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

where a light still burned in his bedroom window. He could be in the house, in that room in less than a minute.

      Forget it.

      He’d made his decision. For tonight, anyway. Going back would be an admission of weakness, never mind that he didn’t really know what in hell he meant by that, except that he knew it would be.

      He needed sex, not Maria. That put things in perspective.

      He was aroused. No problem. There were ways to deal with it. Phone one of the numbers programmed into his cell phone. There were half a dozen beautiful women who’d jump at the chance to spend the night with him. Or he could drive back into town. The bar at The Grand Hotel saw more than its share of gorgeous women, tourists hoping for a little adventure.

      Except, he didn’t want another woman, and wasn’t that a laugh? He wanted Maria and he’d just walked away from her.

      Alex kicked another stone and headed for his Ferrari.

      He roared out of the gates, took the coast road at a speed that sent him flying past the few startled drivers on the road at this late hour. When he reached the point at which the already narrow, winding road grew more treacherous, he floored the gas pedal and the car careered through the turns like the thoroughbred it was.

      Maybe that would burn away the hunger thrumming through his blood.

      It didn’t.

      Two hours later, he pulled through the gates of the mansion again and skidded to a stop with Maria still in his head. Images. Memories. Tastes and scents, all of them conspiring against him. The softness of her skin. The honey of her mouth. The texture of her uptilted nipples on his tongue. The scent of her desire.

      She was there, in his brain, and nothing could dislodge her.

      Well, yeah. One thing could.

      His body hardened like a fist.

      Having her would do it. Stripping off her clothes. Baring her body to his eyes. To his hands. His mouth. Clasping her wrists, holding them high over her head so she had no choice but to let him touch her everywhere until she wept with wanting him.

      Then he’d sink into her. Deep, deep into her. He’d move inside her until she screamed his name, until she came and came and came…

      A growl of anger, of desire, of something close to lunacy rose in his throat. He crossed his hands on the steering wheel and slammed his forehead against them. After a few minutes, he stepped from the car and entered the house.

      It was quiet. Dark. The furniture cast ominous black shadows against the walls.

      Alex’s mouth thinned as he stood in the entry foyer and stared up at the second floor landing.

      He was no knight in shining armor. He was a man who had grown up in a world of privilege, a man who could have what he wanted when he wanted it. Especially women. The more beautiful they were, the more famous, the more they threw themselves at his feet. They begged for his possession. Preened to ready themselves for his taking, not like Maria who asked nothing of him and had packed a suitcase full of jeans to wear in her role as his mistress.

      She looked beautiful in jeans.

      And in that dress tonight, those sexy shoes, stuff he’d ordered over the phone just figuring anything the color of emeralds would be perfect against her dark hair and eyes…

      When she’d opened that door, when he saw her… God, he’d wanted to push her back inside the room, tumble her on the bed, make love to her until she had no choice but to admit she’d dreamed of this, ached for this, that she wanted him, only him…

      He swung away from the staircase, marched through the silent house to his study, poured himself a shot of brandy, slugged it down and did what he’d been doing hours ago in the garden, paced and paced and paced.

      A sto diavolo! The hell with it! He was weary of the game. It was time to end it.

      He took the stairs two at a time, went down the hall, stopped before the door to his bedroom, raised his fist to knock… Knock? At his own damned door? Bad enough he’d showered and dressed in his study, that he’d spent the last couple of hours driving aimlessly through the night. He cursed, ripely and creatively, grabbed the knob and turned it, ready to break the damned door down if he had to.

      It opened easily.

      Maria wasn’t there. The emerald dress was crumpled on a chair, the black stilettos were on the floor next to it.

      The bed was untouched.

      His anger vanished. Fear took its place. Where was she? Had she left? Not likely. She’d have had to phone for a taxi, and a cab would not have been able to clear the gates without alerting Security.

      What, then? Had she gone for a walk? Alex’s mouth tightened. She wouldn’t have done that, would she? Not at night. Not when she didn’t know the complex layout of the gardens, the density of the surrounding trees.

      The way some of the pathways ended at vistas at the very edge of the cliff.

      No, he thought, forcing aside the ugly possibility. If she were wandering the grounds, motion detectors would have picked her up. Then where …?

      The guesthouse!

      Alex pounded down the stairs and out the door, walking fast, running, really, his anger back and hotter than ever. Did she think she could escape him? That he’d let her sleep there rather than in his bed, where she belonged? Yes. There was a faint light shining in the guesthouse window.

      “Damn it, Maria,” he growled as he flung open the door, “if you think I’m going to go on being a Boy Scout …”

      The furious words died on his tongue.

      She was huddled in a window seat, illuminated by the flickering glow of candlelight. She wore jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, her feet were tucked up under her and when she heard his voice, she swung toward him, face pale, eyes huge and stricken and glittering with tears.

      “I’m sorry,” she said in a broken whisper. “I’m sorry for everything, Alexandros. I should never have come here. I know what I agreed to but I can’t do it, I can’t, I can’t.”

      By then, he’d crossed the space between them and gathered her into his arms.

      “Don’t,” she said.

      He ignored the plea, whispered to her in Greek the way he might have whispered to a terrified child. He stroked her hair, rocked her against him and she began to sob.

      “I know I agreed to—to be your mistress, but I can’t do it. Even if it means losing the commission. I can’t. I can’t. I really thought I could but—”

      “No. Of course, you can’t.” He drew her into his lap. “Shh, glyka mou. I won’t hurt you. I could never hurt you. Please, don’t cry.”

      “I didn’t know who you were that night, Alexandros. I swear it. I went with you because—because… I can’t explain it. I’d never done anything like that before. I’d never even—I’d never even—” She drew a ragged breath. “I know you won’t believe me but—but I’d never been with a man before.”

      Ah, dear Lord!

      The sweet, sad little confession made him feel like a bastard—and filled him with joy. He did believe her; the truth was, he’d known it, deep within himself, all along. His beautiful Maria had given him her innocence. Hell, he had taken it from her. And, of course, she had not known who he was.

      She was incapable of that kind of subterfuge.

      Why hadn’t he believed her? How could he have been so stupid? How could he have judged her by what he knew of other women, the ones who’d tried to trap him with their lies? There had been so many of them, starting with the Greek girl who’d broken his heart when they’d both been kids. He’d been sure he loved her and when she wept and trembled and told him he’d stolen her virginity,