Chapter Five
SILENTLY FOTIS CURSED as the limo took them to tonight’s event.
Princess Rosamund of Cardona didn’t matter to him, except for the need to keep her safe. Her flawed character was none of his business. He should have left well enough alone.
But she had the unique knack of getting under his skin with her mixed messages, one minute haughty and selfish, the next apparently a considerate friend or happy to find time to chat with strangers for no apparent personal gain.
She’d hinted her past wasn’t what it seemed.
In a bid for sympathy? Yet the starkness in that single huff of laughter had been real, he was sure of it.
She drove him crazy. And it wasn’t just her mixed messages. For there was one message his body received loud and clear, and had from the moment he’d met her.
Attraction. Desire. Need.
Every time that visceral, unmistakable hunger raked its talons through his gut and clamped his groin, self-disgust stirred.
Because that hunger made him a traitor to poor Dimi, who’d suffered because of this woman’s casual cruelty.
The princess hadn’t cared about collateral damage when she’d decided to romp with someone else’s man.
These feelings made him into a fool. Everything he knew about himself, everything he’d learned about treacherous, selfish women, should have made it impossible for him to desire her. She shared the same remorseless selfishness as his mother.
Fotis had been a victim to that, but not the only one. He knew the damage she’d inflicted, still felt the trauma of it. Still carried the guilt of failing to save his brother.
His response to Rosamund of Cardona should be pure disgust, untrammelled by anything else.
And yet…
When she’d stepped out of her room in a dress that clasped her tight from breasts to narrow waist, that shimmered and rustled with every sashaying step…
He’d wanted her with a primal need that shattered logic. His body had surged in instant arousal. He’d seen the sheen of lustrous red-blond hair and all but felt its phantom slide against his greedy palms. He’d imagined anchoring his fists in it, tugging her head back to meet his mouth.
That was why he’d lashed out with that crack about the dress she’d refused. To remind himself, and her, that she wasn’t worth his attention.
The ploy had backfired when she turned, her lush red lips an O of surprise. His imaginings had turned X-rated, his arousal threatening to become obvious at the idea of those lips on his naked body, pleasing him in all the ways he’d dreamed through the last two nights.
As well as surprise he’d seen a fleeting glimpse of hurt in her eyes that made him feel like a sadistic brute.
She was doing his head in and he was letting her, turning into someone he didn’t like. Someone without the control he’d relied on all his life. Without that, what was he?
They approached tonight’s venue. Another grand building, another red carpet, and lots more paparazzi, no doubt fed by last night’s photos.
Fotis told himself it was her fault, looking up at him with those big, needy eyes, putting on a show for the crowd.
The difficulty was, he couldn’t convince himself. He knew what he’d seen. She’d been genuinely distressed and he’d responded to her pain, wanting, despite everything, to ease it…
‘Aren’t we getting out?’
She didn’t turn towards him, but then she’d ignored him the whole trip. Fotis knew an urgent desire to make her meet his eyes. He disliked the woman but having her ignore him was unbearable, though he deserved it.
‘Wait,’ he growled, pushing his door open.
He needed to get a grip, fast. Striding around the car he catalogued the crowd, thicker than last night and more excited, but nothing to raise an alert.
He opened the door and held his arm out to steady her. Last night she’d worn high heels but tonight she’d chosen spindly red stilettos. He didn’t want to be catching her if she wrenched her ankle and fell on her face.
For a second she hesitated, looking at him under veiling lashes. Then she took his arm lightly, rising from the vehicle with an easy grace that sent his thoughts tumbling into the bedroom and the joys of a fit, limber lover.
As she stepped onto the pavement, an unexpected surge of movement from the crowd made him wrap his arm around her, jerking her close so abruptly she lost her balance and leaned against him.
‘My purse,’ she hissed under her breath.
Fotis bent to retrieve it. As he did so, a volley of voices called their names. Rising, he turned swiftly just as Rosamund turned in the opposite direction.
It would have been better if they’d knocked heads. Instead their noses met, and their mouths. It was so swift it took a moment for his brain to catch up. That was what he told himself later.
For now he simply responded instinctively, forgetting the crowd and his tumultuous emotions, tilting his head to one side and brushing his lips across hers. He felt her mouth tremble, felt the quiver run down her spine as he held her close. Then her lips parted under his and he tasted sweetness.
Bolts of lightning soldered his feet to the ground. He pulled her in, flush against him, drawing bewitching softness against a body turned to stone.
Her hand pressed to his chest, slipped under his jacket’s lapel to settle over his thundering heart. He liked her touch, almost as much as he liked her delectable lips opening beneath his.
It took everything he had to drag himself free of the erotic fog clouding his brain. With a muffled groan that sounded disturbingly like surrender, he pulled back, straightening to his full height.
But the distance didn’t obliterate his hunger. For a second longer her head was upturned, crimson lips parted and half-lidded eyes tempting him to kiss her, properly this time.
A wolf whistle pierced the hubbub and her eyes widened, body stiffening.
She thrust against his chest as if to make him move.
Of course she couldn’t, but Fotis eased his hold around her waist and she took a step back.
He felt her wobble but only for a second.
When he knew she was steady he released her, hiding a grimace that felt like disappointment.
The noise of the crowd had become a roar. Cameras flashed as photographers fought for better positions.
Beneath the cacophony he heard a husky, cultured voice swear in an undertone. Even her voice turned him on, making him wonder how she’d sound in the throes of ecstasy. How his name would sound if she cried it out in rapture.
Not helping, Mavridis.
His burgeoning erection would be visible soon if he couldn’t stop it. Playing for time, he’d curved his lips into a smile, lowering his head so he could murmur in her ear. ‘Any suggestions on how to play this, Princess?’
She shifted away, far enough that he could see her eyes blazed more blue than grey. ‘We carry on as if nothing happened. Never excuse. Never explain.’
With those words she changed. It was like a cloak falling around her. He couldn’t put his finger on it but she seemed taller, more aloof. She smiled directly up at him but there was no heat in her eyes, nor softness, nothing to indicate she’d quivered on the brink of capitulation just seconds ago.
She held out her hand and he placed her clutch purse in it. Then he held out his arm and she looped her other hand around it before they took their time going inside.
The evening was more of a trial than the previous night. Then he’d stood beside her as she charmed guests, scrupulously introducing him and including him in the conversation, though he played little part. He’d observed and kept watch as they moved through the throng.
Tonight was different. It was a screening of one of her mother’s films. Which meant sitting beside her in the dark, close enough that he felt each move she made, heard too the occasional hitch of her breath.
It was Juliette Bernard’s last film, made not long before she married and gave up acting.
Instead of an ingenue or a sexy starlet, the woman on the screen was mature and riveting, eliciting emotion and engagement even from him.
The story was poignant but ruthlessly realistic.
No wonder both critics and the public raved about it.
What must it be like for her daughter, seeing her mother on the big screen, so long after she’d died? Beside him, his charge stirred. He glanced across and froze.
She wasn’t aware of his scrutiny. She was utterly absorbed in the movie and in its shifting light he saw a solitary tear slide down her cheek.
His throat closed over useless words of sympathy. She wouldn’t want him seeing her sadness.
But for the rest of the film, his focus wasn’t on the movie. It was on the puzzle of Princess Rosamund.
He’d assumed she was a carbon copy of his mother, narcissistic and grasping.
His mother had cared for no one but herself despite her ability to convince people to the contrary, at least for a while.
He’d seen that again and again as she hunted for newer, richer husbands, ignoring her children except when it suited her to use them as decoys.
Rosamund on the other hand, was moved to tears, though her mother had died over a decade ago.
He reminded himself he wasn’t here to analyse her, just stop Ricardo from hurting her. But Fotis felt disquiet, as if he’d made a fatal error. He hated uncertainty. His business was unravelling mysteries and protecting truth.
He needed to understand her. Maybe then she’d stop messing with his head.
It was late when they arrived at the house. Rosamund was weary yet wired. Too tired to sleep or work, too emotional.
‘Fancy a drink?’
The click of her heels on parquetry faltered and she stopped, amazed. He wanted to share a drink? ‘Why?’
They’d reached the bottom of the staircase that swept up to the bedrooms. Wall sconces and a large pendant light lit the foyer, casting shadows across his steely features, somehow concealing more of his thoughts than they revealed.