Katrakis's Last Mistress

by Caitlin Crews

  “What business is this, exactly?” Tristanne asked, glancing around. To her left she saw businessmen whose names were always mentioned in awed tones in newspaper editorials, to her right, a philanthropic rock star stood in deep conversation with a British socialite.

  Nikos slanted a look down at her. “Mine,” he said, with a certain amused finality.

  “Meaning you own it?” Tristanne asked with asperity. “Or that you would like me to mind my own? A man in possession of as many things as you are really must be more clear.”

  Their eyes met, and once again, she felt a melting that shook her to her bones. Could it not leave her for even a moment? she wondered, in something like despair. Not even for tonight, when he had deliberately dressed her like a tart and dragged her here to make certain she—and half of Europe—knew her place? But none of that seemed to matter. He looked at her as if he knew things about her that she did not, yet, and she felt her chest constrict, her pulse race in helpless reaction, as if there was no greater purpose to her being with him than that. As if she was his mistress.

  “Would you like a drink, Tristanne?” he asked softly.

  “That would be lovely,” she managed to say. “Thank you.”

  She watched him cut through the crowd on his way to the bar, his lean form expertly displayed in a dark Italian suit that made love to his wide shoulders and long legs. As he had on the yacht—had that been only days ago?—Nikos stood out from the rest. It was the simmering energy that he exuded as some men did cologne. It was the way he moved, restless and aware, ready for anything. His history showed in his body, she thought, if nowhere else. He was ready to fight, and his well-honed physique was his first weapon. It was why some avoided him, why others were drawn to him. He was a man, in the most traditional, physical sense of the term. She had no doubt that he knew what every single one of his muscles was for, and how best to use each one to get the better of an opponent. It was almost unfair that such a formidable physical presence was not the sum total of who he was—that it should merely be the packaging for a mind such as his, incisive and quick. He was like no one she had ever met. It was one more thing about him she wished she did not admire.

  Not that it mattered, she reminded herself forcefully. She could admire him all she liked—it did not change what she must do, did it? She had known when she’d first approached him that this would be a terrible mistake. It had not stopped her then. And now it was much too late.

  “Ah, Tristanne.”

  The sneering, hateful voice announced his identity, making her stiffen in surprise and dismay, before she turned to confirm it. Peter.

  “I see you have finally embraced your true heritage,” he continued.

  She turned to face him fully, taking her time as if that might lessen her shock. Her brother stood before her, his dark eyes alive with malevolence. Could no one else see it? she wondered—and not for the first time. A well-cut suit could not hide the darkness in him, the bully he truly was. She had always seen it. She suspected he’d wanted her to see it, to fear it, from the start.

  “Peter,” she said with a great and abiding calm she did not feel. She forced herself not to look down at her arm, where the bruises he’d left were almost completely faded now—only a smudge or two of yellow remained as testament to his violence, his utter disregard for her. “What a delightful surprise.”

  “I asked myself what sort of trollop would parade through the Palazzo Pitti dressed like a two-dollar whore,” he said in his most snide voice, just loud enough to insinuate itself into Tristanne’s ear and make her feel dirty by association. “I should have known at once that it was you.”

  “Do you not like my dress?” she asked. She raised her brows, allowing herself no other expression, no outward sign of how her stomach heaved, how her pulse raced in panic. “Of course, Nikos picked it out. Would you prefer I fight with him over something so small as a dress?”

  Peter only glared at her for a moment, his gaze cold. Tristanne ordered herself to gaze back with every appearance of unruffled tranquility.

  “You have outdone yourself, my dear sister,” he said after an uncomfortable moment, his lips curled. “I assumed Katrakis would use what you so blatantly offered him and cast you aside.” His gaze raked over her, and she knew, with a scorching sense of shame, exactly what he could see, and in what detail. It made her wish she could disappear into the stones beneath her feet. Instead she stood straighter. “And yet here you are with him, tarted up at his command. How enterprising and inventive you have turned out to be.”

  She should feel triumphant, she realized as she looked at her brother. He believed she was Nikos’s mistress. Her plan was working, just as she’d anticipated. So why did she feel so hollow instead?

  “I want my trust fund,” she told him flatly. She smiled then. “Wasn’t this what you wanted? Surely Nikos Katrakis is visible enough to suit you? I believe our picture was taken at least fifty times as we walked in.”

  That had been his claim the night before she had boarded Nikos’s boat—that her liaison must be with someone visible. He had wanted to choose the man, of course, for reasons Tristanne would prefer not to investigate too closely. It was clear, he had shouted that awful night, that she would only make a fool of herself with a man like Nikos and then be ruined for his purposes. She’d suspected he’d simply wanted an excuse to put his hand on her and shake her. Hard. And so he had.

  “Careful you do not overplay your hand,” Peter retorted now, his eyes cold. “What is his angle? Have you figured it out?” When she did not respond, he laughed in a way that made her skin crawl. “Surely you don’t believe that a man like Katrakis would find you quite so captivating, Tristanne. Perhaps he wishes to trade on the Barbery name himself.” He shook his head, his lips thinning. “A man can climb out of the sewer, one supposes, but he still walks around with the stench of it.”

  Tristanne wanted to haul off and slap him for that, but she did not dare. Think of your mother! she warned herself. There was too much at stake. And Nikos did not need her to defend him to Peter, of all people. So why did she want to? She was not even sure where the urge to defend him had come from, nor why it lingered, making her stomach tense.

  “He has not shared his ulterior motives with me,” she said icily. “Just as I have neglected to share yours with him.”

  “You will need to keep him happy for the next few weeks, at least,” Peter said offhandedly, his attention on the crowd around them, as if he was searching for more important people. “Perhaps a month.”

  “A month?” Tristanne clamped down on her panic, her anger. “Don’t be absurd, Peter. That is far too long. The pictures taken tonight should be all you need.”

  “I will decide what I need, Tristanne, thank you,” he snapped. His gaze narrowed, and an insinuating smile played on his thin lips. “What’s the matter? Afraid you don’t have what it takes to keep Katrakis’s interest? I have heard his tastes are…earthy.”

  “I want my trust find,” she said again, more succinctly. She did not know what Peter meant by that comment, nor wish to know. Though her imagination could not help but supply vivid images to suit the word earthy, each more devastating than the last. Nikos’s hot, tender mouth upon her flesh, his strong, capable hands lifting her, his whipcord strength all around her, above her—

  “It will take a month,” Peter said, snapping Tristanne back into the courtyard with a jolt. Peter’s cold eyes bored into her. “But if it makes you feel any better, I think it is clear that you have found your life’s work.” He laughed, unpleasantly.

  He thinks I am nothing but a whore, Tristanne thought dully. Yet she could not seem to summon up any outrage on her own behalf. After all, he always had. The only difference was that now, if she peeled away the shocking heat that consumed her whenever she thought of Nikos, she feared that Peter might be right. And worse, that she might like it where Nikos was concerned—but she could not allow herself such incendiary thoughts!

  “I want to
see the paperwork regarding the transfer of my funds by next week.” She gazed at him coldly, determined to look unafraid. Unaffected. “Is that clear enough? Do we understand each other?”

  “I understand you better than you think, sister,” Peter hissed at her, the word sister sounding like a vicious insult, like the hard slap he no doubt wished to give her. But Tristanne did not recoil. Not even when he smiled that horrible smile. “All the years you spent spouting off about your principles and your honor, and all the while you were no better than a whore, just waiting for the right price.” He waited, letting that sink in, and then his nasty smile deepened. “Exactly like your mother.”

  Each word, she knew, was carefully calculated to maim, to wound. To prey on her feelings for Vivienne and force her to reveal herself. But she would rather die than give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d been successful. She would keep what she felt locked down, hidden away. She would not react. She would not.

  “Next week, Peter,” she said through her teeth. “Or you can forget the whole thing.”

  His eyes narrowed, that malevolent gleam flaring to sickening life, and she braced herself for whatever he might say next.

  But instead she felt her body thrill to a sudden heat beside her, and knew without looking that Nikos had returned. Was it absurd that she felt as if he’d saved her, simply by standing beside her? It is certainly foolish, she admonished herself. Nonetheless, relief—thick and sweet—flooded through her. She had the insane urge to move closer to him, to burrow against his hard chest as if they were truly lovers, as if he would care for her in that way, protect her, but she shook it off.

  “Katrakis.” Peter nodded in greeting, looking at Nikos with ill-concealed distaste.

  Nikos smiled. It was that wolf’s smile, far too dangerous, and Tristanne knew that Peter was out of his depth even if he seemed to be unaware of that fact. She took a deep breath, feeling her spine ease its erect posture just a bit.

  “Barbery,” Nikos said, his arrogant brows raised and his expression faintly amused. Tristanne could see how little Peter liked it. His gaze darkened.

  “When my sister announced that she was spending a few days sailing to Greece, I could not imagine she meant with you,” Peter said.

  As if there was some other Nikos Katrakis? What game was he playing now? Not for the first time, Tristanne wondered why Peter hated Nikos so much, when surely Nikos was exactly the sort of man Peter normally attempted to cultivate. All she had ever known was that Peter hated even the mention of his name, and always had.

  “What, I wondered, could a Katrakis want with a Barbery?” Peter asked.

  “It cannot be a mystery to you, surely,” Nikos drawled. Tristanne felt her skin prickle with heat. Nikos’s smile deepened, turned more mocking. “Buy me a drink sometime and I will clear it up for you.”

  “My sister is usually not quite so charming as you seem to find her,” Peter said darkly, as if he was discussing a fractious mare or a disobedient hound. “I am amazed you have found her so…congenial.”

  “No doubt your amazement is what caused you to lose your head and put your hands upon her,” Nikos said then, his voice smooth and deadly, like a whip. His eyes flashed dark gold fire. To Tristanne’s shock—and shame—he reached over and sketched the back of his fingers across the fading bruises on her upper arm, though he never looked away from Peter. “For surely you must know that I prefer that what is mine bear no mark but my own.”

  She did not care for that, Nikos could tell. He was learning to read her now, and though her facial expression remained remote, almost bored, he could feel her tense beneath his hand. She did not look up at him, though that defiant chin inched upward. She kept her eyes trained on the snake before her, her brother, who could not keep the vicious glee from his own gaze.

  Nikos had expected Peter’s presence—it was why they had come to Florence in the first place—but he had not anticipated the hard kick of anger that had spiked through his gut when he’d seen the vicious look on Peter’s face, and Tristanne’s carefully blank expression. It had taken him by surprise. He told himself it was because Barbery believed that he’d won, that he’d planted Tristanne with Nikos and Nikos was none the wiser. He told himself that it had nothing to do with his protective urges toward this woman, urges he could not permit himself to indulge unless they aided him in his revenge against the swine of a man before him.

  “But you have spent time with her now,” Peter said, with a shrug. “I do not need to tell you how difficult it is to keep her in line, do I?”

  Nikos wanted to destroy Peter. He told himself that was the way he would feel no matter what the man had said, simply because of who he was, but he knew better. He knew exactly why he wanted to wrap his hands around Peter Barbery’s throat.

  It made an alarm sound deep within him. But, defying all logic, he ignored it.

  “I do not find it difficult at all,” he said quietly.

  “Then you must have abilities that I do not,” Peter said, in a sneering voice that Nikos did not much care for. “I confess that our father found her so tiresome that he washed his hands of her years ago.”

  “I am, in fact, standing right here,” Tristanne said crisply, her brown eyes snapping with temper—and something far darker. “I can hear you.”

  Peter smirked, but continued to gaze at Nikos. “Or perhaps your definition of keeping her in line and mine differ,” he said with a sniff. “She is too insolent by half. A trait she gets, no doubt, from her mother.”

  “My mother is many things,” Tristanne said with marked calm. Nikos admired her smile, so pointed and bright, and her seeming ease. He believed neither. “But insolent is not one of them. Come now, Peter. Must we air our family laundry in public? I am certain Nikos must be bored to tears.”

  “And by all means,” Peter said in that oily voice, “you must keep Katrakis happy.”

  Nikos felt her tense again next to him, as if she was contemplating hurling herself at her brother and pummeling him into a pulp with her fists. Or perhaps that was only his own desire, projected upon her. Either way, the conversation had served its purpose. Nikos wanted to waste no more time on Peter Barbery than strictly necessary.

  “You will excuse us,” he said abruptly to Peter, dismissing him with an offhanded arrogance he knew would enrage the other man. “I must circulate.”

  “Of course,” Peter said, with an icy nod. He turned his gaze on his sister. She smiled at him, if something that frigid could pass for a smile. And then Peter moved off into the crowd without a backward glance.

  Giving into an urge he could not name, and did not want to admit, Nikos slid his arm around her bare shoulders, pulling her closer to the expanse of his chest.

  Tristanne looked up at him then, her eyes dark and stormy. He could not sort through the emotion he saw there. But he could see that same fire banked in her that he knew was in him, even now. She was too responsive. Too aware of his every move. How was he to resist that? Why was he bothering to try?

  This is all part of your revenge, he reminded himself. Even this. Especially this. But he was not certain, suddenly, if he believed it.

  Nikos handed her the drink he had procured for her, having foregone his own when he’d seen her brother approach her, and noted that her hand was trembling slightly as she took the wineglass from him. It was the only outward sign he could see that her brother had affected her.

  “You and your brother do not get along,” he observed in a low voice. It was an absurd understatement, and her mouth curved into something near a smile.

  “In our family, emotions were viewed as the enemy,” she said. “Woe betide the person who showed them, no matter the circumstances. We were expected to be perfect little automatons, smiling on command, and attending to my father’s wishes without so much as an altered expression.” She shrugged, and stepped away, out from under his arm. He let her go, reluctantly. “So you see, I am not certain Peter gets along with anyone. But he would never show it either
way.” She did not look at him, and Nikos could not understand why he wanted her to. Badly. She took a careful sip from her glass instead.

  Nikos could not make sense of his own urges. Everything was proceeding exactly as he’d planned it, aside from today’s strange interlude in the rain. He was squiring the Barbery heiress in front of cameras, at an event filled with business associates and gossipmongers. To say nothing of her despicable brother. The fact that they were an item would be assumed—and there would be few who would not speculate about any relationship between Nikos Katrakis and a Barbery. Nikos was not the only one with a long memory. When it came time to spurn her as Althea had been spurned years ago, it would be all the more devastating, all the more embarrassingly public. He was sure of it. It was just as he wanted it.

  But all he could really concentrate on was that damned dress.

  It licked over her curves, plastered itself to them and dared any man in the vicinity to notice another woman in all of Florence. Nikos could not tear his eyes away from her. She stood out like a ripe, hot flame, begging to be touched. She did not look trashy, as he had intended, thinking it some kind of punishment for her obstinacy. In truth, he had expected her to refuse to wear the dress at all.

  But instead, she had beaten him at his own game. The dress was pure sex, a wicked invitation to her lush, tight body. And yet she looked almost aristocratic, as if the tight dress were the perfect accessory for her beauty, her position. It was the serene smile she wore, as if she had never been more comfortable in her life that she was in that scant dress, standing on the arm of a man who made no attempt to hide the fact that he would much prefer to be deep inside her than attending this function. Surely everyone could see his desires, written across his face. He hardly cared.

  He could not remember ever wanting another woman more.