‘Make love with me tonight.’

Her heart was thumping, her breathing choppy, her lips felt plumped and tender. ‘It’s crazy,’ she said. Because she couldn’t say no, even though she knew she should. She shook her head, the pain of that night thirteen years ago refusing to be ignored. ‘You had your chance. You threw me out.’

‘A long time ago.’

‘You hate me.’

‘I want you.’

‘And I hate you!’

‘Do you? You didn’t kiss me like you hated me.’

Her teeth found one kiss-swollen lip and she raked them over its unfamiliar plumpness. ‘One night?’

‘Just one night. And then we go our separate ways.’

Trish Morey is an Australian who’s also spent time living and working in New Zealand and England. Now she’s settled with her husband and four young daughters in a special part of South Australia, surrounded by orchards and bushland, and visited by the occasional koala and kangaroo. With a lifelong love of reading, she penned her first book at age eleven, after which life, career and a growing family kept her busy, until once again she could indulge her desire to create characters and stories—this time in romance. Having her work published is a dream come true. Visit Trish at her website, www.trishmorey.com

Recent titles by the same author:

FORCED WIFE, ROYAL LOVE-CHILD

THE ITALIAN BOSS’S MISTRESS OF REVENGE

THE SHEIKH’S CONVENIENT VIRGIN

THE RUTHLESS
GREEK’S VIRGIN
PRINCESS

BY

TRISH MOREY

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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THE RUTHLESS GREEK’S VIRGIN PRINCESS

For darling Kate, whose strength of spirit

and sense of humour knows no bounds and who is

an inspiration to us all (and who demanded from her

sickbed to know why it took me so long to dedicate a

book to her, so I just had to do it again),

for Eleni, to whom I am eternally grateful, efharisto,

and for the fabulous Maytoners, whose friendship,

laughter and wisdom are like a lifeline.

Thank you for keeping me sane.

Love you all heaps.

Trish

x

PROLOGUE

Paris

THERE was thunder in his head, a foul taste in his mouth and a naked woman in his bed, the latter almost enough to make him forget everything else. She was smooth, her bare skin like silk and satin under hands that felt too clumsy and unresponsive for his wants. Her small, nimble hands soothed his frustration, firing his anticipation with clever fingers that seemed to track the need under his skin while her mouth set fire to other places—the angle of his jaw, the jut of his collarbone, and below.

He reached for her with leaden arms still heavy with alcohol and sleep, but she just laughed, wicked and low, and slipped out of his grasp, and it was too dark to see, so he collapsed back into the pillows, the blur in his head turning jagged and sharp as he tried to make sense of things. But there was no thinking, not with her attacking from a different direction, her mouth a circle of fire on the inside of one knee, her tongue the brand of a torch on the bare skin of his thigh.

The sensations split cracks in the pain in his head, tiny fissures that memories squeezed through, blowing into life. Memories of arriving in Paris at his father’s command, of his father shouting, of him arguing back, and of the gut-wrenching blow when he’d realised that he had no choice…

His tongue felt thick, his mouth dry, and the unfamiliar taste of stale whisky clung thick on his breath. How much had he drunk?

Blood thundered in his ears, drumming in a skull that seemed to ache more with every beat, a beat that pushed his blood south until another part of him throbbed and kicked. Then her two small hands were around him, and the breath was punched from his lungs. Cool hands. Smooth hands. Bewitching hands.

And then, just when he thought he could take no more, she flicked his very tip with her tongue. Just a graze, and yet still he bucked underneath her as if he’d been hit with a bolt of electricity, swelling even more and forcing her hands to loosen their grip.

He reached a hand to his pounding head, sure his skull must be swelling with each hammer blow. Was this their fathers’ idea? To seal the deal? So that there was no going back?

From the putrid depths of a drink-addled brain, anything seemed possible. They’d both been vehement that the engagement would go ahead. So they’d sent Elena here, naked to his bed, to seduce him and maybe create the child that would mean there was no chance of escape, no chance of avoiding the fate his father had carved out for him.

He rubbed his aching, slick brow with one hand, wishing he could think clearly, wishing away the fog that filled his brain, but sick with the knowledge that it could indeed be true. After tonight he knew their fathers were capable of anything. His fate was sealed. There was no going back.

And then she straddled him, one hand still on him, and he pulled away his arm and opened his eyes again, battling the pain that shot through his brow as his eyes struggled to focus in the dark.

She moved over him, guiding him past the brush of curls to her entrance, and heat flared again as she brought him to that slick sweet spot, only to have rebellion course through his brain in a vivid flash of pain. Even if there was nothing he could do about this marriage, he would not be taken like some prize of war! If anyone did the pillaging around here, it would be him. And she would know it!

With a roar that thundered in his head like cannon fire, he surged up, catching her in his arms and rolling her beneath him before her cry of surprise had faded away. His head was thumping with the sudden movement, his gut rebelling, but he had more important things on his mind. Still, just for a moment he allowed his hands to sweep up her sweet body. This time, trapped beneath him, she would not get away. He caught her breasts, smaller than he’d expected, but it wouldn’t be the first time the reality had failed to match up with the promotion. Besides, they were firm and peaked, and in the fog of his brain, he wasn’t about to complain. Not when they were the best things he’d felt all night. And if he could feel anything through the war zone that was his head, he’d take it.

Even so, he would make her pay for playing this part in their fathers’ sordid business deal. He dipped his head and took her tightly budded breast into his mouth. Her body arched beneath him, and she shuddered as his hand grasped the other breast and squeezed it tight, his teeth grazing her nipple, nipping at her flesh, each nip feeding his anger.

How dared she try to trap him? He’d agreed to marry her, hadn’t he? A fire burned inside him, flames fuelled by whisky and want and need and a firm-fleshed woman who had strayed where she shouldn’t. He had given their fathers his word. Damn her, he would make her pay!

Through a fog-thick brain and the thump of blood, he heard her cry out, worked out the reason why, and finally released the breast clamped so tightly between his clenched teeth that it was a wonder he hadn’t drawn blood. Instantly she relaxed under him, and he laved the rest of her tension away, nuzzling, sucking, until once again she curled like a kitten around him, her silken legs wound around his in an age-old invitation.

He was done with toying with her. She was ready, he knew, so he drew back, his thumb making lazy circles around the screaming tight bud of nerves that had her groaning in pleasure as he positioned himself at her tight entrance.

Another surprise. Elena had struck him as a woman of the world. Four years his elder, she’d had her share of lovers, he knew that beyond doubt. And yet…

He pushed against flesh slick and yet strangely unwilling and felt her tense beneath him, sensed her holding her breath.

She couldn’t be. He was just drunk and clumsy and this time…

And then he heard her cry out, and some familiar but unexpected quality in her voice made his blood run cold. He pulled away, fighting a body screaming for release, a head protesting every jarring movement, his hands scrabbling wildly for a switch he knew was here somewhere. Light erupted in the room and exploded in his head, spears of agony lancing his eyes that he had no choice but to ignore if he were to discover what he feared was true.

And then he turned, and the agony in his head was the least of his worries. Marietta Lombardi, the teenaged sister of his best friend, lay naked in his bed, her eyes wide open and afraid like a rabbit caught in a spotlight, her long blonde hair tangled about her head, her milky-skinned limbs squirming uncomfortably upon the bedlinen.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Each word crashed around his head like a shotgun blast. The effect they had on her was more devastating. She looked mortally wounded as she shrank back against the headboard of the bed, bringing her knees up and clutching her arms about her.

‘I wanted to give you something.’ Her bottom lip quivered, a bottom lip he’d often been tempted to kiss, although he never had, and now never would. ‘I came to give you…me.’

‘No!’ he roared, rising from the bed, dragging the damask cover with him to cover his nakedness until he could reach his robe. She was his best friend’s little sister. She was a virgin. And while he’d thought that maybe one day in the future… But there was no chance of that now. No chance of that ever! Not after tonight. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’

‘I was thinking I wanted to be your birthday present.’

There it was again, the telltale tremble of her bottom lip. And there, on her breast he saw it, the mark of his teeth where he’d bitten her in his anger, and the sight of those red marks on her perfect skin sent pain slicing through him anew. Oh, God, this was wrong, on so many levels. He’d been about to take her, to bury himself into her, to punish her as if she’d done him wrong.

And he’d hurt her.

He raked his hands through his hair.

‘You have to go.’

‘But… Yannis.’

‘You have to go!’

‘You were going to make love to me. You were. Why can’t you. Why did you stop?’

He growled into the room. ‘Because I didn’t know who you were then!’

‘So who did you think I was?’ She had the nerve to look incensed, and he almost laughed. Almost. Because there was nothing funny about it.

‘Just…get out of here.’

‘But I love you.’

‘You’re sixteen. You can’t love me.’

‘But you love me. You told me!’

He stormed away again, his fists hard against his brow, fighting the agony inside, fighting the injustice and the foolishness that comes with recalling a day filled with green fields and daisy chains and blue skies and a girl who had always seemed perfect for him.

He felt her hand on his shoulder and wheeled around. She was naked and trembling, her creamy skin goose-bumped, her rose-pink nipples pebbled and hard. She took his hand and placed it over one breast, so that the hard nipple jutted into his palm and his fingers curled into her firm flesh, making his body jerk once again into life.

‘I want you,’ she said, with a brazenness he’d never seen in her before, twin slashes of red staining her cheeks, a brazenness that had her reaching out for the place where he lay swelling beneath. ‘Please make love to me.’

Sto thiavolo, but he was tempted. She moved herself closer into him, taking his silence for assent, pressing her breasts into his chest, her mouth suckling at his flesh while a new agony played out in his aching mind.

He could take her now, and nobody need ever know. Nobody would be any the wiser. One night of perfection before he married Elena. Was it too much to ask?

He wove his fingers through the curtain of her hair, wound its weight around his thumbs, pressing his lips to her hair, already sinking. And she looked up at him with such a look of adoration in her eyes, such a look of love and trust, that he felt sickened he’d even considered it. How could he do that to Marietta—bed her one night and declare his engagement to another the next?

It couldn’t happen.

It couldn’t be allowed to happen.

Not now.

Not ever!

‘Get out,’ he told her, unwinding her arms from his body and pushing her away. Pushing temptation away. ‘I don’t want you here.’

Confusion lit her features. ‘You don’t mean that.’

‘Cover yourself up and get out!’

‘But I love you. And you love me.’

‘Like a sister!’ he blurted, the lie coming with the knowledge that a clean break might be cruel, but it was the only way. ‘Don’t you understand? I love you like a sister. Nothing more.’

Her beautiful face crumpled, sudden moisture transforming her eyes to liquid, her cheeks sheeting with tears. ‘But you said—’

‘It doesn’t matter what I said! Don’t you understand? I can never love you any other way. Now get out and get back to your room before anyone sees you.’

‘But Yannis—’

‘Go!’

CHAPTER ONE

The Island of Montvelatte—thirteen years later

HE WAS close, she could feel it.

It wasn’t just the prickle at the base of her neck and the catch in her throat that had Marietta Lombardi on full alert. It was the way the air seemed suddenly thinner, tighter, as if the myriad candles in the Castello’s enormous dining room had consumed every last drop of oxygen from the atmosphere, leaving a vacuum that ached to be filled.

And then across the room the ancient timber doors swung open, and even the air in her lungs was sucked out.

Yannis Markides, the man she’d vowed never to see again, was finally here in Montvelatte. Dressed entirely in black, he filled the wide entrance like a dark cloud, his eyes purposefully scanning the throng assembled for the wedding rehearsal dinner while an adrenaline-fuelled wave crashed over her, pinning her to the chair and threatening to free thirteen-year-old memories that had been buried in the deepest recesses of her mind.

Apparently not deeply enough.

Yet even a flood of unwanted memories was no match for seeing him in person. The Yannis of her unbidden and unwanted dreams couldn’t hold a candle to this man, who looked more like a warrior about to go into battle than an old family friend. Had he always been so tall? Had he always been able to fill a space with his mere presence? And, in spite of the war-like stance, had he always looked so damned good?

She swallowed down on a sudden lump in her throat. She didn’t need him to look good. Didn’t want him to. She should go now. Slip out in the confusion of waiters serving a multitude of meals before he saw her, before she had to face him again and relive the humiliation of their last encounter.

And then her brother jumped to his feet beside her, calling across the room, and Marietta knew she’d left it too late. The obsidian eyes she’d been hoping to avoid found their mark as they zeroed in on Rafe, his mouth turning into a smile until those same eyes fell on her, lingering so coldly that she shivered, any semblance of a smile frozen clear away, before they snapped back to Rafe so cleanly and decisively as if even looking at her had been a mistake.

Released from his cold-as-a-grave gaze, Marietta felt as if she’d taken a blow to the gut. She’d known Yannis Markides was not the type of man who would forgive and forget, but it was clear he also had no problems holding a grudge. And from the expression on his face as he’d practically seared her with his gaze, he was as unenthusiastic about seeing her as she was about seeing him.

Fine. The sooner this wedding was over, the sooner they could both go back to never seeing each other again, and the happier they’d both be.

So she was here, just as he’d been warned. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides in time with the thump of his heart, a deep-seated anger turning his vision to red. He’d always believed in the principle that to be forewarned was to be forearmed. The adage had stood him in good stead over the years in both his professional and his private life, and yet now, coming face to face with the woman who’d done more to destroy his family’s financial security than any number of corporate sharks he’d had to deal with in his time, the old adage wasn’t holding up to scrutiny. Because it wasn’t until now that realised the depths of his resentment. It was as if seeing her had rekindled every last spark of anger and bitterness, reigniting old wounds and sending the flames high.

He didn’t want to be here, even if it was his best friend’s wedding—not if it meant seeing her again, and certainly not if it meant being thrust back into those dark days.

He dragged in a lungful of air heavy with the combined scents of garlic, rosemary and spit-roasted game and sensed something else in the mix—duty. For he had no choice but to be here. One thing he’d learned over the years was that life didn’t necessarily serve up what you wanted. He was here, and somehow he was expected to be her opposite number on the bridal party, to be her partner throughout the festivities, even to take her in his arms and dance with her. No amount of forewarning was going to prepare him for that.

He should have brought a woman. He could have had his pick of any number, even after terminating his brief liaison with Susannah, and he cursed the decision that had seen him arrive alone—although he was still sympathetic with the logic of it. Taking a woman to a wedding was fraught with danger. It put ideas in women’s heads, ideas that had no place in his relationships.

‘Yannis!’ She heard her brother’s greeting over the chamber music and hubbub of conversation from the assembled guests as the pair met, shaking hands and pulling each other into a man hug before slapping each other on the back. She watched, unable to move, compelled to watch, waiting for the inevitable moment when Rafe would pull Yannis over to introduce him to his bride-tobe, and for the moment when she would have to look him in the eye and greet him and pretend that what had happened thirteen years ago had never taken place.

‘So that’s Yannis Markides,’ Sienna said, leaning across Rafe’s empty chair between them, her head still angled towards the reunion between the two men. ‘He’s very good-looking, isn’t he? Almost as good-looking as Rafe.’

Better.

The rogue thought came unbidden and unwelcome, but as much as she tried to clamp down on it, the truth would not be denied. Having inherited the best of their father’s genes, her brother was beyond handsome, and in his dress uniform of maroon jacket and ceremonial sash, even more so. But Yannis, with his unique mix of his Montvelattian mother and Greek-Cypriot father, was something else again. It was as if he’d been blessed with the best genes the Mediterranean had to offer, a combination of dark hair, bottomless eyes and chiselled features. As a twenty-one-year-old, he’d been the best-looking man she’d ever seen. Thirteen years on, as a man in his prime, he was utterly arresting.

‘I guess so,’ she replied at last as she reached for her glass, looking for something tactile and solid and real to cling onto, telling herself he was only a man, a mere mortal like everyone else.

And then she looked up again.

Under the ballroom lighting, his black hair gleamed thick and healthy, his strong features complemented by the play of light and shadow as he moved, with even the angles and planes of his face speaking of nobility.

Mortal? Then why did he have to look so much like a god? Was it any wonder she’d once imagined herself in love with him? What girl wouldn’t be naïve enough to let herself imagine, to think that maybe there was something more to it when this man was your brother’s best friend and you saw him practically every day of your life, and when he treated you as if you were something special, the way he always had…

What girl wouldn’t have made the same mistake she had? She took a deep breath, her fingers locked tight around the stem of her wine glass. Back then she’d been just a teenager, and clearly impressionable at that. Thank God she wasn’t so naïve, so easily driven by her hormones any more. And thank God this ordeal would soon be over. A day, maybe two, and the wedding and the associated formalities would be done with, and they would both be gone from the island.

She could hardly wait.

‘I can see why he’s so popular with the women,’ Sienna continued, ‘although I can’t believe he’s alone now. I expected he’d bring a partner.’

Marietta didn’t care. Yannis had a reputation as a playboy, the same label her brother had boasted until his world had connected with Sienna’s. If Yannis was by himself, she had no doubt it would only be a temporary situation. ‘Maybe she saw sense,’ she muttered, not quietly enough.

The other woman’s head swung around, ‘You don’t like him? I thought you guys grew up together, one big happy family. At least, that’s how Rafe makes it sound.’

Marietta shrugged and forced a smile to her face. ‘You know how it is, two’s company, three’s a crowd. They’ve always been best friends and I’ve always been Rafe’s little sister.’

Whether she’d placed too much emphasis on the last two words, or whether they’d contained a hint of bitterness that she’d never quite dispelled, Sienna studied her for a second, as if weighing up her answer. Then she nodded and reached over to squeeze her free hand. ‘I think I understand.’ And Marietta felt a surge of affection for the Australian woman who would soon be her sister-in-law.

The two men turned then, Rafe gesturing towards the women, and something twisted in her gut, pulling her lower into the chair. She let go the glass she was still holding in a rush, lest she tip it over and spill its contents, and battled to dredge up a plastic smile to affix to her face as they came closer.

‘You remember Marietta, of course,’ her brother said as he led the way, and the dark cloud hovered before her, brooding dangerously over her before she’d had a chance to find her feet, even if she’d been able to remember how to do so, standing so close to her that she dared not attempt the feat now. Not when the look in his eyes damned her to the core, without the merest shred of warmth at meeting her again.

She’d done that, she realised in a rush. She’d banished every good memory he might have of their years together with one foolish and reckless act. And now, just as he had done thirteen years ago, he was still making her pay the price.

So many years later. She’d been a teenager back then. Made just one foolish mistake. Had what she’d done been so unforgivable?

‘Yannis,’ she said, needing to do something to break the silence that stretched taut like piano wire between them, ‘it’s been a long time.’

The searing look he sent her in reply told her he thought it nowhere near long enough, before he dipped his head in the barest nod. ‘Princess,’ he said, and Marietta swallowed. The way he said it made it sound like an insult, but before she could force her tight vocal cords to relax enough to tell him that he could call her Marietta, as he had always done, Rafe had already turned away to introduce his fiancée, and Yannis had severed contact.

Sienna clearly had more presence of mind than Marietta or maybe it was just that the other woman’s knees were still working, as she rose from her chair to greet Rafe’s lifelong friend, her smile broad and welcoming as he lifted her hand and pressed his lips to the back of it.

‘Raphael always insisted he would beat me at everything. At finding the perfect wife, I’m afraid I must concede this contest.’

Sienna laughed a little, her smile widening. ‘Rafe told me you were a charmer. I’m surprised you haven’t found the woman of your dreams by now.’

Marietta stiffened in her chair as she awaited Yannis’s response, although she wasn’t entirely sure why. She’d long ago given up the notion that she was the woman of his dreams. Long ago given up caring who he was with. So she topped up her glass of mineral water, needing the distraction and waving away the waiter who had descended upon her ready to do the task himself.

‘Yannis will never marry now, I am convinced of that,’ Rafe answered for his friend. ‘No woman is good enough for him.’

Especially not Marietta. She hadn’t even been good enough to sleep with.

Beyond her, Sienna shook her head at her husband-to-be and smiled softly. ‘Tell me, Yannis, how is your father now? Rafe said he’s been very ill.’

‘He has been, although he’s thankfully off the critical list. He suffered another stroke a month ago. My mother apologises for not coming to the wedding, but she cannot leave him now.’

‘I’m sorry that they can’t both be here, but it is so good to meet you at last,’ she said. ‘Rafe’s told me so much about you.’

‘None of it good,’ Rafe added, urging them all to sit as waiters appeared from nowhere to bring another meal and fill wine and water glasses. Yannis took his place alongside Sienna, and with a sigh of relief Marietta settled in her brother’s shadow, happy for the barrier of the grateful couple separating her from their new arrival.

‘Although now,’ Rafe continued, ‘I’ll have to take back the bit about not making it to our wedding. You’ve missed the rehearsal, though. What kept you? You were supposed to be here days ago.’

Yannis shrugged and picked up the large wine glass, swirling the contents and lifting it casually to his nose, and Marietta thought he would never answer, until finally he spoke. ‘The US market has been jittery, and with it some of our clients. It seemed unwise to leave too early. As it is, I’ll have to head back straight after the wedding.’

Rafe’s face darkened, his brow creased. ‘You never mentioned jittery clients in your emails.’

‘You’re getting married,’ Yannis countered, ‘there are some things you don’t need to know. Besides, you have enough on your plate sorting out Montvelatte’s finances.’

‘Then why not let Kernahan handle it? After all, you hand-picked the new manager yourself. Why couldn’t you have left it to him?’

The other man’s eyes glowed unnaturally bright as he stared silently out over the crowd, his jawline tight and rigid.

Marietta chose that moment to reach forward for her water, needing to feel something cool in a throat that felt too tight, too dry. In itself it wasn’t a foolhardy action. The mistake she made was in turning her head, only to have her eyes connect once again with the man three seats down, who was staring right at her. Sensation sizzled down her spine as the connection was made—and held.

‘Oh, I had my reasons,’ he muttered, his voice low, his lips tightly drawn, and his eyes still locked on hers so that she was in no doubt that he had waited until the last moment to attend his best friend’s wedding so as to avoid her.

Beside her, Rafe made a move to remonstrate, but his fiancée stopped him with one hand on his wrist. ‘Rafe, Yannis is here now, in plenty of time for the wedding. That’s all that matters.’

And her brother shrugged and let it go, just as Yannis released her eyes so that at last she could drop back in her chair and disappear behind the shield of her brother, her breathing suddenly too shallow and too fast, her pulse racing, as if she’d just run up the Castello’s marble staircase.

This was crazy. She should go—tell them she had a headache. It was almost the truth; her nerves were so strung out that she didn’t know what she felt other than this decade-plus ache in her bones that just felt plain wrong. She’d plead a headache and go to bed early, and then there would only be the wedding tomorrow and the reception, and then she wouldn’t have to see Yannis again. Wouldn’t have to sense his near hatred in every look, in every single word.

She’d almost found the courage to stand, had almost found the words she needed to say, when the music suddenly changed tempo, the orchestra switching to a waltz and an air of hushed expectancy falling over the crowd. Her brother beat her to her feet, took his fiancée’s hand and pressed his lips to the back of it. ‘Come, cara, they await the dance.’

‘But surely that’s after the wedding—at the reception.’

‘Not all of these people—’ he waved his hand around the room ‘—will be able to be here for the reception. Many are villagers who have performed a special task or who will be busy themselves tomorrow, preparing the flowers or working in the kitchens. Tonight is our way of saying a special thank you to them.’

Sienna smiled and nodded. ‘Of course. Then we mustn’t disappoint them.’ She took his hand and stood, and the crowd burst into applause, cheering as Rafe led Sienna to the dance floor and folded his soon-to-be wife—Montvelatte’s soon-to-be Princess—into his arms. She went as if she belonged there, their bodies moving as one to the music, their eyes on each other, their love a palpable thing.

To love someone so much and to have that love returned… how must that feel? Marietta sighed as she watched them effortlessly glide around the dance floor as one. Now, with the eyes of everyone in the room on them, was her chance to escape. She pushed her chair back, reaching for her purse in the same motion.

‘You look different,’ came a deep voice from beside her, the words innocent enough yet the tone accusatory. She looked around, surprised that anyone in the room had eyes for anyone but the couple on the dance floor, but then Yannis didn’t possess eyes so much as pointed barbs that launched out and impaled her, arresting her escape mid-flight. She swallowed, her back straightening, refusing to be cowed even if her ability to stand had once again deserted her.

‘You mean with my clothes on?’

His expression grew darker and harder, and she bit down hard on her bottom lip, wishing she’d managed to form the words in her brain before she’d allowed herself to utter the retort. The look on his face was enough to tell her that the last thing either of them needed was a reminder of that night.

But what did he expect? His attitude had hardly been conciliatory from the moment he’d walked into the room and his gaze had first connected with hers. Why shouldn’t she go on the attack when he obviously needed to realise how ridiculous his petty grudge really was?

‘I meant you looked older,’ he growled once he’d recovered.

Of course that was what he’d meant.

She forced a smile to her lips, but there was no forcing it any further than that. ‘Did you? That sounds so much better, thank you.’

‘You know what I meant,’ he snarled.

‘It has been thirteen years. Is it any surprise I’ve grown up a bit since then?’ Out on the dance floor the Prince and his bride-to-be spun together, two halves of a whole, totally absorbed in each other, totally oblivious to whatever tension existed beyond their world. Marietta watched their effortless glide with an envious eye.

‘Have you?’

She looked back at him, the vision of her brother and his wife making her lose her train of thought. ‘Have I what?’

‘Grown up.’

She dragged in a breath, oxygen destined to fuel the fire already burning inside her. ‘People change with time, Yannis. Maybe you should try it one day.’ There was no point staying any longer. She stood, determined this time to leave. It would be easier this way. She wouldn’t have to plead a headache. Yannis wouldn’t require any explanation at all. He’d just be happy she was gone.

But Yannis was standing, too, and blocking her way. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

‘I’m leaving.’

‘You can’t leave yet.’

He had to be kidding. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ll do whatever I damn well like. So if you wouldn’t mind getting out of my way?’

‘It’s Rafe and Sienna’s rehearsal dinner.’

Now her breathing was more impatient than ever. ‘Don’t you think I know that? I was here for it, remember? I’m not the one who blew in late.’

A muscle tightened in his jaw. His eyes grew hard and even colder. ‘Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean you can avoid your responsibilities now.’ He gestured towards the dance floor. ‘Your brother clearly expects us to join them.’ He extended a reluctant arm to her. ‘Shall we?’

She blinked up at him, her head already moving into a shake. ‘You must be mad.’

And then he nodded in the direction of the dancing couple, and she followed his gaze to where Rafe was spinning his wife-to-be around the dance floor. ‘We are expected to join them.’

A lump lodged in her throat, and she swallowed, trying to shift it. He expected her to dance with him? To be escorted around the dance floor in those arms tonight? No way. It was one thing to be expected to do it at the formal reception, but there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that she would do it tonight. She didn’t have the stomach for it. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, clutching at her earlier excuse. ‘I’m afraid I have a blinder of a headache. I really have to go.’

One dark eyebrow arched as he frowned, disapproval and something else skating across his eyes. ‘You’re afraid.’

She stiffened at the accusation, resenting the challenge, resenting even more the glimmer of truth his words contained. ‘Afraid you’ll make my headache worse?’ she answered, twisting his words to her own purposes. ‘Oh, I’ll admit there’s every chance of that.’

A muscle in his jaw twitched. ‘I’m sure you can tolerate the inconvenience if I can.’ His words sounded like gravel on gravel, scraping away at the scars left all those years ago until the flesh was raw and tender and she could almost taste the blood seeping fresh from the wound. ‘And don’t think I would ask you if I didn’t have to, but others are waiting for us before they can dance, so tell me, are you coming willingly, or do I have to drag you to the dance floor?’

So he wanted to dance with her as much as she wanted to dance with him. She wanted the time to roll that thought around her mind, to find out why the concept wasn’t as satisfying as it should be. But there was no time because he was right—heads were turned, people were watching them expectantly, waiting for them to join the happy couple. She looked back at him, to the dark-as-night eyes that now held an ‘I told you so’ glimmer of triumph and she didn’t answer, couldn’t bring herself to. Instead she just strode past him, her chin held high, not caring if he chose to follow her or not, half wishing he wouldn’t so that in spite of the audience waiting, she could just keep walking.

He followed her. She didn’t need to turn around to know he was right behind her. She could sense his proximity, feel the heat generated by the man just as surely as she could feel the tide of her sapphire silk gown swirling around her ankles as she strode purposefully towards the dance floor.

She’d barely reached it when he captured one hand and swung her around so firmly that she collided hard against the wall of his chest, knocking the air from her lungs and the sense from her mind. He held onto her with a vice-like grip as if certain she would flee at any moment. ‘Dance,’ he ordered when she’d stood rigid too long, his legs forcing hers to follow suit, though protesting and awkward.

She didn’t want him so close, didn’t want to feel the press of his thigh or the heat of his chest. Didn’t want her hand wrapped so securely in his long, warm fingers, fingers that had come so close to taking her to paradise so many years ago…

Lost in the echo of sensations long gone, she stumbled, only to be abruptly righted by the man in front of her. And it occurred to her how different a picture their entrance on to the dance floor must look, forced and stiff and unnatural after Rafe and Sienna’s silken-smooth coupling.

She mangled still more steps before they managed to find some kind of uncomfortable rhythm. Uncomfortable to Marietta, anyway. There was no telling what Yannis thought or felt beyond his overwhelming aura of resentment.

‘Well, this is fun,’ she blurted, hating every second of it, resenting the grip he had on her hand and the feel of his large hand in the small of her back. Just being close to him was enough to set her skin on fire with awareness. Having to tolerate his touch—the touch of a man who hated her and made no effort to hide it—was too much to endure.

‘Nobody said it would be fun.’

He spun her around as easily as if she were made of balsa wood rather than flesh and blood, using his size to counteract her resistance and make her move with him the way he thought she should.

Exasperated, she took a breath and immediately wished she hadn’t, her lungs suddenly full of the scent of the man, the very essence of him captured in one ill-timed gasp for air. She turned her head away, so desperate to find somewhere unpolluted with his scent that she missed yet another step, and their feet collided and clashed. He answered by hauling her even closer so she was plastered from breast downwards against his body, her legs so close to his that she had no choice but to cede to his control. ‘What are you doing?’ she protested, pushing back her shoulders to try to reclaim some space between them.

‘Attempting to look like a couple.’

‘We’re not a couple.’

‘We could at least try to move in the same direction at the same time,’ he growled. ‘Just dance.’

He didn’t say anything after that, and for that she was grateful. So she tried to concentrate on the music and forget all about the way her skin tingled where their bodies met, tried to disregard the warm puff of air that signalled his breath teasing the coils of her hair around her ear. But there was no forgetting the feeling of skin against skin as he held tight to her hand, no ignoring how strong and warm the body plastered next to hers felt. And no amount of music would ever be enough to let her forget exactly who she was dancing with.

So she closed her eyes, wanting to shut off at least one of her senses. It was a mistake, the action just heightening her awareness of him until all she knew was the feel of their bodies swaying together to the music as he expertly guided her around the floor. Somehow, in the midst of flying sparks and backbiting, their bodies had found some kind of synchronicity, and in spite of him being the last person in the world she wanted to be with, the way his body moved against hers was intoxicating.

She could feel an underlying tension to his steps as if every movement was a battle, and yet his moves were masterful, long lean legs powering his big body around the floor as smoothly as a professional. And in spite of herself, in spite of her own deep-seated tension, she felt herself relaxing into him.

Why fight it? It was all for appearances, after all. Soon they could go back to being enemies. Soon this momentary respite in their battle would be over. But at least for now there was a kind of truce, where time and resentment were suspended in the magic of the music and the dance. And the thought came from nowhere that if it felt this good to dance with this man when he hated you and you hated him, how much better must it feel if they actually loved each other?

She jerked her head away from his shoulder, snapping her eyes open and her thoughts back from the brink. She had no right to ask such questions. No right to wonder anything except when this interminable ordeal of being in Yannis’s arms would be over. What she needed was a distraction from her thoughts, and conversation was the only tool she had to hand.

‘I take it you’ve never married.’

She felt his intake of breath rather than heard it, felt it in the brief falter in his step and the slight jerk of his head above hers. ‘Not yet.’

‘No need to sound defensive,’ she responded with a nerve she didn’t know she possessed. ‘I’m sure there’s hope for you yet.’ Couples began drifting onto the dance floor around them, men and women with smiling faces in dusted-off suits and brightly coloured Sunday-best dresses. ‘So why is it proving so difficult?’ she persisted. ‘What is it you’re looking for in the woman of your dreams that’s proving so elusive?’

‘I don’t see a ring on your finger.’

‘I’ve been busy.’

‘And I haven’t?’

‘Touché. Rafe told me you were driven to succeed. Tell me, when will you have amassed enough millions that you can settle back and relax?’

She felt his fingers tense around hers.

‘I thought you had a headache.’

‘It didn’t get me out of dancing. Why should it preclude me from conversation?’

He spun her around a couple who cut across their path, the sudden motion leaving her momentarily breathless and giddy, her fingers biting into him for support. ‘Frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t,’ she managed once they’d settled into a steadier rhythm again and thinking that if she kept talking, he might not notice how desperately she’d just grabbed for him. ‘I know people have always liked to label you and Rafe as playboys, but of the two of you, somehow I always picked you for a family man. I would have expected you to have been married long before now.’

‘Maybe I should have been!’ His voice was gruff as his feet ground to a sudden halt. He looked around at the couples filling the dance floor, as if assessing whether they’d done enough to satisfy their duty, before releasing her suddenly as if deciding they had. ‘Now you can go.’

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