The Secret Wife

Rosie went white with shock. ‘That’s not fair, Constantine. I insisted that he had that drink—’

‘Did you also insist that he made love to you?’

‘What the heck are you trying to imply?’

Black eyes glittered, his nostrils flaring. ‘I heard what he was saying to you... a member of my staff making romantic advances to my wife—’

‘Your wife? I am not your wife!’ Rosie cut in with incredulous heat and vigour. ‘I wouldn’t be your wife for a million pounds!’

‘Oh, I think you could push yourself for that amount ... indeed a great deal less,’ Constantine asserted with raw, biting cynicism. ‘What price did you put on your body for Anton? He stuck you in a rented house. He didn’t even buy you the roof over your head—’ As the remainder of the wine in her glass splashed his strong, dark face, he broke off and stared at her with charged, thunderous disbelief.

Rosie stood and returned that look with venomous loathing. ‘You make Neanderthal man look like Einstein!’

Constantine made it into the lift before she could get the doors closed on him. Consumed by rage, Rosie kept on stabbing wildly at the button. With a raw growl, he closed his arms round her and the lift doors finally slid shut.

‘Let go of me, you caveman!’ Rosie splintered breathlessly.

Constantine gazed down at her, blazing golden eyes intent, and splayed hard fingers to the curve of her hip and forced her up against him. That close to that lean, muscular male frame, Rosie froze, bright eyes bewildered as the heat and the scent of him washed over her in a heady, disorientatingly pleasurable tide. A tiny little muscle deep down in her stomach jerked, making her legs feel oddly weak and hollow. Her heart started slamming suffocatingly fast against her ribcage.

‘You were trying to flirt with me,’ Constantine murmured with a slight frown, his deep, dark drawl sending the most peculiar little shivers travelling down her taut spinal cord. A faint curl of sardonic amusement suddenly quirked his hard mouth.

‘Flirt?’ Rosie queried in a daze. ‘When I threw the wine in your face?’

‘You weren’t on a winning streak.’

Her bemused gaze connected with molten gold eyes and time seemed to slow down yet move in curious synchronisation with the heavy pounding of the blood in her veins. She struggled to breathe, outrageously conscious of every skin cell in her trembling body, the taut swell of her breasts, the aching sensitivity of her nipples and the straining, melting rush of heat and awareness between her thighs.

No ... ! she told herself in profound shock. I don’t flirt.

As he lowered his arrogant dark head, Constantine smiled lazily, sexily. Rosie was transfixed. His mouth claimed hers with shocking effect. Excitement exploded like a greedy, out-of-control fire inside her, overwhelming her with a voracious passion. She kissed him back in a wild surge of hunger, moaning low in her throat at the stabbing, wickedly erotic inttusion of his tongue. He shifted fluidly against her, making her crave closer contact with a desperation that screamed through every nerve-ending.

He lifted his head to survey her stunned face and drew her out of the lift. Plunged from the breathless heights of unbearable excitement down to the simple business of movement, Rosie met the descent in an agony of disorientation. Inside the suite, he reached for her again with confident hands. The vital energy that flowed from him attracted her like a honey trap. His shimmering golden gaze enveloped her, igniting a floodtide of instinctive heat and response that made her tremble.

‘Tell me that you like to make love over and over again,’ Constantine invited huskily, his accent roughening the explicit invitation. ‘And I will tell you that I will satisfy your every desire.’

Involuntarily, Rosie stiffened and then backed off a shaken step, forcing him to release her again. She-felt hideously out of her depth and the shock of that realisation renewed her grasp on reality again. ‘I can’t sleep with you...’ she began shakily.

‘Who said anything about sleeping?’

‘You said you wouldn’t melt,’ Rosie reminded him almost accusingly.

‘I can melt for one night and repent in the morning...’

‘I’m terribly tired ... and anyway you have your takeover bid to work at,’ Rosie gabbled as it struck her with paralysing force that there was nothing she wanted more, nothing she had ever wanted more than she wanted Constantine at that moment, even though every sane sense rebelled and she loathed him with every brain cell she possessed. That was such a devastating truth to face that Rosie was completely floored by it and incapable of retaliating with her usual fire and aggression.

His ebony brows drew together, his soul-destroyingly sensual mouth compressing as a blaze of derision fired his gaze. ‘Christos...I hate women who play sex games! And one night is the only offer I am likely to make,’ he delivered with cold clarity. ‘I don’t pay for sex—’

‘And you couldn’t talk a zombie into it!’ Rosie slung at him, feelingly, and stalked into the bedroom, but once she got that door shut her hot face crumpled and her throat convulsed. She leant back weakly while she fought the choking, burning rush of tears dammed up behind her eyelids.

Hours later, Rosie lay awake in the darkness, filled with self-loathing and rampant insecurity. She was still shattered by the sexual response which Constantine had drawn from her. As a teenager she had been subjected to a frightening assault and although she had mercifully emerged from that attack unharmed the encounter had deprived her of any desire to experiment with physical intimacy.

Indeed, growing up, Rosie had developed a deep and abiding distrust of the opposite sex. Furthermore, every time she’d got into a tight corner or felt unhappy she had run away from whatever council home she had been living in. That habit had got her into a lot of trouble until Maurice had convinced her that turning her back on her problems didn’t settle them.

All her energies had gone into building up a viable business which would pay the rent. Her need for independence and security had made her drive herself hard. But Anton had cracked her self-sufficiency by persuading her to come down to London. And that was when she had begun to change, opening herself out to emotions and possibilities she had never allowed herself to explore before.

Anton had even dragged her out shopping, making it painfully obvious that he couldn’t understand her dislike of feminine clothing, and once again she had given way, helplessly hooked on gaining her father’s approval. Tears burned her eyes. Anton had had a struggle to accept her platonic relationship with Maurice. But he had never been able to comprehend the simple fact that most men left her cold. In fact, she would have said that all men left her cold...until Constantine Voulos had appeared in that church.

Constantine—the only male she had ever wanted to rip the clothes off and flatten onto the nearest bed. Her cheeks scorched with embarrassment and she scrubbed furiously at her eyes. So that was the power of sexual desire; well, she didn’t need him or anyone else to spell out the obvious to her, but nothing could have prepared her for the raw, terrifying strength of that hunger. One kiss and she had gone to pieces like a starstruck groupie.