Читать онлайн книгу «Billionaire Prince, Pregnant Mistress» автора Sandra Marton

Billionaire Prince, Pregnant Mistress
Sandra Marton
The Royal House of KaredesBook 1 in the fantastic Royal House of Karedes Series AND the full Royal House of Karedes Collection are available for a special price for a limited time only!Aspiring New York jewellery designer Maria Santo, proud but poor, has come to Aristo to win a royal commission.Cold, calculating and ruthless, Prince Alexandros Karedes masterfully beds Maria, thinking she’s nothing but a gold-digger, sleeping with him to save her business. Then he has her thrown off the island, back to the slums where she belongs! So when Alexandros discovers Maria’s fallen pregnant he assumes it’s on purpose. She’ll never be a suitable wife, but she’s perfect mistress material. What will it take for this billionaire prince to realise he’s falling in love with his pregnant mistress…?The titles in the Royal of Karedes series are:Billionaire Prince, Pregnant Mistress (Book 1) - Available now for a special price for a limited time.Prince's Captive Wife (Book 2)Sheikh's Forbidden Virgin (Book 3)Future King's Love-Child (Book 4)Greek Billionaire's Innocent Princess (Book 5)Ruthless Boss, Royal Mistress (Book 6)Sheikh's Virgin Stable-Girl (Book 7)Desert King's Housekeeper Bride (Book 8)Royal House of Karedes Collection - All 8 titles available now in a special price collection box set for a limited time.


Two crowns, two islands, one legacy

A royal family, torn apart by pride and its lust for power, reunited by purity and passion

The islands of Adamas have been torn into
two rival kingdoms:

TWO CROWNS
The Stefani diamond has been split as a
symbol of their feud

TWO ISLANDS
Gorgeous Greek princes reign supreme
over glamorous Aristo
Smouldering sheikhs rule the desert island of Calista

ONE LEGACY
Whoever reunites the diamonds will rule all.

THE ROYAL HOUSE OF KAREDES

Many years ago there were two islands ruled as one kingdom – Adamas. But bitter family feuds and rivalry caused the kingdom to be ripped in two. The islands were ruled separately, as Aristo and Calista, and the infamous Stefani coronation diamond was split as a symbol of the feud and placed in the two new crowns.

But when the king divided the islands between his son and daughter, he left them with these words:

“You will rule each island for the good of the people and bringout the best in your kingdom. But my wish is that eventuallythese two jewels, like the islands, will be reunited. Aristo andCalista are more successful, more beautiful and more powerfulas one nation: Adamas.”

Now, King Aegeus Karedes of Aristo is dead, the island’s coronation diamond is missing! The Aristans will stop at nothing to get it back but the ruthless sheikh king of Calista is hot on their heels.

Whether by seduction, blackmail or marriage, the jewel must be found. As the stories unfold, secrets and sins from the past are revealed and desire, love and passion war with royal duty. But who will discover in time that it is innocence of body and purity of heart that can unite the islands of Adamas once again?



BILLIONAIRE PRINCE, PREGNANT MISTRESS
SANDRA MARTON

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For MM, my very own hero, yesterday, today and
forever. And for MIM, whose spirit of adventure is
an inspiration. I love you both.



CHAPTER ONE
PRINCE ALEXANDROS KAREDES, second in line to the throne of the Kingdom of Aristo, did not like to be kept waiting.
Indeed, he never was.
Who would be so foolish as to let a man like him cool his heels?
His own father, Alexandros thought with a sigh of resignation as he strode past the marble fireplace outside the throne room for what had to be the tenth time in as many minutes. The hands on the French ormolu clock that graced the mantel stood upright at six. Alexandros had been told the king would see him at five-thirty but Aegeus was not known for promptness, even with his children.
“An unfortunate habit,” Queen Tia called it, but Alex was not as kind. He knew his father well; he was certain Aegeus’s chronic lateness was yet another subtle way of reminding everyone, family included, that, though he was getting on in years, he was still king.
It was undoubtedly the same reason he’d asked Alex to meet him here, in such formal surroundings, rather than in the privacy of the royal apartments.
That was just the way it was. There was no point in questioning it. Aegeus was a more than competent ruler. He led the people of Aristo well but he had always been distant in his dealings with his wife, sons and daughters.
Alex had no objection. At six or seven, a display of affection, a lessening of formalities might have meant something, but he was thirty-one now, he had created his own eminently successful life by bringing ever-increasing international recognition and resources to the kingdom.
He had no need for signs of affection from his father. Affection was for puppies and kittens, not grown men.
Alexandros glanced at the clock again.
Even though he understood the reason for it, being kept waiting was irritating. And inconvenient. The meeting with his father would not take long. He knew that from past experience. He’d just returned from a business trip to the Far East. Aegeus would simply want to know if things had gone well, if new banks and corporations would be joining the impressive list of those already on Aristo, but he would not wish to hear the details.

Results were all that mattered, was Aegeus’s motto. How one got to those results was immaterial.
That was okay with Alex. He didn’t need pats on the back any more than he needed signs of affection. It was only that if the king kept him waiting much longer, he’d be late getting into town.
Not that it mattered.
His new Ferrari would easily conquer the narrow roads that wound along the cliffs looming above the Mediterranean. And even if he arrived at The Grand Hotel in Ellos past the time he’d told his date he’d pick her up, she would not complain.
A little smile lifted the corners of his lips.
Why be unduly modest? He did well with all the things he most enjoyed. Beautiful women, fast cars, baccarat, the vast business empire he’d created here and in New York.
His smile faded.
Actually, he had not done as well with women lately.
Not that they weren’t his for the taking. The woman waiting for him tonight was what the world called a supermodel. Simone had been doing a Vogue cover shoot outside the casino just as Alex had arrived to discuss the casino’s expansion with its manager, but that had not kept him from pausing to admire the leggy blonde posing on the wide marble steps, dressed in a silk gown that clung like a second skin.

Their eyes had met. Alex had grinned and without hesitation she’d come down the steps, hips swaying thanks to heels so high they seemed to be made for sin, oblivious to the frenzied ‘Hey!’ of the photographer.
“Hello,” she’d cooed when she had reached him, smiling the smile that was worth ten thousand dollars an hour to an advertiser. “I’m free this evening, Your Highness, and I certainly hope that you are, too.”
He’d said he was leaving for Tokyo but he’d be back in three days. “Call me,” she’d purred, and he had, first thing this morning. What man wouldn’t? She was stunning. Sexy as hell. He knew she’d be in his bed at the apartment he kept in town before the night ended…
So what?
A crazy thought. But there it was. A gorgeous woman, another hot liaison and all he could think was, So what? He’d have the model and, come morning, she’d be looking for a way to turn a night into an affair.
He’d be looking for a polite way to make it clear he wasn’t interested.
Lately, ending an affair before it really had time to start had become a pattern. He liked sex. Liked women. Their feel, their scent, their company. It was just that he couldn’t seem to concentrate on any one woman lately. For weeks now, he’d drifted from one to another.

He knew damned well there were men who’d find that exciting.
He didn’t.
Not that he believed in long-term affairs. A month. Two. Three, that was about it and then he’d do the right thing, send an incredibly expensive gift and move on.
Alex frowned.
The past couple of months, the only part of that familiar plan he seemed to get right was the part about moving on.
His brothers had noticed. They’d taken to teasing him about what they called his wanderlust. With theemphasis on ‘lust,’ Sebastian said, while Andreas grinned. Even his sisters got in on the act, Lissa long-distance from Paris, Kitty sighing dramatically and saying, Poor Alex. He just can’t find awoman to love.
Well, no. He wasn’t about to explain the difference between love and lust to either of them but, of course, love had nothing to do with it. Why would it? Love was one of those things people talked about that didn’t really exist.
Myths. Myths as creative as any of the tall tales his long-ago Greek and Roman ancestors had believed.
What people called ‘love’ was hormonal nonsense—though he couldn’t call what had drawn his parents together hormonal. They had come together because it was necessary. Carrying on a name, a bloodline that had existed for centuries was in the destiny of royals.
It would surely be the same for Sebastian, heir to the throne, when the time came. Sebastian would get to choose his own wife—this was the twenty-first century, after all—but he would make that choice from a carefully vetted list of acceptable young women.
Alex, second in line, would be under somewhat less pressure but he knew the responsibility of marriage to an appropriate bride, then children to bear his name, was in his future. It was all part of his duty to the house of Karedes.
He would demand only that his future wife be attractive. Beyond that, he had no expectations. Companionship, passion—those things he would find in a mistress. He would be discreet; he would never deliberately do anything to insult the woman he married but a royal wife would understand that her role was to bear him children.
Neither of them would be foolish enough to look for love. Discretion in their extra-marital affairs would be enough.
Alex stopped pacing, jammed his hands into his trouser pockets and stared at the coat of arms on the wall over the enormous fireplace.
There had been a woman once, years ago. A girl, really. He’d thought—never mind what he’d thought. What mattered was what she had thought, that she could use her kisses, her touch, her soft whispers to bewitch him. He’d been a boy then, led around by a part of his anatomy that had nothing to do with his brain, but he’d learned the truth about her in time and had been wiser for it.
Since then, he had not let a woman lure him into complacency. Into forgetting that a man always had to look beyond a beautiful face to see a woman’s true agenda…
Until that night two months ago.
A night when a stranger had stepped into his arms, her face radiant with seeming innocence. She’d lifted her mouth to his, parted her lips to the whisper of his breath, the thrust of his tongue and the world had blurred—until the next morning, when he’d learned it had all been a lie.
“Prince Alexandros.”
Not just a lie. Alex’s jaw tightened. A scam. A fraud. A swindle of the first magnitude, and he had fallen for it.
“Sir? The king and queen ask that you join them.”
But she hadn’t gotten away with it. Instead, he’d pretended he knew nothing of her deception. She had played a part; in the harsh light of day, it had been his turn to play one, too.
He’d taken her back to bed. Had sex with her again. And that time, when it was over and she lay sated beneath him, he’d watched her eyes fill with shock as he told her he knew who she was, what she was, and promised her that all that would come of her despicable game was defeat.
Then he’d sent her packing.
The incident had meant so little to him that he could not even remember her name. Despite her wiles, he’d been the victor. He’d had hours of sex that had seemed incredible, though he knew now it had only been, well, sex. And the moment of sweet revenge that followed had made everything right.
“Your Highness? Their majesties will see you now.”
Or had it?
It wasn’t just women he’d had a lot of these past weeks; it was everything. He’d put endless miles on the royal private jets with business trips from his offices in New York and Aristo to Bermuda. To the Bahamas. To theVirgin Islands, to Florida, to Mexico and, most recently, Japan. Successful trips, all of them, but he’d set one hell of a pace. Meetings by day; by night, the baccarat tables, high-stakes poker…
And sex.
Was it possible he’d spent the last weeks going from country to country, bed to bed, trying to wipe away the ugly memories of a night when he’d come as close as a man could to letting a woman use him?
“Sir. The king and queen are waiting for you.”
Alex blinked. Galen, his father’s major-domo, stood at stiff attention before him. From the expression on his face, he’d been there a while.
“Thank you, Galen. Efcharisto.”

“Are you well, sir?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. A little distracted.” Alex forced a grin. “There’s a lady waiting for me in town. You know how that is.”
Galen permitted himself a small smile. “I am sure the lady is happy to wait, sir,” he said, and stepped aside with a deep bow as Alex walked past him into the throne room.
His parents were not alone.
A handful of aides hovered around his father, who was seated at an antique desk liberally strewn with sheets of paper. His mother stood on the throne platform, encircled by several of her ladies-in-waiting who held lengths of silk brocade against her while a seamstress sat on the floor, pinning and tucking and doing whatever in heaven’s name women did with all those yards and yards of fabric.
Alex’s lips twitched.
Despite its elegance, the frescoes, the ceiling painted by a sixteenth-century master and a wall hung with exquisite Byzantine icons, right now the room looked more like someone’s slightly messy sitting room than a place in which the kingdom’s most formal ceremonies were held.
His father looked up. “There you are,” he said in a tone that suggested it was he who’d been kept waiting. “Well, what do you think?”
Alex raised his eyebrows. “About what?”
“About these plans, of course.” Aegeus slapped a hand on the papers spread over his desk. “Do we want a theme, or do we not?”
No, Alex thought, this was not someone’s sitting room, this was more like the Mad Hatter’s tea party.
“A theme for what?” he said carefully.
Aegeus shot to his feet, scattering the aides crowded around him.
“For your mother’s sixtieth birthday celebration, of course! If you hadn’t spent the last month doing God knows what, you’d know what was going on here!”
“Now, Aegeus.” Husband and son looked at the queen, who smiled at them both. “You know Alexandros has been busy convincing foreigners that our kingdom is the perfect place for them to invest in the future. And I’m sure we can assume he’s been successful. Haven’t you, Alex?”
Alex smiled and went to his mother. She bent toward him and he took her hand and brought it to his lips.
“Mother. I’ve missed you.”
“How was your trip?”
“It was fine.” Alex smiled. “We snared a lot of foreigners who look forward to a happy future.”
His mother laughed. “You see, Aegeus? It’s just as I said.” Tia waved the women away and came gracefully down the steps. “It’s good to have you home again, Alexandros.”
“It’s good to be here.” Alex nodded at the women gathering up the fabrics. “What’s all this?”

“I just told you what it is,” Aegeus said with impatience. “Preparation for your mother’s birthday celebration. I thought we should make the final selections of décor, color and fabric here in the throne room, where the most formal part of the ceremony will take place. Isn’t that right, gentlemen?”
The aides nodded.
“We want to be certain everything comes together properly.”
Aegeus looked at his aides, who nodded again. Alex thought of turkeys pecking for grain at the feet of the farmer who owned them and repressed a smile.
“So, what do you think, Alexandros? What theme shall we use? Our history as part of the ancient world? A link to the days of the Crusades? The time of the Ottoman Empire? All those things, as you well know, are in our bloodline.”
Who gave a damn? What mattered was the celebration of his mother’s sixtieth birthday, not his father’s lineage.
“Any of those would be fine,” Alex said smoothly, with a quick glance at his mother. “Something big and splashy. After all, we don’t want it said that only the Calistans can do parties that are showy.”
He saw his mother bite back a smile. Any mention of Calista, which had once been part of the Adamas empire along with Aristo, was enough to make his father’s hackles rise.
“Showy,” Aegeus said, frowning.

“Exactly.” Alex shook his head. “I’ve never understood why there was so much coverage of the Queen of England’s birthday celebration a couple of years ago when it was all so low-key. Have you, Mother?”
“No,” Tia said with perfect innocence, “I’ve never understood it, either. All those reporters and television people, the worldwide interest in Elizabeth and the British royals…and all of it done, as you say, Alexandros, with such quiet elegance.”
The king snorted. “What is there to understand? One either knows the virtue of simplicity or one doesn’t.” He looked down at the papers on his desk, studied them for a long moment, then swept them to the floor with his hand. “I have just chosen a theme for your birthday celebration, Tia. The coming of spring. I can envision it now. Masses of early spring flowers. The Venetian dinnerware in shades of palest green and yellow. And you, the queen, dressed in a gown the same pale pink as the diamond in the Aristan crown.”
Thank you, Tia mouthed to her son. Alex flashed her a grin.
“That sounds very nice,” she said demurely.
“Nice? It will be magnificent, especially with you resplendent in the new necklace I’ll commission as your birthday gift. Although we could add a brooch…”
“No brooch,” the queen said. “It would be inappro-priate, Aegeus, to wear both a brooch and a necklace.”

The king waved his hand. “Whatever. Take it up with the craftsman.”
“The jewelry designer,” Tia commented. “That’s what she is.”
She? Alex frowned and thought back to the weekend the final half-dozen jewelry designers, selected from all around the globe, had been invited to Aristo to meet with his parents. Had there been another woman in the group? He only recalled one.
But then, he thought grimly, that had been the plan, hadn’t it? That the prince who might influence the choice of designer should have been so bewitched he would notice only one?
Besides, what did his father mean by talking about the necklace he would commission? The commission had been made weeks before.
“—don’t you agree, Alexandros?”
Alex looked at his father. “Sorry, Father. I missed that.”
“I said, it doesn’t matter what this woman is called. Designer, artisan, craftsman—craftswoman,” the king amended, with a nod to his wife. “She simply must understand the importance of this commission… And why are all the rest of you still hanging about?” Aegeus clapped his hands and the seamstress, aides and ladies-in-waiting scurried from the room. “She must understand that, Tia. That is a given.”
The queen nodded. “I am certain that she will.”

“I hope you’re right. She seemed very young to me.”
Things were becoming more confusing. His parents were definitely referring to a woman designer. A young designer… Alex stiffened.
No. They couldn’t be talking about her. About Maria Santos and, yes, he damned well did remember her name. How could he not? A man who was marked to be the gullible victim of a scam didn’t forget the person who’d been the scammer.
“She couldn’t have seemed anything to you, Aegeus,” Tia said, with a little smile. “Remember? We never had the pleasure of meeting her. She sent us a note and explained she’d been taken ill that morning. But, of course, we already had seen Miss Santos’s sketches, and—”
A fist seemed to clench Alex’s gut. He took a deep breath and forced himself to speak calmly. “Maria Santos? But you said the commission went to a French company.”
“It did, but they just notified us that the owner passed away and left the firm tied up in all kinds of unpleasant litigation.” Tia took Alex’s arm. “I know. It’s all very last minute, and Miss Santos doesn’t even know that we’re going to ask her to implement her design.”
“That’s why your trip to New York has such urgency, Alexandros.”
Alex stared at his father. “What trip to NewYork?”

“You will see the Santos woman and inform her of our decision.”
“What your father means,” Queen Tia said, “is that you’ll explain what’s happened and ask Miss Santos if she will be generous enough to take on the job at such short notice.”
Another snort from the king. “She’ll leap at the chance.”
“But she might not,” the queen said softly. “This is very last minute. And true artists have tender egos. Miss Santos may not like thinking of herself as second choice.”
Alex wanted to laugh. A tender ego? He’d bet Maria Santos had an ego that could dent cast iron.
“You’re the diplomat in the family,” the king said briskly. “All that talking and contracting with the businesses you’ve lured to our island over the years…”
It was as close to a compliment as his father had ever offered but it wasn’t enough to make Alex go to Maria Santos and present her with the chance of a lifetime.
“I would be happy to help,” Alex said briskly, “but I have pressing commitments here on the island. Surely someone else can—”
“Someone else cannot,” Aegeus retorted. “You have offices and an apartment in New York. You know the city. You know its tempo, its attitude. You’ll be better able to work with the Santos woman and ensure the necklace is ready in time.”

So much for compliments. This was a royal command. That the woman who’d wanted this job badly enough to damned near sell herself to secure it would now get it by default, that he would be the man who’d have to offer it to her, was almost too ironic to believe.
“There were other designs submitted,” he said. “Surely one of them would do?”
His mother’s small hand tightened on his arm. “I preferred Miss Santos’s work from the beginning, Alex. I deferred to your father when he selected the French firm, of course, but now…”
Alex looked at the queen as her words trailed away. He knew it would take little for his father to tell her he had decided on a different designer. Tia was as restrained as Aegeus was quick-tempered, as gentle as the king was stern. He’d always had the feeling his mother’s life was not quite the life she had hoped for.
Growing up, he’d spent little time at her side. Boarding school, tutors, the expected rigor of life as a king’s son had seen to that, but he loved her deeply none the less. And if a birthday gift designed by Maria Santos was what she wanted…
“Alexandros?” Tia said softly. “Do you think I’m making a mistake?”
Alex put his arm around his mother’s shoulders and hugged her.
“What I think is that you should have precisely what you want on your birthday.”

His mother beamed. “Thank you.”
“Thank me, you mean,” the king said briskly, and gave his wife what passed for a loving smile. “I’m the one commissioning your gift.”
The queen laughed. She rose on her toes and kissed her son’s cheek, then reached for her husband’s hand.
“Thank you both,” she said. “How’s that?”
“It’s fine,” Alex replied.
And that was what he kept telling himself, that it would be fine, during the seemingly endless flight all the way from Aristo to New York.
CHAPTER TWO
EVERYTHING was going to be fine.
Absolutely fine, Maria told herself wearily as the Lexington Avenue local rumbled to a stop at the Spring Street subway station.
Never mind that the man next to her smelled like a skillet of sautéing garlic. Forget that her feet were shrieking after a day strapped into gorgeous-but-impossible Manolo stilettos. Pretend the rain that had become sleet hadn’t turned her sleek, three hundred dollar Chez Panache blow-out right back into her usual tumble of coffee-colored wild curls, or that she was obviously coming down with the flu or something suspiciously like it.
Oh, yes, everything was going to be fine.
And if it wasn’t…if it wasn’t…
The train gave a lurch as it left the station. Garlic Man fell into her, Maria stumbled sideways and felt one of her sky-high heels give way.
A word sprang to her lips. It was a word ladies didn’t use, even if they knew how to say it in Spanish as well as English. Not that Maria felt much like a lady right now. Still, she bit back the word, instead visualized it in big neon letters and decided that trying to figure a way to find the lost heel on the floor of the packed subway car was something only a madwoman would attempt.
Goodbye, Manolo Blahniks. Goodbye, ChezPanache. Goodbye, Jewels by Maria.
No. Absolutely, no. She was not going to think like that. What was it she’d learned in that stress reduction class? Okay, she hadn’t taken the class, not exactly; there was no time for anything like taking classes in her life but she’d read the course description in The New School catalog…
Live in the now.
That was it. Reduce stress by learning to live in the now. At the moment, that meant—damn!—that meant the train was pulling into Canal Street.
“Excuse me. Sorry. Coming through!”
She pushed her way through the rush-hour crowd, reached the doors just as they began to shut and hurled herself onto the platform. The doors closed; the train started. People surged toward the stairs, carrying a hobbling Maria in their midst.
Climbing the steps to the street with one shoe now four inches shorter than the other was an interesting experience. Why did they make shoes with heels like these? Better still, why had she bought them? Because men thought they looked good? Well, they did, but that wasn’t the reason. There was no man in her life; she couldn’t imagine there would be, not for a long time after that incident two months ago on Aristo.
The prince. The prince of darkness, was how she’d taken to thinking of him, and she felt the anger rise inside her again.
Damn it, why was she remembering him, anyway? Why waste time on him or that night? It had all been a nightmare. She hated herself for it, would probably always hate herself for it, thought not half as much as she hated him and…
And, there was no point in this.
Aristo, the commission she’d wanted so much and lost because of him, were behind her. She had to concentrate on the present. On how to convince shops like L’Orangerie to buy her designs.
That, she thought grimly, that was why she’d worn these shoes. Why she’d spent as much on a stupid blow-out as she could have spent to buy gold wire for the new earrings she’d been sketching. Why she’d all but begged for today’s meeting with the buyer from L’Orangerie. And where had it gotten her?
Nowhere, Maria thought as she reached the sidewalk. Nowhere except out here, limping home like a derelict in sleet that was rapidly turning to snow.
The weather, coupled with the fact that it was Friday, had sent people fleeing their offices earlier than usual. Still, the street was crowded. This was Manhattan, after all. The good news was that because this was Manhattan, nobody so much as looked at her.
Still, she felt ridiculous, hobbling like this.
Yes, Maria, but the better news is that your heelcould have come off when you were on Fifth Avenue,heading for that meeting with the man from L’Orangerie.
What an impression she’d have made then.
Not that it would have mattered.
L’Orangerie’s head buyer had been polite enough to keep the lunch appointment and honest enough to begin it by telling her he wasn’t going to buy her designs.
“I like them, Ms. Santos,” he’d said, “I like them very much—but your name will mean nothing to our clients. Perhaps after you’ve had a bit more exposure…?”
More exposure? Maria gave an inelegant snort as she turned the corner. How much more exposure did she need? After winning the Caligari prize, she’d sold to Tiffany’s. To Harry Winston. To Barney’s.
She’d said all that to her luncheon companion. And he had said yes, he knew she had, but her status in those places was insignificant compared to designers like Paloma Picasso and Elsa Peretti, n’est-ce pas?
Not, she’d wanted to say. Not n’est-ce pas.
Maybe she didn’t have a lot of pieces in the display cases. Maybe the stores didn’t buy whole page ads for her in The New York Times and the high fashion magazines. Okay, maybe they didn’t advertise her name at all.
But she’d sold to the big players. That mattered. And the pieces she’d designed were certainly more significant than that phony French accent laid over the unmistakable underpinnings of his Brooklyn upbringing.
She almost told him so.
Fortunately, sanity had made her put a forkful of salad instead of her foot in her mouth.
She couldn’t afford to insult a jewelry buyer of such influence. The world to which she wanted entry was small. Gossipy. Insulting one of its door-keepers came under the heading of Shooting Yourself in the Head Just to See if the Gun Would Fire.
Besides, he was right.
She’d been incredibly lucky to sell a few pieces to those stores. Who knew if she’d ever sell them others? Who knew how she’d sell them others? Not landing the Aristan commission had been an enormous setback.
When you could add a discreet line to your business card that said ‘By commission to Their Majesties, King Aegeus and Queen Tia of Aristo,’ you had the world by the tail.
She’d lost the chance to have that happen.
Correction. A man had taken that chance from her. A man who had seduced her and then tossed her out of his bed as if she’d been a twenty-dollar whore.
“Stop that,” she muttered to herself. Why think of him now? Why waste time looking back? There was no point.
Maria made a left on Broome Street, hobbled to the next corner, turned down that street and, finally, there it was. Her building. Well, not hers. The building in which she lived. And worked. That was the great thing about renting a loft. There was plenty of space within its high walls, room for sleeping and eating, but mostly room for working.
If she could keep working.
The fact of the matter was, she was in debt up to her ears.
The loft cost thousands a month to rent. The gold and silver, the precious and semi-precious stones with which she worked, cost thousands, too. She had only one employee, Joaquin, but she had to meet his salary every week. And designing something that would be a fit gift for the Queen of Aristo’s sixtieth birthday had taken hours and hours of time.
So she’d borrowed the small fortune she’d needed to pay her rent, her bills, to set aside other projects and devote endless hours to a design for the competition.
Useless, all of it. Useless.
She had been one of the three finalists. They’d all been invited to Aristo, where the winner would be announced at a ceremony. And she’d lost any possibility of being that winner in one night. One foolish night.
A handful of hours had ruined her hopes and dreams, had left her humiliated beyond measure and the truth was, it was her fault, all of it. Not the fault of the man who’d seduced her.
Alexandros, the Prince of Aristo, had only proved what she already knew. The hell with soft lights and sweet talk. All a man wanted from a woman was sex. That she, of all women, should have forgotten that cold truth and given in to a moment’s weakness, was unforgivable.
Once you’d warmed a man’s bed, he had no further use for you. If something unexpected happened, like, in this case, it turning out that he was an Aristan prince and you were a finalist in the competition to design his mother’s birthday gift, he’d lay the blame for the seduction on you, even when he was the one who’d done the seducing.
Her father had put the blame on her mother.
The mighty prince had put the blame on her.
“Damn this useless shoe,” Maria said furiously. To hell with the snow and the icy pavement. She bent down, ripped off both the broken shoe and its mate, and strode the last few wet yards to her front door.
It swung open just as she reached it. Joaquin stepped onto the street, smiled when he saw her but his smile changed to bewilderment as his startled gaze dropped to her nylon-clad feet.
“Maria? ¿Cuál es la materia? ¿Por qué está usteddescalzo en este tiempo?”
Maria forced a smile. “Nothing’s wrong. I broke my heel, that’s all.” She stepped past him into the vestibule. “I thought you’d be gone by now.”
The door swung shut behind her. She started up the stairs to the loft, Joaquin at her heels. There was a freight elevator, but, as usual, it wasn’t working.
“I am still here, as you can see. I waited in hopes you would return to tell me good news.”
Maria nodded but said nothing. When they reached the third floor, she stabbed her key into the lock, walked briskly across the age-dulled hardwood floor, dropped her shoes and bag on a table near one of the loft’s big windows and turned toward her old friend and co-worker.
“That was good of you.”
Joaquin’s warm brown eyes searched her face. “It did not go well?”
Maria sighed as she slipped her coat from her shoulders. She could lie or at least make the meeting with the buyer sound more hopeful, but there was no point. Joaquin knew her too well. He’d been working for her for five years. More than that, they’d grown up in neighboring apartments in a crumbling building in the Bronx, which was not a place most people thought of when they spoke of New York.
Joaquin and his family had come from Puerto Rico to the mainland when he was five and she was six. He was the brother she’d never had.
So, no. Trying to fool him was useless.
“Maria?” he said softly, and she sighed.
“We didn’t get the contract.”
His expression softened. “Ah. I am so sorry. What happened? I thought this Frenchman had good taste.”
“He’s not even a Frenchman,” Maria said with a little laugh. “As for taste, well, he says he likes my work. But—”
“But?”
“But, I should get in touch with him when Jewels by Maria is better known.”
“When it is,” Joaquin said stoutly, “you won’t need him.”
Maria grinned. “It’s just a good thing you’re married or I’d nab you for myself.”
Joaquin grinned, too. It was an old joke and they both knew it had no meaning. So did Joaquin’s wife, who was Maria’s best friend.
“I’ll be sure and tell Sela you said that.”
“Tell her, too, that I’m looking forward to dinner on Sunday.”
“I will.” Joaquin tucked his hands in his overcoat pockets. “I left the new wax castings on the workbench.”
“Thank you.”
“FedEx delivered the opals you ordered. I put them in the safe.”
“Excellent.”
Joaquin hesitated. “There is also a letter—a registered letter—from the bank.”
“Of course there is,” Maria said sharply. She sighed and put her hand lightly on Joaquin’s arm in apology. “Sorry.” She smiled. “No need to kill the messenger, right?”
“You might change your mind when I tell you that your mother phoned.”
Joaquin said it lightly but they both knew a call from Luz Santos was rarely pleasant. Maria’s mother’s life had not gone well; she held her daughter responsible. Having Maria had changed her life. It had ended her dreams. Her plans. Not that she had regrets. Oh, no. No regrets. She had sacrificed everything for Maria but that was what mothers were supposed to do.
If only Maria would make the sacrifice worthwhile. If only she would stop playing with trinkets and get a real job…
“My mother,” Maria said, and sighed again. “Did she say what she wanted?”
“Her back is acting up. She has indigestion. Her doctor is of no use to her.” Joaquin cleared his throat. “Mrs. Ferrara’s daughter was just promoted.”
Maria nodded. “Of course.”
“So was your cousin Angela.”
“Again,” Maria said, deadpan.
“Again,” Joaquin agreed.
Suddenly, it seemed too much. The day. The disappointment. The overdue bank loan. The flu symptoms she couldn’t shake, and now a call from Mama… A little moan escaped her lips. Joaquin put his arms around her and she gave in and leaned her head against his shoulder.
“Maria, I have a fine idea. Come with me. You know Sela will be thrilled to see you. She is making Chile Colorado for supper. When was the last time you had something so delicious, hmm?”
She smiled, stood straight and knotted the woolen scarf at his neck.
“Joaquin,” she said gently, “go home.”
“If there was a way Sela and I could help you—”
“I know.”
“If only you had gotten that commission. I still cannot understand the reason you didn’t win.”
She understood it, but she’d sooner have died than divulge it.
“You’ll see, Joaquin. Everything will work out.”
“De su boca al oído del Dios.”
From her mouth to God’s ear. It made her smile again. She clasped his face in her hands and kissed him lightly on the mouth.
“Go home, mi amigo.”
“Sela will be angry I left you alone at a time like this.”
“Tell Sela I love her but I am your boss,” Maria said with mock severity, “and I sent you home.”
Joaquin grinned. “Yes, boss,” he said, and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
She watched as he made his way to the door. It swung shut after him and she wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered. It was very cold in the loft. The high ceiling seemed to steal the landlord’s miserly allotment of heat from the radiators and the windows, though wonderfully big, were as old as the building. On a day like this, the wind was relentless and sent chilly air straight into the cavernous room.
A draft was blowing right on her. And a film of frost was just beginning to form on the glass. Maria rubbed at it with her fist…
What was that car doing here?
It was parked just across the street. A big car, long and black and elegant. She knew little about automobiles but in this still-ungentrified stretch of Lower Manhattan a Rolls or a Mercedes or a Bentley, whatever the vehicle was, stood out like the proverbial sore thumb.
Her lips turned down.
It was probably a realtor, trying to get a feel for things. They’d been showing up as regularly as rats in the alley, a sure sign that the area was about to become too expensive for people like her. One realtor had even turned up at her door a couple of weeks ago, oozing charm. She’d only managed to get rid of him by assuring him she didn’t own her loft—though she hadn’t been able to keep from telling him that if she did, there wasn’t a way in the world she’d sell it to him.
In a gesture of defiance and frustration, she glared at the car and stuck out her tongue. Then she drew back into the darkness, laughing nervously at herself. What a crazy thing to do but on a day that had gone as badly as this, it was better than nothing.

Alex, sitting in the back of the Bentley limo, blinked in surprise.
Had the Santos woman just stuck her tongue out at him?
No. Why would she do that? She couldn’t even see him. It was dark. The windows of the car were tinted. She had no way of knowing if there was someone in the car or not.
A distortion, then, caused by the cold and the heavily falling snow.
Not that it had been falling heavily enough to have kept him from seeing that cozy lovers’ greeting between her and the man who’d just left. And not that he gave a damn. Five minutes to explain why he was here, that the commission was hers, and that would be the end of it.
This was for his mother. He could ignore his anger. His disgust. He could do this.
He just wished he hadn’t had to view such a charming little scene. It was enough to make his belly knot. A snowy evening. A lover, so eager for his woman that he met her downstairs. Greeted her with tenderness. Went back upstairs with her. Talked to her. Kissed her…
And walked away.
Alex frowned.
What sort of lover was this man? Why had he chosen the cold night instead of a woman’s heat? As for tenderness… Did he not know that tenderness was not what Maria Santos wanted? She was hot. Wild. Eager in bed.
Even now, he could remember how she had been that night. Her scent. Lilies of the valley, he had thought, as delicate and fragrant as those that grew wild in the hills near his home on the cliffs. Her skin, warm and soft under his questing hands. Her hair, brushing like silk against his throat.
Her nipples, sweet on his tongue.
Her mouth hot, so hot against his.
Her little cries. Her moans. That one incredible moment as he’d entered her when he’d thought—when he’d imagined—that she had never before known a man’s possession.
And, damn it, what in hell was he doing? His body had grown hard, just remembering. Alex let down the window and drew a long breath of cold, snow-laden air into his lungs.
The thing to remember was not how she had been in his bed but the reason she had been there. It had not been an accident; that she’d stood in seeming uncertainty just in front of the building in which he had his offices in Ellos, guidebook in hand, had been, he knew, deliberate.
He had not suspected it then.
But he’d noticed her right away. What man wouldn’t?
Slender, very pretty, her dark mane of hair pulled away from her face by a simple gold clasp and left to tumble down her back, her figure limned by the fading light of the day, she’d been a delightful sight.
He’d paused as he came out the door. She had a pair of small reading glasses perched on the end of her nose; somehow, that had added to her charm.
American, he’d thought, a tourist. And, withoutquestion, lost.
He’d been in no particular hurry to go anywhere. Okay, why not? he’d said to himself, and smiled as he’d approached her. “Excuse me,” he’d said pleasantly, “but do you need some help?”
She’d looked up from the slim guidebook, her eyes a little blurry because of the glasses. Her hesitation had been artful, just enough to make her seem not just cautious but almost old-fashioned.
“Well—well—thank you. Yes, actually, I do. If you could tell me… I’m looking for the Argus. It’s a restaurant. Well, a café. The guidebook says it’s supposed to be right here. The hotel desk clerk said so, too. But—”
“But it isn’t,” Alex had said, smiling again. “And, I’m afraid, it hasn’t been, not for at least a year.”
Her face had fallen. Disappointment had only made her lovelier.
“Oh. Oh, I see. Well—thank you again.”
“You’re most welcome.”
She’d taken off her glasses and gone on looking up at him, her eyes—hazel, he’d noted, neither brown nor green nor gold but a veritable swirl of colors—as wide and innocent as a fawn’s.
Innocent as a fox approaching a hen house, he thought now, his mouth thinning to a tight line.
Maria Santos had known exactly what she was doing, right up to how she’d reacted when he’d suggested another restaurant nearby.
“Is it…?” She’d hesitated. “I mean, is this other restaurant—?”
“As good as the Argus?” Truth was, he had no idea. He’d never been to the Argus. From what little he recalled, it had been a tiny café, just a place to get a quick bite.
“As inexpensive.” Color had swept into her cheeks. “The guidebook says—”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” he’d said, because she wouldn’t.
The restaurant he’d recommended was incredibly expensive—but he would take her to it. He would dine with her and pay the bill. Just to talk, he’d told himself. Just to be a good ambassador for his country, even though—to his surprise—this beautiful stranger did not seem to recognize his face when the simple truth, much to his chagrin, was that spotting him was as much a tourist attraction as the beaches, the yachts and the casino.
The hell she hadn’t recognized him.
She’d known who he was. She’d set the entire thing up.
But he had not known it, then.
She’d protested prettily that she couldn’t possibly let him pay for her meal but she’d let him think he’d overcome her protests. And, after dinner, when they’d walked along the sea wall, when he’d kissed her while they stood surrounded by the tall pines that grew on a little promontory and their kisses had gone from soft and exploratory to hot and deep, when his hands had gone under her silk skirt and she’d moaned into his mouth, when he’d put his arm tightly around her waist, still kissing her, and led her through the now-quiet streets to his flat, to his bed, when she’d clung to him and whispered she’d never done anything like this before…
When she’d come apart in his arms, her cries so sweet, so wild, so real…
Alex cursed.
“Sir?” his driver said, but Alex ignored him, swung open the door of the Bentley himself and stepped into the night.
Lies, all of it, lies that had come undone in the early morning when he’d reached for her again and found her side of the bed empty. He’d assumed she was in the bathroom.
She wasn’t.
He’d heard her voice, soft as the breeze from the sea. Was she on the phone? Without knowing why he did it, he’d carefully lifted the one on his night table and brought it to his ear.
Yes, he’d heard her say with a breathy little laugh, yes, Joaquin, I think I really do have a good chanceof being named the winner. I know the competitionis tough but I have every reason to believe mychances are really excellent.
She’d looked up from the telephone when he walked into the kitchen. Her face had gone crimson.
“You’re awake,” she’d begun to say, with an awkward smile.
He’d taken the phone from her hand. Pressed the ‘end’ button. Carried her back to bed without saying a word, taken her in passion born of anger.
Then he’d told her to get her clothes on. To get the hell out. And not to bother showing up at the palace, later.
“Your chances of being named to design my mother’s birthday gift,” he’d said in clipped tones, “are less than those of a snowball in hell.”
Alex strode across the street.
It had taken two months but that prediction was no longer just a metaphor. Here was the snow. And, in just a couple of minutes, Maria Santos would get a first-hand introduction to hell.
And he would get the satisfaction of putting her, and that night, out of his head.
Forever.
CHAPTER THREE
MARIA sighed, peeled off her dressed-for-success suit jacket, tossed it over the back of a chair and automatically reached for the phone to return her mother’s call.
Her hand stilled.
What was she doing? A ten-minute litany of aches and pains, followed by a lecture about how she needed to get a real job, were the last things she wanted right now.
Get out of her clothes. Run a hot bath. Eat something. Then she’d make the call.
Maria looked at her shoes, made a face and heaved them into the big trash can beside her work table. Gorgeous but impractical. She should have known better than to have bought them. Gorgeous but impractical was not for her. It never had been.
And she hadn’t bought the shoes for today, she’d bought them for the weekend she’d gone to Aristo. She’d wanted to look sophisticated, but the shoes hadn’t done her much good then, either. Even if she’d looked sophisticated, she’d behaved like a—like a—
No. She wasn’t going there. Not tonight. Rejected by a phony Frenchman today, rejected by an arrogant Aristan two months ago.
That was more than enough.
She stepped out of her skirt and padded, barefoot, to the end of the loft that served as a sleeping area. She tossed the skirt on the futon, peeled off her bra and pantyhose, yanked the clasp from her hair, bent forward and ran her hands briskly through the now-wildly curling strands. Then she tossed her head back, grabbed a pair of old, scruffy sweats, and put them on.
Time for supper, though the thought of eating made her feel vaguely queasy.
Nothing new in that. On top of everything else, she’d felt vaguely ill for the past week or so. No big surprise, considering that half the city was down with the flu. She probably had it, too, but she couldn’t afford to give in to it right now, not with half a dozen pieces to complete by the end of the month.
Her buyers expected her to be prompt. And she needed the money they’d owe her on delivery.
So, no, she wouldn’t even admit to the possibility that she might be sick. Absolutely not. She was under stress, she was working hard. The fatigue, the heaviness in her limbs, the faint sense of nausea that came and went…
Stress, was what it was.

Something to eat, something bland, would make her feel better. Nerves had made her bypass breakfast; lunch had been a joke. Definitely, she had to put something in her stomach.
Soup? Scrambled eggs? Grilled cheese? Better still, she could order in from Lo Ming’s, down on the corner. Egg drop soup. Steamed dumplings. Forget the calories. Forget the cost. An order of Chinese comfort food, then she’d turn on the TV, curl up on the sofa, get lost in something mindless while—
The doorbell rang.
Now what? It was late. Who would come here at this hour?
Of course. Joaquin. He knew what a setback today had been. He’d probably gone half a block, phoned Sela on his cell phone and she’d ordered him to go back and insist Maria come for supper.
The bell rang again. Maria pinned a smile to her lips, went to the heavy door, undid the lock and pulled it open.
“Joaquin,” she said, “honestly, you have to learn to take ‘no’ for an ans…”
Alexandros Karedes, snow dusting the shoulders of his leather jacket and glittering like jewels in his dark hair, stood at the door. Maria felt the blood drain from her head.
“Good evening, Ms. Santos.”
His voice was as she remembered it. Deep. Husky. Perfect English, but with the faintest hint of a Greek accent. And cold, as cold as it had been that awful morning she would never forget, when he’d accused her of horrible things, called her terrible names…
“Aren’t you going to ask me in?”
She fought for composure. Last time they’d faced each other, they’d been on his turf. Now they were on hers. She was in command here, and that meant everything.
“There’s a sign on the door downstairs,” she said, her tone every bit as frigid as his. “It says, ‘No soliciting or vagrants.’”
His lips drew back in a wolfish grin. “Very amusing.”
“What do you want, Prince Alexandros?”
A tight smile eased across his mouth and it killed her that even now, knowing he was a vicious, arrogant man, she couldn’t help but notice what a handsome mouth it was. Chiseled. Generous. Beautiful, like the rest of him, which made him living proof that beauty could, indeed, be only skin deep.
“Such formality, Maria. You were hardly so proper the last time we were together.”
She knew his choice of words was deliberate. She felt her face heat; she couldn’t help that but she damned well didn’t have to let him lure her into a verbal sparring match.
“I’ll ask you once more, Your Highness. What do you want?”
“Ask me in and I’ll tell you.”

“I have no intention of asking you in. Tell me why you’re here or don’t. It’s your choice, just as it will be my choice to shut the door in your face.”
He laughed. It infuriated her but she could hardly blame him. He was tall—six two, six three—and though he stood with one shoulder leaning against the door frame, hands tucked casually into the pockets of the jacket, his pose was deceptive. He was strong, with the leanly muscled body of a well-trained athlete.
She remembered his body with painful clarity. The feel of him under her hands. The power of him moving over her. The taste of him on her tongue.
Suddenly, he straightened, his laughter gone. “I have not come this distance to stand in your doorway,” he said coldly, “and I am not going to leave until I am ready to do so. I suggest you stand aside and stop behaving like a petulant child.”
A petulant child? Was that what he thought? This man who had spent hours making love to her and had then accused her of—of trading her body for profit?
Except, it had not been love, it had been sex. And the sooner she got rid of him, the better.
She let go of the door knob and stepped aside. “You have five minutes.”
He strolled past her, bringing cold air and the scent of the night with him. She swung toward him, arms folded. He reached past her, pushed the door closed, then folded his arms, too. She wanted to open the door again but she’d be damned if she was going to get into a who’s-in-charge-here argument with him. She was in charge, and he would surely see a tussle over the ground rules as a sign of weakness.
Instead, she looked past him at the big clock above her work table.
“Ten seconds gone,” she said briskly. “You’re wasting time, Your Highness.”
“What I have to say will take longer than five minutes.”
“Then you’ll just have to learn to economize. More than five minutes, I’ll call the police.”
Instantly, his hand was wrapped around her wrist. He tugged her toward him, his dark chocolate eyes almost black with anger.
“You do that. And I’ll tell every tabloid shark I can contact about how Maria Santos tried to buy a five-hundred-thousand-dollar commission by seducing a prince.” He smiled thinly. “They’ll lap it up.”
She blanched, but she kept her chin up and her eyes on his.
“Don’t try to scare me with lies! You can’t afford that kind of gossip.”
“I’ve learned to endure that kind of gossip, Ms. Santos. It’s part of my life. Besides, I’m the righteous prince who discovered what you wanted and tossed you out on your backside.” Another of those cold smiles twisted his lips. “They’ll eat you alive. How do you think that will go over with the handful of reputable clients you’ve somehow managed to snare?”
Maria yanked her hand free. “!Usted es uncochon!” she hissed. “!Un cochon malnacido!”
“I think not. If I truly were an ill-bred pig, I would have told you exactly what I thought of you eight weeks ago instead of just throwing you out of my apartment.”
Color rushed to her cheeks. She hadn’t figured he understood Spanish but, then, she’d been wrong in every judgment she’d made about this man from the start.
“You did tell me,” she snapped, “and now it’s my pleasure to return the favor. You’re down to four minutes before I call the cops. Dealing with the media will be worth it, if I can just get rid of you.”
“What’s the problem, Maria? Expecting your lover to return?”
“What?”
“Your lover. What did you call him that morning? Joaquin?”
Joaquin. The idea was so ludicrous she almost laughed, but laughter would take more energy than she could spare. Besides, she didn’t have to explain anything.
“Joaquin is none of your business.”
“You’re right, of course.” Alex strolled across the room to the front window and peered out at his limo, waiting at the curb across the street. “But I had a front-row seat for your little welcome home this evening. You can’t blame me for being curious.”
Maria rushed to the window. A front-row seat? Impossible. The Prince of Arrogance would surely not have stood in the cold and the snow, watching her window…
The big car. It was his. Furious, she swung toward her unwelcome guest.
“You were sitting out there, spying on me?”
“You might want to consider curtains,” he said with lazy self-assurance.
“You—you…” She pointed a finger at the door. “Get out of my home!”
Alex didn’t move. Instead, he tucked his hands in the slash pockets of his jacket and gave her a long look, starting at her feet and working slowly up to her face. She certainly wasn’t dressed like a woman waiting for her lover to come back. Not in a pair of baggy sweats that had seen better days. There was a hole in one knee, what looked like a burn in the shirt just below her collarbone. Her feet were bare, her hair a wild mass of curls.
His belly knotted.
Her hair had been like that the last time he’d seen her, a tumble of long, glorious curls falling around her heart-shaped face. She’d been wearing his robe; she’d been lost in it and somehow that had made her look even sexier, maybe because he’d known, intimately, what was beneath that robe. The delicate, golden-hued skin. The small, uptilted breasts. The slim curve of her waist, the surprisingly feminine richness of her hips.
Her face had been sexy, too. Glowing eyes. Dewy skin. No make-up, not even lipstick, though her mouth had been rosy and softly swollen from his kisses.
She had looked—what did the French call it? Déshabillé. As if she had just come from bed.
Which she had. His bed. His bed and his possession, and that memory was enough to do more than make his belly knot. It sent a bolt of pure lust straight to his loins.
He still wanted her.
It had taken the sight of her in a scruffy sweatshirt and baggy sweatpants before he’d permitted himself to admit it. What man wanted to acknowledge he still desired a woman who’d tried to use him?
One who was a fool, he told himself. And then he thought, no. Hell, no. That wasn’t it at all. Maria Santos owed him and that was her fault, not his. She had lured him into bed. Seduced him, though he’d thought he was the one doing the seducing.
She’d plotted everything, from that supposedly accidental meeting on the street to the moment he’d first kissed her. The only thing surprising about that night was that she’d been able to keep from smirking triumphantly when he’d asked her to come home with him.
She’d made a fool of him, and she still owed him for that. Owed him big time, as the Americans said. And until that debt was paid, the memory of his humiliation would continue to haunt him.
He had no doubt what it would take to expunge that memory.
Her, in his bed again. Moving beneath him. Coming on a long, explosive cry as he watched her with clinical detachment. There’d be no phony little cries. No subterfuge. He would make her want him, make her react to him.
And then he’d send her packing for the second, and last, time.
“Your five minutes are up, Prince Alexandros.”
Alex looked at her. Her expression, her body language, were defiant. She thought she was in charge.
That made him smile.
“You find this amusing?”
“Indeed.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m going to count to ten. It’s your last chance. If you’re not out the door by then—”
“Safir et Fils is on the verge of collapse.”
She blinked. “Who?”
“Safir et Fils,” he repeated impatiently. “The French firm that was awarded the commission.” She was staring at him blankly. “Come on, Ms. Santos,” he said silkily. “Don’t try and tell me the name of the company that won a commission you were willing to prostitute yourself to get has slipped your—”

Her hand flew through the air but he was quicker than she was. He caught her wrist, dragged her forward and hauled her to her toes.
“Do not,” he said with quiet menace, “ever raise your hand to me again!”
“Let go of me!”
“Did you hear what I said?—”
“What a bastard you are!”
Her voice shook; tears glittered in her eyes and she was breathing hard. So what? He was unimpressed.
“Playing the righteous innocent will get you nowhere, agapi mou. You made a fool of me once but I promise you, it will never happen again. And do not call me names. I am a prince. I urge you to remember that.”
He almost winced. He sounded like an ass but how could he think while hot rage pumped through his blood? She was an excellent actress; he knew that. And this was another stellar performance. The damp eyes. The trembling voice. The patches of crimson on her face.
Her face. Beautiful, even now.
“Did you think you could get away with what you did, Maria? Letting me think you’d been carried away by passion when what carried you away was the greedy hope that sleeping with me would give you an advantage in the design competition?”
He paused. Maria stared at him.
Was he waiting for her to answer? What was the point? If she said he was wrong, he wouldn’t believe her. He hadn’t, that awful morning.
“Liar,” he’d said, in a voice cold as death, and then he’d hurled words at her in Greek that she hadn’t understood, though their meaning had been painfully clear.
Trying to make him listen now would not only be pointless, it would be demeaning.
The truth was, she hadn’t even known who he was that night. A prince? The son of Queen Tia and King Aegeus? As far as she’d known, he was just a man. A gorgeous, incredibly sexy, fascinating stranger whose smile, whose touch had made her breathless.
When he’d kissed her and the kisses hadn’t been enough, when he’d touched her and those touches weren’t enough, she’d forgotten everything—that they were in a public place, that she was a moral woman, that she had never been with a man before.
And when he’d whispered, Come with me, she had gone with him. How could she have done anything else?
Her world had been reduced to him. To his mouth. His hands. His hard, flagrantly aroused masculinity. She still couldn’t believe she’d let such a thing happen. You didn’t sleep with a stranger. She didn’t, anyway.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart? Is that busy little brain of yours trying to come up with an answer that will satisfy me?” His voice roughened. “Don’t waste your time. There’s only one thing that will satisfy me, and you know what that is.”
What he meant was in his eyes.
She saw it and stumbled back. He could see the beat of her pulse in the hollow of her throat. Good, he thought coldly. This time, at least, he had the advantage. Command had slipped from her hands to his and she hadn’t even heard the worst of what he’d come to tell her.
“Get out.”
She spoke in a papery whisper that he ignored. Instead, he turned his back and walked to her work table. Sketches were tacked to an enormous corkboard on the wall above it. Something that looked as if it had been molded from wax stood on a shelf.
“Didn’t you hear me? I said—”
“Didn’t you hear me?” He swung toward her, arms folded, feet crossed at the ankles. “Safir etFils are going under.”
“Do you expect me to weep for them?”
“They will not be able to make the gift for my mother’s birthday.”
Her smile was pure saccharine. “Stop at Wal-Mart before you fly home.”
“I know you find this amusing, Maria, but it’s deadly serious. March the seventh will be an important day. My father has declared it a national holiday.”
Again, that glittery smile. She had her composure back—but not for long.

“There will be a ball attended by dignitaries from around the world.”
“Yes, well if you can’t find anything you like at Wal-Mart—”
“My parents have chosen you to execute the commission.”
Her jaw dropped. She was speechless. Twice in one evening. He had the feeling it was some kind of record.
“Me?”
“You.” His mouth twisted. “You see, despite what I told you that night, I never mentioned your little game to either the king or the queen. I didn’t have to. My father had chosen the French jewelers. He preferred their submission.”
Maria swallowed hard. She wanted to shriek with delight but she’d be damned if she gave him that.
“How—how nice. To be second-best.”
“Please. Sarcasm doesn’t become you.” Why mention that the queen had preferred her design all along? “We both know that this is the chance of a lifetime for a woman like you.”
Her cheeks flushed again. “What, exactly, is that supposed to mean?”
“Why, only that your name, your career will be made when word gets out, Maria. What else could it possibly mean?”
She was sure that hadn’t been his meaning but why argue about it? The fact was, he had it right. Orders would double. They’d triple! Tiffany would give her a window display; so would Barney’s. Vogue, Vanity Fair, Allure, Elle, Marie Claire… every fashion magazine in the world would camp on her doorstep and the noxious pseudo-Frenchman would be on his knees, begging her to design for L’Orangerie.
If only the court hadn’t sent the prince to give her the news.
“They sent me,” Alex said, as if he’d read her mind, “because they wanted to be sure you understood the full importance of this commission.”
“You mean,” Maria countered sweetly, “because the king thought your illustrious royal presence would impress me.” He grinned. Her gaze on him narrowed. “Too bad your father doesn’t know you as well as I do.”
All at once, Alex was weary of the game. Why in hell had he ever thought he needed to settle scores? He was not a man who enjoyed revenge; God knew there was plenty of opportunity for it in business but he had always seen vengeance-seeking as a low sport. And payback against a woman, even one who really needed to be taught a lesson, suddenly held no appeal.
“What’s your answer?” he said brusquely. He pushed back his sleeve, shot an impatient glance at his watch. “My pilot is standing by. Weather permitting, I want to fly home tonight.”
Maria chewed on her lip. God, the man was arrogant. If only she could tell him what he could do with his offer, but he was right. This would jump-start her career. Nothing she could ever do would match its importance. She had to say ‘yes’, but surely there was a way to do it so she could regain her authority.
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll accept the commission.”
He nodded and reached into the inside breast pocket of his leather jacket.
“Good. I have some papers here…”
“There are certain conditions to be met,” she said as she took the documents from him.
His dark eyebrows rose. “There are, indeed. Dates of approval. A date of completion. An agreement as to what you may and may not discuss with the media—”
“One,” Maria said, “I work alone. If I need an assistant, that person will be of my choosing.”
“I don’t think you understand. This agreement concerns the demands of the—”
“Two, I’ll need some new equipment.” She smiled thinly. “Aristo’s cost. Not mine.”
Alex’s mouth flattened. “You’re fortunate to be getting this commission, Ms. Santos. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that.”
“Three. I do not work well with anyone watching over my shoulder. In other words, I’ll be happy to show my work, as it progresses, to the king and queen at their request—but no one else.”

The muscle in Alex’s jaw jumped to attention. “Is that last directed at me?”
“Four,” Maria said, raising her hand and ticking the point off on her finger, but he had stopped listening.
Who did she think she was, this snippet of a female? He was not of the old school; nobody had to bow to him or bend a knee in a deep curtsy, well, except, of course, on formal occasions of the court, but he was entitled to the respect he had been born to as a prince, the respect he had won as a man—
“If all those conditions are agreeable, I’ll sign your document.”
Alex didn’t answer. He stood watching her from dark, unreadable eyes and felt the tension inside him growing.
He had left Aristo knowing he had to deal with Maria Santos and keep his composure. Nothing more.
Then another thought had come to him. He would bed her again. Right here. Tonight. It was he who would do the seducing this time, if not with his body then with the commission she’d so willingly sold her soul to get. He’d strip her naked, touch her everywhere, kneel between her thighs and take her again and again and again, until she was out of his system.
A moment ago, he’d come full circle. Told himself that plan was crazy. It was not him. Taking a woman out of revenge was beneath him. It was, he’d told himself, enough that she’d know she was getting the commission only because the true winner of the competition was out of the picture.
There’d been that instant of pleasure.
Then she’d taken that instant and crushed it.
Who did she think she was, to make demands of him? Of the royal court? Did she think she had the right to treat him as if he were an errand boy?
“Are you listening to me, Your Highness?”
Alex looked at her. Her eyes glittered with contempt; her very posture confirmed it. Oh yes. She saw him as an errand boy. Not her mark this time. The court’s errand boy.
“I take it you heard my last stipulation,” she said. “I will not deal with you after tonight. Is that clear?”
He could feel his body humming with anger. He wanted to haul her into his arms and shake her. Humiliate her. Conquer her. Strip her of that ridiculous pair of sweats, bare her to his eyes, his hands, his mouth…
He took a step forward. Something of what he felt must have shown in his face because she paled and took a step back. That’s right, he thought coldly. Be afraid of me, Maria. Be afraid of whatI’m going to do…
The phone rang. She grabbed it as if it were a lifeline.
“Hello?” She listened, then cleared her throat. “Yes, sí, I know. Yes, I know that, too. I’m sorry you had to wait for my call.” Her eyes swept to Alex; she turned her back as if that would give her the privacy she needed. “Could we discuss this another time?” she said in a low voice.
Alex had moved with her; his eyes, fixed on her, still held that dangerous glitter. Didn’t he understand she needed privacy? Who did he think she was talking to? Joaquin, probably. That almost made her laugh. The voice whining in her ear was her mother’s.
And hearing from Luz was the last thing she needed right now.
She turned again, desperately wishing this were a cordless phone so she could walk further away. Her mother was telling her about her cousin Angela—snide, holier-than-thou Angela—and her latest promotion at the insurance company. Maria had only to ask, Luz was saying, as she did every few weeks, and Angela would get her a job interview.
“Let me tell you my wonderful news,” she said quickly, breaking into her mother’s endless praise for Angela. “That commission? The one to design the birthday jewels for Queen Tia of Aristo? Well, I’ve landed it.”
She waited, although she really didn’t know what she was waiting for. She knew better than to think her mother would shriek with joy and say, I’m soproud of you, mia bella, or even, That’s wonderfulnews. But she didn’t really expect Luz to say, “You?” as if such a thing were impossible.

“You lost the competition. You were not good enough to win it.”
Maria winced. “Yes. Well—well, things changed. There was a problem with the winner and so—”
“Ah.” Her mother’s sigh spoke volumes. “Well, no matter how you came by it, it is an opportunity. Be sure you do nothing to ruin it.”
Maria felt like weeping, which was ridiculous. Why should tonight be different than the past twenty-eight years?
What made it even worse was that Alex had not taken his eyes from her. It was infuriating. His Royal Highness was a Royal Boor when it came to manners. Didn’t he know enough to walk away when someone was having a private conversation?
“One of the things your cousin Angela has always done is to make the most of her chances.”
“Yes. I know.” Maria cleared her throat. “It’s late. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Another deep sigh came over the phone. “God willing I will be here tomorrow. And please, Maria, do not waste time telling me the doctors say my health is excellent. What do doctors know?”
There was no point in answering. That road, well-traveled over the decades, led nowhere.
“Good night,” Maria said, “I love—”
Too late. Luz had already disconnected. Maria put down the phone and swallowed hard. The Prince of Arrogance hadn’t moved; he was still standing right next to her. She drew a long breath, let it out as slowly as she could, then turned to face him.
“Wasn’t he interested in your charming declaration of affection?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your lover. Joaquin. I had the impression he ended the call rather abruptly. Didn’t your news please him?”
“That wasn’t—” She bit her lip. Would having a lover, however imaginary, offer her some protection? She needed protection; every instinct told her that. “That wasn’t polite,” she said. “Listening to my conversation.”
He smiled thinly. “And you, Ms. Santos, are the expert on etiquette, are you not?” The smile vanished; he shoved a gold pen at her. “Sign the contract.”
Why did that sound so ominous? “I insist you meet my conditions before I—”
Suddenly, his hands were on her, cupping her shoulders, lifting her to her toes.
“You’re lucky to be getting this commission,” he said coldly. “We both know that. You’re desperate for money—please, don’t waste my time denying it. And you need the prestige that comes with creating a necklace for a queen.” His tone hardened. “Sign the contract, Maria.”
Her lip trembled. She looked away from him and, for a heartbeat, he hated himself.
Was he really reduced to this? Bullying a woman on the skids? A woman whose lover had obviously not said a word to congratulate her on winning this commission?
And why should he give a damn? Maria Santos was nothing to him.
“Sign the papers,” he growled.
She picked up the pen, smoothed out the documents, laid them on the table and scribbled her name where he indicated. He felt a surge of heat sweep through him. But he said nothing, simply took the papers, folded them and tucked them back in his pocket.
“As for conditions…there are others besides the ones I mentioned. There are my conditions,” he said in a softly ominous tone. “And you will meet them.”
His gaze dropped to her lips. She felt her pulse begin to race. Whatever he was about to say was going to turn her world upside down; she could sense it.
“One,” he said, still in that soft voice, “you shall have the studio of your dreams—but on Aristo, not here.”
“Are you insane? I have no intention of—”
“I assume your passport is in order.”
“Of course, but—”
“You will leave with me, tonight.”
“You cannot do this to—”
He bent to her and kissed her. Kissed her as if she belonged to him, his tongue in her mouth, his hands cupping her bottom, lifting her to him, into him, into the heavy thrust of his erection.
“And,” he said thickly, when he finally raised his head, “you will warm my bed until you finish the job.”
“No!” She shook her head as if to emphasize her refusal. “No,” she said again, her voice high and wild, “I’ll never—”
“You will, or I’ll do what I should have done when you left my bed the first time. I’ll tell the queen about our little adventure. I’ll tell her you’re not worthy of designing her gift or of working in proximity to her. And then you can stay in this loft and forever live with the knowledge that you failed at the one thing that could have changed your life.”

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