The Royal House Of Karedes Collection Books 1-12. Кейт Хьюит

he’d send her packing for the second, and last, time.

      “Your five minutes are up, Prince Alexandros.”

      Alex looked at her. Her expression, her body language, were defiant. She thought she was in charge.

      That made him smile.

      “You find this amusing?”

      “Indeed.”

      Her eyes narrowed. “I’m going to count to ten. It’s your last chance. If you’re not out the door by then—”

      “Safir et Fils is on the verge of collapse.”

      She blinked. “Who?”

      “Safir et Fils,” he repeated impatiently. “The French firm that was awarded the commission.” She was staring at him blankly. “Come on, Ms. Santos,” he said silkily. “Don’t try and tell me the name of the company that won a commission you were willing to prostitute yourself to get has slipped your—”

      Her hand flew through the air but he was quicker than she was. He caught her wrist, dragged her forward and hauled her to her toes.

      “Do not,” he said with quiet menace, “ever raise your hand to me again!”

      “Let go of me!”

      “Did you hear what I said?—”

      “What a bastard you are!”

      Her voice shook; tears glittered in her eyes and she was breathing hard. So what? He was unimpressed.

      “Playing the righteous innocent will get you nowhere, agapi mou. You made a fool of me once but I promise you, it will never happen again. And do not call me names. I am a prince. I urge you to remember that.”

      He almost winced. He sounded like an ass but how could he think while hot rage pumped through his blood? She was an excellent actress; he knew that. And this was another stellar performance. The damp eyes. The trembling voice. The patches of crimson on her face.

      Her face. Beautiful, even now.

      “Did you think you could get away with what you did, Maria? Letting me think you’d been carried away by passion when what carried you away was the greedy hope that sleeping with me would give you an advantage in the design competition?”

      He paused. Maria stared at him.

      Was he waiting for her to answer? What was the point? If she said he was wrong, he wouldn’t believe her. He hadn’t, that awful morning.

      “Liar,” he’d said, in a voice cold as death, and then he’d hurled words at her in Greek that she hadn’t understood, though their meaning had been painfully clear.

      Trying to make him listen now would not only be pointless, it would be demeaning.

      The truth was, she hadn’t even known who he was that night. A prince? The son of Queen Tia and King Aegeus? As far as she’d known, he was just a man. A gorgeous, incredibly sexy, fascinating stranger whose smile, whose touch had made her breathless.

      When he’d kissed her and the kisses hadn’t been enough, when he’d touched her and those touches weren’t enough, she’d forgotten everything—that they were in a public place, that she was a moral woman, that she had never been with a man before.

      And when he’d whispered, Come with me, she had gone with him. How could she have done anything else?

      Her world had been reduced to him. To his mouth. His hands. His hard, flagrantly aroused masculinity. She still couldn’t believe she’d let such a thing happen. You didn’t sleep with a stranger. She didn’t, anyway.

      “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Is that busy little brain of yours trying to come up with an answer that will satisfy me?”

      His voice roughened. “Don’t waste your time. There’s only one thing that will satisfy me, and you know what that is.”

      What he meant was in his eyes.

      She saw it and stumbled back. He could see the beat of her pulse in the hollow of her throat. Good, he thought coldly. This time, at least, he had the advantage. Command had slipped from her hands to his and she hadn’t even heard the worst of what he’d come to tell her.

      “Get out.”

      She spoke in a papery whisper that he ignored. Instead, he turned his back and walked to her work table. Sketches were tacked to an enormous corkboard on the wall above it. Something that looked as if it had been molded from wax stood on a shelf.

      “Didn’t you hear me? I said—”

      “Didn’t you hear me?” He swung toward her, arms folded, feet crossed at the ankles. “Safir et Fils are going under.”

      “Do you expect me to weep for them?”

      “They will not be able to make the gift for my mother’s birthday.”

      Her smile was pure saccharine. “Stop at Wal-Mart before you fly home.”

      “I know you find this amusing, Maria, but it’s deadly serious. March the seventh will be an important day. My father has declared it a national holiday.”

      Again, that glittery smile. She had her composure back—but not for long.

      “There will be a ball attended by dignitaries from around the world.”

      “Yes, well if you can’t find anything you like at Wal-Mart—”

      “My parents have chosen you to execute the commission.”

      Her jaw dropped. She was speechless. Twice in one evening.

      He had the feeling it was some kind of record.

      “Me?”

      “You.” His mouth twisted. “You see, despite what I told you that night, I never mentioned your little game to either the king or the queen. I didn’t have to. My father had chosen the French jewelers. He preferred their submission.”

      Maria swallowed hard. She wanted to shriek with delight but she’d be damned if she gave him that.

      “How—how nice. To be second-best.”

      “Please. Sarcasm doesn’t become you.” Why mention that the queen had preferred her design all along? “We both know that this is the chance of a lifetime for a woman like you.”

      Her cheeks flushed again. “What, exactly, is that supposed to mean?”

      “Why, only that your name, your career will be made when word gets out, Maria. What else could it possibly mean?”

      She was sure that hadn’t been his meaning but why argue about it? The fact was, he had it right. Orders would double. They’d triple! Tiffany would give her a window display; so would Barney’s. Vogue, Vanity Fair, Allure, Elle, Marie Claire… every fashion magazine in the world would camp on her doorstep and the noxious pseudo-Frenchman would be on his knees, begging her to design for L’Orangerie.

      If only the court hadn’t sent the prince to give her the news.

      “They sent me,” Alex said, as if he’d read her mind, “because they wanted to be sure you understood the full importance of this commission.”

      “You mean,” Maria countered sweetly, “because the king thought your illustrious royal presence would impress me.” He grinned. Her gaze on him narrowed. “Too bad your father doesn’t know you as well as I do.”

      All at once, Alex was weary of the game. Why in hell had he ever thought he needed to settle scores? He was not a man who enjoyed revenge; God knew there was plenty of opportunity for it in business but he had always seen vengeance-seeking as a low sport. And payback against a woman, even one who really needed to be taught a lesson, suddenly held no appeal.

      “What’s your answer?”