
pulling tight. He pushed them behind my back and encircled both in one strong,
capable hand.

His mouth crashed down on mine. On a gasp, my lips parted,
and he took full advantage, his tongue stroked mine, sure and strong. The kiss
didn’t start slow, he didn’t coax.

He took. Possessed. Demanded.

And I was powerless.

His mouth was the most delicious, intoxicating, addictive
thing I’d ever tasted.

I wanted to resist. More than anything I didn’t want to
respond.

But it wasn’t an option.

So I did the only thing I could and returned his kiss with
all my pent-up fury. All my anger and fear. All my long-suppressed desire.

A low, guttural growl rumbled from his throat. That female
part of me I tried to deny reveled in the sound. He didn’t release his hold on
my wrists, most likely smart enough to realize I wasn’t above using my fists.
The struggle against that ironclad hold worked me into a fever pitch in the way
soft candles and romantic dinners never could.

I struggled, twisted my hands, yanked, pulled. And still his
fingers didn’t budge.

I was fighting a losing battle. We both knew it. I could
taste it in his kiss.

His lips slanted over mine, his tongue turned aggressive.
Fierce arousal flooded my system, hummed through my veins until I was mindless.
His free hand tangled in my hair where he twisted until pain pricked at the
base of my skull.

A whimper sounded on the air, and I realized it had come
from me.

I stiffened. Horrified at the needy sound of submission.

But he knew me too well.

Just as I started to come to my senses, he pressed that
hard, magnificent body against mine and my reason once again scattered like
marbles hitting the pavement.

God, this was too good. Nothing this good could be right.

His hips bumped mine, his erection rubbing my belly. And it
wasn’t enough. Nothing with him would ever be enough. I wanted his cock in me.
I wanted it pounding into my cunt. I wanted his fingers on my clit. His mouth
all over me. I wanted to score my nails down his back and mark him. Just as he
was marking me.

I wanted, I wanted, I wanted.

This need. This lust. It was compulsion. Not sane.

He yanked away from me. The second he was gone, I missed
him. It was ridiculous, crazy, impossible.