At His Majesty's Request Page 6

  This wasn’t like that. She didn’t want to crave it. She’d let go of those desires and had done her very best to replace them with new ones. He was ruining it.

  Reflexively, she brushed her fingers over the spot where his had rested. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.”

  “Stavros, I’m fine,” she said, finding it easier to use his first name now. Here in the villa and not in the palace. “I’m not vying for the position of wife to the future king of Kyonos, remember? I’m helping you find her. And I will. Promise.”

  “Have dinner with me,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “Here, at the villa.”

  The thought of it made her stomach feel all fluttery. It made her palms sweaty, too. She was seriously out of practice when it came to dealing with men. Except she wasn’t, not really, she just never got asked to have dinner with them in a way that went beyond business.

  And you think this is more than business?

  No. Of course it wasn’t. She was here, in the villa, and he was being hospitable to someone who was working to find him a wife. And she was not that wife.

  She didn’t want to be anyway. Not even tempted.

  The only reason she’d forgotten, for a moment, that his invitation wasn’t meant to be an intimate one, was because he’d touched her arm. It had caused a momentary short circuit but she was back now.

  “That would be lovely. We can discuss some women who might have more advanced conversation skills …”

  “Leave your computer in your room.”

  “B-but …”

  “Come on, Jessica, I think we can have a conversation without your piece of technical equipment between us.”

  Did he? Because she didn’t think so. She wasn’t sure what she would do with her hands. Or what she would look at when she started to melt into those dark chocolate eyes of his and she needed a reprieve.

  “Of course. I don’t have a problem with that. None at all.”

  “Good. See you in a couple of hours. That will give you enough time to unpack and freshen up?”

  She frowned and touched her hair. Freshen up? Did she need it?

  “Not everything I say is a commentary on you. Or me finding you lacking in some way,” he said, his tone sardonic.

  “Pfft. Of course not,” she said, dropping her hand to her side. “And not everything I do is connected to something you say making me feel like I’m lacking in some way.”

  One dark eyebrow arched upward. “Touché.”

  “Oh … which way to my room?”

  “Pick any room you want. Top of the stairs and turn left. I’m to the right.”

  Then she would be picking the room at the very, very far end of the hall. Left as left could be. “Great. Thanks. See you down here at seven?”

  He cocked his head to the side, that charming, easy grin curving his lips. “Sounds good to me. I’ll have your bags sent up soon.”

  “All right. See you at dinner.”

  She turned and started up the stairs, the marble clicking beneath her heels.

  She wasn’t going to change her dress before dinner. Because that would mean she was treating it like it was special. Like a date.

  No. She definitely wasn’t changing her dress.

  * * *

  She’d changed her dress. That was the first thing he noticed when Jessica descended the stairs and stepped into the living area.

  She’d traded in the cheery, yellow, low-cut halter-top dress for a slinky, red, low-cut dress, belted at her tiny waist. The skirt hugged her rounded hips and fell just to her knee, showing those shapely, sexy calves that he was starting to fixate on.

  Not as much as he was fixated on the creamy swells of her breasts. But close.

  “Hello,” she said. Her posture was stiff, her elegant neck stretched up as tall and tight as possible. Her cherry-painted lips were thinned. Which was a waste in his mind. If a woman was going to wear red lipstick she should pout a little. Especially this woman.

  But it wasn’t the sexual feelings she stirred in him that disturbed him. It was the way she’d looked at him earlier … sad, hurt. And how he’d wanted to drop everything, the wall he put between himself and everyone he interacted with, to comfort her.

  That feeling, that desire for a true connection, was foreign to him. And if not entirely foreign, connected to the distant past. Back when he’d believed he had a different future ahead of him. Back before he’d realized the importance of erasing any feeling that could root itself inside of him too deeply.

  That might control him. Weaken him. As emotion had weakened his father.

  “Good evening,” he said, inclining his head. “Have you started settling in?”

  “Yes. It’s lovely here.” The corners of her lips turned up slightly. “Very … balmy.”

  The small talk was too crisp. Too bland. And Jessica Carter was neither of those things. What she was, was prickly as a porcupine and likely making inane talk to irritate him. It shouldn’t. With women he was all about connecting on a surface level. With people in general. Why did he want more from her?

  Why did she make him want more for himself?

  Talking to that woman with the mouse laugh … it had been grating. Insufferable. Just the thought of being shackled to her for the rest of his life … It had seemed personal in a way it hadn’t before. Whether that was due to Jessica or the wedding being more of a reality, he didn’t know.

  “Tell me about your dress,” he said, because he knew it would catch her off guard. It would also redirect his thoughts to her delicious figure, and that was acceptable. The rest, the feeling, was not.

  She blinked rapidly a few times. “My dress?”

  He started to walk toward the terrace, where dinner was waiting for them. “Yes, your dress. What’s the story behind it? A woman who makes clothing her hobby surely has a story for each item.”

  “Yes. Well, but I didn’t think you would be interested.” She was walking behind him, trying to keep pace in her spiky black heels.

  He hadn’t thought he would be interested, either. Strangely, he was. “I live to surprise.” He paused at the table and pulled her chair out. “Sit. And tell me.”

  She arched one well-shaped brow. “I don’t respond to one-word commands.”

  Heat fired through his veins, pooling in his stomach. His answering remark came easily. And it was welcome as it served to mask the intense need that gripped him. “I’ll bet there are a few one-word commands I could get you to respond to.”

  She sat quickly and picked up the glass of white wine that was waiting for her, taking a long drink before setting it down and saying, far too brightly, “I found this dress at a charity shop.”

  He rounded the table and sat across from her, keeping the chair pushed out a bit. He didn’t trust himself to get too close. And clearly, Jessica didn’t, either. Her change of topic had been about as clumsy and obvious as they came.

  She’d picked up the meaning of his words. And he’d driven her to drink. That was an ego boost.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “It’s from the late forties or early fifties. Sort of business attire.”

  “That was business attire?” It was a wonder any work got done.

  “Clothing then was so feminine. It didn’t have to be obvious to be sexy, and it didn’t have to be boxy to be respectable. That’s one reason I like it.”

  It was certainly that. But then, Jessica would look feminine in a man’s suit. She had curves that simply couldn’t be ignored or concealed.

  “It suits you,” he said.

  “I’m glad you think so. You looked at me like I had two heads the first couple of days we were together.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope you like fish,” he said, indicating the plate of food. He always opted for simple when he was at the villa. Something from the sea, vegetables from the garden on the property and a basket of bread and olive
oil. He had all the formal he could handle in Kyonos. Ceremony and heavy custom, though he’d been born into it, had never seemed to fit him. Just one reason he was always skirting the edge of respectability.

  That and a desire—no, a need—to control something about his life.

  “I do,” she said. “I didn’t always, but as we’ve discussed, my home state is landlocked, so seafood wasn’t that fresh. And fish out of the river just tastes like a river and it’s not a good experience. Not for me, anyway. Traveling has expanded my horizons in a lot of ways.”

  “Was your husband from North Dakota?”

  A crease appeared between her eyebrows. “Yes.”

  “Is that why you aren’t with him anymore?”

  Her mouth dropped open. “No. What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” he said. But he had wondered, when she spoke of travel, of not spending time at her home, if her ambitions had grown bigger than the life of a housewife.

  “Are you asking if I traded my husband in for—” she waved her fork over her plate “—for fresh seafood?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “Well, I didn’t.” She released a heavy breath. “If only it were that simple.”

  “It’s not simple?”

  “It is now,” she said, stabbing at the white flesh of the fish on her plate. “Because we’re divorced, and he’s my ex-husband, not my husband. So whatever happened between us doesn’t really matter. That’s the beauty of divorce.”

  An unfamiliar twinge of guilt stabbed at him. “You wouldn’t be the first person to run from an unhappy situation. To try and find peace somewhere else.” He thought of Xander when he spoke those words. Xander, who had been so miserable. Who had been blamed for the death of their mother. By their father, by their people. And sadly, in the end, by Stavros himself.

  “I’m the one who left, if that’s what you want to know,” she said, her voice cold.

  His stomach tightened. She’d walked away. He didn’t know the story, he didn’t know her pain. But still, it was so easy for him to judge her. It was his gut reaction. Because he knew what happened when people walked away just because it was too hard.

  “Did he mistreat you?” Stavros asked.

  She met his gaze, her green eyes glittering. “That’s a loaded question.”

  “Seems simple to me.”

  “All right, I think he was an ass, but then, I’m his ex-wife.” She looked down. “Really? He’s a moral paragon. You know, he could have taken a lot of money from me. I was the main breadwinner. And he didn’t. He didn’t want it. He just wanted to be free of me. He took the out I gave him and ran.” She pushed her plate back. “I’m not hungry.” She stood and put her napkin on the table. “Thanks, but I’m going to go to bed now.” She turned and walked away, her shoulders stiff.

  Stavros wanted to go after her. To grab her arm like he’d done earlier. To soothe her. With a touch. A kiss.

  He sucked in long breath, trying to ease the tightness in his chest. To kiss those ruby lips … they would be so soft.

  He wanted to offer comfort. To hold her in his arms.

  He couldn’t do any of those things.

  So he let her go, while his body bitterly regretted every step she took away from him.

  Jessica flopped onto the bed and growled fiercely into the empty room. “Way to spill your guts there, Jess,” she scolded herself.

  Why had she told him that? Any of that. Yes, he’d pushed the subject of Gil. And yes, it had gotten her hackles up because she didn’t want any judgment from him about her marriage.

  But it was hard to talk about it without talking about everything. About the reason things had crumbled. About the pain, the embarrassment. About the bitterness and disappointment laced into every word. About how going to bed at night had been something she’d dreaded. To have to share a bed with someone, maybe even make love with someone, when they were distant at best, disdainful at worst.

  About how in the end she’d had to face the hardest, scariest thing she’d ever endured on her own. About how her husband had let her have major surgery without his support, without him there. She’d had to just lie by herself in a hospital bed. Her body had hurt so bad, and her heart had been crumbling into pieces, the victory over her chronic condition costing her her dearest dreams.

  And that was when she’d called a lawyer. She hated that. That he’d made her do that. She honestly believed if she hadn’t he would have stayed. Would have punished her by making her live with a man who had grown to hate her.

  She closed her eyes and blocked out the memory. As much as she could, she just tried to pretend those moments were a part of someone else’s life. Sometimes it worked. Just not right now.

  She stood up and started pacing the length of the room. She was pathetic. And pitiful. And where was her armor when she needed it?

  There was a knock on the door and she paused midstride. “Yes?” she asked.

  “It’s me.”

  The very masculine voice was unmistakable. As was the shiver of excitement that raced through her.

  She turned and flung the door open, putting her hand on her hip and shifting her weight so that her hip stuck out, exaggerating the roundness of her curves. “What?”

  He only looked at her, his dark eyes glittering. A muscle in his jaw ticked, his shoulders flexed.

  They stood for a moment and simply looked at each other.

  Then Stavros moved, quickly, decisively, and pulled her up against the hard wall of his chest. He dipped his head and his lips met hers. Hot. Hungry.

  So good.

  She clung to the door with one hand, her other hand extended next to her, balled into a fist as Stavros kissed her, his hands roaming over her back, his tongue tracing the outline of her lips. And when it dipped inside, slid against her tongue, that was when she released her hold on the door and locked her arms around his neck, forking her fingers through his hair.

  He turned her so that her back was against the door frame, his hands moving to her waist.

  Oh, yes, she wanted this. All of it. More.

  She moved her hands to his shoulders, let them roam over his back. He was hot and strong, his muscles shifting beneath her fingertips. His shirt felt too thick, scratchy on her skin. She wanted to pull it off of him. She arched against him, her breasts pressing against his chest, and she became aware of just how present her dress was. How much of an impediment it was.

  They needed to get rid of their clothes.

  She moved her hands around to his chest, toyed with the first button on his dress shirt. He growled, a masculine, feral sound that she’d never associated with sex, but that made her entire body tighten with need.

  Being with Stavros wouldn’t be like any experience she’d had before. Not even close. Being with Stavros would be …

  A really bad idea.

  She froze, their lips still connected, her fingers curled into the fabric on his shirt. “Stop,” she said.

  He did. Immediately. He moved away from her, his expression as dazed as she felt. “That’s not what I came up here for.”

  “What did you come up here for?” she asked, her words shaky, her entire body shaky.

  “I … don’t know.” He sounded shocked. Dumbfounded. She wasn’t sure if it was a comfort or an insult.

  “But not for … that?”

  He shook his head. “I’d ruled that out as a possibility.”

  “But you’d … thought about it?”

  “Not a good question.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  He took a step away from her. “It’s understandable that we’re attracted to each other.”

  “Totally,” she said.

  “But that doesn’t mean we can act on it.”

  “No,” she said, while her body screamed at her to change her answer.

  And what would happen if she did? Professional suicide. And for what?

  Sex for her had become all about failure. About short
comings. All of hers on display when she was literally naked and as vulnerable as she could possibly be. She couldn’t get pregnant. She couldn’t even orgasm properly. As her husband had told her during one particularly ugly argument, there was literally no point in having sex with her. He’d said at the time his right hand was better company.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, don’t,” she said, her lip curling in disgust, her body rebelling. “Don’t apologize for kissing me, please, that’s just … I’m not going to let you do that. Act like there was something … wrong with it.” There was always something wrong.

  “It was inappropriate.”

  Annoyance spiked inside her. “You’re acting like you compromised my maidenly virtue, or something. That’s long gone so you don’t need to worry.”

  “You are working for me right now.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “No matter what, it was wrong of me to do it. You’re trying to help me find a wife, I’m paying you to do it. I have no right to charge in your room and kiss you.”

  “I kissed you back,” she said, crossing her arms beneath her breasts, unwilling, unable to back down. Because she would not be treated like she was a victim in this. She was tired of being a victim. And she would not show him how much she was affected by it, either.

  His expression was almost pained. “Don’t remind me.”

  “That good?”

  “If you keep talking I’ll be tempted to kiss you again simply to quiet you down.”

  “You say the sweetest things, Prince Stavros. I am pudding at your feet.” Oh, she could have cried. She was so relieved to have those sassy words fall out of her mouth. She needed them. Needed the distance and protection they would provide.

  His jaw tensed, his lips, so soft and sensual a moment before, thinned. “You are … infuriating.”

  “And you like it,” she said. “Wonder what that says about you?”

  For a moment, he looked like he might grab her again. Might pull her up against his hard body and press his lips to hers.

  Instead, he turned away from her.

  “I’m going to call the girls. See when they can come out here. You’re paying, naturally,” she said. She didn’t know why she’d chosen to tell him that. Only that the temptation to make him stay a bit longer had been stronger than it should have been.