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“No,” he said slowly, pushing away from the wall. “We cannot call you perfect, certainly.”
She blinked. “That sounds significantly more insulting when you say it.”
He wanted to demand that she tell him what her game was, that she admit whatever nefarious scheme she’d cooked up with her vile brother. As if it would mean something, such a confession. As if it would somehow excuse the need for her that itched in him, that he was beginning to worry was not, as it ought to be, purely physical.
The urge to take her, to lose himself in her lush body, to drown in her sweet and spicy scent, in her soft skin, in her scalding heat—all of that was completely understandable. Expected, even. Part and parcel of his ultimate revenge. It was…this other thing that was driving him insane. The odd and novel urge to leave her untouched at the door to her stateroom the night before, with only a gruff demand that she meet him for breakfast. Why had he done that? That had not been the way he’d planned the night at all.
But he had lost his purpose, somehow, between the oddly quiet moment after her outburst on the streets of Portofino and the stunned, hurt look in her eyes after he had ripped into her about her exalted standards. If he was someone else, he might have wondered if he’d been loathe to hurt her feelings—which was impossible as well as ridiculous, for how did he expect to enact a fitting revenge on her family without doing exactly that? In spades? It was as if she bewitched him somehow, with her frowns and her challenges, her sharp tongue and her unexpected naps—all things that should have made him dismiss her entirely.
And would have, he told himself fiercely, if she was anyone else.
“And now you are scowling at me,” Tristanne said, her eyes scanning his face as she frowned back at him. “I don’t know what it is you think I did—”
“What haven’t you done?” he asked, almost as an aside. Almost as if he asked himself, not her. Perhaps he did, though he had little hope of an answer.
“I haven’t done anything at all!” she protested.
“That, too,” he said, and sighed. And then gave up.
He reached over and hooked his hand around her crossed arms, tugging her toward him with very little effort. She came without a fight, her expressive face registering a series of emotions—confusion, worry, and what he wanted to see most of all. Desire.
He pulled her off balance, deliberately, so that she sprawled across the wall of his chest and he could feel, finally, her soft breasts pressed into him, her body sodden and warm against his. Her head tipped back so she could look at him, her brown eyes wide and grave but with that heat within.
“Nikos,” she began, that slight frown appearing again between her brows.
He did not know what he meant to do until he did it. He leaned down and pressed his lips to that serious wrinkle, smoothing it away, hearing her gasp even as he felt it against the skin at his neck.
“I think—” she started again.
“You think too much,” he muttered, and then he kissed her.
He wanted lust, fire, passion, and those things were there, underneath. She tasted of the rain, and something else. Something sweet. He could not seem to get enough of it. Of her. He cradled her face between his hands, and kissed her again and again, until they were both gasping for breath.
He pulled away, and, giving in to an urge he didn’t understand and didn’t care to examine, tucked her beneath his chin. Her arms were folded still, her fists against his chest, and he held her there, listening to their hearts pound out their need together.
Mine, he thought, and knew he should thrust her away immediately. Put distance between himself and whatever spell this was, that made him feel things he could not allow himself to feel. It wasn’t simply that he should only want her for a very specific reason—he knew better. Hadn’t he paid this price already? Hadn’t he vowed that he would never put himself in a position like this again? That he would not want what he could not have? He did not believe in the things that would make such moments as this possible. Redemption. Forgiveness. Those were for other men. Never for him. He knew better.
But he did not move.
“I don’t understand you at all,” she whispered. Her hands uncurled against him, and spread open, as if to hold him. As if she could heal him with her touch. As if she knew he was broken in the first place.
He did not believe in any of that, either. He knew exactly who she was and why she was here. What he must do, and would. Still, he did not push her away.
“Neither do I,” he said.
And then stood there, holding her, much longer than he should.
Any leftover feelings Tristanne might have had from their interaction in the rain—and his devastatingly tender kisses—were obliterated the moment she saw herself in the dress.
