“And that is?”
“If he loves you like you think,” he said the word scornfully, “he will agree to a trade.”
“Trade?” She stared at him. “What trade?”
“You. For her.” Taking another sip of Scotch, he set the tumbler down on the table and looked at her evenly. “I will use you to force him to divorce his wife. His real wife.”
Rose stared at him. Slowly, she lifted her chin.
“I am his real wife,” she said quietly. “And nothing you can say will convince me otherwise.”
Xerxes frowned. “Is it really possible—” he searched her gaze with narrowed eyes “—that you did not know?”
She shook her head. “There is nothing to know! You’ve made a horrible mistake!”
“I couldn’t understand why he would pretend to marry you like this. But if you didn’t know he already had a wife…” His eyes traced her face, her breasts, her body. He tilted his head curiously. “Did you give him some kind of ultimatum? Did he think pretending to marry you was the only way he could keep you in his bed?”
To keep her in Lars’s bed? Rose gaped at him. She’d never been in his bed—or any man’s! She was saving her virginity for her wedding night!
The thought made her suck in her breath.
Surely Lars wouldn’t have gone through such an elaborate wedding pretense just to get her into his bed…?
“I will do anything for you,” Lars had said urgently last week, his pale blue eyes boring into hers. “Anything, petal. This is torture. You must be mine.”
With a ragged breath, Rose pushed the memory aside. “Our marriage was real,” she said. “There is no other wife.”
Abruptly, Xerxes moved to the chair directly across from her. He leaned forward, and the knees of his long legs brushed the wide skirts of her wedding gown.
“I am telling you the truth, Rose,” he said quietly.
She stared up at him. His face was too brutally masculine to be conventionally handsome like Lars’s sleek blond features. Instead, Xerxes had a hard, square jawline that was already dark with shadow. He had an aquiline nose and dark eyebrows above black eyes as endless and luminous as the night. His hair was cut short, above his ear, but with a slightly mussed, wild wave.
As he leaned forward, looking into her eyes, she was aware of the warmth and strength of his body. Against her will, she was suddenly aware of the rhythm of his breath, deep and in time with hers. She was aware of his scent, the masculine combination of some kind of woodsy cologne and musk and leather.
He was so close to her. So close.
With a ragged breath, she looked away.
“Who is she, then?” Rose said in a small voice. “His supposed first wife?”
“Laetitia Van Reyn.”
“Van Reyn?”
“You know the name?”
“There’s a wealthy family in San Francisco, mentioned often in the newspapers…”
“The same,” he said grimly.
“But the parents are dead,” Rose recalled. “Their only child is barely out of high school. I read she left for college.”
“She’s in a coma,” he said brutally. “No one knows she needs help. And I can’t find her and get her to a hospital.” His black gaze traced over her. “But you are his weakness. He will trade her. For you.”
She shook her head, dazed.
“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Except for…that.” He frowned as his eyes narrowed. “Take that off.”