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 to stop.
Never to stop.
He could not seem to get enough of her. Her sweet honeyed taste, the fit of her mouth to his, the little murmurs she made in the back of her throat, as if she could not help but respond to him with such abandon, with such passionate recklessness. Nikos felt a fire rage through him, making him hard and ready, and did not try to stop it. Could not have stopped it, even if he’d wanted to.
She wanted to be his mistress. He wanted her, with an intensity he had not expected, but had no wish to deny. He told himself that he would use it, that was all. It would merely fuel his revenge.
He pressed her back against the door, holding her there with his body while his hands roamed over her curves. One hand fisted in the dark blonde waves of her hair, tilting her head back to give him better access to her mouth, while the other stroked its way along the elegant line of her throat, then down to the sweet perfection of her jutting breasts.
Pulling away from her mouth with reluctance, Nikos turned his full attention to her breasts, tracing the flesh that swelled proudly above the bustline of her dress. He held them in his hands, weighing them against the silken material, testing their shape, running his thumbs across the hard peaks until she groaned.
It was not enough.
His blood pumped in his veins, urging him on. He reached down and found the hem of her dress, then worked it up toward her waist, exposing her silken thighs, and the heat of her femininity between them. He pulled one long, exquisitely formed leg over his hip, settling himself against her, so his hardness was flush against her center, separated only by his trousers and a single scrap of silk. She moaned. Her hips bucked against him. Her head was thrown back against the door, her eyes closed, as if she felt the heat, the fire, as he did.
He slanted his mouth over hers, tasting her again and again, while his hips moved, rolling against hers, rocking them both toward insanity.
He buried his face in her neck, licking the hollow of her throat, while his hands found her. He cupped her heat with his palm, feeling her molten heat, her softness. She cried out. Was it his name? He found he did not care.
She was a Barbery. She was his enemy. He wanted her for revenge, and he did not yet know what she wanted from him. He only knew, in this moment, that he had to have her.
Nikos pulled her delicate, panties to one side, stroking her with his long fingers. She sobbed out words he could not identify. Then, teasing her, he circled her entrance, before succumbing to the desire he could not seem to control. She was wet, and so soft, so hot, that he had to bite back his urge to throw her to the floor and sink so deep within her that he might forget his own name. Instead he moved his hand, rocking gently against her sex—and then, not so gently.
She made a helpless sound, but then her hips began to move against his hand, riding him, as her hands clutched at his shoulders.
“Look at me,” he ordered her.
Her eyes fluttered open. They were wide, and brown, and so wild with desire it made him curse. He felt her stiffen against him. She bit back a cry. Her cheeks flushed hot and red. A purely male satisfaction thrummed through him, along with a deep, primal surge of possession. He ignored it, and focused on the wet heat in his hands, the ecstasy he knew was just within her reach.
“Come for me,” he whispered gruffly, pressing kisses against her mouth, her cheek, her neck. “Now.”
This is a mistake, Tristanne thought in a desperate, chaotic, panicked rush—but it was too late.
Her body, tuned to his wicked fingers and not her errant thoughts, shattered into pieces at his command.
She was lost.
It took her long, shuddering moments to
