She was holding out on him. Denying her response to him. He smiled. This and this alone was the way to communicate with the woman who today had been joined in matrimony to him. And when, eventually, she lay beneath him, and throbbed in his embrace, then—oh, then—let her think of the 'different worlds' they came from. Let her think of the 'release of capital' she'd gained today. Let her think of walking out of their brand-new marriage. Let her think of anything she liked—if she could.
But all she would be capable of thinking about, he knew, with every fibre of his being, would be him and him alone.
He let his hands fall to his sides. She was resisting him— she would do so no longer. Swiftly he crossed to the banks of wardrobes lining the side of the room, throwing open one door after another until he found what he was looking for. Then, grasping delicate folds, he tossed it at her.
'Go and change!'
He nodded towards the en suite bathroom. Andrea looked at the garment he had thrown her. She knew what it was—the negligee he had bought her in the shop that had treated her like a rich man's floozy.
She turned and walked into the bathroom. Well, in a few minutes now she would be a rich man's unwanted wife.
The knowledge stabbed at her. It hurt—it hurt more than she had ever dreamt it could. Knowing what was coming. Knowing that she was to be Nikos Vassilis's oh-so-unwanted wife.
But it was inevitable. Had been from the moment he had looked across her grandfather's terrace at her and she had seen the flare of sexual interest in his eyes—felt it set light in her an answering flame.
Time to douse the fires.
Permanently.
She hugged the carapace to her more tightly than ever.
As the bathroom door clicked behind her Nikos got busy. Ringing for a steward, he had the scarcely touched bottle of champagne brought to him, and let the man torn down the bed. Then, retiring to the matching en suite bathroom he prepared himself. He had already shaved before dinner, and now it was a matter of moments to strip off and don a bathrobe.
He was already aroused. His celibacy of the last few weeks was obviously being felt—protestingly—by his body. He found himself thinking back to when he'd first thought through the implications of marrying Yiorgos Coustakis's unknown granddaughter. He had worried about her lack of looks, her virginity, the fact that he would have to steel himself to get through his wedding night while making it as physically painless as possible for his dutiful bride.
His mouth twisted. Well, that was one word he didn't have to apply to Andrea! Dutiful she was not!
Would you want her to be? came the immediate ironic question, and the answer was immediate. No way! What he wanted her to be was...passionate, ardent, melting, molten, sensual, arousing, scorching, purring...
The litany went.on inside his head, each word an image that burned with increasing fire in his guts. Theos, he wanted her! Wanted her as he wanted no other woman!
As an academic exercise he tried to make himself remember what Xanthe looked like, Esme—but he could not do it. There was only one face, one body that he could see.
Andrea's.
My wife.
Possession surged through him. He was about to make her his in very truth, physically merging their bodies into one.
Desire kicked at him again, more urgent than ever.
With a tug he opened a shallow drawer in the vanity unit and drew out a handful of the small silvery packets that nestled within. He gave a wolfish grin. Oh, he'd get through the lot of them tonight, he thought.
He felt his body tighten. Sexual anticipation flooded him.
He strode out of the bathroom.
She was there, waiting for him. His breath caught.
Beautiful! His body jerked in salute of the image she made.
She stood in the centre of the room like a flame-haired queen. Her glorious locks were loose, tumbling down over her shoulders. The white, almost transparent silk of her negligee outlined her body, her full breasts thrust forward, straining against the taut material.
Desire kicked in him, hard and insistent.
'You're so beautiful—'
His voice was husky.