Squaring his shoulders, he went back out on the lanai. Still waiting, Rose looked up at him, looking so innocent and fresh and pretty that a tremble went through him at the thought of defiling her.
“You must be starving.” Smiling, she indicated a chair. “Coffee or tea?”
He fell heavily into his chair. “Coffee.”
“Cream or…?”
“Black,” he bit out.
Sitting in the chair beside him, poised as a Victorian lady, she gracefully poured coffee into his china cup. He grabbed it from her with a meaty fist and gulped down the hot black liquid, burning his tongue.
The pain was a welcome distraction. He knew how to deal with pain. What he did not comprehend was how to deal with his desire for her.
Rose stared at him in consternation, then cleared her throat. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
She licked her lips, and he could not look away from the vision of her moist pink tongue sliding over her full lower lip, darting to the corners of her mouth. “For chasing you out of your bed last night.”
Yes, she was to blame. But not in the way she thought. He raked his hand through his wet black hair, then shoved his coffee cup toward her on the table.
“More,” he growled. Then at her expression, he amended, “If you please.”
She poured steaming coffee from the silver coffeepot, looking impossibly lovely and old-fashioned. She was the kind of woman, Xerxes thought, that any man would want to come home to. She was the kind of woman who made a home.
Christ, what was he thinking? First he’d had images of her pregnant, now he was having ideas of coming home to her? He took another burning gulp of steaming hot coffee.
He was meant to be alone. He clenched his fingers over the china cup. He always had been and always would be. Hadn’t he learned that by now?
“Would you care for jam on your toast?” she asked him, holding out a tray with a smile.
“I want it plain.” Taking the closest piece, he shoved it into his mouth. He barely tasted it as he ripped through it with his teeth and gulped it down, wolflike.
An awkward silence fell between them. The only sound was the caw of seagulls and the pounding surf.
“So.” She took a deep breath. “Have you heard from Lars?”
“No,” he bit out. It reminded him that now he would have to trade Rose to the bastard as planned, because he hadn’t found Laetitia on his own. Once again, he’d been too late to reach her. Too late and too slow. And so he’d have to trade.
At the thought of giving Rose to any other man, Xerxes was so enraged he wanted to punch a wall. Instead, he shoved another piece of toast into his mouth.
“You must be starving,” she murmured, trying not to stare.
Xerxes wiped his mouth with his hand, staring back at her. At the pulse of her swanlike neck. At the shape of her breasts beneath the thin eyelet lace cover-up. At the curve of her slender waist. From this close space, he could smell the scent of her, like flowers and sunshine. Her hair was long and golden and wavy. Natural. As if she’d just come from making love.
As if, instead of taking a shower, he’d cleared the breakfast table with a rough swing of his arm. As if he’d ripped off her clothes and thrown her against the bare table, kissing her neck as he thrust himself inside her.
He had to resist. For once in his life, he had to do the right thing for someone else. He couldn’t seduce a woman like Rose, knowing that it would ultimately hurt her—knowing he’d still be forced to trade her back to Växborg like a used toy.
He had to resist. But still, even knowing this, his body shuddered with the effort it took not to seize her and take her like an animal, right there on the table. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to put down the remaining bits of toast he hadn’t devoured. Forcing himself to pretend, for just an instant, that he was a civilized man.
“Växborg is in Las Vegas. He will contact me as soon as the divorce is final,” he ground out. “I expect within days.”
She blinked. “A divorce can go through so fast? Even in Las Vegas?”
“An uncontested divorce in Las Vegas usually takes about two weeks. I’m using my influence to make it go more smoothly.”
“How?”