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Then she’d taunted him.
Anger and lust had seized him. And he’d seized her.
Now…
His need to punish her blended with his need to possess her. Taking her by the hand, he dragged her from the crowds of Red Square to his waiting car. Closing the privacy screen to block the eyes of his bodyguard and driver, he threw her into the back seat and kissed her hard. Her hat had been long lost. Pulling off her coat and gloves, he pressed her body beneath his, kissing her with angry force. She returned his kiss with matching fervor, biting at his lips until they bled.
“I hate you,” she breathed against his skin.
For answer, he ripped her black sweater off her body. Yanking her bra to the floor of the car, he pressed his mouth on her breasts, biting and suckling until the mix of pain and pleasure made her gasp and arch beneath him.
“Hate me if you want. You are mine to do with as I please,” he said, licking her nipples. “You will pleasure me.”
“I won’t…ah,” she sucked in her breath as he moved his hand between her legs, over her tight jeans, rubbing her until she gripped his shoulders wordlessly seeking release.
He wanted to rip off her jeans. He wanted to thrust inside her hard and deep, until she begged for mercy.
Until she begged his forgiveness.
By the time they made it home, her lips were bruised with his kisses, her blond hair tousled and tangled, her eyes dazed and bewildered with her unwilling longing. Giving his driver and bodyguard a terse order in Russian, he collected Grace in his arms and carried her roughly into the house.
The palace was quiet. The bodyguards were outside celebrating in the guardhouse by the gate. The rest of the servants had been given the night off.
Maksim intended to carry her to the master bedroom, but halfway up the stairs she reached up to stroke his neck and he could bear it no longer. He placed her down on the curving, sinuous staircase, beside the art deco railing that looked like swirls of melting wax in white limestone. Pulling off her jeans, he undid his fly. He was hard as a rock and aching for her.
He didn’t tease her.
He didn’t ask permission.
Without warning, without tenderness, he pulled down his pants and thrust himself inside her, all the way to the hilt.
She gasped, then moved beneath him, her full, heavy breasts swaying as she arched her back, pulling him deeper still.
She wanted him as unwillingly as he wanted her. He knew it. But suddenly he wanted far more than just to take his pleasure. He wanted her to take her own. To force her to hold nothing back. To surrender herself completely.
Rolling over, with his own back against the shallow, wide steps, he lifted her on top of him. She gasped as he lowered her over him, impaling her.
“Move,” he ordered.
As he commanded, she slowly moved against him, sliding her wet, hot body against his in circles that got progressively tighter and smaller. He felt her muscles clench around him, deep inside her, as she closed her eyes. She stopped, fighting her desperate desire.
He stroked her breasts, then, taking one of her hands in his own, he sucked gently on a fingertip. Her blue eyes met his, innocent, shocked. Her pupils were dilated, her nipples painfully tight, her body so hot and wet around him. And as if she could not resist his will, she started to move again. Her heavy breasts bounced softly as she rode him, pushing her hips harder and faster until he was barely able to hold on to his self-control. He looked up at her beautiful face, at her soft, curvaceous, feminine body that was getting tighter and tighter around him as she started to shudder. And he heard a low scream rising from her throat.
As she moved herself against him, rocking back and forth in rhythm, her core slick and impossibly soft around him, he felt her start to tense and shake, and finally he could take it no longer. With a Russian curse on his lips, he exploded into her with a shout that echoed against the high walls of the foyer, mingling with her own ecstatic cry.
Exhausted, her limp body fell against his own. For a moment he held her, feeling her soft body against his chest, listening to the sound of her breath.
But when his sense returned, he was furious.
At her.
At himself.
He had no self-control whatsoever where Grace was concerned.
He’d sworn to himself that he wouldn’t touch her. But this proved his desire was stronger than his pride. Proved she still had control over him.
Proved that no matter what she thought of him, he still cared for her.
Pushing away roughly, he rose to his feet on the stairs, furious at himself. Without saying a word, he rezipped his pants and coldly left her on the stairs.
The palace suddenly felt too confining, and outside he would be watched by guards. With a deep breath, he climbed two floors to the roof garden. Where he went to find peace. Where he went to be alone.
The rooftop terrace was covered with snow and dead branches of the dormant garden. He took several deep breaths, stretching his arms, trying to clear his head. He stared at his own breath, looking past the treetops and lights of the city toward the distant fireworks in the cold clear night.
He heard her come out though the garden door. He couldn’t believe she’d followed him out here. He looked at her with narrowed eyes. She’d put her clothes back on, tying her tattered blouse together as best she could. She hesitated, then finally came up behind him, wrapping her arms around him.
For a moment he was tempted to lean into her arms. His heart hungered for her.
Then she spoke.
“Just tell me the truth, Maksim,” she whispered. “Admit that you betrayed me. Admit that you lied and I’ll forgive you.”
His jaw clenched as he turned to face her. “You’ll forgive me,” he said tersely.
She swallowed, then lifted her chin. “I will try.”
Anger rushed through him, pulling away all his remembered tenderness like an overflowing river ripping sediment from the banks.
“I do not want your forgiveness,” he said in a low voice.
“Maksim.” Her face was tear stained, her voice a whisper. “Just tell me if you love her. Tell me.”
Love her? Her? Who?
Then he knew. Of course. She was talking about Francesca. He’d never given Grace any reason to feel jealous, but she continued to grind away at him with her insecurity’s endless need for control.
Did he need further proof she thought him a man without honor, a man she couldn’t trust?
He’d tried to change her mind in California. He wouldn’t try again. He wouldn’t allow himself to be vulnerable with her. Never again.
He looked at her coldly. “In two days I will introduce you to all of Moscow as my bride. You must be ready for the ballroom reception. You and the child need rest. Go sleep. In your peaceful, solitary bed.”
“Maksim…” she whispered.
For answer, he turned and left her without a backward glance, leaving her shivering and alone on the snowy rooftop garden, in the chill black night beneath icy white stars.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“LADY Francesca Danvers is here to see you, princess.”
Grace whirled around in her chair. “What does she want?”
“Nothing good, I wager,” Elena said sourly.
Grace turned back to face herself in the mirror. She hardly recognized herself. Wearing a long, sparkling, champagne-colored gown that caressed her body, with her blond hair piled high on her head, she looked like a princess.
For the past two hours, Elena had been helping her get ready for the ballroom reception that would introduce her to Moscow society. But she wasn’t sure she could face the woman her husband still loved. She licked her lips nervously. “Do you know her?”
The Russian housekeeper shrugged as one of the maids brought in a small enamel-and-silver box. “She was here once before, long ago. But old lovers should disappear when a man gets married,” she said with a sniff. “Let me send her away. Your reception starts in ten minutes. You don’t have time to speak to each and every guest before…”
“She’s a guest?” Grace gasped. “Who would have—”
But she cut herself off. She didn’t have to ask who would have invited Francesca.
She closed her eyes, willing herself not to cry. It would ruin the carefully applied makeup, and she had to look lovely when she was introduced as Maksim’s bride.
He must really hate her, to do this, she thought. How could he stab her in the heart, forcing her to publicly meet his mistress? It hurt so badly she thought her heart might crack in two.
Maksim had made his feelings plain. After they’d made love on New Year’s Eve, she’d begged him to justify his actions. She’d been so desperate for a fresh start, she’d offered him almost more than she thought she could bear—her forgiveness. If only he would just admit what he’d done, and promise never to see Francesca again!
But he had refused. And in the two days since, he’d avoided her more than ever.
And yet she still couldn’t believe Francesca was in Moscow.
When Maksim had said he’d installed her in some fancy hotel, Grace had assumed he was just trying to hurt her.
But the woman was here. Had he been telling her the truth? Had he been spending all his nights with his mistress?
Why shouldn’t he? She thought miserably. He’d only married Grace because she was pregnant. A forced marriage wouldn’t necessarily stop him from loving Francesca….
“Ah, you look perfect. You just need one last thing. His Highness sent this.” Elena pulled an antique gold-and-emerald tiara from the enamel box and reverently placed it around Grace’s high chignon.
