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It wasn’t as if his mistresses were innocent virgins. They could take care of themselves. They had agendas of their own, usually lusting for his body, his money, his power or all three. Anyone could be bought, he knew. Everyone had a price.
But wanting this particular woman was a new low, even for him. Rose Linden was amoral and mercenary, devious and ruthless and cunning. He’d known that, but somehow, he hadn’t expected her to be so beautiful. Now, he could almost understand why Lars Växborg had risked so much to take her as his pretend wife.
Any man would want to possess a woman like this.
She looked up at him, still panting, her eyes flashing. Her honey-blond hair had tumbled loose from the elegantly smooth chignon when he’d ripped the tiara off her head. Long blond tendrils now fell against her heart-shaped face, against skin like cream, smooth and fine with bright roses in her cheeks. Her eyes were the vivid turquoise of the Aegean, edged with thick black lashes. Her lips were full and pink and parted—her face flushed with passion and fury.
She looked, Xerxes thought, like a woman who’d just made love in the heat of explosive fire.
He wanted her. And that made him angry.
She must be luring him deliberately, he thought, teasing him like a coquette. Turning her feminine charms on him in hopes of evading punishment, in hope of winning his heart to her side.
Too bad for her that he had no heart.
His men had been watching Trollshelm Castle for days, since Xerxes had first heard about this so-called wedding. Xerxes had planned to kidnap the baron, and make him reveal Laetitia’s location by force. But Lars Växborg was too cagey for that. He’d never come out of his castle alone.
Xerxes couldn’t wait any longer. After a year, he was no longer sure of Laetitia’s condition. She could be dying. In desperation, he had nearly stormed into the castle with all his men, guns blazing, even knowing it could only end in disaster.
Then he’d seen the man’s new bride leave the castle in the dark, moonlit garden. When Xerxes saw her illuminated by the eerie northern lights, he’d known it for the miracle it was. And he’d seized the opportunity.
Xerxes knew all about Rose Linden, the American waitress who squandered Laetitia’s fortune on jewels and furs and designer clothes. The little gold digger had just lied her way through the most sacred vows of a marriage ceremony in order to become a rich baroness in the eyes of the world. Rather than escape her poverty through hard work, she had lied for it.
That was all Xerxes needed to know. He felt no pity. He felt nothing for her except scorn and cold anger.
Except that was no longer true. He now also felt lust.
Holding her down in the backseat of his Rolls-Royce, as he gripped her wrists in his hands and heard the pant of her breath, he hated her. And he desired her.
“You won’t get away with this,” she gasped.
“No?” He had to force himself to stay focused only on her eyes and not on her breasts, which were rising and falling rapidly with every breath. He gritted his teeth, focusing his gaze only on her face by an act of pure will.
“My husband will—”
“You have no husband.”
“Oh, my God,” she whimpered, growing still with shock and horror. “What have you done?”
“You know what I mean,” he said grimly.
Her face grew white, her body absolutely motionless.
“Did you—did you hurt him?”
He’d been tempted to do just that, as recently as an hour ago; but killing Växborg, while personally satisfying, would have had negative repercussions. Xerxes could hardly take care of Laetitia from a jail cell. Especially since he could tell no one about their connection after he’d given his word.
“Take me back,” Rose Linden whispered. “And I—I promise I’ll never tell anyone what you did. I promise!”
“You promise?” he said scornfully. “We both know your promise is worthless.”
“How can you say that?” Her voice trembled, choked with tears. “You don’t even know me!”
Manufactured tears, he told himself, created by a cunning little actress. “I know enough,” he replied harshly. “And now you and your lover will both pay—”
But at that, she began to struggle wildly, kicking at him with her high-heeled shoes. Her wide skirts flew over the backseat in waves of white lace and tulle. The driver in front nearly spun off the road as her knee hit the back of the seat. She kicked the window so hard that Xerxes had to grab her ankle to keep her from breaking the glass.
“Stop!” he commanded, using his body to compel her to obey. But to his amazement, though she was so much smaller, even though she had no chance of winning, she continued to fight.
