‘So many fireflies,’ she whispered.
‘I paid ‘em to come,’ Andreas said and looked smug.
What else had he paid to have done?
The big table had been removed. There was one small table right by the water, set for two. A path of candles led to it.
Right by the door—in a pool of light created by a sweep of graded candles—was a pile of pillows. Huge. Soft.
In the middle of the central pillow was a bone. One vast marrowbone, with a central section carefully carved out so a small dog could reach the marrow. If he tried hard enough. If he didn’t succumb to the pure luxury of the down-filled cushions beforehand.
‘You’re even trying to seduce my dog,’ she whispered, awed, as Andreas took the sleepy Deefer from her arms and plopped him on the pillows. Deefer looked adoringly up at Andreas as if to say if this was seduction then thank you very much, he’d take it every time. He put his small mouth round his very big bone, he snuggled into the cushions, he put two paws possessively over the bone—and he went back to sleep. Clearly he was in doggy heaven and he intended to stay there for a very long time.
‘I don’t think I had to try very hard,’ Andreas said and smiled. ‘I suspect Deefer considers himself seduced. And now, my love,’ he growled and took her by the waist. ‘Now for us.’
‘Andreas…’
‘Meal only,’ he said, sounding innocent. ‘I swear.’
‘When did you set this all up?’ she whispered, awed.
‘I didn’t.’ His dark eyes gleamed in appreciation as he surveyed the scene beforehand. ‘I’d anticipated spending this night at the palace. Only then… it seemed important. So I rang Sophia and said we’d be here.’
Sophia must have done all this before, Holly thought, trying not to think it, but thinking it all the same.
‘She hasn’t done it before,’ Andreas growled, his hold on her tightening.
‘How did you know …?’
‘I could feel it. Holly, despite how this appears, this is no practised seduction scene.’
‘N… no?’
‘I brought Christina here early in our marriage,’ he said. ‘Years ago. She loathed it. No shops. No jet-setting friends. She never came again and I brought no one else.’
‘You’ve never brought a woman here?’ she demanded, not believing him. ‘Don’t tell me there was only Christina.’
‘I won’t tell you that. I won’t lie to you,’ he said. ‘But I’ve brought none of my mistresses here. Until you.’
‘I’m not your mistress,’ she said sharply and he nodded, as if in courteous acknowledgement.
‘Maybe that’s why you’re here. You’re my wife,’ he said and his hold on her tightened, until suddenly it seemed that tight wasn’t enough, he was forced to sweep her up in his arms and hold her against his heart. ‘You are my wife, and this night I intend to take you. Or…’ he amended as he felt her stiffen, ‘I intended to take you. Until I heard your very reasonable reservations about why six condoms won’t necessarily work. But let’s not worry about that now. I believe Sophia has left a meal for us. I haven’t seen you eat all day. For what I have in store for you tonight I want no wilting bride.’
So they ate. To her amazement she was hungry. Sophia must have half expected this. She’d surely planned it. But still Sophia remained invisible. It was Andreas who did the serving, disappearing and appearing again like a genie producing his magic.
He was still dressed in full dress uniform, his tunic buttoned high to his throat, his scarlet sash and medals emblazoned on his chest. He’d removed his dress sword but that was his only concession to casual. His high leather boots gleamed like jet-black mirrors. And his tight-fitting pants… There should be a law against them, she thought. For a man to wear such things… For a prince to wear them as he served her…
He was a prince serving his bride. And with food fit for the bride of such a man. Course after course, each small, each tantalizing, each delicious.
Kotosoupa Avgolemono … A chicken and rice soup, with egg and lemon…
He’d made this for her before, she remembered, once when her parents had left them alone together for the evening. ‘I’ll cook,’ he’d said, and she’d scoffed but he’d simply smiled his fabulously sexy smile and made her a soup she’d remembered ever since.
She’d watched him make it. For years after he left she’d tried to make it again, but it had never tasted the same.
It did tonight.
She raised her spoon to her mouth and he was watching every move; a hawk watching his prey, she thought.
‘You like?’ he said and she closed her eyes and savoured the taste of it and the memories and she couldn’t lie.
‘It’s magic. You cooked this for me years ago…’
‘I did,’ he said and smiled. ‘You remembered. I’ll cook it for you again. Whenever you want, my heart.’
She almost choked. She looked across the table and he was smiling at her and she thought of those six condoms and she thought, No, no, no.
‘Leave me alone,’ she managed, sounding virtuous. ‘I need to concentrate.’
‘There’s plenty to concentrate on,’ he agreed gravely. ‘You keep concentrating, my heart, and I’ll keep feeding you.’
So she kept eating. There was no choice—and in truth she had been hungry.
There was no way she was leaving this table hungry. Andreas was already leaving, to return with what came next. Tiny vol au vents, made with flaky, buttery pastry that melted almost as it touched her lips, filled with ingredients she couldn’t identify and didn’t need to—the combination of flavours was just right. Just perfect. Tiny and exquisite.
Then there was a modest medallion of rare fillet beef, served with baby mushrooms and a rich burgundy sauce. There were slivers of young asparagus, oozing butter. A tiny pile of creamy mashed potato. With truffle? Surely not. But, yes, she’d tasted truffle once in the distant past, and here it was again, unmistakable.
They didn’t talk. She couldn’t talk. She was saying a mantra over and over in her head.
Sensible. Sensible. Sensible.
How could she stay sensible? She was achingly aware of his every movement, of every flicker of those dark, dark eyes. He was watching her as she ate, devouring her with his eyes. She should object. She should…
Just eat, she told herself. Just watch him. Maybe even relax a little? Just take every moment of this magic meal as it came. The time for making things clear they were going no further was for later.
The steak was gone, the plates cleared by her prince, her waiter, her husband. He poured her a glass of dessert wine, a botrytis-affected Semillon. To her amazement it was Australian, a winemaker she knew, a wine she’d loved for always.
‘How …?’
‘I remembered,’ he said and smiled. ‘I had Georgiou find this wine. Just for tonight.’
She drank and her resolutions grew hazier. This was only her second glass. She was hardly drunk. She was just… entranced?
Seduced?
No!
But he’d remembered her wine.
And then there were sweets—tiny, bite-sized eclairs oozing with