“Who is that man?” she had asked her mother, feeling a strange, new heat move through her, along with an unfamiliar kind of shyness. It terrified her. She did not know if she wanted to run toward this oddly compelling man, or away from him.
“He is Nikos Katrakis,” Vivienne had said in a soft tone. Had she also sensed his power, his magnetism? “He has business with your father, my dear. Not with you.”
And now, ten years later, Tristanne still did not know whether she wished to run toward the man or away from him. She knew that his kiss was far much more than she had ever imagined it might be, ten years ago when she was still a girl. And she knew that his hand felt like a brand against the bare skin of her upper arm. And that she was going with him willingly. She had suggested it, hadn’t she?
This was her choice.
He led her away from the crowd, away from the shining late afternoon sea, far into the opulent depths of the ship. Tristanne had only the faintest hectic impressions—gleaming wood and lush reception rooms, windows arching high above the dancing waves of the Mediterranean, letting in the golden Côte d’Azur light—because the only thing she could concentrate on was Nikos.
She was aware of every breath he took, every stride, every movement of the powerful body so close to hers. She could feel the hot, bright heat that seemed to burn from inside his very skin, and she knew that the heaviness in her belly, the softening below, was all for him. Her face felt red, then white, then red again, as if she was feverish.
But she knew better.
She had to get herself under control, she thought desperately. She could not lose herself in this man’s touch, no matter how formidable and attractive he was. She was only using him, she told herself. He was but a means to an end.
Nikos ushered her into a room, finally, slapping the door shut behind them. Tristanne looked around, but could hardly register a thing. She had only the haziest notion that this was an elegant, spacious stateroom, and that it contained a bed. A large bed. And that she was in it, by her own design, with the most sensually dangerous man she had ever encountered.
“Mr. Katrakis,” she began, spinning around to face him. It was not too late to wrest control of this situation. That was what all of this was about, in the end—control. She had only to assert herself, surely. She had only to be strong.
“It is too late for that, don’t you think?” he asked, too close already, so close she could have reached out and laid her hand on that swathe of olive skin at his neck, directly in front of her eyes.
Tristanne could not help herself. She backed up a step, then froze, sure that simple reaction would give her away—would show him that she was not the sophisticated mistress sort of person she was pretending to be, that she was just an artist from Canada swept up in events outside her control. But he only smiled.
Tristanne’s entire body kicked into red-alert. She felt poised on the brink of some kind of cliff, something steep and deadly, and it was as if he was the harsh, strong wind that might toss her over the side.
Dragon, she thought again. She had known it from the start—she had known it on some level ten years ago, at a distance. And yet here she was, begging to be singed. Or worse—burned to a crisp.
Nikos seemed to take over the room, as if he expanded to fill all the available space, crowding everything else out. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his denim trousers, but that in no way contained the unmistakable sensual menace he exuded like his own, personal cologne. His shoulders seemed broader, his chest wider, his height excessive. Or was it that Tristanne felt so small? So vulnerable, suddenly—completely devoid of the bravado that had carried her this far. She knew what it was now, his particular brand of potent charisma. She knew what it meant.
You must not let him shake you, she cautioned herself. You must think only of Vivienne.
And still he watched her with those old coin eyes, as if he was merely waiting for the right moment to pounce.
“Call me Nikos,” he invited her after a moment, when the sound of her own breathing threatened to drive Tristanne to the brink.
She knew she should say something. Even, as he’d suggested, his name. But she could not form the word. It was as if she knew that once she said it, there would be no turning back. As if his familiar name was the last boundary between her old life and this new one she had to pretend to live.
And she could not seem to cross it.
His smile grew darker, more sardonic.
He leaned back against the door he’d closed, his eyes hooded. He said nothing. Then—when Tristanne’s nerves were stretched to the breaking point, when she was certain she must scream, or sob, or run as her body ordered her to do, anything to break the tension—he raised his hand and crooked his finger, motioning for her to come to him.
Arrogantly. Confidently. Certain of instant obedience.
Like he was no different, after all, than men like her father and her brother.
Like she was a dog.
A sudden wild anger pulsed through her then, but she stamped it down somehow. Was that not what a mistress was, when all was said and done? A woman on command? At a man’s whim? Wasn’t this precisely what she’d claimed to want?
What did it matter how this arrogant man treated her? She did not, in truth, wish to become his mistress. She wanted only to make Peter think she had done it—she wanted only the appearance of this man’s interest, his protection.
A few days, she had thought. What harm could truly come to her in a few short days? They would have a few dinners, perhaps share some more kisses—preferably within sight of the paparazzi who hung about the sorts of places men like Nikos Katrakis frequented. It would all be for show, and Nikos Katrakis himself need never be any the wiser.
And it was all for a good cause, lest she forget herself entirely. For her beloved, incapacitated mother, who could not seem to understand that her stepson was a monster, nor that he had no intention of caring for her as Gustave had intended. Tristanne needed access to her trust fund—which would not come to her until her thirtieth birthday, unless Peter, as executor, allowed it—so she could pay her mother’s debts, see to her health and protect her from further harm. She had no choice.
So Tristanne did not laugh at Nikos, or slap him, or storm from the stateroom as she yearned to do. She was not auditioning for the role of this man’s partner, much less his wife. A mistress was a mistress—and Tristanne had the feeling that Nikos Katrakis was a man who made very sure that his mistress knew her place. Instead of reacting as she wanted to, as everything in her screamed to do, she moved toward him, her hips swaying as her high heels sank into the plush carpet at her feet.
“Perhaps you should simply whistle,” she could not help but say, with a bite to her tone despite the lecture she had given herself. “It will be far less confusing.”
“I am not at all confused,” Nikos murmured.
He straightened from the door with a lethal grace that might have dizzied her, had she had time to react. But he gave her no such courtesy. Instead he reached over and snagged her wrist with his big, strong hand, then tugged her to him as if she weighed no more than the lightest feather.
He cupped her jaw, lifting her face to meet his. It was a starkly possessive gesture, and yet, somehow, almost tender—making Tristanne gasp in confusion, and something much hotter.
Then his mouth was on hers. He spun her around until her back was against the door, and he kissed her, tasting her again and again, as if he might devour her whole.
And though she knew she shouldn’t, though she knew she should think about why she was there and not her girlish fantasies of moments just like this one, she kissed him back as if she might let him—as if she might beg him. Not to let her go. But not