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But he’d never thought of her as a woman whose face was known around the world.
He’d picked up the magazine, opened to a spread of Ivy modeling beachwear. She stood facing the camera in a white halter gown that clung to her body. In a crimson bikini that paid homage to her breasts and long legs. In a butter-yellow robe that hung open just enough to make his pulse accelerate.
He thought of other men, faceless strangers looking at those same photos, feeling what he felt, and he wanted to hunt the bastards down and make sure they understood they were wasting their time dreaming about her because she belonged solely to him.
Crazy, he’d told himself.
And then Ivy, his Ivy, had walked out of the dressing room, stepped onto a little platform in a gown he supposed was attractive—except, he hadn’t really noticed.
All he’d noticed was her.
She was beautiful. Not in the way she was in the magazine, gazing in sultry splendor at the camera but as she was right then, a flesh and blood woman looking questioningly at him.
“What do you think?” she’d said.
What he’d thought was that she was so beautiful she stole his breath away.
“Very nice,” he’d said.
The understatement of the year, but how did you tell a woman you were a heartbeat away from taking her in your arms, carrying her into the dressing room, kicking the damned door closed and making love to her? Doing it again and again until she was trembling with passion, until she admitted that she wanted him, that she would always want him.
Now she’d told him she didn’t like sex.
It could be another bit of deceit to tempt him further into her web.
Damian’s jaw tightened.
It could be…but it wasn’t. He remembered what had happened in this same room, three nights ago. How she’d responded to him with dizzying abandon until he’d tried to take things further.
Without question, she’d told him the truth.
“Ivy?”
She didn’t answer. He brushed the knuckles of his hand lightly against her cheek.
“Is that what happened the other night? Is that the reason you stopped me?”
“Yes.”
The word was a sigh. He had to bend his head to hear it. “You should have told me,” he said softly.
“Tell you something like that?” She gave a forlorn little laugh. “When a man’s about to—about to—to try to—” A deep breath. “I don’t want to talk about it. I just thought you should know why I could never—I mean, the idea of marriage is out of the question anyway but—but if—if there were even the most remote possibility—”
“You’re wrong, agapi mou. About everything.”
His voice was so sure. God, he was so arrogant! And yet, right now, that arrogance made her smile. Despite herself, Ivy turned and lifted her eyes to his.
“Doesn’t it ever occur to you,” she said softly, “that there are times it’s you who’s wrong?”
“But you see, sweetheart, I wasn’t going to have sex with you. I was going to make love to you.”
“It’s the same—”
He kissed her. Kissed her without demanding anything but her compliance, his mouth warm and tender against hers. Kissed her until he felt her tremble, though not with fear.
“You don’t like sex,” he said softly. “But you like my kisses.”
“Damian. I can’t. Really, I just—”
