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 them it pained her to think that his life would be cut short.
“That poor man. I’m deeply grieved to hear this.”
“Spare me your false sympathy. We both know you care nothing for my brother. If you did, you never would have offered yourself so freely to a stranger.”
She reeled back, as if slapped by the accusation. Denial was pointless, for she had succumbed to Kristo. Yet she wouldn’t sit here and take his verbal abuse either.
“Yes, I committed a grave error of judgment, and I have regretted my lapse of morals every day since,” she said, refusing to cower when his dark brows snapped together over his patrician nose. “But I was powerless to stop the fierce attraction I felt for you.”
There. She’d said it at last. But her confession only seemed to anger him more.
Where was the carefree beach bum she’d met that day? Who was this hard, cold stranger who stared at her with open disgust?
“Are you victim to these fierce attractions often, Demetria?”
“Never before or since.”
He snorted and stared out the window. “Of course you’d say that.”
As the car smoothly drove on, she stilled the urge to scream in frustration, and asked as calmly as she could manage, “Since you clearly find it so disagreeable to be in my company, why did you come for me?”
“I told you why. I’m escorting you to Angyra.”
“This makes no sense,” she said. “If Gregor has abdicated, why would I still be required to marry him?”
The beautifully sculpted mouth that had ravished her before pulled into a mockery of a smile. “You won’t. The moment my brother rescinded his duty, birth order demanded that I assume the crown and his contractual obligations. I am the King of Angyra. You will marry me.”
Never! But she bit back that retort. “You can’t force me to marry you.”
“Ah, but I can, Demetria. I can.”
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