Could her heart break any more than it already had? Could she possibly get more despondent?
Yannis was right. It was time to get on with her life. She had a baby to think of, to raise. To love. Kristo’s baby.
Time was supposedly the great healer, but her heart ached when she thought of losing Kristo. If she closed her eyes she could almost feel his hands and mouth on her, hear his heart beating in tandem with hers.
“Enough is enough. You need a diversion, and the upcoming exhibition in London will be ideal,” Yannis said.
She was shaking her head before he’d finished. “I’m not up to being thrust in the limelight.”
He jabbed a thumb at the window. “You’re happy to stay here like a prisoner, with the paparazzi camped outside your door? Hoping he’ll call?”
“No! But attending the exhibition means I’ll have to face publicity head-on, and I’m not ready for that.” Not nearly strong enough to field questions about her relationship with one arrogant King.
“The sponsors will have security, so you won’t be hounded.” Yannis knelt before her and took her cold hands in his. “Demetria, come to London. You need to get away.”
She took a breath. Nodded. “All right.”
Kristo paused at the rear of the large hall and gave a dismissive glance at the rail-thin models gliding down the catwalk under the swaths of strobe lights. The crush of the audience was as displeasing as the accompanying music that throbbed in the auditorium.
The only thing more distasteful than this chaos was the swarm of paparazzi clustered outside on the Strand. But these same gossipmongers in London were the ones who’d advertised the fact that Demetria had been specially invited to present her creations at this elite show for five new designers.
A phone call to the promoter of the event—a gentleman who was a fellow conservationist as well as a shrewd gambler—had secured him backstage passage. But he was painfully aware that wouldn’t guarantee Demetria being pleased to see him.
So be it. He’d suffered six long weeks of misery without her, though he’d been slow to realize why. How strange that it had taken a bottle of Lesvos ouzo and an aged royal gardener to clear the fog from his mind.
“Your Majesty,” a stout man said as he hurried toward him, his worried gaze flicking from Vasos to Kristo. “Please, if you’ll come this way I’ll show you backstage. Unless of course you wish to watch the remainder of the show here?”
“Backstage is fine.”
“Very well.” The man set a fast pace down the corridor and he followed, with Vasos trailing him.
He had no desire to be a part of the audience—especially when every nerve in his body had gone tight at the promise of seeing Demetria again. Why the hell had he let her go?
Pride. He wouldn’t delve into the new feelings tormenting him. Guilt over the way he’d treated her—for she wasn’t a chattel to be handed from one lord to the other: she was a beautiful, desirable woman. Innocent woman. Stupidity for thinking for one moment that he could live without her. He couldn’t.
Angyra couldn’t.
They expected a royal wedding any day. They expected the bride to be Demetria, the woman they adored.
He adored.
If he hadn’t been so stubbornly blind he’d have realized that six weeks ago. No, longer ago than that.
Over a year ago, when they’d first met on the beach. He’d known then down deep that she was unlike any woman he’d ever met before. Known she was perfect for him.
But again he’d let pride and jealousy blind him. He should have gone to Gregor immediately. He should have seen the truth in her innocence and fought for her hand then.
Ah, he had made so many mistakes with her. Would she grant him absolution now? Or would he forever be thrust into this personal hell of wanting her from afar?
The questions and doubts hammered away at him as the man led them past the guards into the dimly lit backstage area. The spacious area was crowded like the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, with sections partitioned off with stark white sheets.
He followed the man through the labyrinth. Past the impromptu studios that teemed with frantic designers and models in all stages of dress to the last tented room. The letter delta was painted on the billowing sheet that served as a door. D for Demetria?
“This is her staging area, Your Majesty.” The man managed a clumsy bow and disappeared.
Kristo pushed the curtain aside and stepped into her domain. Impatience pounded in his veins as he looked beyond the crush of models and artisans who made up the design team for a sign of Demetria. But all he saw were strangers.
The sharp clap of hands brought everyone’s head up. “Ten minutes, ladies. Let’s be ready. Ari! Do something about the neckline on this dress,” a man barked, and then moved on to the next model, who stood there in a scrap of a bra and panties, waiting to be dressed like a child.
Kristo narrowed his eyes on the man issuing orders. If anyone knew where she was, it would be this abrupt man.
He crossed to the man in an economy of movement. “Where is Demetria?”
The man’s head snapped up, light brown eyes flashing with annoyance. Then came the slightest widening of his eyes before they snapped back to match his scowl.
“So you choose now to finally show up?” the man said, foregoing any respect for the crown and Kristo was sure for himself as well.
He muttered a curse. “Why I am here is none of your business.”
“On the contrary. I’m Demi’s partner and her friend,” the man said. “You ruined her debut in Athens. Now, stay out of sight and out of the way and let her have this moment.”
The truth was the slap in the face that he deserved, for he hadn’t let her go until the very eve of the Athens show. She couldn’t possibly have been prepared for it.
He gave a curt nod and moved behind a screen to stand and watch and wait when he longed to find Demetria. To hold her. Kiss her. Make love to her.
His heart gave an odd thud the second he saw her hurry toward a model draped in a muted floral gown. Seeing her again was a punch to his gut, bringing back memories that had never left him, reminding him of days at the palace. Of nights in her arms.
She moved away from the throng of models and he immediately noted the changes in her. She’d lost weight, and there were obvious lines of stress marring her beautiful face.
He ached to go to her, to take her in his arms, to take her away from here. Back to Angyra. To the palace and his bed. He wanted her so badly he could savor the satin of her skin against his lips, feel the comfort of her arms around him, the rightness of her body as he sank into her.
He wanted her more than he ever had before. Wanted her now. But her partner was right. This was her moment, not his.
She gave the model’s abbreviated skirt a final adjustment and smiled. “Walk down the runway like you own the world.”
As soon as the girl did as she was bid, Demetria turned back to the next model in line. Only the person behind her was him.
She went still, and stared at him a long moment, the air around them charged with desire, need and another emotion he had just recently come to grips with.
It still scared him to admit how he felt, for it made him look at the man he’d been in a whole new light. He hadn’t liked what he’d seen. Hadn’t liked the man he’d become. Domineering. Aloof. Alone.
He was like Angyra—adrift in the sea.
His mother had told him to marry for love. His brother had simply said a man should love his wife.
Love. What did they know that he didn’t? Why was this emotion so difficult for him to understand?
Now he knew. Now he hoped to hell he wasn’t too late.
She stepped toward him and stopped, staring hard, as if trying to decide if he were real or imagined. “Kristo?”
He allowed a brief smile as his hungry gaze swept over her thin form again. There was nothing to indicate she was with child. Nothing binding them now. Nothing that would make this easy.<
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His jaw clenched. He didn’t deserve easy. He needed to put effort into this—as much as with any deal he’d ever made or more. For his future hinged on this moment. On her.
Yet even now that would have to wait. People were watching them. Listening.
He noted Yannis was looking for her, looking frantic when he spotted them together. “Go on with what you are doing,” Kristo said. “I’ll wait here until the show is over.”
He would wait forever for her if he must.
She hesitated a long moment, as if unsure what to do, as if not trusting he’d stay. But then what had he ever done to instill trust in her?
“Demi,” her partner said. “They want you onstage.”
“Coming.” She turned and hurried back to the designer and the nervous models clustered just offstage, back to her world.
Kristo listened to Demetria’s credentials and the short list of her styles presented today. Applause rang in the hall. Her partner motioned her to take the stage, but she balked.
“We both know this is your show,” she said to Yannis, surprising Kristo, who’d inched forward to watch, to admire her in action. In control. “If not for you and Ari I wouldn’t have been invited to this showing.”
“We just held things together until you returned,” Yannis said, and all but pushed her out on the stage. “Go. Accept the honor and praise you deserve.”
Kristo bunched his hands at his sides as she took hesitant steps out onto the stage. She looked so small out there. So alone. So removed from him.
I could lose her right now. Forever.
That possibility clutched at his heart, paining him as nothing else had. Losing her would devastate him. Leave a scar that would never heal.
“Thank you for your enthusiastic applause,” Demetria said to the crowd, her voice surprisingly strong. “But much of the credit goes to my partner, Yannis Petropoulos.”
The audience clapped, but before the applause had fully died down, before she’d exited the stage, a man called out, “Miss Andreou? Will you give up designing if you marry the King of Angyra?”
“Is the wedding still on?” another shouted.
An immediate hush fell over the hall, followed by a ripple of nervous whispers. Instead of answering, Demetria simply waved and returned backstage.
It was then that he noticed the tears glistening in her eyes. She stopped to exchange one fierce hug with her partner, but her gaze remained on Kristo.
His heart started thundering as she pulled away and walked toward him. She stopped just out of arm’s reach, eyes now dry but wary. “Why did you come?”
Because he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat for wanting her. Because without her his life simply wasn’t the same.
But he wasn’t about to tell her that here—not with so many eyes watching them. “That should be obvious,” he said, and when she frowned, he huffed out a sigh. “Please. I have a limo waiting outside. We can talk there in private.”
Her solemn eyes, with dark lashes still spiked with moisture, searched Kristo’s face—questioning. Sad.
He wondered about her thoughts. Wondered if she’d refuse. Wondered if anything or anyone could drag her away from this exciting world.
“This sounds serious,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
He couldn’t begin to tell her how much. How he was barely able to draw a breath for fear that she’d refuse him.
“Extremely so.” He extended his hand to her, when he longed to sweep her into his arms and storm out of here.
Her luminous gaze flicked from his palm to his face. The slender column of her throat worked. Then to his relief the hesitation in her eyes slowly ebbed away.
“Very well. I’ll go with you.”
Slowly, hesitantly, she placed her hand in his. And for the first time in hours he was able to breathe.
“Are you happy, agapi mou?”
She was miserable, moody, weepy. Heartsick from wanting him. From longing for the love he’d denied her.
“It’s been trying, with the paparazzi watching my every move,” she said instead, still desperately clinging to what remained of her pride.
“The world waits to see what you will create. You are an up-and-coming high fashion designer,” he said. “You will dazzle the world.”
Exactly what she’d dreamed of doing for years. Yet now that the possibility of success loomed on her horizon she’d lost the passion to pour her heart and soul into her art.
All because she’d been swept up in the turmoil that surrounded this demanding man. Because the weeks since leaving Angyra had been utter hell. Because the royal heir was nestled in her womb, and that sealed her fate.
“What is troubling you, agapi mou?” he asked, grasping her hand and entwining their fingers.
The strong, steady pulse of him vibrated into her, drawing her into him, muddling her senses. She took a breath, then another, yet still felt as if her world was about to spin out of control.
Tell him! Spit it out and end this torture!
“You,” she said. “I don’t know whether to be happy to see you again, or to dread the outcome of this visit.”
Silence throbbed between them as she waited for him to say something correct. Something that would put an end to this turmoil, this hoping that he’d come for her.
He huffed out a rough sigh. “We are our own worst enemies. Always at odds. Hesitant to trust.”
Her throat was thick with tears and her eyes burned. Sitting beside him, holding his hand and feeling that strong sensual pull ribbon around her, was tearing her apart inside.
“When you sent me away, you hurt me more than I ever thought possible,” she admitted, and felt him go deathly still beside her. “But I never stopped loving you. I couldn’t even when I tried. And now that I’m…I’m…”
“Shh,” he soothed, pulling her into his arms, where she’d ached to be for so long. “I’m a bastard for putting you through this emotional hell when all you asked for was my heart. Do you know why I couldn’t give that to you, agapi mou?”
She shook her head on a choked sob, afraid to guess why.
“Because I didn’t know what love was. Because I’d forgotten the wisdom passed down to me from a wise old man.”
“The King?” she guessed.
“No. Someone far wiser than my austere father,” he said. “When I was six years old I saw our old gardener on the cliff path with his wife, walking hand in hand. I’d never seen a man and woman do that before, and I asked him why they did it. He told me that he’d given his heart to her when he was a young man and that their love had never dimmed for one day.”
“How beautiful,” she said, blinking back the sting of tears, envious of the old couple and yet deeply touched that such love existed.
The oddest smile curved Kristo’s sensuous mouth. “I never saw my parents touch each other, though it is obvious my mother did her duty and gave my father three sons. But there was no tenderness between them. No passion.” His hand tightened on hers. Warm. Strong. “No holding hands.”
She thought back to her own childhood and sighed. “There was no hand-holding between my father and stepmother either, though there were many bouts of raised voices and arguments.”
She’d hated the turmoil. Hated the constant upheaval in their lives that had kept her and her sister cowering.
He cleared his throat and stroked her thumb with his. “I vowed then that if I ever married it would be to a woman who’d captured my heart. When I first met you on the beach I was instantly attracted to you. I wanted you more than I’d ever wanted a woman, and those stolen kisses and caresses only left me wanting you more,” he said.
“Until you discovered who I was,” she said, her voice small.
“Exactly. I hated my brother for being the man to have won you. I hated you for allowing me such liberties.”
Heat burned her cheeks, but a new warmth stirred in her at his admission. If only it hadn’t been lust that drew them together…
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bsp; She gave a shuddering sigh. “I hated myself for betraying Gregor, but I, too, was powerless to walk away from you. But you know that already.”
And it had made no difference to how he felt about her. She’d always be the woman who had betrayed the Crown Prince.
“It is time we move forward with our lives,” he said, and she felt her breath seize, fearing the farewell that was sure to come.
She couldn’t let him voice that final goodbye—not before she told him about their love-child. “We can’t—”
“You will let me finish,” he said, and pressed two fingers against her lips. But it was the fierce look in his eyes that silenced her.
“I have done many things wrong with you,” he said. “But this time it will be done right. I love you, agapi mou.”
She blinked, stunned to hear the words she’d feared he’d never voice.
Was she dreaming? “You do?”
He gathered her close and kissed her so tenderly that tears spilled down her cheeks. “Will you forgive me for being an arrogant fool? Will you marry me? Will you be the woman I give my heart to, who’ll walk in the garden with me hand in hand when we are both old?”
“Yes.” She lifted her face to his, gazing into dark eyes that showed the depth of his love, that proved to her this was not a dream.
This was real. And this was right.
“Yes,” she said, this time from her heart. “I’ll love you now, when we are old, with my last breath and through eternity.”
“To the airport,” he told his driver, his voice gruff with emotion. “To Angyra and our future.”
She took his right hand and placed it over her still-flat stomach. “To our baby.”
His dark eyes flickered with surprise. With joy. “You’re pregnant?”
“Yes,” she said. “I tried to tell you earlier, but you kept interrupting me.”
He flashed her a smile that was deliciously wicked. “Which is what I am going to do again, now that you have made me the happiest man on earth.”
Then he pulled her close to his heart, as if she were his most valued treasure, and kissed her deeply, leaving no doubt that their love would last a lifetime and beyond.
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