Fotis expected an instinctive internal protest at the idea of sharing anything personal. Instead he found himself nodding. Whatever he told her, he knew it wouldn’t go further. He trusted Rosamund and not just with his body, he realised.
Another first. He could count on the fingers of one hand the people he trusted completely.
‘Okay.’ He piled tomato and cheese onto a slice of bread and lifted it. ‘Tell me about the dress and I’ll tell you something private about myself.’
Her eyes rounded, as if surprised by his agreement, yet still she didn’t leap at the chance to pry into his secrets. That set her apart from many he’d known.
The more time they spent together, the more he realised she was unique.
She leaned back against the doorjamb. The breeze lifted a few strands of richly coloured hair. His gaze traced the tender curve of her ear, the slim line of her throat and the tiny frown gathered across the bridge of her nose.
She looked…endearing. Sensual and alluring but without any hint of artifice. Affection stirred.
‘You didn’t recognise the dress?’
Her sharp tone punctured his thoughts. ‘Should I have?’
Her mouth turned down, not in her naturally sexy pout but in definite distaste. ‘The photo of my mother at the gala. The huge one projected on the massive wall as you entered.’ Her eyes met his. ‘The famous one with her wearing a dress that looked like it was about to slide off her at any moment.’
Thatdress. The one that revealed the maximum flesh while still being arguably decent. He pursed his lips in a silent whistle. ‘They made a replica for you to wear to the gala?’
His larynx tightened, turning his voice into a growl at the thought of Rosa wearing such a dress where anyone other than he could see her.
Great. Possessive now as well as protective and curious. Where are you heading with this, Mavridis?
She inclined her head.
He scowled. Rosa was a princess, not a movie star or model. Surely that was—‘Who arranged it?’ But he had the answer. He’d heard her snap out the name. ‘Antoine Gaudreau? He organised the event?’
‘No!’ The word shot out sharply and Rosamund paused to modulate her tone. ‘He wasn’t the event’s organiser, but yes, he arranged the dress.’
‘Without consulting you?’
‘That’s right.’
Fotis’ eyes glowed with a martial light. ‘I’m glad you didn’t wear it.’
‘You are?’ She tilted her head, frowning. ‘Others thought it was a good idea.’
‘The women who’d made it? Of course they’d like you to parade it and advertise their work. You’d have looked stunning.’
The thought of wearing the outfit still made her flesh crawl, so she was astonished to discover how much she wanted to look stunning for this man.
It was unsettling. The last time she’d deliberately dressed to impress a guy she’d been seventeen and giddy with her first romantic infatuation.
‘Yet you’re glad I didn’t wear it. Why?’
Was that discomfort in Fotis’ expression? ‘It’s the sort of dress a woman wears for her lover. The thought of you wearing it in public, for everyone to slaver over…’ He shook his head.
Pleasure buzzed low in her body. How could she not enjoy his protectiveness and that hint of possessiveness? For however long this affair lasted, she knew she’d revel in both. She refused to ponder why that was, when she’d spent so long carving out the right to make her own decisions.
With Fotis everything felt different. Another man’s protectiveness, certainly another man’s possessiveness, would irk her and feel constricting. With him she felt only a warm glow. Briefly she wondered if that was anything like how it felt to be cherished. Then she pushed the idea aside.
‘That’s exactly why I couldn’t wear it.’ She’d felt physically ill when they’d shown it to her. ‘I’m not ashamed of my sexuality, but I’m not interested in being objectified.’
‘Your mother—’
‘My mother was barely seventeen when she wore that to the premiere of her first film, and it wasn’t her choice.’
