He trailed his lips along her cheek, along the line of her jaw, working his way toward the sensitive spot just below her ear. She gasped as he brought his tongue into play in an erotic caress that made her shiver. Fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt, she arched her neck back as he licked his way higher to take possession of her lobe, sucking it into the heat of his mouth.
Thee mou, but he knew what he was doing. A low moan escaped her as he closed his teeth around the tender skin, scored her vulnerable flesh, her insides contracting with her reaction to him. He could take her now and she’d be ready for him.
She was fairly sure he knew it as he lifted his mouth from her and brushed a thumb across her cheek. “One kiss as promised, glykeia mou. The next move is up to you.”
She blinked. “What do you mean?”
“It means I’m not touching you again until you ask me to.”
A bizarre sense of disappointment sliced through her. “What about the heir you so urgently require?”
“It can wait.”
“And if I never come to you?”
He set her on her feet. “That doesn’t even rank on the scale of probability.”
* * *
Kostas watched his fiancée walk out of the room, an emotional tsunami that had hit, then departed. She had been ready to crawl into his bones. He had been ready for it, too. His erection pounded with every beat of his heart, craving satisfaction, but since his fiancée had finally agreed to commit to this partnership in every way, he would gladly suffer through it.
With their wedding happening in a week, madness about to descend around them, they needed this consensus. Having Stella share his bed, and he had no doubt she would after the response she’d just given him, would allow both of them to get this chemistry out of their system. Produce the heir his country so desperately needed. Allow him to return a singular focus to the job at hand—right-siding Carnelia.
It would have been better, however, for that story of him and Athamos to have never come out. Stella insisted on seeing him as a hero—as the ideal she had always wanted, needed him to be, when in fact, he was far from it. He’d gone so far as to deliberately hurt her all those years ago to dissuade her of that vision and still she had persisted with it.
Guilt clawed through him, sinking into his insides. He pushed it aside with ruthless precision. He had been careful what he’d promised her. Trust, transparency and complete honesty—those things he could offer. With his one necessary sin of omission.
Restlessness drove him to his feet. Crossing to the bar, he poured himself the nightcap he’d missed at the restaurant. Turning, he leaned against the sideboard and took a long gulp. Today’s high-profile, public lashing had flattened him...stung him with its betrayal. Made him wonder about his country’s will to pull itself from the ashes.
He had spent his life nurturing a dream of democracy for Carnelia. Was five weeks away from attaining it. Yet, history was full of examples of the offspring of dictators who had set out to be different, with bright visions for their country, only to be defeated by the forces stacked against them. As if they’d never stood a chance. He was not going to be one of them.
Backtracking on his plans would poke holes in his leadership, holes General Houlis could exploit. The general was a man who wanted to hang him before the elections ever happened.
He lifted the glass to his mouth and took another sip of the whiskey. His father’s voice filled his head, as clear as if he’d been standing in this room, one he’d once presided over, delivering one of his sermons.
A great vision is one that must be believed in without reservation, preserved at all costs. Any show of weakness means it all falls apart.
His mouth twisted. His father might have been driven by misguided and, at times, warped ideas, but he had been right about that particular one. Any show of weakness by him would allow his enemies to pounce. He was never going to let that happen.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE ANCIENT CHURCH bells rang in Carnelia as they would on the quarter hour until the royal wedding took place in the Marcariokastro chapel in just under sixty minutes. With each deep, resonant gong of the bells, Stella’s stomach pulled tighter, a rock-hard fist she couldn’t unclench.
Not because of the five hundred guests preparing to attend her wedding. Not because of the vow she was about to make to king and country. Not even because General Houlis and his dangerous group of disciples would be in the audience. Instead, her nerves stemmed from the fact that in just over an hour she would not only pledge to stand by Kostas’s side forever, but she would also share his bed.
“Right.” Satisfied with the job she’d done, the makeup artist fussing over her face declared her a masterpiece. “I’m leaving tiny backups,” she said, gesturing to the dresser. “Smudge-proof lipstick and powder. Your mascara is waterproof so crying shouldn’t be a problem.”
She smiled her thanks. She was fairly certain that wouldn’t be an issue. She felt frozen, as if she’d been carved out of marble. Wondering if she’d made a huge mistake agreeing to embark on a real marriage with Kostas, to have an intimate relationship with a man she was still sure had the ability to tear her heart out.
She had, however, made a promise to Kostas and she intended on following through on it. Intended on putting everything she had into making this partnership—their relationship—a success. Part of that commitment included providing Kostas with an heir, and since that electric kiss in his study had proved chemistry wasn’t going to be a problem, she had decided to simply get it out of the way.
It made sense, after all, to consummate their relationship on their wedding night. Symbolically it was a fresh start for them. All she had to do was ensure her complex, reemerging feelings for her fiancé never went past the mutual respect and partnership they had promised each other.
A rock lodged itself in her throat. Simpler said than done. She wondered what it was going to be like to set this thing loose between her and Kostas. The thought was equally soul-shifting and terrifying.
Sofía bustled through the door with her dress, having made a tiny, last-minute alteration, with Alex close on her heels. “All done,” her sister-in-law announced breathlessly.
Discarding her robe, Stella stood and lifted her arms to allow Sofía to settle the dress down over her in a rustle of satin. An unexpected wave of emotion swept over her. It was gorgeous. Her dream dress on the odd day she’d ever imagined herself getting married.
“Oh, Sofía,” Alex breathed. “It’s perfect. You are a genius.”
It was genius. The romantic, off-the-shoulder, fit-and-flare satin gown made the most of her slim figure, the lace overlay softening an otherwise sleek, unadorned silhouette. “You don’t need any more with your strong look,” Sofía had said earlier. Which had meant, in reality, the square line of her jaw and her prominent nose, but she’d been okay with that assessment. She was aware she wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense and was more frequently labeled striking by the tabloids.
She gave Sofía a hug. “It’s amazing. Efharisto.”
“You are amazing.” Her sister-in-law squeezed her tight. “Carnelia is lucky to have you.”
“As is Akathinia to have you.” She kissed Sofía on the cheek.
And then, all too soon, the moments had flown by. With her delicate sparkly gold heels on, jewelry in place, including a heavy sapphire-and-diamond necklace Kostas had given her last night that had been Queen Cliantha’s, Stella had an awkward last moment with her mother that didn’t end up being so bad because Queen Amara looked so truly happy for her.
It was time.
* * *
Kostas waited for his bride under the fresco-emblazoned dome of the eighteenth-century Marcariokastro royal chapel, Tassos at his side. Beyond the stunning centerpiece of the Venetian-inspired chapel, the guests sat in the main gallery, presided over by a massive gold filigree chandelier that bathed the room in a muted glow.
Every manner of politician, royalty, aristocrat and
celebrity was in attendance. They had come, according to the international press, to see the dawn of a new age in Carnelia, the coming of Camelot. He wasn’t sure how long that label was going to stick after that damning editorial and the increasing public discontent that had risen in the wake of it over his modernization plans, but he was determined to stay the course. The future of his country depended on it.
A flash of white appeared at the entrance to the chapel as the strains of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons began. Jessie’s three-year-old daughter, in a beautiful white dress with a red bow, started down the aisle and was followed by her mother in an elegant bloodred gown Sofía had designed. Next came the designer herself, vivacious and stunning in a red gown of a different style, followed by Aleksandra.
“All married...” Tassos sighed. “You could have allowed me just one.”
“You don’t need the help,” Kostas countered, appreciating the comic relief. “You acquired your blonde waitress.”
“She’s a short-term rental.” Tassos, sharp in a black tux and red bow tie, flicked him a glance. “If I had one like the one you’re marrying today, I would happily trade her in as a permanent addition.”
A message. Appreciate what you have. It was unnecessary. He had no doubts he was making the right choice today. In his duty and the woman he’d chosen. Stella was his match in every way. Fearless, passionate and strong enough to accomplish the most impossible dream with him.
Duty, however, didn’t explain how his heart rose to his throat as a ripple went through the crowd. Stella had appeared at the entrance to the chapel on Nikandros’s arm, the train of her dress flowing behind her. Her hair was caught up in a sophisticated twist that illuminated the arresting lines of face, her dress an elegant, perfect foil for her beautiful body, the necklace he’d given her glittering around her neck.
All he could do was stare. The desire to possess her, to mark her as his, moved through him as an inescapable force. To claim what he hadn’t taken ten years ago but had desired above all else.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected in return, which Stella might show up today as she walked down the aisle: the fiery, combative version who had greeted him in Barbados, or the cool, aloof creature who had driven him crazy for weeks, or the warm Stella he’d witnessed of late, intent on making them work. But as she and Nikandros walked down the aisle, Stella’s features distant, untouchable, the smile on her face perfect, but more a mask than a real form of expression, he knew exactly what he’d gotten.
She could have been attending a coronation, any official occasion other than her own wedding, she was just that removed. A wave of infuriated heat spread through him, despite his own doubts about his ability to give her what she needed. They were not going backward, not now.
The music at a crescendo, the pair reached him. Stella’s beautiful eyes, as electric a Constantinides blue as her brother’s, were cool blue sapphires as they came to rest on him, about a dozen layers of that ice he despised painted over her. Transferring his attention to Nikandros, he shook his hand as the king gave his sister away. Enfolding Stella’s slim fingers in his, the slight tremor he found there threw him yet again.
“Nervous about devoting your life to me?” he murmured in her ear.
“Hardly.”
“Then why is your hand trembling?”
“It’s a big day.”
He pondered that comment as they turned to the priest, the guests sat and the service began. The joining of the hands, which they’d already accomplished, was followed by the service of betrothal, in which they exchanged their rings, and the procession of the crowns.
He spoke his vows to Stella in a clear, unwavering tone that spoke of his confidence in them. Her icy, cool demeanor slipped slightly, her eyes turning a deep violet blue as she spoke her vows to him, her elocution perfect in the cavernous chapel.
The priest completed the benediction of their union, declaring them man and wife. Kostas curved an arm around his bride’s waist and drew her to him. His touch, as he cupped her jaw in his fingers, was light, but firm, staking his claim in that way that was irresistible to him, his kiss as he captured her satiny soft lips a demonstration of how very good this was going to be between them—in every way.
* * *
Stella needed time to recover from that calamitous kiss Kostas had given her that had promised so much. She got it as they exited the chapel to applause and cheers amid a contemporary, hauntingly beautiful version of “Hallelujah.”
After being saluted with handfuls of rice and good wishes, they headed to the gardens for the official photographs. They seemed to take forever in the bright sunshine, pushing the throb in her head to a full-on ache. Jessie produced some aspirin from her bridal emergency kit that Stella downed with a bottle of water, as opposed to the champagne that was already flowing among the others. By the time they’d returned to the ballroom for dinner and she had eaten a few bites of the roasted lamb and her favorite, the spinach-and-feta pies, she was feeling better. Now if only she could diminish her ever-present awareness of the man sitting beside her.
Speeches were held throughout the courses, by family and dignitaries alike. It wasn’t until dessert was served that she and Kostas stood to deliver their toasts to each other. Kostas, devastating in military dress, went first, a glass of champagne in his hand. His eyes on her, he praised his choice of bride—for her duty to country, her valuable philanthropic work, her beauty, wit and intelligence.
Warmed by what she knew to be genuine appreciation on his part, she stood to do her toast, unsure if she could match Kostas’s brilliant endeavor with anything better. But she had a story to tell.
“When I was six,” she said, focusing on the crowd, “I met a boy named Kostas. It was a hot summer day and I was climbing a tree in the gardens of the Akathinian palace, mad at my parents for something I can’t remember now. I, along with my brothers, were supposed to be entertaining the children of some visiting guests, but I was too angry and couldn’t make myself do it.
“I was halfway up the tree when this voice, this little boy’s voice, reached me. He asked me what I, a girl, was doing climbing a tree. I sat down on a branch, secured my perch and told him that I was going to do great things one day, so why not climb a tree? This look passed over his face, this thoughtful look. Then he climbed up the tree, sat down beside me and told me his name.”
Tears, unexpected and disconcerting, stung her eyes. Swallowing, she blinked them back. “He told me he, too, was going to do great things someday. He was going to become king, like his father, except maybe he would be a little bit nicer to the people. I agreed with him that that would be a good thing and we sat there, sometimes talking, sometimes not, for a long time until our parents came to flush us out.
“And you know, as children, we sometimes have dreams that fade with time. We realize we want to be a doctor instead of a football player, a lawyer instead of a ballerina, but the little boy I met turned into a young man and then a man and those dreams never died. I was awed by his ability to focus—to never forget he wanted to make the world a better place. It has inspired me in so many ways with my own life.”
She turned to her husband. “To watch Kostas carry out his dreams, to witness his passion for Carnelia, to see this country shine with a brilliant future because of it, only solidifies what I always knew because of him. If you allow yourself to hope, to believe this world can be a better place, anything is possible.
“And so tonight,” she said, swallowing past the lump in her throat and lifting her glass to the man who affected her on such a profound level, “I give a toast to my husband and say thank you. I and Carnelia are very lucky to have you.”
Kostas stood as applause swept the room, the crowd rising with him. His eyes were dark, full of emotion for a man who claimed to feel little and suspiciously bright as he held his glass up to hers. It made her wonder if she would give the waterproof mascara a run for its money.
He bent his head to hers. “Always trying to make m
e the hero, Stella?”
She shook her head. “Always trying to put words in my mouth, Kostas? I called you an inspiration because you are that to me.”
He pressed his lips to her cheek. Dragged his mouth to her ear. “I can’t believe you remember that story. You forgot, however, the part where I offered you half of my lollipop. It goes to the gentleman in me.”
She smiled. “I didn’t. But to be honest, Kostas, I never was much interested in the gentleman part.”
A pause. “Is that a request, Mrs. Laskos?”
“Why don’t you try it and find out?”
Her stomach dissolved into complete chaos after that. They took to the dance floor for their first dance, her fingers enfolded in his, his hand at her waist. Then there was only heat between them, a slow, languorous, deadly conflagration that turned her bones to mush.
When the others joined them, the dance floor packed with bodies, Kostas’s hand dropped lower on her hip, pulling her into the muscular length of him. It was just barely an appropriate hold, one that telegraphed exactly where this night was headed.
Her breath trapped in her chest, she joined the riotous dancing—the Orea Pou Enai H Nifi Mas, which the wedding party danced in a circle in honor of her, the Kalamatiano, which Stella led, and the Hasapiko, her favorite.
Her headache thankfully receded. She got herself a glass of champagne and then another in an attempt to quiet the anticipation fizzing in her blood. Tassos turned out to be a demon on the dance floor, of course. She danced the night away with him, Alex, Sofía, Jessie and Aristos, aware of her husband’s dark stare when she did so with the latter. A feeling of satisfaction spread through her. A little jealousy never hurt, not when it came to a man like Kostas, who was used to having everything he desired.
Marrying Her Royal Enemy Page 10