A Bride for Kolovsky (11 page)

‘I'm trying to give up the habit!'

There was no time to think of a reply. Lavinia jumped off the bed, wincing as her bra strap stuck into her sunburnt shoulders, then wincing for a different reason as Zakahr turned to go and she caught sight of the scars that laced his back, the ripple of muscles rising beneath almost in defiance.

He must have heard her intake of breath, or just realised he'd left himself exposed, because she watched those muscles stiffen, saw his neck turn a fraction, as if to witness her response, but then he changed his mind, closing the door behind him, and Lavinia stood for a moment, trying to take in not just what she had just seen but her own response to it.

Lavinia never cried.

At five years of age she had worked out that tears were entirely wasted—that it was far more productive to just smile and carry on. She
chose
happiness—forcibly wrenched herself from bitterness and anger, yet it drenched her now. There was
fury that shot towards Nina, that ricocheted to Ivan, to all of them, to anyone who had touched him—a possessive fury she had met before when she'd heard about the bruises on Rachael.

Except this was a man, Lavinia told herself. A man who did not need her protection and certainly did not want her compassion or her heart.

So she did what she did best—swallowed unshed tears, applied make-up to her sunburn, and then concentrated on her hair and face. She had just slipped on her dress, a trifle worried she would be overdressed, when Zakahr knocked at her door.

‘We should go up.'

She hadn't overdressed, Lavinia realised, because Zakahr would never get such things wrong. For dinner he had shaved, and was now suited, utterly ready to dine with the King—and, she thought as her heart quickened, utterly and completely able to bed her at will. She wanted to fall on him, she wanted to kiss him, she wanted to be pushed on to the bed and be made love to by him. There was nothing virginal about her thoughts.

‘Two minutes,' she bargained.

‘One,' Zakahr allowed—though she did not need it. His eyes tried not to roam her body as he sat on the couch. She was dressed in black, sheer lace and velvet like thick black grapes, hugging her body, and Zakahr wanted to peel and taste each one. Her blonde hair spilled over her shoulders and she must have just sprayed scent, for there was a potent dose of Lavinia in the air.

‘You look nice.' Even Zakahr knew that was too
paltry. ‘You look fantastic. The dress…'
The woman in it
, was unspoken, but Zakahr ignored his impulse and kept his voice even. ‘The pattern…'

Lavinia laughed. ‘Devoré.' She smiled at his nonplussed reaction. ‘You've got a lot to learn.'

So did she
, Zakahr thought, stamped with a fierce need to teach her, but changing the subject instead. ‘What's that?' he asked when, having slipped on high heels, she picked up a wrapped present from her dressing table.

‘A gift for Jasmine.'

‘I'll arrange a gift on Monday.'

‘I'm sure you will!' Lavinia said as she fiddled with her dress in the full-length mirror. ‘Or rather you'll ask me to have something very tasteful, beautiful and expensive arranged, to thank the King for his hospitality. This, though—' she turned and smiled ‘—is just a little present for Jasmine from me!'

Was there an affront there? Zakahr could see no reason for one, yet there was just a slight mockery to her voice that he chose to ignore.

‘Let's go.' He stood just as the yacht lurched slightly while it anchored.

Lavinia, grimly holding on to her present with one hand, made a quick grab for the four-poster bed with the other and balanced herself in her heels. And then as easily as that she caught his eye—she did nothing, no dance, nothing provocative, just smiled as she held onto the bedpost.

‘I told you—I just can't help myself sometimes.'

And as easily as that he smiled, paused for a second.
There was a short laugh, and then he walked behind her up to the deck—ruing how easily she lightened him, the verbal shorthand that had developed between them, and the irony that for the first time as he walked into a room with a woman, still smiling at their little joke, even if she was out of bounds, it was the closest he had felt to being part of a couple.

The table was elaborate. The Opera House was lit up, a stunning backdrop, and the food and company were exquisite. Surely there should be pride tonight in his achievements—a moment to savour the triumph so close? But the laughter and the company and the woman beside Zakahr found him reluctantly glimpsing an alternative.

There was that unwelcome visitor guilt too, as the meal came to its conclusion. Jasmine and Lavinia were talking between themselves, and Jasmine was opening her present.

‘Remember I was telling you about our traditions?'

Lavinia's make-up was fading, and he saw her blush spread down her neck and sun-kissed arms, clearly embarrassed by Jasmine's enthusiasm as she opened the package.

‘It's just a tiny little thing. I know you have new, but there are old traditions…'

‘It's beautiful.' Jasmine held up the small blue glass horseshoe. It was flimsy and fragile, but had been chosen with so much care. Jasmine was delighted with her gift.

‘It is nice to see my daughter make a friend.' As the evening concluded the King strolled on deck with
Zakahr. ‘In our position friends are easy to come by—genuine friends are much rarer. I am sure it must be the same for you.'

‘It can be,' Zakahr admitted.

They walked for a while, admired the stunning view, but even as they spoke, even as the King bade him goodnight, Zakahr's mind was on Lavinia.

He stared unseeing across the water, realising that the King was right—though for a long time it had suited Zakahr. His position, his wealth, guaranteed he was never short of company—it had suited him, but it just didn't feel so right now. He had suppressed a smile as Lavinia had educated the Princess as to the wonders of social networking, making her promise to post some wedding pictures online, and whether or not Jasmine was being polite, tonight she had agreed. The King was right. They were already friends, and would no doubt stay in touch after the wedding—and then he remembered what tonight he had chosen to forget.

There would be
no
friendship. This time next week the Kolovsky name would be mud to King Abdullah. There would be chaos, and she would be in the thick of it—he had to get her away from there.

L
AVINIA
smiled a mirthless smile as, after the most wonderful night, she entered her suite and saw the lit candles.

Petals were scattered on the bed, and even if there had been no alcohol on deck, down below there was champagne, cooling in a bucket. The spa was filled too—all no doubt on Zakahr's instruction, before he'd found out she was a virgin.

She had taken the chance to slip away as Zakahr walked with the King, had said goodnight to her hosts, and now she stood alone and her smile was no longer mirthless. In fact, Lavinia laughed.

She didn't just laugh, she peeled off her dress and shoes and absolutely refused misery, popping the champagne cork and then stripping off her bra and panties.

Zakahr heard her as he walked past and so badly he wanted to join her—to make love to her and, yes, whether she understood it now or at some time in the future, to take care of her in the only way he knew how.

He went into his suite, took off his tie. There was a large brandy waiting for him, which he downed in
one, but it did not make a dent. No drink could douse his emotions tonight—but it was a different emotion that rose now, as he knocked on the adjoining door and waited.

Lavinia lay in the spa, champagne in hand, heart in her throat, more than ready to say yes, which she did in a voice that was just a little breathless.

‘You've been busy,' Lavinia said as he walked in and slowly took off his jacket. ‘I thought you were walking with the King, not stripping roses of their petals and rushing around lighting candles.'

He looked at the candles, the petals, the bubbling spa, and then to her.

‘I did a good job!' Zakahr continued the joke. ‘I didn't know I could be so romantic.' And then he was serious. ‘Are you sure?'

She was absolutely sure.

The bubbles were dispersing, slowly revealing her body to him, and rather than shy she had never felt more sure in her life—Zakahr was the only man she could imagine being like this with. Yes, she had stripped in the past, but she had bared only her body then. With Zakahr she could reveal herself.

‘I am a bit scared, though.' She looked up at him and clarified her words. ‘Not of you, of
it
.'

‘You won't be soon.' It was an assured promise, and even if it still scared her she believed him.

He soaped her arms, her shoulders, her neck, till all traces of make-up were gone, and he saw just how young and vulnerable she was, even if she was tough at times too. He knew she was scared, and was grateful that it
was him—because he knew that he would take care of her, knew she would be scared only till he was inside.

He pulled the plug and helped her stand. Lavinia had never been shy of her body, had revealed it too easily, but now, feeling his eyes roam her with affection rather than lust, there was a chasteness that had been missing before, tempting her to cover her breasts as she climbed out of the spa. Instead he pulled her into him, shielded her with his kiss, and feeling his mouth, feeling her hot damp body press into his shirt, for a little while she forgot to be shy.

It was a different kiss than any they'd shared before. Zakahr held her oiled and naked and warm against him, felt her dampen his shirt, and it was another kiss he relished. His hands roamed her waist, her hips, her bottom, her wet hair against his face, till the sheen on her skin evaporated and not even his hands could warm her. He felt her shiver in a mix of exposure and want.

‘Come to bed.'

She had never expected tenderness. He pulled back the bedclothes and took off her towel, and she climbed in and lay there, nervous, though not, watching him undress. He slipped off his damp shirt, and there was only beauty tonight in the male form.

Scars and all, he was exquisite. Her eyes feasted on him, and he stood in the warmth of her gaze for a moment before climbing in beside her. For a long while he just held her. Then he turned on his pillow and his mouth found hers.

It was a different kiss again—a slow, tentative kiss to accustom her. And slowly she did—to the feel of being
in bed with a man, to a naked body beside her. It was a building kiss, a kiss that spread through her body till it knew what to do. He tasted of brandy—or was it her? A luxurious mingling? Still he kissed her, and her leg slipped against his, felt the roughness of his hair and the solid strength of his thigh, and then his hand slid back to where she had once guided him. He lowered his head, his tongue sliding down her neck. She could feel the wrap of his legs around hers, the scratch of hair between the tender skin of her thighs, and the solid, warm weight of his erection, pressing into her stomach and slipping further down as his body moved. His mouth met her aching nipple and his hand moved lower. He could feel her warmth, feel her trepidation. His mouth worked her breast, and his fingers tenderly probed, and it was Zakahr who was nervous on her behalf. Always he was sheathed, but he thought of her virgin flesh and wanted to
feel
his way in—he wanted all of the experience, and not just for him, so wary was he of hurting her.

‘When are you due?' His mouth moved to her ear.

‘I'm not… I'm on the pill…'

‘Never trust a man when he says this.' Those grey eyes met hers. ‘Except me. I have never done anything before without protection.' He never had—had sworn he never would—except he was parting her from her innocence, and he knew that tonight he needed to be more gentle, to feel his way. And he would.

She could trust him.

Not in anything else, but in this she could. And he knew she did.

He had a streetwise side to him, a knowing, a danger
that for tonight was being put on hold. Yes, she could not justify it—she knew some of his depraved past—but it was trust that had led her to his bed, and trust that guided her now.

And it was the same for Zakahr.

So many women had wanted him—all of him. Had thought that a baby would change him—would mellow him. Nothing would.

His tip was moist, and with it Zakahr moistened her. He stroked himself around her and Lavinia lay, her breath high and shallow in her chest, nervous, curious. Then he lowered himself onto her, because he
did
want to kiss her throughout. He kissed her till she was drunk from it, and without ordered thought she was kissing him back. He kissed her till he was in just a little way, and then he kissed her some more.

He held back, but his mind surged forward to pastures new. He wanted her pleasure, he wanted her escape, and without the usual barrier the pleasure was more intense for Zakahr. That he was her first took on vital importance. He whispered words in her ear that were far more than the sweet talk he usually delivered—he whispered words that were dangerous from a man like Zakahr, words he never used.

He told her neck she was beautiful as he licked it, told her cheek he would not hurt her as he kissed it, and inched in just a little deeper, whispering into the shell of her ear that he would
never
hurt her, that she was safe, that she was okay, that he would make it so.

He dizzied her brain with endearments.

He slowly moved and gently she stretched. With each
word, each gentle probe, she opened willingly, and when he completely filled her he showered her senses further with every word she craved. He sounded as if he meant it, so he said it some more, and he felt as if he meant it as her hips rose to greet him, and her lips gasped for air, and her head thrashed with unfamiliar sensation.

Zakahr consumed her, he filled her and he thrust now within her, and it was so breathtakingly wonderful that Lavinia actually wanted it to stop, because she hadn't agreed to this, would never have agreed to this—to the absolute devotion her body held for him, to the complete disregard for the rules she should be abiding by. There could be no holding on to her heart when she was holding on to him.

Her nails dug in his back and her ears accepted his words and her body throbbed beneath his. And then she was coming, and sucking on his skin as he spilled deep within her, and then biting on his shoulder just to stop herself from saying it—because she couldn't, she mustn't. Except she already did… And he was still holding her, and kissing her, and then she rolled and turned away, waiting for it to fade, for sense to prevail. And still she wanted to say it.

Zakahr pulled her warmth towards him, kissed her shoulder and lay there. She was aware for ages that he didn't sleep, that he lay awake beside her, and so many times she had to stop herself from blurting out to the darkness, telling herself it was impossible…

Except it was possible.

She just did.

Already she loved him.