And it was all for a good cause, lest she forget herself entirely. For her beloved, incapacitated mother, who could not seem to understand that her stepson was a monster, nor that he had no intention of caring for her as Gustave had intended. Tristanne needed access to her trust fund—which would not come to her until her thirtieth birthday, unless Peter, as executor, allowed it—so she could pay her mother’s debts, see to her health and protect her from further harm. She had no choice.
So Tristanne did not laugh at Nikos, or slap him, or storm from the stateroom as she yearned to do. She was not auditioning for the role of this man’s partner, much less his wife. A mistress was a mistress—and Tristanne had the feeling that Nikos Katrakis was a man who made very sure that his mistress knew her place. Instead of reacting as she wanted to, as everything in her screamed to do, she moved toward him, her hips swaying as her high heels sank into the plush carpet at her feet.
“Perhaps you should simply whistle,” she could not help but say, with a bite to her tone despite the lecture she had given herself. “It will be far less confusing.”
“I am not at all confused,” Nikos murmured.
He straightened from the door with a lethal grace that might have dizzied her, had she had time to react. But he gave her no such courtesy. Instead he reached over and snagged her wrist with his big, strong hand, then tugged her to him as if she weighed no more than the lightest feather.
He cupped her jaw, lifting her face to meet his. It was a starkly possessive gesture, and yet, somehow, almost tender—making Tristanne gasp in confusion, and something much hotter.
Then his mouth was on hers. He spun her around until her back was against the door, and he kissed her, tasting her again and again, as if he might devour her whole.
And though she knew she shouldn’t, though she knew she should think about why she was there and not her girlish fantasies of moments just like this one, she kissed him back as if she might let him—as if she might beg him. Not to let her go. But not to stop.
Never to stop.
He could not seem to get enough of her. Her sweet honeyed taste, the fit of her mouth to his, the little murmurs she made in the back of her throat, as if she could not help but respond to him with such abandon, with such passionate recklessness. Nikos felt a fire rage through him, making him hard and ready, and did not try to stop it. Could not have stopped it, even if he’d wanted to.
She wanted to be his mistress. He wanted her, with an intensity he had not expected, but had no wish to deny. He told himself that he would use it, that was all. It would merely fuel his revenge.
He pressed her back against the door, holding her there with his body while his hands roamed over her curves. One hand fisted in the dark blonde waves of her hair, tilting her head back to give him better access to her mouth, while the other stroked its way along the elegant line of her throat, then down to the sweet perfection of her jutting breasts.
Pulling away from her mouth with reluctance, Nikos turned his full attention to her breasts, tracing the flesh that swelled proudly above the bustline of her dress. He held them in his hands, weighing them against the silken material, testing their shape, running his thumbs across the hard peaks until she groaned.
It was not enough.
His blood pumped in his veins, urging him on. He reached down and found the hem of her dress, then worked it up toward her waist, exposing her silken thighs, and the heat of her femininity between them. He pulled one long, exquisitely formed leg over his hip, settling himself against her, so his hardness was flush against her center, separated only by his trousers and a single scrap of silk. She moaned. Her hips bucked against him. Her head was thrown back against the door, her eyes closed, as if she felt the heat, the fire, as he did.
He slanted his mouth over hers, tasting her again and again, while his hips moved, rolling against hers, rocking them both toward insanity.
He buried his face in her neck, licking the hollow of her throat, while his hands found her. He cupped her heat with his palm, feeling her molten heat, her softness. She cried out. Was it his name? He found he did not care.
She was a Barbery. She was his enemy. He wanted her for revenge, and he did not yet know what she wanted from him. He only knew, in this moment, that he had to have her.
Nikos pulled her delicate, panties to one side, stroking her with his long fingers. She sobbed out words he could not identify. Then, teasing her, he circled her entrance, before succumbing to the desire he could not seem to control. She was wet, and so soft, so hot, that he had to bite back his urge to throw her to the floor and sink so deep within her that he might forget his own name. Instead he moved his hand, rocking gently against her sex—and then, not so gently.
She made a helpless sound, but then her hips began to move against his hand, riding him, as her hands clutched at his shoulders.
“Look at me,” he ordered her.
Her eyes fluttered open. They were wide, and brown, and so wild with desire it made him curse. He felt her stiffen against him. She bit back a cry. Her cheeks flushed hot and red. A purely male satisfaction thrummed through him, along with a deep, primal surge of possession. He ignored it, and focused on the wet heat in his hands, the ecstasy he knew was just within her reach.
“Come for me,” he whispered gruffly, pressing kisses against her mouth, her cheek, her neck. “Now.”
This is a mistake, Tristanne thought in a desperate, chaotic, panicked rush—but it was too late.
Her body, tuned to his wicked fingers and not her errant thoughts, shattered into pieces at his command.
She was lost.
It took her long, shuddering moments to come back to herself. When she did, he was watching her with those dark, predatory eyes, and she did not know what she was going to do. What she could do, with his hand still between her legs and his mouth faintly damp from hers. She felt herself shiver in reaction. Or perhaps it was an aftershock of the explosion that had ripped through her with such strength, such fire.
One dark brow rose.
Good God, she thought with sudden, horrified comprehension, he was not satisfied. Of course he was not satisfied. How had she let this happen? How could she have done nothing at all to prevent it—how could she, instead, have encouraged it? She did not understand how she had lost control of the situation so quickly, so completely. She was afraid she might never understand herself again.
And why did some part of her long to simply throw caution to the wind and let him take her wherever he wished to go?
“What are we…” She was appalled to hear herself stammer out her confusion. But she could not control the tremors inside of her, the rush of conflicting emotions that buffeted her. She could not seem to avoid his knowing, faintly mocking gaze. “I did not intend…”
Her hands were braced against the wall of his chest, and she curled them into fists, as if…what? She planned to beat him off? After welcoming him into her body with such uncharacteristic enthusiasm? What was wrong with her? She wanted to burst into tears, and she could not understand it. Everything felt too large, too unwieldy, too heavy. Her own body felt like a stranger’s, humming with sensations she could not identify. She could not seem to catch her breath, and he stood so still, so close, only the barest hint of that sardonic half smile on his mouth.
He let her leg slide to the floor. Tristanne realized that her dress was still around her waist, and, flushed in an agony of shame, jerked it back into place with trembling fingers. How could she have done this? When she should be thinking only of her mother?
“Perhaps I misunderstood you,” he said, his voice like velvet, though his eyes were as hard as steel. He did not back away from her. He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, making her choke on a breath. “I was under the impression that you wished to be my mistress. Did you not say so? What did you imagine the position entails?”
“I know what it entails,” she retorted, without thinking.
“Apparently not.” His mouth crooked i
n one corner. “Or perhaps your experience of such things differs from mine. I prefer my partners to be—”
“I am merely astounded at the speed at which you wished to consummate the relationship,” she interrupted him tartly. “I do not know how things are done where you come from, Mr. Katrakis—”
“Nikos, please,” he said silkily. “I know how you taste. Mr. Katrakis seems a bit absurd now, does it not?”
“—but I prefer a little more…” Her voice trailed away. Exactly what did she expect? This was…a business proposition. She had absolutely no experience to draw from, save what information she had gleaned from novels. Hardly helpful, under the circumstances.
“Wining and dining?” he finished for her. “Artifice and pretense? I think that perhaps you do not understand the requirements here. I make the rules and demands. You do not.” His head cocked slightly to the side as he regarded her with those unfathomable eyes. “Tell me, Tristanne. How many men have you been mistress to, in your glorious career?”
“What?” She was horrified, even as she shivered at the sound of her name in his wicked, talented mouth. “None!”
She should not have said that. She could have kicked herself. She might have, had he not been in the way.
“Ah, I see.” That dangerous satisfaction gleamed in his gaze again. “Then why am I so lucky? What brings the heiress to the Barbery fortune to my bed, offering herself to me? I cannot make sense of such a thing.”
Tristanne felt cold, suddenly; her sense of danger heightened. It was the tone in his voice, perhaps, or the way he watched her. Remember why you are doing this, she cautioned herself. Remember what is at stake!
“These are difficult times,” she said with a careless sort of shrug, though she felt anything but careless. She eased away from him, moving further into the room. She was all too aware that he let her go. She did not mention that her brother was on the brink of losing the family fortune or that Peter was obsessed with Nikos and considered him his main rival and enemy. She knew, somehow, it would not be wise.
“And you are, as you know very well, a highly desirable man,” she managed to say after a moment. It was no more than the truth, though perhaps the least interesting truth.
“I do not think you have the slightest idea what it means to be a man’s mistress,” he said from behind her, his voice soft, but with that dark current beneath.
Tristanne could not bear to look at him. She could not understand the wild tumult of emotion that seized her, that filled her eyes with tears she would rather die on the spot than shed, but she knew with perfect clarity that she could not look at him now. She could not.
“I am a quick study,” she heard herself say, because she had to say something.
She heard a soft sound that could have been a low laugh, though she could not be sure.
“Turn around, Tristanne.”
She did not want to. She did not know what he might see on her face—and she was certain it would only expose her further.
But this was not about her. This was about being a good daughter, for once. This was about protecting Vivienne. If she had not run off to Vancouver when her father revoked her university tuition…If she had not abandoned her mother to the tender mercies of both Gustave and Peter…But then, she had always been stronger than her mother. And now she would prove it.
She turned. He was dark and dangerous, and still as breathtaking as when she’d been seventeen. He watched her with eyes that seemed to know things about her she did not know herself, and that ever-present hint of a smile. As if she amused him. She lifted her chin, and waited.
She could do this. She would.
“This boat sails in the morning for the island of Kefallonia, my home,” he told her, his velvet and whiskey voice a rough caress. His eyes gleamed with challenge. “If you wish to be my mistress, you will be on board.”
Chapter Four
HE SAT at a small table on one of the yacht’s decks, newspapers in three languages spread out before him and thick, rich Greek coffee within reach, basking in the morning sunshine. The golden light poured over him, calling attention to his haughty cheekbones and the fathomless dark eyes he’d neglected to cover with sunglasses, before seeming to caress his full, wicked mouth. His long legs, encased in comfortable tan trousers, stretched out in front of him, and he wore a linen shirt in a soft white that drew the eye, unerringly, to the hard planes of his chest and the shadow between his pectoral muscles. His feet, disarmingly, were bare.
He did not look up when Tristanne approached. She was not so foolish as to imagine, however, that he did not know she was there. She knew that he did. That he had tracked her from the moment she stepped onto this deck—perhaps even from the moment she’d climbed aboard the boat itself.
She stopped walking when she was only a few feet away, and tried to regulate her choppy, panicked breathing. She stood straight, her spine stiff and her head high. She hated herself—and him, she thought with a flash of despair, as she continued to stand there, like some supplicant before him. But she would not bow, or scrape, or whatever else she imagined a man like this must require. She would play her role—tough, sophisticated, focused entirely on what he could provide for her. She would think of her poor mother, whose cough was worsening and whose bills were staggering. It didn’t matter, at the end of the day, what Nikos Katrakis thought of her. Much less what she thought of herself.
Whoring yourself out to the highest bidder, are you? Like mother, like daughter after all, Peter had sneered—but she would not think of Peter. The temptation to dissolve into misery was far too great, and far too dangerous now. She resisted the urge to check her smooth chignon, to run her hands along her clothes as if her crisp white trousers and long-sleeved, sky-blue cotton blouse might somehow have become unkempt in the time it had taken her to board the yacht. She could not show nervousness. She could not show…anything, she thought, or she would crumble beneath the pressure of what she must do.
Still, he did not glance up at her, and there was nothing to do but stand there. She knew what he was doing—knew that this was a casual and deliberate display of his power, that he could and would ignore her until he saw fit to acknowledge her presence. Whenever that might be. Her role was to take this treatment. To ignore it, as if she often stood on the deck of luxury yachts, listening to the sounds of surf and water and the distant tolling of church bells, waiting for powerful men to condescend to notice her. The events of the previous day washed over her then and she could feel a scarlet fire roll along the length of her body, making her stomach clench and her breath catch. Had that really been her? That wanton creature, so easily commanded to passion by a man she had once dreamed might one day dance with her? Desire mixed with shame and twisted through her stomach, but she gritted her teeth against both.
It didn’t matter what she felt. It didn’t matter what had happened, or would happen. She was here. She had put these events into motion, and she had no choice but to see them through. She had to think of her mother—of her mother’s future.
“How long will you stand there?” Nikos asked casually, without looking up from his paper. His voice was like a touch, a rough caress that made her shiver. “Why do you loom about with that serious look on your face, as if you are attending your own execution? This cannot be how you think mistresses act, Tristanne, can it?”
Hateful man.
“I am calculating your net worth,” she replied coolly. She arched her eyebrows when his old gold eyes met hers, and ruthlessly tamped down her urge to squirm, to look away, to submit to the command in even his gaze. “I imagine that is the favorite pastime of most mistresses, in fact.”
His full lips twitched slightly, though he did not quite smile, as if he could not decide whether to laugh or cut her into pieces. Time seemed to fall away, as if he commanded that, too, with the power and heat in his gaze. Tristanne was aware of too many things at once, all conspiring to keep her under the spell of this dark, hard man. The golden sunshine. The lapping
waves against the hull of the yacht as it moved beneath them, cutting through the swell and heading away from the French mainland. From all safety, however relative. The way his gaze touched her, heated her, for all that it was proprietary and, on some level, insulting.
“You are overlooking the primary purpose of keeping a mistress,” he said softly, breaking the spell, even as he cast another with his whiskey and velvet tone. He laid his paper flat on the tabletop and leaned back against his chair, every inch of him seemingly indolent and careless. She knew better than to believe it.
“By all means,” she replied evenly. She forced a smile, and reminded herself that it had been her choice to play this game, and there was no use being surly about it now. Vivienne was depending upon her. “Enlighten me.”
He nodded at the chair next to his, a hard sort of amusement flaring in his gaze. Once again, there was no denying the command in even so small a gesture. Nor the fact that he expected instant obedience. She longed to throw it in his face with her whole heart, with every cell of her being—even as she walked slowly, casually, to the spot he had indicated and sat. Like a good, docile, well-trained girl. Like a mistress.
He was too close. He was too overwhelming. She imagined, hysterically, that she could feel the intense heat of him caressing her—even though she knew it must be the summer sun high above them. She could not seem to look away from his hands, so strong and too clever, that rested on the small table between them.
He watched as she settled herself, his lips curved into something far too cynically amused for Tristanne’s comfort. His hot gaze tracked the way she folded her hands so politely in her lap, the way she sat straight in her chair, the way she crossed her legs just so—as if she was that proper, and there was no wild mess hidden beneath her surface.
One Reckless Decision (Mills & Boon M&B): Majesty, Mistress...Missing Heir / Katrakis's Last Mistress / Princess From the Past (Special Releases) Page 19