Demetrios took off his suit jacket and tossed it on a chair. His tie went next. Then he undid the top buttons of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. It was a break from routine. Normally, they went upstairs, showered together. Sometimes, an hour or more slipped by before they thought about anything but each other.
“I’m going to have a drink.” He walked past her to his study. “Scotch, on the rocks. Do you want one?”
That, too, was different. She’d never seen him drink anything but wine.
“No,” she said carefully, “I don’t.”
Demetrios went to the breakfront and poured an inch of whiskey into a Baccarat tumbler, and knew right away that he’d made a mistake. He was in no hurry to have this talk with Samantha. Wine would have made a better diversion. Choosing a bottle, uncorking it, pouring it would all have taken time. On the other hand, wine would not numb his growing anger, once the discussion ended.
Discussion? That was an amazing word to use for a conversation he was certain would leave him empty.
Demetrios looked at the tumbler of Scotch. To hell with it, he thought, and tossed the whiskey down his throat, let it burn its fiery way into his belly, but it did nothing to dispel the chill that had been with him for days now, for weeks, ever since he’d realized the days were rushing past and Samantha clearly didn’t give a damn that their time together was ending.
He reached for the bottle and thought better of it. There was a delicate balance between the amount of alcohol a man needed to calm him and the amount it took to make his temper explode. He concentrated instead on how he’d felt when he saw the Frenchman standing with his arm curved protectively around Sam’s shoulders, his face a study in false concern, and the way she’d been looking at him, as if he were Lancelot and she Queen Guinevere.
Demetrios put down the tumbler, took a few seconds to compose himself, and turned to the woman who had shared his bed and his life the past three months. She was standing just inside the door to the study, her posture stiff with removal. Her face was pale and her eyes blazed with anger, though for one incredibly foolish minute, he almost thought that what he saw glittering in her eyes were tears.
She was so beautiful. More beautiful than ever, if that were possible. She had changed, in some subtle way he couldn’t put his finger on. Her body seemed more lush, her breasts still small but with a new roundness, her belly gently convex. Perhaps it was simply that he noticed things differently, now that she’d stopped offering herself to him with such heart-stopping eagerness.
When he made love to her lately, it was he who did the asking with a touch, a kiss, a whisper, and even though she still responded, he knew she held back. That killed him. She had never held anything back, not at the beginning. She’d been open to whatever they did in bed, open to life with an infectious joy that had made him feel renewed. He had never known a woman like her. She could weep at Aida and laugh at a children’s cartoon. She could take as much joy in a seashell as in a jewel, and kiss him with tenderness as well as passion.
Most of all, he’d never known a woman who could make him forget the world and want only her.
How could she leave him, without so much as a backward glance?
He’d never considered what would happen when her four month contract ended. Why should he? Surely, she’d want to stay with him. That was what he’d assumed.
How could he have been so damn stupid?
What they’d had was only an interlude in her pursuit of freedom. She was ready to move on. He could tell by the way she behaved. She was withdrawing from the life they shared, and there was nothing he could do about it except beg her to tell him why she wanted to leave him…and he’d sooner have suffered the tortures of Tantalus than do something as stupid as that.
Hell, he thought, and turned back to the whiskey and poured another inch in the glass.
Why was he being so maudlin? How long could an affair last? Maybe the trouble was that he’d let Samantha get the upper hand. He should be the one who was ending things, not she.
He put down the whiskey and turned towards her again. “Samantha…”
She shook her head, silenced him with an upheld hand. “You don’t have to say it.” Her voice was husky. “I know.”
“It’s over,” he said flatly.
“Yes. It is.”
“You are eager to return to your own life.”
He was putting words into her mouth. Was he being gallant, or was he only hoping to avoid a scene? He didn’t have to worry. She’d sooner have died than let him know the truth.
“Yes.”
He cleared his throat. “When will you leave?”
Did he want her gone right away? “Next week. When my contract ends.”
“There’s no rush. I mean, if you wanted to stay on for a while…”
He could afford to be polite, now that she’d said she was leaving. For the second time that day, she wanted to strike him.
“Thank you,” she said, and managed to smile. “But I think it would be better, all around, if I left next week just as we’d planned. I have—I have some interviews lined up.”
A hot throb of anger beat in his blood. He could feel his composure slipping. As they’d planned? They had planned no such thing. They had never talked of when she would leave him, but it was obvious she had thought about it. She’d even arranged for job interviews. All the times he’d been holding her, trying to figure out how he’d lived without her in his life, she’d been thinking ahead, arranging her future—a future that didn’t involve him.
“Really,” he said, very calmly. “You have job interviews lined up?”
She nodded. It was a lie, but she needed to cloak herself in falsehoods if she were going to get through this.
“Well, one or two.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You are going to work for the Frenchman.”
“For God’s sake, Demetrios—” Sam took a breath. “No. Not for him. I, uh, I sent out some e-mails a couple of weeks ago.”
“A couple of weeks ago,” he said softly, ominously. “While you were still in my—in my employ.”
“Well, yes.” She forced a laugh. “But I did it on my own time.”
“Your time belongs to me. All of it.” He came towards her; she took a step back. “Until the day you walk out of this house, you are mine.”
“Do you have any idea how silly that sounds?” She wanted to try another laugh but she was afraid it would come out a sob. “You don’t own me.”
“I have owned you for the past three months,” he said roughly. He reached for her, pulled her into his arms. “You have been mine.”
“That might play well in your country, Demetrios, but not—”
He cupped her face and crushed her mouth beneath his. Sam told herself she wouldn’t let this happen. It was over. What had existed between them was done…but she felt the race of his heart against hers, the hardness of his erect flesh against her belly, and knew that she would take this one last night before leaving him.
She put her arms around him and kissed him back. He lifted her and carried her up the stairs to his bedroom, undressed her slowly, savoring the taste of her mouth, her skin, the nectar that he sought out and found between her thighs. When he entered her, it was with a slowness that almost killed him, but he
wanted all of it, all of her, to see the darkness fill her eyes, the color flood her face, to hear the sounds she made, the whispers and sighs that told him how much she wanted him here, if no place else.
“Look at me,” he demanded, when he knew she was nearing climax. He caught her hands, linked their fingers together. “Look at me,” he said again, and when she did he pressed deep inside her, pulled back, rocked into her again and again until she was frantic, bucking against him, begging him for release. “Now,” he whispered, and she convulsed around him as he let go of everything that anchored him to the world and lost himself in this woman who had changed him, forever.
He buried his face in her throat, absorbing her smell, her shudders. Once, he’d always held her like this, after they made love; lately, he’d used every excuse not to, but the time for excuses was over. With Sam in his arms, with their flesh still joined, he knew he’d left her because he was afraid to stay with her, afraid to look into himself and face what she had come to mean to him.
Was it possible she cared for him? That she was only waiting for some sign? He took a deep breath, rolled to his side and scooped her against him. “Sam,” he said softly, “kitten…”
She was asleep. That was just as well. He wasn’t sure of what he really wanted to tell her. Perhaps it would be clear, in the morning.
But when he awoke, she was gone. All she’d left behind was a note that said she hadn’t known how to tell him that she’d already accepted one of those job offers. She thought it best if she left now, instead of next week. The deal was concluded. He didn’t actually need her services anymore.
He felt himself turn hot with fury. He shot from the bed, pulled on his clothes and went after his helicopter pilot. White-faced, the man said Miss Brewster had requested transport to the Athens airport. Was there a reason he should have turned her down?
Demetrios stared at the pilot. “No,” he said, after a moment, “none.”
Samantha was gone. The night in his arms had meant nothing to her. And, now that he thought about it, it hadn’t meant anything to him, either. Whatever stupid, sentimental crap had oozed through his veins had been the result of good whiskey and good sex, and the world was full of bottles and women who could provide the same thing.