For days, she’d waited for Demetrios to talk about what would happen when the contracts were signed. In moments of painful honesty, she knew that she’d waited for him to ask her to stay with him.
He hadn’t.
For the thousandth time, she told herself it was for the best. It eliminated lots of problems. She couldn’t have said yes, even if he’d asked her. She had a life in the States. She had a career. She couldn’t just give it all up and go on being his mistress—could she?
Sam looked down at her notepad, stared blindly at the scribbled words. How could she, of all women, have been reduced to this? She was waiting for a man to ask her a question that would decide her future. No. This was impossible. She couldn’t have put herself in such a humiliating position.
“…doesn’t seem possible, does it?”
She blinked, looked up. The Italian translator was leaning in close, obviously waiting for an answer to whatever question she’d asked. The formal meeting had ended, though Sam had never noticed. Demetrios and the others had risen from their chairs; they stood in a loose circle, the Frenchman and the Italian chatting…
The hair rose on the back of her neck. Demetrios was staring at her, his eyes as cold as she’d ever seen them.
Sam forced herself to look at her Italian counterpart. “Sorry,” she said, “I missed that.”
“I said it seems hard to believe this is almost over and I’ll be in Rome in a few days.” The woman frowned. “Samantha? Are you all right?”
Did her despair show on her face? That would be the ultimate humiliation.
“I’m fine,” Sam said quickly, “just a little tired.” She reached for her briefcase, opened it and began putting her pads and pencils away. “I think I’m coming down with that flu that was going around.”
“Better late than never,” the woman said, smiling, “although ‘never’ is probably the best time to come down with a bug. Here’s hoping you’re over it before you fly home.” She paused. “Or were you planning to stay on for a while?”
The other translator’s smile was bland but her eyes were bright with questions. It was easy to see what she was thinking. For months, Demetrios had given Sam private little smiles. Those smiles had all but vanished. Sam had been painfully aware of it but she hadn’t considered the others might have noticed. Now she knew that they had, that they might even have whispered about it behind her back.
She jammed another few pieces of paper into the briefcase and snapped the clasp shut. “I’m not sure,” she said briskly. “I’m still trying to decide what to do next.”
Damn you, Demetrios, she thought. Damn you for doing this to me!
And yet, she couldn’t blame it all on him. If he held such power over her, she’d given it to him. She’d never been stupid enough to put herself in a man’s hands before. She’d run her own life, made her own rules, and gone from that to all but groveling to a man who hardly noticed her anymore, except in bed—and not even there lately.
When had that happened? When had he stopped turning to her the last thing at night and the first thing in the morning? He still made love to her but it wasn’t the same. She could feel him holding something back and it hurt, so much so that she felt herself holding back, too.
She didn’t come up behind him when he was shaving anymore, slip her arms around him and touch him the way she once had. In the beginning, she’d been completely uninhibited with him. Not anymore. She’d turn into his arms, reach for him—and wonder, suddenly, if he were only accommodating her, if his response to her was only of the body and not of the heart.
What heart? That part of his anatomy had never been involved in what went on between them.
Sam felt herself tremble with barely suppressed anger. At Demetrios. At herself. She wanted to fly across the room and beat her fists against his chest. Even if she did, what would be the point? Nothing would change. He didn’t love her. He never had and he never would.
She shoved back her chair and rose to her feet. Her vision blurred; the room grayed. She put out a hand, clasped the table edge for support.
“Mademoiselle? Are you ill?”
Sam took a shuddering breath. “I’m okay.” She shook her head, cleared her vision and smiled shakily at the Frenchman. “Well, maybe not. I seem to be coming down with the flu.”
“So late in the season?” The Frenchman’s eyes narrowed. “Why not let me help you to that little settee in Monsieur Karas’s private office? You can lie down, put your feet up—”
“If Miss Brewster needs help,” Demetrios said, “I will provide it.” Hadn’t he made the same kind of ridiculous statement once before? he thought furiously, as he shouldered past the Frenchman and put his arm around Sam’s waist. Why did he keep making a spectacle of himself over this woman? “Thank you for your assistance,” he said, in a tone that made it obvious that wasn’t what he meant at all. “I am here now.”
The Frenchman shot Sam a sympathetic look. “But of course. Mademoiselle, I hope you feel better soon.”
Sam waited until the room cleared. Then she pulled loose of Demetrios’s embrace and turned her flushed face up to his.
“That was incredibly rude!”
“What happened to you? Are you ill?”
“I’m getting the flu. He was only trying to help me.”
“Help you?” Demetrios snorted. “The man has spent four months trying to get you into bed.”
“That’s so ridiculous it doesn’t deserve a response.”
“Do you think our relationship grants you the right to treat me with disrespect? To let another man put his hands on you while I watch?”
Sam stared at him. Then she grabbed her briefcase and strode towards the door.
“Samantha? Samantha! Come back here. I did not say you could leave!”
She didn’t stop. Demetrios cursed and went after her as she disappeared down the hall. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins like a river in flood. He’d been angry with her for days. Angry? Hell, he’d been furious. How dare she treat him as she’d been doing? The silence. The moodiness. The way she got into bed at night and turned her back to him.
Now she’d made him look like a fool. Why had he ever gotten involved with a woman who didn’t know her place?
He caught her at the foot of the steps and wrapped his hand around her wrist.
“Are you deaf?” he snarled. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“I heard you.” Sam glared at him. “If you think we’re going back to the days of sit, stay and heel, you can think again.”
“Crazy, as well as deaf. What the hell are you talking about?”
“Let go of me.”
“I will, when you start to make sense.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Something is wrong with you lately.”
“You’re what’s wrong with me,” she snapped. “And I’m tired of putting up with it.”
A muscle knotted in his cheek. “This is hardly the place for such a discussion. What I wish to say to you should be said in privacy.”
Sam wanted to weep. Instead, she lifted her chin. “This is private enough.”
“A doorway in my office building is hardly private.” His hand closed on her elbow. Grimly, he marched her out to the street and to his car. He had taken the Ferrari today and he held on to her while he unlocked the door. “Get in.”
“Do you ever say ‘please’?”
“Not often, no. Get in, dammit—or did you intend to wander the streets alone? Perhaps you’ve forgotten what happened the last time you did that.”
“Oh, I remember, all right.” Tears burned in her eyes but she’d sooner have died than let them flow. It was bad enough he thought he could treat her this way, go from days of indifference to out and out hostility. She would never let him steal what little remained of her pride. “How could I forget when I’ve wished that night, and everything that came after it, never happened?”
Demetrios stared at her, his eyes cold and flat. “Get in the car,” h
e said softly.
What would she gain by not complying? Sam pulled free of his hand and got into the Ferrari. They didn’t exchange a word all the way to the heliport, or to Astra.
The house was unusually quiet. Cosimia was away on a long weekend and it was the cook’s day off. Sam had forgotten that, just as she’d forgotten how much she’d foolishly looked forward to being completely alone with Demetrios. She’d imagined puttering in the kitchen, cooking for him, making him scrambled eggs and cheese the way she had late one night. He’d acted as if he’d never eaten anything better. Ambrosia, he’d said, fit for the gods, and then he’d kissed her.
Now, she wished Cosimia were present, if only to break the heavy silence.