The Royal House Of Karedes: Two Kingdoms. Marion Lennox

laughed. “Relax, sweetheart. I can’t see you—but I know exactly what you’re doing. You’re standing in the middle of my bedroom, trying not to look at the bed and wondering what on earth possessed you to bring nothing suitable to wear this evening.”

      She blinked. “Wrong,” she said airily. After all, she was in the dressing room, not the bedroom, and she’d already wasted time trying not to look at the bed.

      “Try the emerald silk dress and the black stiletto sandals. And before you tell me you won’t wear another woman’s cast-offs, let me assure you they aren’t. The dress and shoes were both delivered from the Chanel boutique in Ellos a couple of hours before we arrived.” His words took on that same sexy softness again. “I had to guess at the size, glyka mou, so I hope I got them right. Of course, we won’t have any such difficulties after tonight.”

      Maria felt her entire body blush as she slammed the phone back onto its cradle. How dared he buy her clothes? Did he really think she’d wear anything he’d paid for?

      There it was. The dress. And right below it, the shoes. Both were gorgeous. The brilliant color of the dress would be perfect with the delicately spiked heels. Exactly what she’d have bought for an occasion like this… if she’d been in a position to spend, what, ten thousand bucks?

      She would not wear these things.

      She would wear something of her own.

      Black jeans. A white silk blouse. Dressy enough for dinner at an upscale New York restaurant… but for dinner at a palace? For what was, basically, a business meeting that was surely going to change her life?

      “Damn you, Alexandros,” she said bitterly—and knew she had lost Round One.

      She showered quickly, and never mind that the faint, clean scent of the hand-milled soap reminded her of Alex. The shampoo had the same effect. So what? Soap was soap, shampoo was shampoo. She towel-dried her hair—no time for anything else—and hurried into the dressing room.

      There were more than shoes with the dress. There was a tiny black evening purse. And undies. A black lace bra. A black lace thong. The sheerest thigh-high nylons she’d ever seen.

      She had her own underwear.

      But not like this.

      To hell with it.

      She put on the bits of black lace, the sheer stockings. Hair loose or up? Maria peered into the mirror. Up. The mass of dark strands was too damp, too wild, too curly to leave loose. Finally, she slipped on the emerald silk dress. Stepped into the black sandals.

      And saw herself in the mirror.

      He had good taste, the Prince of Arrogance, she thought wryly. A career as a personal shopper could be his in the blink of an eye.

      The dress was a perfect fit, demure and businesslike even as it made the most of her slender figure. The shoes were gorgeous. Straps that wound around her foot. Stiletto heels as thin as the blade for which they were named.

      Could he possibly know shoes were her weakness?

      No, she thought. The better probability was that they were his weakness. Maybe later tonight, he’d want her in the stilettos and nothing besides the black lace thong…

      “Oh God,” she whispered, and felt her heart rate shoot into the stratosphere.

      Jewelry, she thought numbly, because it was safer to think about that than about what happened to her body each time she imagined being in this room, in that bed, with the gorgeous Alexandros. How could you hate a man and still want him?

      A question for another time, not for the one minute—the one minute she had left!

      Fortunately, she’d dumped a couple of pieces of her stuff into her handbag. A twisted gold chain? No. A shorter one, intricately braided? No. A slender gold rope with a hunk of polished amber knotted at the center? Yes. Perfect. Small gold hoops in her ears. Had she forgotten anything? She certainly had. A quick swipe of mascara. Sheer cherry lip gloss. A dab of powder on her suddenly shiny nose.

      She took a steadying breath. Another. Ready or not, she thought, and she unlocked the bedroom door.

      He was right outside it, waiting for her.

      ‘Gorgeous’ was the wrong word to describe him. ‘Spectacular’ came closer, but it still didn’t quite cover it.

      Say something, Maria told herself, but her brain was numb. She could only look at him as he stood leaning back against the cypress balustrade that enclosed the open loft, arms folded, ankles crossed, the very portrait of The Male Waiting for his Date. He wore a grey jacket, a black open-necked shirt, black trousers and darkest brown mocs. His hair was damp; he was freshly shaven…

      He was beautiful. The in-the-flesh subject of a woman’s dreams, except she didn’t have dreams like those. Well, not until after that night they’d made love. Correction. That night they’d had sex, and look where that had led.

      He said nothing. Showed nothing. Slowly, slowly enough to make her wonder if the dress didn’t look as good as she thought, his gaze traveled from the top of her head all the way to her toes, then back up again.

      That was when he smiled. A slow, lazy, purely masculine curve of his lips that sent shock waves through her blood.

      “Just one thing …” He reached out, took the clip from her hair and let all the wild curls tumble to her shoulders. “Perfect,” he said softly.

      She had to stop herself from returning the compliment. Instead, she tossed her head as if it meant nothing. Damned if that didn’t make him grin.

      “Shall we?” he said, holding out his hand.

      Maria ignored the offer, brushed past him and went down the stairs.

      His car was a low-slung, snarling crimson beast.

      A Maserati. A Lamborghini. A Ferrari. One of those, she was certain, but what would a born-and-bred New Yorker know? Subway trains, yes. Automobiles, no. The only certainty was that he drove fast, too fast, with a macho assurance that she tried not to let impress her.

      But it did.

      Was there a female alive who wouldn’t be impressed by a man so beautiful it hurt to look at him, driving a car that rumbled like a big, predatory animal? One hand was curved over the steering wheel. The other rested lightly on the gear shift lever.

      Such competent hands. So powerful. His hands had been all over her the night they’d met. She could still feel them, if she closed her eyes. His fingertips playing with her nipples. His thumbs gently parting her labia. Her shocked cries that had quickly turned to sobs of ecstasy.

      She felt the instant bloom of warmth between her thighs.

      “Something the matter?”

      His voice startled her. She looked at him and thought it was a good thing he didn’t have X-ray vision or he’d see straight through her clothes, see that she was wet, that her nipples were peaked.

      “Maria?”

      I want you, she thought dizzily, that’s what’s the matter.

      “Are you worried about dinner tonight?”

      No, she thought, on a faint wave of hysteria, not dinner.

      “Don’t be. This is just my family.”

      Dinner. She had to remember that. He was talking about dinner.

      “Oh,” she said, and caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

      Alex felt his muscles contract. Did she have to look so beautiful? Did she have to worry her lip that way? Damn it, this was not good. He should never have kissed her in the guesthouse. He’d taken two cold showers before he got dressed and he was still hard with wanting her.

      What if he pulled the car over, took her in his arms and nipped that