In a small shop in Istanbul, Demetria Andreou unwrapped a yard of Egyptian cotton from the bolt, blissfully unaware of the drama taking place on Angyra. She tested the way the soft fabric shot with silver, copper and gold flowed over her arm like a molten waterfall. Her heart raced with excitement, for when cloth seemed this much alive she knew a garment made of it would positively explode with motion.
“How many bolts of this do you have?” she asked.
“Just this one,” the Turkish supplier said. “You like?”
She loved the fabric. It fell naturally into folds when bunched, and it felt gloriously sensuous gliding against bare skin.
It was a wonderful find. To know he only had one bolt almost ensured that no other designer would come out with a garment using the exact same cloth.
Originality was further aided by the fact that she preferred buying fabric from lesser-known markets. Fabric defined style. The best designer in the world was nothing without the appropriate cloth. A design didn’t pop until the right fabric was paired with the right fashion.
That was when magic happened. That was when she knew she had created something that could eventually compete side by side with the top fashion houses.
“This is perfect,” she told the draper, and earned a smile as she handed him the bolt. “I’ll take this one.”
He laid it atop the others she’d chosen, and scampered off to select another of his high-end specialty fabrics. She ran a finger over the rich fabric, elated with her finds and yet feeling bittersweet that she wouldn’t be able to oversee the making of her designs.
How quickly life had changed for her since the King’s death.
In two weeks she’d marry Gregor and become Queen. She’d never get the opportunity to stand in the wings while willowy models sashayed down the catwalks in one of her designs.
But she could still select the fabric for her designs. The fashion show in Athens was two weeks away, and her partner would have precious little time to prepare for what was to be their debut into the fashion world.
While Yannis was living their dream in the design world, she’d be marrying King Gregor Stanrakis.
Chills danced over her skin at the thought, and with it came the flood of shame that she’d have to face Kristo again. How could she possibly marry his brother when it was Kristo she lusted for? How could she sit across a table from her husband’s brother and not be tormented by memories of him kissing and fondling her on that beach?
The answers continued to elude her as the draper bustled from the back room, bearing more bolts of fabric. She pushed her worries to the back of her mind and focused on the selections before her.
The first two bolts were easy choices, as they were exactly what she’d envisioned for several of the garments she and Yannis intended to make for their debut line. But her heart raced with delight as light played over the cloth on the last bolt. Was it blue? Green? A combination of both, plus it was shot with magenta.
A midnight carnival of color that constantly moved and changed. The warmth of reds and golds twined with blues and silvers to create a marriage of color that commanded attention.
The cloth was beyond rich. It was regal. Royal.
“I am sorry to have picked this one up,” the draper said, and made to take it from her. “This has been damaged in transit and is to be destroyed.”
Toss out such beauty?
She refused to relinquish the fabric. This would be the perfect cloth for her signature creation. A loose dress. Flowing. Flirty. A dress that would force her husband to notice her.
The fact there was very little of it left undamaged on the bolt only increased its value.
This was her personal find. The perfect dress for her to wear in her new role as Queen. A garment designed by her for her personal use.
“I will take what you have of it.”
“But there is only seven meters. Maybe less.”
“It’s enough—and please wrap it separately.” She’d take this one with her for it was her find. Her treasure.
With the last bout of shopping over, she paid her bill with a degree of sadness. When she married, jaunts like this would be unheard-of. She’d have guards around her. She’d have obligations. She’d in essence be a prisoner of her duty.
After securing delivery of the material to Yannis, who was at her flat in Athens, Demetria left the draper’s shop with a sense of dread. Freedom as she knew it was quickly ending for her. The next twelve days would certainly fly by too quickly.
Since she’d forgone lunch, and eaten only a piece of fruit for breakfast, she decided to sate her hunger with takeaway food. But even that she’d have to hurry. She dared not miss the ferry back to Greece or her papa would fly into a fury again.
She’d started up the lane when a sleek limo whipped around her and stopped. Before she could register that it had blocked her way, the doors flew open and two men jumped out.
Both were huge. Both wore menacing frowns. Both came at her.
Her instincts screamed run. But before she could force her legs to move a third man emerged from the limo.
Demetria froze as her gaze locked with the one man who’d haunted her dreams.
Prince Kristo of Angyra. His aristocratic features and impressive physique seemed inconsequential under the chill of his cold dark eyes.
“Kaló apóyevma, Demetria,” he said, but there was no welcoming smile to match the polite form of address. No softening of his chiseled features.
She swallowed hard, unnerved at coming face-to-face with Kristo Stanrakis again. “What is the meaning of this?”
“I am here to escort you to Angyra,” he said. “Your marriage to the King will take place in twelve days.”
“I’m well aware of when I must marry Gregor, but there is no reason for me to arrive that soon before the wedding.”
“Ah, you have not heard the news.” His eyes glittered with a startling mix of anger and passion. “Gregor stepped down yesterday.”
Had she heard him right? “What?”
“Please—in the car. I do not wish to discuss this further on the street.”
As if she had a choice, she thought, as the two large men flanked her. With her stomach now in knots, she moved toward the man she’d kissed to distraction one year ago.
He clasped her elbow, and she jolted as if shocked, for the energy from that touch set her aflame inside. Set her to quivering with a need she’d tried to forget.
She steeled herself against the magnetic pull of him and focused on the startling fact that Gregor was not King. It was too impossible to believe, for surely he’d just taken the crown.
Yet if what Kristo said was true, then why had he said she was to marry the King in less than two weeks?
Just what was going on here?
Knowing she wouldn’t get any answers unless she complied, Demetria slid onto the rear seat and scooted to the far side. Kristo climbed in beside her, and despite the roomy interior he simply filled the space with his commanding presence.
“What is this about Gregor stepping down?” she asked.
“Shortly before the King died Gregor discovered that he had a brain tumor,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact. “As he didn’t wish for Angyra to suffer two Kings dying so close together, or leave a young widow behind, he decided to step down now.”
She pressed a hand to her mouth, genuinely stunned to hear he’d fallen victim to such a fate. Her heart ached for Gregor, for though there was no affection between