by Sara Craven
He dropped his cufflinks on to the coffee table, and started to unbutton his shirt.
He smiled at her. ‘So, let us hope that your bed offers more in the way of comfort than your living room. I look forward to finding out.’
CHAPTER SIX
H ARRIET felt as if she’d turned to stone. She stared at him—casually undressing in front of her—her mind in freefall. She could, of course, step backwards and shut her bedroom door against him, but that wouldn’t keep him out permanently, and the essential key to the lock was—elsewhere. In some cupboard, probably, or some drawer. My God, she didn’t even know. Couldn’t think. And because all the furniture was fitted, there wasn’t even a chair or a tallboy she could use as a barricade.
And, as he’d demonstrated on that first encounter in his studio, and since, he was infinitely stronger than she was. If she tried to fight him off physically, she would undoubtedly lose.
Although it couldn’t be allowed to get to that point. After all, she’d been the prime mover in this situation, and somehow she had to reassert her dominance. Mentally, emotionally—and fast.
She swallowed. ‘I think you must be—genuinely crazy,’ she said. ‘But please understand that I have absolutely no intention of sleeping with you.’
‘So there is no problem,’ he returned pleasantly. ‘Because sleep does not feature on my list of priorities either.’
There was another terrible silence as she watched him shrug off his shirt, and toss it after his jacket. As she saw his hands move to the buckle of his belt…
She drew a deep, unsteady breath. ‘That’s quite enough. You—you can stop right there.’
Roan paused. ‘Was there some clause in the agreement dictating what I wear in bed?’ he wondered aloud, then shook his head. ‘I don’t remember it.’
‘No clause,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Just—common decency, which you seem to lack. And if this is a ploy to get more money out of me, it won’t work, even if you strip a dozen times. It was obviously stupid of me to imagine I could trust you,’ she added bitingly. ‘But I’m wiser now, and the marriage ends here and now.’
‘Not yet, my unwilling wife,’ he said softly. ‘It is about to begin. I thought I had made that clear.’
Her stomach was churning wildly. ‘Then let me also make something clear,’ she rasped. ‘I’ll see you in court, Mr Zandros, before I give in to this kind of blackmail.’
‘It should make a fascinating case.’ He stood watching her, hands on hips. ‘I can see the tabloid headlines now.’ He paused. ‘And imagine your grandfather’s reaction to them, and the way you have tried to deceive him. I think you could say goodbye to your hopes of Gracemead, don’t you?’
With every moment, her wonderful spacious room—her sanctuary—seemed to be shrinking, while increasing her acute awareness of him at the same time.
Somehow she had to redress the balance, she told herself desperately. Stop this whole impossible situation right now before it went too far—if it hadn’t done so already.
It wasn’t easy to keep him at a safe distance without making it too obvious that she was skirting round him, because the last thing she wanted was to seem nervous, but she managed it somehow. Difficult, as well, to try to appear dignified in spite of her flimsy pyjamas and bare feet as she crossed the living room, although she was heart-thuddingly conscious that she was still marginally more covered than he was.
She reached the door and stood beside it, her head held high, grasping the handle tightly in an attempt to disguise that her fingers were shaking.
‘If you leave now,’ she said, lifting her chin, ‘and don’t come back, then we—we’ll forget this ever happened. If you don’t, I shall call the police.’
‘And say what?’ he enquired mockingly. ‘That you are a bride reluctant to lose your virginity to the husband you married this morning?’
She gasped. ‘That is—a disgustingly arrogant assumption.’
‘I assume nothing,’ he said softly. ‘I know I shall be the first. And I think the police would be fascinated by your complaint,’ he went on. ‘They might also charge you with wasting their valuable time. And don’t attempt to buy them too, because that might prove truly misguided.’
He paused, allowing her to assimilate that. ‘Also that door is locked, so stop making empty gestures, matia mou, and come here to me.’
‘No.’ Her fingers tightened convulsively on the door handle—the only solid object in a reeling world. ‘I—I take back what I said just now. Everything I’ve said. Because I will pay you—I’ll pay anything—if you’ll just—go away. And leave me in peace.’
‘Harriet,’ he said gently. ‘Today I took you as my wife. Tonight I take you as my woman, as I intended from the first. And, whatever you may think, it was never a question of money.’
‘Then what?’ Her voice was hoarse. ‘Is this your idea of revenge, for my having—insulted your manhood in some way? Because you don’t really want me, and you know it.’
He sighed. ‘If I did not want you, pedhi mou, then, believe me, I would not be here. And maybe I was angry at first,’ he went on grimly. ‘Angry over your assumption that I must be for sale and would meekly accept this sterile bargain of yours at its face value.
‘But I was not angry for long.’ He smiled at her. ‘Because the first time I touched you, I knew there was a body to be desired under those shapeless garments you favour, in public at least.’ His dark gaze lingered on the swell of her breasts, then travelled slowly down to the indentation of her waist and the supple outline of her hips and thighs.
‘And my instinct was correct,’ he added softly. ‘You look enchanting. That is a good colour for you, my sweet one. It adds warmth to your skin, even when you are not blushing.’
‘Kindly keep your dubious compliments to yourself,’ Harriet said raggedly. ‘And, as I’ve already told you, I’m neither sweet nor yours.’
‘Not yet, perhaps,’ Roan agreed. ‘But I am hoping your attitude may soften once we become more intimately acquainted.’
‘Then go on hoping,’ she said fiercely. ‘Because in reality you’re trying to force yourself on someone who doesn’t want you.’
‘Are you so sure that is how you feel?’ Roan questioned softly. ‘I would say the jury is still out.’
‘Then you’d be totally wrong.’ She conjured up the image of the blonde she’d encountered at his studio. ‘For God’s sake, how many women do you need to have?’
He tutted reprovingly, his eyes dancing. ‘What a question for a bride to put to her husband. But, since you ask, I find one at a time suits me perfectly.’ He grinned at her. ‘My tastes are not yet so jaded that they require—additional stimulation.’
He walked to her without hurry, detaching her clutching fingers from the door handle quietly and without force.
She stared up at him, her eyes dilating. ‘Roan.’ She was hardly aware she’d used his name. ‘Roan—please. Don’t do this—I—I beg you.’ Her voice was a whisper.
‘And what is—“this” that scares you so, Harriet mou?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think you even know.’
But you’re wrong, she thought. So very wrong. Because I know from my childhood—from my mother going from man to man, hoping, seeking the impossible. I remember all the soft words in each beginning—the promises ‘Trust me…’ ‘I’ll never leave you…’
The sounds in the night from the other side of the wall that I was too young to understand.
And then the other sounds—the shouting, the crashing, the slamming of doors. The silences that were somehow the loudest of all. And then the weeping, the quiet, terrible sobbing of failure and desolation. Before someone else came along with more sweet talk, more promises, and the whole cycle began again.
And I swore I would never let that happen to me. That I would not be like her—dependent on the sexual whim of some man.
That, instead, I would be my own woman, answering only to myself.
And my body would always be my
own…
Thought it, but did not say it as Roan’s hands came down on her at last.
She was trembling openly now, her anger commingled with fear, as he drew her towards him, and she braced her hands against his chest, twisting wildly, striving to break free.
‘Let me go,’ she gasped. ‘Let me go, damn you. Oh, God, I’ll never forgive you for this. Never!’
‘Never is a very long time, agapi mou,’ he told her softly. ‘When all you have to endure is one night. Now, be still.’
Just as she’d feared, he controlled her frantic struggles with effortless ease, pinioning her slender wrists behind her with one hand, while with the other he cupped her chin, raising her face so that her tightly clamped, rebellious mouth was his for the taking.
And not just her mouth, she realised with agonised humiliation. Her vain attempts to release herself had resulted instead in freeing some of the silk buttons on her pyjama jacket, so that her rounded breasts were now bare to the smouldering heat of his dark gaze.
He said in a harsh whisper, ‘You are—so beautiful.’
The hand clamping her wrists in the small of her back propelled her forward, bringing her into sudden, intimate contact with the hard wall of his chest, so that the dark springing hair grazed the dusky rose of her nipples, making them lift and harden in a swift, shamed pleasure she was unable to control or deny.
And then he kissed her.
But if the last time had been punishment, this was entirely different. And, she realised, infinitely more dangerous.
Because Roan’s lips were warm and ineffably gentle as they caressed hers, his mission, this time, to persuade—and arouse. Which was the last thing she’d expected, or wanted.
She needed him to be rough—even brutal—she thought feverishly, so that she could feed her resistance to him—her loathing and contempt for this—unbelievable treachery.
So that she could teach him, in one icy lesson, that he would get nothing from her but her bleak and unswerving indifference—the only weapon now left in her admittedly futile armoury—forcing him to leave, disappointed with his hollow victory, and never come back.
But she knew now, in this first moment, how right it was to be afraid of him. And not because she feared the violence of a forced surrender. Instead it was the coaxing insistence of his mouth as it moved on hers that scared her. The way her traitorous senses were reacting to the texture of his skin, the warmth of his body penetrating the little clothing she had left, and the unbelievable intoxication of his unique male scent as his arms tightened round her.
And, worst of all, the hardness of him against her thighs, the stark proof that he did indeed want her. Because this explicit power of his arousal was somehow triggering an instant and shaming response from her—the kind of meltdown in her most intimate self that she’d never envisaged in her whole life. The scalding, physical rush of what could only be animal desire.
Except it couldn’t be true, because she was immune—wasn’t she? Had based her whole life on her iron resolve to remain celibate. But it was simple to claim immunity when there was no temptation. She could see that now when it was—almost too late.
When the firewall she’d built around herself was crumbling, engulfed by a flame she hadn’t known existed, but which she had to fight—and extinguish before it became a fire.
Battling, she realised, for self-respect, as well as self-preservation, and the safe, solitary future which she could not—would not relinquish.
But, in that same instant, she realised that her hands were no longer imprisoned in his grasp, and that Roan was taking his mouth from hers and looking down at her, the dark gaze not arrogant in triumph, as she might have expected, but hooded, questioning.
Harriet stared back, some female instinct telling her urgently that it was still not too late. That somehow—for some inexplicable reason—she was being offered a choice. That if she said no this time, he would listen, and, in spite of everything that had gone before, he would not force the issue. And that he would let her go.
And all she had to do was speak.
No was such a small word, she thought, and so simple to use that even very young children could manage it. And it was a lifeline. The only one…
She drew a deep breath, framing the negative clearly and concisely in her head, but no sound emerged except the faintest of sighs.
Not even when he began to touch her, his fingers light as they stroked her cheek and moved slowly downwards, teasing the lobe of her ear, then lingering on the leap and quiver of her pulse, before slipping under her collar to explore the angles and hollows of her throat and shoulder.
Nor when she realised his other hand was resting, without force, on the curve of her hip, and she would only have to step backwards to detach herself—even move out of range altogether.
So why was she was simply standing there—mute, unmoving and half undressed? Looking at him, oh, God, as if she was—waiting…
And in that moment Roan bent his head, his mouth finding her parted lips with renewed and sensuous urgency, his tongue gliding against hers in deliberate demand.
Harriet found she was suddenly quivering, as if her skin had become imbued—sensitised with a thousand tiny electrical charges, coming to life with treacherous vibrancy as his kiss deepened endlessly. The person she’d been an hour ago—the cool, ambitious career woman—no longer seemed to exist.
In her place was a creature she didn’t recognise, who was allowing a man, for the first time in her life, to explore her mouth with passionate sexuality. And that was only the first of the demands that would be made of her.
Because, at the same time, his hand was moving downwards to the warm, proud lift of her breast, where it lingered, shaping the soft swell with his palm while his thumb delicately traced the erect peak in a caress that pierced her to the core of her being.
‘Oh, God.’ The words came choking from her tight throat. ‘I can’t—please—please…’
But when his hand moved, it was only to release the remaining buttons of the satin jacket and push it from her shoulders, before running his fingers gently, lightly, over her back and down her spine, making her arch against him involuntarily so that the steely pressure of his body seemed already to be invading the damp, aching heat between her thighs.
Making her gasp into his mouth as, still kissing her, Roan lifted her into his arms and carried her across the living area, and into the lamplit bedroom beyond.
Throwing back the covers, he put her down on the bed, then straightened, and she heard the rasp of his zip as he prepared to remove the remainder of his clothing.
She said in a voice that didn’t belong to her, ‘Please—turn off the light.’
‘So that you don’t have to look at me?’ he asked softly. ‘Or so that I cannot look at you? Either way, it is not going to happen. Tonight you will need all your senses, matia mou.’
‘You’re vile,’ she whispered, with a shadow of her former fierceness. ‘You disgust me.’
He said laconically, ‘Tell me that tomorrow.’
And then he was beside her, taking her tense, trembling body in his arms and holding her close to his warm, lithe strength. Confronting her with the reality of his naked presence in her bed.
He said softly, ‘Don’t fight me, Harriet mou. Whatever you may believe, I can be patient. And I am not going to hurt you.’
Any bitter response she might have planned was instantly stifled by his kiss, his mouth deeply searching, the play of his tongue against hers an irresistibly sensual challenge.
Then his lips moved slowly downwards, nibbling gently at the column of her neck, questing the hollows at the base of her throat, the fragile skin beneath her slender arms, and in the curve of her elbows.
Lashes veiling her eyes, she moved restively, her quickening breath sighing through her parted lips, as his lean fingers moulded and caressed the scented fullness of her breasts, then moved down to the waistband of her remaining garment to unfasten the single button
and ease the whispering satin over her hips and down, so that she too was naked under the intensity of his dark eyes.
No one had ever seen her even half undressed before, or not since her early childhood, she thought frantically. And certainly no man—ever…
Her face burning, she tried to roll away, desperately covering herself with her hands, but he drew her back to him, gently but inexorably.
‘You are too beautiful to hide yourself,’ he told her softly. ‘Lovelier even than in my dreams of you. And when you blush, you become the colour of a rose all over, Harriet mou. Did you know that?’ There was a smile in his voice, but no mockery now. Instead he sounded—almost tender. ‘I wondered if it would be so.’
He kissed her again, slowly and ever more deeply, and, in spite of herself, Harriet knew she wanted to respond. That it was all she could do not to slide her arms round his neck, to clasp her hands at the back of his head and hold his mouth to hers, so that this warm, languid exploration might never stop. So that she could capture the feel—the taste of him and make them a prisoner of her senses for ever.
And hating him—even hating herself—didn’t change a thing.
She thought, shivering, I can’t let this happen. Dear God—I can’t…
Only to realise the decision was no longer hers to make. And had not been so since the first caress of his mouth and hands. That she’d been defeated—overwhelmed by the treachery of her own senses. Caught in a trap of her own making. A trap she no longer had the will to escape.
When at last Roan raised his head, she was humiliated to hear herself give a tiny whimper. He murmured something in his own language, his voice husky and soothing as he bent to her again, stroking her heated skin with his fingertips. And where his hands touched, his lips followed, marking out their own voluptuous path on her shivering, aching flesh.
She could feel her body yielding helplessly to his caresses, inch by quivering inch, and knew that she’d already reached a brink she’d never known existed until that moment. And that beyond it was the unknown. The unimaginable—and the unimagined.