Rosalie looked at him. ‘Your mother?’ Her brow furrowed and she spoke hesitantly. ‘I...I didn’t realise that she was still...well, still alive.’
‘Very much so,’ Xandros answered drily. ‘She doesn’t live in Athens, but out in the country. I’ll take you to meet her sometime after our wedding.’ He paused, and then he said, quite deliberately, ‘She understands about our marriage.’
He didn’t say any more, and Rosalie didn’t probe. After all, did it really matter if Xandros’s mother existed? It wasn’t as if she was going to be a real mother-in-law any more than Xandros was going to be a real husband. And not just because their marriage was going to be so brief...
Her eyes went to him as he consulted the waiter about tonight’s menu choices, taking in, as she always did, the sable feathering of his hair, the curve of his sensual mouth, the dark, long-lashed expressive eyes. She felt her senses heighten, wanting only to gaze at him, at just how incredibly, fatally attractive he was...
She remembered how she’d gazed at him that very first time, open-mouthed, when she’d opened the door of that rundown rental property to see him, unable to tear her eyes away from him.
And she still couldn’t.
The same feeling of regretful melancholy went through her as she’d felt in his apartment. She must learn to subdue her growing longings. She must accept that she had read too much into that brief, fleeting and unrepeated kiss of greeting at the hotel restaurant that first night. For him it had been nothing more than a casual public salutation. It had meant nothing more than that.
‘Pre-wedding nerves?’ he asked.
He’d caught her expression and misinterpreted it, and she was glad he had—because there was no point him thinking anything else.
‘There truly is no need for them,’ he said. His dark eyes held hers. ‘Rosalie, I want you to enjoy the kind of life you’ve never had before.’
His eyes washed over her and she felt their force—impossible not to. Any woman would feel it. Especially one so starved of romance as she was...
But Xandros was making it clear that he didn’t want romance to be a part of their marriage. So, although his eyes were warm upon her, although he always complimented her on her appearance, his attitude towards her was nothing more than friendly, easy-going and companionable.
She must be glad of that—grateful. Grateful that her life of hardship and endless penny-pinching was done with. That, after all, was why she was marrying Xandros. For nothing more.
She must remember that.
Or else torment herself with yearning for what was not going to happen...
So stop mooning over him! Don’t long for what he isn’t interested in! Just match his own attitude towards you—it’s all he wants.
And that was what she did determinedly as they dined—on yet another exquisite gourmet meal of the kind that was now her daily diet.
She would be grateful for that, too—every day—and never take it or anything else about this luxurious life she was living for granted!
Afterwards, he took her back to her hotel, insisting cheerfully that he would see her to her room.
The thickly carpeted corridor leading to Rosalie’s room was hushed and quiet and deserted.
‘You don’t have to walk me to my room!’ she protested good-humouredly. ‘I won’t get lost!’
‘You might totter off down the wrong corridor on those towering high heels,’ he replied at her mild protest.
She gave a light laugh, and acquiesced, yet she was conscious of the empty length of corridor stretching ahead of them and of being alone with Xandros. It made her ultra-aware of him...of his presence at her side. It would have been easier, she thought ruefully, to say goodnight in the lobby.
They reached her door and she fumbled in her bag for her key, nerves jangling out of nowhere. She turned, the key card in hand, ready to say a bright goodnight, but the word died on her lips.
He was standing close to her—too close—but she couldn’t back away. The door was behind her. She was conscious—suddenly, burningly—not just of how close he was, but how she could catch the faint scent of his aftershave, see in the dim light of the empty corridor how his strong jaw was already faintly etched with regrowth, giving him a seductively raffish look in his dark lounge suit.
She felt a flush of heat go through her and was suddenly conscious, too, of how the dress she was wearing—a close-fitting, beautifully tailored cocktail dress—was moulding her body, her breasts and her hips. Conscious, above all, of how breathless she was...
He was smiling down at her—but not with the familiar, nothing more than friendly smile he usually gave her. This was a different smile. One she had seen only once before... That first evening they had dined together...
Her breath caught and she could do nothing at all except let his smile wash over her, his eyes holding hers even as she felt him take her key card from her nerveless fingers and slide it down the lock, pressing the door open with a splay of his hand.
That smile tugged at his mouth...his sensual, sculpted mouth.
‘This time tomorrow,’ he said, his voice low, ‘we shall be married. And it will be fine, Rosalie, I promise you. It will bring us everything we want.’
She could only gaze at him, saying nothing at all. She could hear her heart thudding in her chest and there was not a scrap of air in her lungs. Her eyes were widening...pupils dilating...
She saw something change in his eyes, intensify, and heard him say something in Greek...something that sounded rasping. Then he was speaking in English.
‘You know...’ he said softly.
And out of nowhere she felt the timbre in his voice doing things to her, sending her blood pulsing through her veins in a hot, hectic throb that she could not stop—could not stop at all.
‘You really shouldn’t look at me like that...’
‘Like what...?’
The words were faint on her breath—the breath that was not in her lungs. That throbbing pulse was at her throat, at her temple, in the deep core of her body—the body that was now yearning infinitesimally towards him, her face lifted to his, gazing up at him with wide eyes.
And in his eyes she could see, in the dark, sweeping depths, a glint of pure gold. The tug at his mouth deepened, half-rueful, half-anticipatory.
‘Like you want me to do...this...’ he said.
And as he spoke, in that low, soft voice, she saw his lashes sweep down over his eyes, his face lower to hers.
His lips touched hers and his kiss was velvet silk, brushing slowly, seductively across her mouth, easing her own lips apart, softly and surely, deepening his slow, leisurely tasting of her until he was taking his fill...