The dress was one of her favourites, with a demure but flattering boat neckline that left the top of her shoulders bare and a full skirt that swished around her knees as she walked. It even had concealed pockets, though royal etiquette meant she wouldn’t use them in public.
‘After your temperamental performance at the couturier yesterday, I thought you had an aversion to the colour.’
Astonishment slammed into her and her bodice tightened as she fought for air. ‘Temperamental performance?’
He sauntered towards her and she hated that even with that derisory expression he looked so good. That she noticed.
‘A talented team of people worked hard to make it in a short period of time. Not just any dress but one that had great significance to the gala’s guest of honour, Antoine Gaudreau. But none of that mattered to you, did it? You couldn’t even unbend enough to accept a change to please other people.’
For a second she stood, stunned by his vitriol. Strangely—since she’d spent years telling herself the opinions of people who didn’t know her couldn’t affect her—she felt hurt. Until that was swamped by fury.
‘You’re misinformed, Kyrie Mavridis. Gaudreau directed several of my mother’s films, including her first, but this week is a retrospective dedicated toherwork, not his.’ She paused and focused on keeping her voice steady, horrified to feel herself tremble at the sudden storm of emotions. ‘As for the dress, you can keep your arrogant opinions to yourself. You have no idea of its significance.’
She turned and stalked down the stairs. It was too late to make other arrangements for tonight. But tomorrow she’d ditch her unwanted bodyguard, no matter what Leon said.
CHAPTER FIVE
SILENTLYFOTIS CURSEDas the limo took them to tonight’s event.
Princess Rosamund of Cardona didn’t matter to him, except for the need to keep her safe. Her flawed character was none of his business. He should have left well enough alone.
But she had the unique knack of getting under his skin with her mixed messages, one minute haughty and selfish, the next apparently a considerate friend or happy to find time to chat with strangers for no apparent personal gain.
She’d hinted her past wasn’t what it seemed.
In a bid for sympathy? Yet the starkness in that single huff of laughter had been real, he was sure of it.
She drove him crazy. And it wasn’t just her mixed messages. For there was one message his body received loud and clear, and had from the moment he’d met her.
Attraction. Desire. Need.
Every time that visceral, unmistakable hunger raked its talons through his gut and clamped his groin, self-disgust stirred. Because that hunger made him a traitor to poor Dimi, who’d suffered because of this woman’s casual cruelty. The princess hadn’t cared about collateral damage when she’d decided to romp with someone else’s man.
These feelings made him into a fool. Everything he knew about himself, everything he’d learned about treacherous, selfish women, should have made it impossible for him to desire her. She shared the same remorseless selfishness as his mother.
Fotis had been a victim to that, but not the only one. He knew the damage she’d inflicted, still felt the trauma of it. Still carried the guilt of failing to save his brother.
His response to Rosamund of Cardona should be pure disgust, untrammelled by anything else.
And yet…
When she’d stepped out of her room in a dress that clasped her tight from breasts to narrow waist, that shimmered and rustled with every sashaying step…
He’d wanted her with a primal need that shattered logic. His body had surged in instant arousal. He’d seen the sheen of lustrous red-blond hair and all but felt its phantom slide against his greedy palms. He’d imagined anchoring his fists in it, tugging her head back to meet his mouth.
Thatwas why he’d lashed out with that crack about the dress she’d refused. To remind himself, and her, that she wasn’t worth his attention.
The ploy had backfired when she turned, her lush red lips an O of surprise. His imaginings had turned X-rated, his arousal threatening to become obvious at the idea of those lips on his naked body, pleasing him in all the ways he’d dreamed through the last two nights.
As well as surprise he’d seen a fleeting glimpse of hurt in her eyes that made him feel like a sadistic brute.
She was doing his head in and he was letting her, turning into someone he didn’t like. Someone without the control he’d relied on all his life. Without that, what was he?
They approached tonight’s venue. Another grand building, another red carpet, and lots more paparazzi, no doubt fed by last night’s photos.
Fotis told himself it was her fault, looking up at him with those big, needy eyes, putting on a show for the crowd.
The difficulty was, he couldn’t convince himself. He knew what he’d seen. She’d been genuinely distressed and he’d responded to her pain, wanting, despite everything, to ease it…
