The Royal House Of Karedes: Two Kingdoms. Marion Lennox
let her move away. From the corner of her eye, she could see him opening a mahogany compartment built into the side of the car. Taking something from it. A bottle of water. A big white linen napkin.
“Look at me,” he said as he poured the water on the napkin.
She looked. Their eyes met. What was in his? Pity? Damn it, she didn’t want his pity. She didn’t want anything from him.
Carefully, he began to wash her face. She jerked back. He sighed, cupped the back of her head and went right on washing.
It felt wonderful.
When he was done, she gave him a jerky nod. “Thank you,” she said stiffly and turned away but, once again, she could see what he was doing from the corner of her eye. Putting the water and napkin back in the compartment. Taking out another bottle, this one filled with an amber liquid. Taking out a crystal tumbler. Opening the bottle, pouring the liquid into the glass…
“Drink this.”
She swung toward him. Bad idea. Everything began to spin. The interior of the car, Alex’s face. The glass he was holding toward her.
“Damn it,” he said, reaching for her, “you’re as white as a sheet.”
“I’m—I’m okay. I’m not going to be sick again. I’m just a little woozy …”
Alex’s arms swept around her. “Don’t,” she said, but she was speaking into the hard wall of his chest as he lifted her into his lap.
He was warm. Strong. He smelled of snow and cold and of the clean male scent she remembered, had never forgotten.
“Let go of me,” she said, and hated how her voice shook but the truth was, she felt awful. Not sick to her stomach anymore, just cold and shaky and awful.
“Stop arguing with everything I say and drink this.”
His tone was gruff but he held her with care. Well, of course. He certainly didn’t want to risk having her throw up all over his magnificent automobile.
The glass was at her mouth.
“What is it?”
“Poison,” he said, but when she looked up at him, he was smiling. “It’s brandy.”
“I don’t—”
“Yes. I know. You don’t need brandy. Well, I do.” He took a drink from the glass, then brought it to her lips again. “For once, just do as I ask without giving me a tough time, okay?”
The brandy smelled wonderful. She thought of how it would feel, warm and soothing, and of how his mouth had touched the rim of the glass…
It was safer to think about doing as he’d commanded.
She did, and knew she’d been right. The brandy was warm and comforting. So was the man who held her. The thought, unbidden, unexpected, set her heart racing and she pushed the glass away.
“That’s enough. And you can let go of me. I’m perfectly fine.”
He answered by gathering her closer. “It’s late,” he said brusquely. “And I’ve had a long day. I think you have, too. So stop fighting me, Maria. You’re cold and shaky and I’m not at all convinced you don’t need a doctor.”
“I already said I didn’t.”
“Then do as you’re told. Finish the brandy, put your head against my shoulder and maybe, just maybe, I’ll believe you.”
“You’re a—a martinet,” she said bitterly. “Did anyone ever tell you that?”
It was such an old-fashioned word that it made him laugh.
“I’ve been called a lot of things by a lot of women, glyka mou, but that is a first.” He sank back in the seat; she had no choice but to sink back with him. “Now close your eyes and rest. We’ll be at the airport soon.”
Rest? She’d won a competition that had been the goal of the world’s best jewelry designers—and handed her life over to one of the world’s most gorgeous, sexiest men. How could she possibly rest? Surely, the man holding her had his choice of women, a different one every night if he wished, and yet he wanted her…
Her lashes drooped.
She couldn’t rest. Or sleep. Or…
Maria sighed, burrowed closer against him, and tumbled into sleep.
Alex felt the tension leave her. He looked down, saw the dark shadow of her lashes against the sculpted curve of her cheek.
The woman was impossible. Argumentative. Prickly. Sharp-tongued.
She was also beautiful and fragile and…
And, he reminded himself, she was a manipulative liar. The sooner he had her in his bed, the better. She would not spin lies to him there; he would not permit it. He would make love to her until she sobbed his name, until her need for him was real, and that would happen as soon as he had her, alone, on his plane.
But when they reached it, he carried a still-sleeping Maria through the big cabin, to the privacy of his bedroom. Sat her on the edge of the bed. Took off her jacket and her boots. Took off his jacket and soggy shoes, as well.
Her eyelids fluttered but did not lift. “Alexandros?” she murmured.
She had called him that the night they’d made love. That was the only name he’d given her, just ‘Alexandros’. “Alex, if you prefer,” he’d added, but not the rest.
Not that she’d needed it, he thought grimly. She had known his identity; she had targeted him.
“Wake up,” he said coldly as he lay her back against the pillows. She didn’t. He looked at her again. Even in sleep, she looked exhausted. And incredibly lovely.
He lay down next to her. Drew the cashmere throw from the foot of the bed over them both. Maria sighed in her sleep and turned toward him. What else could he do except gather her into his arms?
MARIA awoke in total confusion.
Her heart thumped with terror. Where was she?
Everything about this room was wrong. The bed. The faint light stealing in through the window. Even the feel of the silk bed linen under her cheek, the whisper-weight of the blanket…
The pillow beside hers. Indented, as if someone’s head had rested on it. A faint scent. Clean. Crisp. Male.
“Ohmygod,” she whispered, and shot up against the pillows. A bad move. Her stomach did a slow roll. She bolted from the bed, looked around wildly, saw the bathroom and barely got there in time.
She retched until the muscles of her diaphragm ached. Shaken and shaking, she closed her eyes and sank down on the cold tile floor.
Easy, she told herself, just take it easy.
Seconds later, she stood, washed her face, unscrewed the top from a small bottle of mouthwash and rinsed her mouth until the bottle was empty.
Boneless, on legs that seemed to be made of over-cooked pasta, she sank down on the closed commode.
She remembered it all. Alex’s arrival. The royal commission. The awful visit to Luz, the humiliation of being sick afterward…
Most of all, the unbelievable proposition Alex had made—and she had accepted.
Was this a hotel room? As if in answer, the floor seemed to give a gentle dip. Not a hotel room. This was his plane. They were somewhere over the ocean and she couldn’t even remember getting on board. Her memory took her as far as being sick in the snow. Alex cradling her in his arms. The warming swallows of brandy.