The sound of Demetrios’s voice startled her. She turned and saw him standing in the doorway. He was wearing his jeans but his chest was bare; the stubble on his jaw had darkened. He was glowering at her and she knew it was because she was sitting up, with both her feet on the floor, that she’d ignored what he thought was advice and she considered orders…and she couldn’t work up the anger she knew his attitude deserved.
All she could think of was that she wanted him again, with a need that was frightening.
What had she gotten herself into?
He was all wrong for her. If a fairy godmother had suddenly dropped from the sky and said, “Here you go, Sam, take this pen and paper and make up a list of the things you want in a man,” nothing on that list would remotely describe him. He was too good-looking. Good-looking men were conceited and if he didn’t seem to be, now that she’d gotten to know him, surely it was only a matter of time before she discovered that he was.
Besides, he was too everything else. Macho. Demanding. Possessive. He was a man who’d drive her crazy, wanting to protect her from everything…
And she was as wrong for him as he was for her.
Was that why they’d wanted each other so badly? She’d never been with a man like him, and she’d have bet every dollar she owned that she was the exact opposite of any of the women he knew. She wasn’t docile. She had her own life. She made her own decisions, and she’d never, ever be content to live in a man’s shadow—except, that was already happening.
One night in Demetrios’s bed, one morning as his lover, and he was in charge. She was damned near a prisoner in his room. No clothes. No cane. No choice but to be completely dependent on him, and now he was closing the door, standing there with his arms folded and a look on his face as if she’d committed the crime of the century, all because she’d decided not to wait for him to tell her it was okay to swing her feet to the floor.
“Surely, you know better than to try and put weight on that foot,” he said.
“Surely, you know better than to tell me what to do.”
His eyebrows rose. He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind but if she had, she’d recovered it.
“And you might have knocked before coming into the room. I know this is your bedroom, but—”
“What has this to do with bedrooms? You cannot put weight on that leg.”
“I’m not an idiot, Demetrios. I’ll be careful.”
“You are an idiot, if you think I’m going to permit you to stand up.”
“Permit me?” Sam lurched to her feet. Her ankle popped. The sound was so loud and hideous that she felt her stomach rise into her throat but she forced herself not to so much as flinch. “I don’t require your permission. Not for anything.”
“Sam.” He smiled as he came towards her. She could almost see the gears turning inside that handsome, all-too-sure-of-itself head. If scolding a kitten didn’t work, you tried kindness. “I understand, sweetheart.”
“You couldn’t possibly.”
“But I do. Your ankle hurts. You feel irritable. You need a change of scene.”
“Yes, and I’m going to have one.” She took a breath, gritted her teeth, reached for the back of a chair and hobbled towards it. “Thank you for everything, but—”
“Get back in the bed, Samantha.”
The smile was gone. His face might have been carved from marble. So much for kindness.
“No.”
“I leave you for five minutes, and what happens?”
“I took my life back,” she said brusquely, “that’s what happens.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“Look, I’m very grateful for all your help, but—”
“Grateful?”
“Yes. You’ve been very kind, Demetrios, but—”
“First, you thank me. Now you tell me that I have been very kind.” His voice was low and filled with warning. “Perhaps you would like to shake my hand.”
“I’m only trying to tell you that—that I’m—”
“Grateful. So you said.” His eyes narrowed until she could see only a flash of stormy blue. “Is that why you slept with me? Out of gratitude?”
“You get the hell out of here!”
“It’s a reasonable assumption. Perhaps it’s simpler to roll around under a man than to write a thank-you note.”
She sprang at him, her fist balled and drawn back, but he caught her in his arms before she could take a swing.
“Damn you!” Struggling against him was useless but she struggled anyway, until she was panting with frustration. “Put me down!”
“Where? In your cottage, away from me? Or perhaps you’d prefer I send for a taxi to take you to the airport so you can fly back to the States. Would putting five thousand miles between us make you feel safe?”
“Safe? Safe? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know precisely what it means,” he growled. “You are afraid.”
“I’ve never been afraid of anything in my life!”
Demetrios looked down into Sam’s flushed face. Dammit, how could she turn him into a crazy man with just a couple of words? He was always good with women, calm even in the face of their admittedly mercurial temperaments, but he couldn’t seem to keep his anger leashed with this one.
“You’re afraid of me,” he said.
“Afraid? Of you? Trust me, mister, you flatter yourself if you imagine I’m the least bit intimidated by your temper or your money or your size. And if you don’t let go of me—”
He muttered a word in Greek, bent his head and took her mouth with his. When she gasped and tried to twist away, he sank his hand into her hair and kept her where he wanted her until he was good and ready to end the kiss. This was what she needed. A man she couldn’t order around. A man who could dominate her, control her…
Want her with each breath, each beat of his heart.
“That’s what you’re afraid of,” he said roughly. “Me, and what I make you feel.”
Sam glared at him. “You’re insane.”
“If I am, it’s your doing.”
“You see? You really are—you really are—”
He kissed her again, this time gently, his mouth moving softly against hers. When he drew back, there were tears in her eyes.
“I hate you,” she said unsteadily. “I really, really hate—”
He kissed her again and she moaned, put her arms around him and kissed him back. By the time they tumbled to the bed together, her legs were around his hips and he was sheathed deep inside her.
The world, and everything in it, no longer existed.
There was only this room, and each other.
* * *
Demetrios stirred, groaned, opened his eyes, then shut them again.
“I think I’m dying,” he said.
Sam laughed softly. She lay in the curve of his arm, her body sprawled over his. “Can you guess what I’m thinking?”
“I’m afraid to ask,” he said, but she could hear the smile in his voice.
“Not that.” She folded her hands on the swell of his chest and propped her chin on her knuckles. “You haven’t shaved.”
“I will, as soon as I recover. Say, in five or ten years.”
“That wasn’t a complaint. I like the feel of your beard.”
“It’s stubble.”
“What’s the difference?”
“My father had a beard. I have stubble.”
She traced the hard line of his jaw with one finger. It drifted close to his mouth and he caught it between his teeth and sucked gently. “And if you keep doing that, my recovery may take less time than I thought.”
“Don’t you want to know what I’m thinking?”
He could feel her body growing softer, more pliant. His was hardening. How was that possible? He’d lost count of how many times they’d made love.
“I already know,” he said, and moved his hips.
She kissed his chest. He could feel her mouth curve in a smile.
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“What I’m thinking about is…let’s see. First, a shower.”
“Mmm.” Demetrios gathered her closer in his arms, stroked one hand the length of her spine. “That can be arranged.”