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She looked terrified—or appalled—for the barest moment, but then schooled her features with the same ruthlessness that he had seen her employ several times already. Nikos nearly laughed out loud.
Tristanne Barbery, he was certain, had about as much interest in becoming his mistress as she did in swimming across the width of the Ionian Sea with an anchor tied around her neck. And yet she rose from her seat with that quiet grace that he found uncomfortably captivating, and moved to settle herself in his lap. Somehow, she managed to do it gracefully, politely, as if seating herself on a man’s lap was as decorous an activity as, say, needlepoint.
But that didn’t change his body’s immediate reaction, and his body was under no illusions—no matter how distant and polite she might wish to act, Nikos wanted her in every indecorous manner he could imagine. And his imagination was extraordinarily vivid.
He put his arms around her, holding her close, letting himself feel the suppleness of her skin beneath his hands and the soft cotton blouse she wore, that covered far too much of her body. He felt himself harden, instantly aroused and ready for her. It did not help that he knew exactly how soft, how hot, she would be for him. How uninhibited in passion. He let his head drop close to hers, and took a deep breath to keep himself from taking her where they sat.
It was not time. Not yet. This was about revenge, not merely sex. He did not understand why he had to keep reminding himself of that.
She wore the same sweet and spicy scent as the day before, inflaming his senses, just as she had yesterday. Her hair smelled of apples and musk, and something far more intoxicating that he suspected was all Tristanne. He dug his fingers into the sleek knot of her chignon, destroying it and its appearance of refinement, and sent her heavy mass of hair cascading down her back, enveloping them both in the scent and warmth of the dark blonde waves.
She did not say a word. She only gazed at him, her chocolate eyes shuttered; wary. She shifted against his thighs, as if nervous, moving against his arousal and then away from it, though she had little room to maneuver. She let her palms rest gingerly on the width of his shoulders, as if she was afraid to touch him.
“Much better,” he said. Their faces were so close together. He could lean forward and press his mouth to the elegant column of her throat, taste that strong, determined chin. “No man likes to see his mistress looking so civilized. It borders on insult.”
“I will endeavor in future to look as disreputable as possible,” she said crisply. But he could feel her against him, not so restrained, her thighs restless against his. “Shall I make certain to keep my hair in a great tangle? Is that what you require?”
“That would be a good start,” he said, keeping his voice serious, though he wanted to laugh. He could see the color, high and hectic, that stained her marvelous cheekbones and added a frantic sheen to her eyes, though she still held herself so rigidly against him. “But you must also do something about your clothes.”
“My clothes?” she asked, stung. Her gaze narrowed on his. “What is the matter with my clothes?”
“You are dressed to meet someone’s mother,” he replied easily. “It is entirely too conventional and inoffensive.”
“You prefer…offensive garments?” Her jaw tensed, that strong little chin lifting. “I wish you had mentioned that yesterday. I’m afraid I packed clothes more in keeping with your reputation for exquisite taste.” Those challenging brows rose again. “My mistake.”
“I prefer as few garments as possible,” Nikos said silkily. “Exquisite or otherwise.” He let one hand trail along her spine, tracing the contour of it, the shallow valley below and the ridge of it above. “Skin, Tristanne,” he whispered, close to the tempting hollow of her ear, and smiled when she shivered in helpless response. “I want to see skin.”
Her lips parted, though no sound emerged. Nikos smiled. She might be here for any number of reasons—and he would find her out, of that he was certain. But in the meantime, there was this chemistry between them, so surprising and electrifying. He had no intention of ignoring it. He would use it, he told himself, to make his revenge upon her—and her family—all the more devastating. It was a tool, that was all.
“When you enter a room, you must always come to me,” he continued, his voice a low murmur. One hand tangled in her hair, while the other continued its lazy exploration of her back, flirting with the hem of her blouse, teasing the band of flesh exposed between the top of her trousers and the shirt’s tail. “You should assume that you will sit on my lap, not your own chair, unless I tell you otherwise.” He pressed his lips to the curve of her ear, then traced a pattern with his lips and tongue along the length of her fine cheekbone. She shuddered.
