The Royal House Of Karedes: Two Kingdoms. Marion Lennox

anger and frustration.

      “Liar,” he said in a low voice.

      She turned her back. He grasped her shoulder and swung her toward him.

      “What’s the matter, glyka mou? Don’t you like it when the tables are turned? When you’re not in control of the situation?”

      “All right,” she snapped. “You made your point. You—you got me to—to give in to you. Are you satisfied now?”

      He gave a sharp, ugly laugh. “We have a long way to go until I’m satisfied, sweetheart.”

      The crimson drained from her face. “How can you do this?”

      It was, he thought, an excellent question.

      Despite everything, he was not a man who would ever take an unwilling woman to bed. That was part of the problem, when he came down to it. Maria said she didn’t want him but each time he took her in his arms, she turned that into a lie. Or did she?

      Was she still playing him? Was she using him now, even as he was determined to use her? And how could he tell himself that was what he was doing when the truth was he had never wanted a woman as he wanted her and—be honest, Karedes—and revenge or payback, whatever name he gave his supposed motivation, had zero to do with what he felt once she was in his arms.

      He turned away from her. Ran his hand through his thick, dark hair.

      He was a man who had always prided himself on logic. On self-discipline. And right now, hell, who was he kidding? Ever since the night he’d first met this woman, logic and self-discipline had gone by the wayside.

      Maybe it was enough to admit that he wanted her still, and that at the end of a month she would be out of his system. Damned right, she would, he thought grimly, and he turned and faced her again.

      “I suggest you return to the house,” he said brusquely. “One of the maids has unpacked your suitcase. You have—” He glanced at his watch. “You have twenty minutes to get ready and then we leave for the palace.”

      Her chin came up. “Where has your devoted slave put my things?”

      Thee mou, she enraged him! He wanted to shake her. Or strip her naked and show her who was in charge here.

      “Your clothes are where they belong,” he snapped. “In my room. We have an agreement, Ms. Santos, that says you are to fulfill your required duties in their entirety, or have you conveniently forgotten that?”

      She gave him a withering look. “How could I forget what is sure to be the worst agreement of my life?”

      It was, Maria thought, a fine line.

      But the Prince of Arrogance only laughed, and that was the sound that followed her all the way to the house.

       CHAPTER EIGHT

      WHAT did you wear to dine with royalty?

      Probably nothing she’d packed, Maria thought unhappily as she followed Athenia to Alex’s bedroom.

      Bedroom? Could you call a room this size a bedroom? It was bigger than her loft. Polished wood floors. Handmade rugs. A cathedral ceiling. Skylights. A wall of glass and, beyond it, a terrace and the pool that seemed to hang suspended over the bay.

      And a bed.

      A bed centered beneath the skylights, elevated on a raised platform, covered by a black silk comforter and a sea of black and white pillows as if it were a stage set.

      “Madam will find her things hung in the dressing room.”

      Maria swung toward Athenia. “Yes. I—I—Thank you.”

      “Everything has been pressed, keeria, to your liking, I hope.”

      “Thank you,” she said again. They seemed the only words she could manage.

      The housekeeper smiled politely and shut the door behind her. Maria waited a couple of seconds, then turned the lock. She leaned back against the door, shut her eyes and inhaled deeply.

      It was a handsome room. Hell, it was a magnificent room. And that bed…

      Do not look at that bed, Maria. Do not even think about it.

      She would not. She would shower and dress. She had twenty minutes. Not much time, but enough. Actually, she never took longer than that to get ready for a date. Except, this wasn’t a date. It was business. Business to be conducted at a palace.

      She’d seen the palace—from the outside, anyway—the last time she was here.

      It made Buckingham Palace look small.

      “That’s it,” she whispered. “Work yourself into a panic. That’s going to be a huge help!” Spine straight, she ignored the bed and marched across the room. This was an important night.

      Indeed, it was. At the end of it, Alex was going to make love to her.

      Maria rolled her eyes. It was stupid to let her thoughts wander. Of course, tonight was important. She had the commission; now, she had to make sure she had the hearts and minds of her clients.

      Her clients. The king of Aristo and his queen. She’d come a long way from the phony Frenchman of L’Orangerie.

      The dressing room made her laugh. Add some plumbing and most Manhattan residents would have happily called it an apartment. And there were her things, on a rack all by themselves, surrounded by other racks filled with men’s clothes. Alex’s clothes.

      And no, she was not going to think about that now. Dinner was everything. It had to go well.

      Her clothes, as Athenia had told her, had been pressed, hung and organized by color. Giddy laughter rose in her throat. Jeans and jeans and jeans, T-shirts and blouses and sweaters. Organized and pressed, and what in hell was there hanging in front of her she could wear to a palace?

      Casual, Alex had said. Easy for him to say. And to do.

      What was he going to wear? And where would he shower and dress?

      Not here, and that was all that mattered. For all she knew, he kept a complete wardrobe in each bedroom. A mistress in each, too. Or maybe this was the way installing a new mistress was handled. Maybe his staff was trained to move some of the master’s clothes, just enough to get his latest conquest through the confusion of her first night here.

      Stop it, Maria thought furiously.

      She was most assuredly not Alex’s conquest, she was his—What would be the correct word? Never mind. She would not dwell on how or why she was in his bedroom, or the implications of it, either—or on the fact that his entire staff surely now understood she would be sleeping with him.

      A dozen other women probably had gone this route. She lacked their experience in the art or business of being a kept woman but instinct told her that a woman who filled that role would not blush at such information being public.

      She’d do her best not to blush, either.

      Besides, Alex would not ‘keep’ her. The money for the commission didn’t come from him. It was for the design and execution of the queen’s birthday gift, and she would not accept so much as a penny for anything else.

      A phone rang.

      Maria looked around. There it was. A small white telephone on the wall of the dressing room. It rang again and she plucked it from its cradle, put it to her ear and said a careful, “Hello?”

      “You’re down to twelve minutes, glyka mou.”

      “Alexandros?”

      “I like it when you call me that.”

      His voice was husky. Why did that roughness always send a tingle