Not that that was a possibility. The outfit she’d worn today had pretty much melted her credit card.
“Excuse me,” she said with enough sugar in the words to cause diabetic coma, “but I’m not done.”
“You are done,” he said grimly. “You’ve packed enough for ten women.”
What she’d done was pack enough for one woman who had no idea what the weather was like halfway around the world this time of year. Yes, she could ask him, but that would be a show of weakness. Stupid, perhaps, but that was the way she felt.
So she’d taken jeans. T-shirts. Sandals. Hiking boots. Sweaters. She’d considered something dressy, but what for? She would not be going out in the evenings.
She would be going to the prince’s bed.
She stared at him as he closed the suitcase. She hated him as a woman; as an artist, she couldn’t help but admire him. Well, no. Not him. Not Alexandros Karedes. What she admired was his long, leanly muscled body. His wide shoulders and broad chest. Narrow hips and long legs. The black-as-midnight hair, the dark eyes, the face that Praxiteles might have chiseled from the finest marble.
He was even more beautiful nude.
She remembered that. The corded muscles in his arms. The ridged abs. The powerful thrust of his penis rising from a cluster of dark curls…
Maria swung away and went to the workshop end of the loft.
Forget that. Block it from her mind. Besides, despite all that about the contract, he couldn’t mean to enforce such a demand. The more she thought about it, the more assured she grew that the sleep-with-me nonsense was just a particularly nasty way of reminding her that she had no standing in his world.
Fine, she thought, plucking a big leather tote from a shelf and sweeping a handful of tools into it, absolutely fine. Let him play his stupid games. One month, that was all, a month of his bullying tactics and then—
Unless she was wrong.
What if he was serious? What if he really expected her to sleep with him? Well, not ‘sleep’. She remembered that one night in his bed. They hadn’t slept at all. He’d taken her over and over, driven her out of her mind each time, made her do things…
No. Her breath caught.
He hadn’t ‘made’ her do anything. She’d wanted to do them, things she’d heard of and read about but never, ever imagined she’d want to do.
And would never do again.
Blindly, she grabbed another handful of tools and dumped them in the tote.
What she’d told him was true. If he insisted on holding her to their devil’s bargain, she would not participate. She would lie in his bed but she would not move. She’d let his hands seek out every shadowed valley. Let him put his mouth on hers. On her breasts. Between her thighs. She’d let him do everything he wanted but she would not react, she would not, would not…
She gasped as Alex grabbed the tote from her, snapped the lock, then hoisted it and her suitcase from the floor.
“We’re leaving.”
“I need the rest of those tools—or maybe you thought I work gold and precious stones with tweezers and a crowbar?”
“Did you not hear me when I said you will have the studio of your dreams?”
“I heard you. I still want my own things. It’s how people are, when they’ve worked at the same job for a while. They want the stuff they’re familiar with, whether it’s a pen or a chisel. I know that’s difficult for you to get your head around, considering that you’ve never had to do a day’s work in your life, so you’ll just have to take my word for it.”
Alex narrowed his eyes. Was that really how she saw him? As a royal dilettante? He thought back to his father’s initial reaction when he’d first approached him about bringing new economic life to Aristo.
“What could you possibly bring to Aristo that I have not?” Aegeus said, with his usual imperialistic charm.
A casino, for one. A new commercial port that specialized in handling enormous cargo ships. A colony of upscale second or third or fourth or even fifth homes for multi-billionaires looking for seclusion on the island’s northeast coast overlooking the Bay of Apollonia. He had even managed to divert some of the super-rich from building in the new resort town of Jaladhar on the island of Calista, which, together with Aristo, had made up the Kingdom of Adamas until they’d been declared separate nations by his grandfather, King Christos, more than three decades ago.
So, no. Oh, no. He had never worked a day in his life. He travelled between his offices in New York and Ellos, he flew to all the major cities of the world, met and negotiated with hard-headed businessmen and heads of state and it was all nothing but a wealthy man’s hobby. Or so this woman thought.
He glared at Maria. At the smug little smile on her lips. Part of him wanted to grab her and shake her.
Part wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her until she begged for him to do more.
Thank God he wasn’t fool enough to do either. Instead, he jerked his chin in her direction.
“Coat,” he said briskly. “And shoes. Make it quick or I’ll sling you over my shoulder and carry you downstairs just as you are.”
He would do it, too.
Maria knew that.
So she pulled on heavy socks, a pair of bulky boots she’d bought the winter she’d almost—almost—decided to try skiing, stuffed her arms through the sleeves of a warm but ugly vintage parka she’d found at the Hell’s Kitchen flea market, secured her wild mop of hair with a scrunchy and marched to the door.
Let His Mightiness see what kind of bed-warmer he’d bought himself, she thought grimly.
Useless. He didn’t even blink. Instead, he motioned her toward the steps and followed her out of the building. The snow was still coming down but the flakes were big and slow, the kind that normally turned the city into a wonderland.
She could see nothing wonderful about it tonight.
As they stepped off the curb a uniformed driver sprang from behind the wheel of the big limo, touched a finger to his cap and clicked his heels.
Maria snorted.
Alex ignored her.
“Hans,” he said.
Hans clicked his heels again. Alex thought about telling him to stop doing that but he’d already told him the same thing at least a dozen times. Apparently, Hans was one of those people who dreamed of the grandeur that was royalty.
Maria, clearly, was not.
Hans reached for the bags. “I’ll put them in the trunk,” Alex said sharply. “You see to Ms. Santos.”
Another click. Maria rolled her eyes. Hans swept open the rear passenger door, gave her a little bow as she stepped inside the car. The door shut with the sort of solid ‘thunk’ she figured you expected when a car cost as much as a house. A swirl of warm air, perfumed with the scent of expensive leather, swallowed her up as she fell back into the soft seat.
The only thing that spoiled it was Alex, who opened the other rear door and got in beside her.
“The airport,” he said.
The car moved gracefully from the curb. Maria’s gut moved, too, but not gracefully. What in the world was she doing? She had to phone Joaquin to say she was leaving, and she certainly had to say goodbye to her mother.
“Wait!”
The car stopped. Alex turned toward her. “Whatever you forgot,” he said coldly, “can stay right where it is.”
“No.