Captured and Crowned (14 page)

But, considering how troubled they were, perhaps that was for the best too.

She sought out her room, to get a few moments' peace and quiet. But she found little serenity there either.

The palace gardens were still in a state of half-readiness for the wedding. Her ivory gown hung on the form out of the light, ready for her to step into it. But when would that be?

The Royal House of Stanrakis would be in mourning for thirty days. A month to grieve. To wait to marry.

She didn't look forward to biding her time in the palace, where she'd have absolutely nothing to do. She wouldn't have any official duties until she married. It would be the longest month of her life.

Her door opened and Kristo strode in—tall, handsome and still formidable. But at least he'd come to her. At least now they could have some private time together.

“I trust you don't mind that I returned here to my suite?” she said. “I would have told you myself, but I didn't know where you'd gone.”

“I had pressing business to attend to.”

“That's what I thought.” Tension pulsed between them,
leaving her more unsettled than before. “Is something wrong?” The resolute expression planted on his handsome face filled her with alarm.

“I've given this much thought. There is no reason for you to stay in residence through the period of mourning.”

She stared at him, unable to believe he was sending her away. “You want me to leave Angyra for a month?”

He loosed an impatient shrug. “This is a good time to reevaluate what we have here.”

“What?”

“You said it yourself. You want to marry for love.” He stalked to the French doors and stared out, his expression brooding. “Of course if you're with child we will proceed with the wedding.”

“What about the betrothal contract?”

“As King, I can alter such things.”

She dropped onto the nearest chair, knowing her shaky legs wouldn't support her another moment. “Are you saying you'll only marry me now if I'm pregnant?”

He faced her then, and she'd never seen him look so remote. His lips pulled into a thin, disagreeable line. His magnetic eyes were closed to all emotion.

“There will be no bastards in the Royal House of Stanrakis.”

“Don't you mean there will be no
more
bastards, for you are certainly acting the part now,” she lashed out, hurt that he really cared so little for her.

“Think what you will. Unless you carry my heir, we are free to walk away from each other now if we wish.”

If we wish…
Her eyes and the back of her throat burned, for leaving him was the last thing she wanted to do. And yet pride wouldn't let her plead her point.

He'd made his wishes clear. There was no love between
them, just passion that would one day fade. Perhaps it already had. He would marry her only to legitimize an heir.

“If you leave today, you will be able to attend the Athens show.”

“Yes.” But the excitement that had once kept her awake at nights failed to materialize.

Her partner would have finished the designs. All would be in order, ready for the show. All except her.

How ironic that she'd once thought of nothing but pursuing that dream. Now that Kristo was letting her go, her heart simply wasn't in it. Her heart belonged here, with Kristo. But telling him that would change nothing.

He didn't love her.

He'd never love her.

“My jet will be ready to depart when you wish,” he said, again in a cold, dismissive manner. “You'll let me know if you're pregnant?”

“Yes,” she hissed, knowing that he'd likely have her watched, that she'd not be able to hide a child from him.

All the passion they'd shared was for naught. He'd likely begun to tire of her already, and without love there was nothing to keep them together. Nothing but duty. And he was willing to release her from that unless she was carrying his heir.

Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to cry. She'd leave with her head high, pride intact. Heart shattered.

She lifted her chin and faked a calm she was far from feeling. “I'd like to leave within the hour.”

He gave a curt nod, his face wiped clean of emotion. “I'll inform the pilot. Vasos will see you to the airport.”

“Thank you.” She bit her lip, thinking this was all too abrupt, too cruel.

He stared at her. His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered, setting off that low heat inside her again. She was sure he'd
take her in his arms. That he'd give her a kiss that would blaze hot in her memory for the next month.

She hoped he'd at least tell her he'd miss her.

But he did neither.

King Kristo turned on his heel and strode from the room.

And in the awful quiet that settled around her she stopped trying to hold back the flood of burning tears.

 

Kristo sat in the dark in the royal office, a glass of ouzo in his hand and a half-empty bottle on the desk. For two days he'd racked his brain over his decision.

He'd rehearsed how to tell her.

He'd expected shocked surprise. A bit of anger, even. But he hadn't thought she'd tremble like a leaf caught in the wind. Hadn't thought those big eyes would swim with tears and hurt.

Seeing that had nearly toppled his resolve.

For a tense moment he'd struggled to regain control, fought the urge to drag her into his arms and give them both what they wanted. Sex.

Ah, but that was the problem, not the solution.

She wanted love.

He wanted sex.

There was no middle ground. No way this could ever be resolved unless she settled for his terms of marriage.

And that realization was what had finally gotten through to him. If he forced her to marry him he'd ultimately crush her spirit. She'd come to resent him for what he'd taken from her. What he could never give her.

Yes, this separation would do them both good. She could delve into the work she longed to pursue, and he would systematically purge this unacceptable craving for her from his system.

He'd done the right thing by letting her go.

So why the hell did he feel as if he'd made the biggest mistake of his life?

S
IX
weeks later, Demetria sat at the drafting table in her flat in Athens. The show had been a success—so much so that she'd been invited to participate in an exclusive exhibition in London next week.

But the creativity that had never failed her before had yet to resurrect itself. Nothing new had come to mind. Nothing even remotely innovative.

No, all her thoughts centered around Kristo. Over a month had passed and he'd yet to contact her. News out of Angyra had been ominously absent since Gregor's funeral.

Not so the paparazzi. They hounded her every move, robbing her of sleep and keeping her on edge. She'd become a prisoner in her own flat, for she couldn't keep ignoring their questions. Had Kristo set a new date for the wedding? Had she spoken with him? Was the wedding off? Whose decision had it been to cancel it? Had Kristo tired of her? Had she jilted the King of Angyra for her career as a designer?

On and on the questions would go, until she wanted to crawl in a hole and hide forever. Which was pretty much what she'd done. Stayed in her flat and moped.

“You can't go on like this,” her partner Yannis said, his thin face showing grave concern. “Phone him.”

Her fingers tightened around her pencil, her insides clench
ing with the misery that just wouldn't let go. “I did yesterday morning, but the line was busy.”

Always busy. For the same thing had happened the day before. And the day before that.

She refused to leave a message informing Kristo that she was pregnant. That she was carrying the royal baby in her womb. That he'd be obliged to marry her now.

So she'd abruptly hung up—for what else could she say except that she was miserable? That she missed him dreadfully?

Pride wouldn't let her do that.

“I was thinking that your name should be on our label instead of mine,” she said.

“Changing the subject will not make it go away,” said Yannis.

Damn him for being right, for knowing her so well. “I'm serious. I feel guilty that you didn't get the credit you deserved at the show.”

He spread his arms wide. “My time will come.”

“Soon, I would wager.”

She glanced at the new garments he'd designed, in awe of his originality.

Now was her chance to shine. What she'd always wanted was in her grasp. But all she could think of was Kristo. Of their baby. Of the loveless future that awaited them.

Could her heart break any more than it already had? Could she possibly get more despondent?

Yannis was right. It was time to get on with her life. She had a baby to think of, to raise. To love. Kristo's baby.

Time was supposedly the great healer, but her heart ached when she thought of losing Kristo. If she closed her eyes she could almost feel his hands and mouth on her, hear his heart beating in tandem with hers.

“Enough is enough. You need a diversion, and the upcoming exhibition in London will be ideal,” Yannis said.

She was shaking her head before he'd finished. “I'm not up to being thrust in the limelight.”

He jabbed a thumb at the window. “You're happy to stay here like a prisoner, with the paparazzi camped outside your door? Hoping he'll call?”

“No! But attending the exhibition means I'll have to face publicity head-on, and I'm not ready for that.” Not nearly strong enough to field questions about her relationship with one arrogant King.

“The sponsors will have security, so you won't be hounded.” Yannis knelt before her and took her cold hands in his. “Demetria, come to London. You need to get away.”

She took a breath. Nodded. “All right.”

 

Kristo paused at the rear of the large hall and gave a dismissive glance at the rail-thin models gliding down the catwalk under the swaths of strobe lights. The crush of the audience was as displeasing as the accompanying music that throbbed in the auditorium.

The only thing more distasteful than this chaos was the swarm of paparazzi clustered outside on the Strand. But these same gossipmongers in London were the ones who'd advertised the fact that Demetria had been specially invited to present her creations at this elite show for five new designers.

A phone call to the promoter of the event—a gentleman who was a fellow conservationist as well as a shrewd gambler—had secured him backstage passage. But he was painfully aware that wouldn't guarantee Demetria being pleased to see him.

So be it. He'd suffered six long weeks of misery without her, though he'd been slow to realize why. How strange that it
had taken a bottle of Lesvos ouzo and an aged royal gardener to clear the fog from his mind.

“Your Majesty,” a stout man said as he hurried toward him, his worried gaze flicking from Vasos to Kristo. “Please, if you'll come this way I'll show you backstage. Unless of course you wish to watch the remainder of the show here?”

“Backstage is fine.”

“Very well.” The man set a fast pace down the corridor and he followed, with Vasos trailing him.

He had no desire to be a part of the audience—especially when every nerve in his body had gone tight at the promise of seeing Demetria again. Why the hell had he let her go?

Pride. He wouldn't delve into the new feelings tormenting him. Guilt over the way he'd treated her—for she wasn't a chattel to be handed from one lord to the other: she was a beautiful, desirable woman.
Innocent
woman. Stupidity for thinking for one moment that he could live without her. He couldn't.

Angyra couldn't.

They expected a royal wedding any day. They expected the bride to be Demetria, the woman they adored.

He
adored.

If he hadn't been so stubbornly blind he'd have realized that six weeks ago. No, longer ago than that.

Over a year ago, when they'd first met on the beach. He'd known then down deep that she was unlike any woman he'd ever met before. Known she was perfect for him.

But again he'd let pride and jealousy blind him. He should have gone to Gregor immediately. He should have seen the truth in her innocence and fought for her hand then.

Ah, he had made so many mistakes with her. Would she grant him absolution now? Or would he forever be thrust into this personal hell of wanting her from afar?

The questions and doubts hammered away at him as the
man led them past the guards into the dimly lit backstage area. The spacious area was crowded like the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, with sections partitioned off with stark white sheets.

He followed the man through the labyrinth. Past the impromptu studios that teemed with frantic designers and models in all stages of dress to the last tented room. The letter
delta
was painted on the billowing sheet that served as a door.
D
for Demetria?

“This is her staging area, Your Majesty.” The man managed a clumsy bow and disappeared.

Kristo pushed the curtain aside and stepped into her domain. Impatience pounded in his veins as he looked beyond the crush of models and artisans who made up the design team for a sign of Demetria. But all he saw were strangers.

The sharp clap of hands brought everyone's head up. “Ten minutes, ladies. Let's be ready. Ari! Do something about the neckline on this dress,” a man barked, and then moved on to the next model, who stood there in a scrap of a bra and panties, waiting to be dressed like a child.

Kristo narrowed his eyes on the man issuing orders. If anyone knew where she was, it would be this abrupt man.

He crossed to the man in an economy of movement. “Where is Demetria?”

The man's head snapped up, light brown eyes flashing with annoyance. Then came the slightest widening of his eyes before they snapped back to match his scowl.

“So you choose now to finally show up?” the man said, foregoing any respect for the crown and Kristo was sure for himself as well.

He muttered a curse. “Why I am here is none of your business.”

“On the contrary. I'm Demi's partner and her friend,” the
man said. “You ruined her debut in Athens. Now, stay out of sight and out of the way and let her have this moment.”

The truth was the slap in the face that he deserved, for he hadn't let her go until the very eve of the Athens show. She couldn't possibly have been prepared for it.

He gave a curt nod and moved behind a screen to stand and watch and wait when he longed to find Demetria. To hold her. Kiss her. Make love to her.

His heart gave an odd thud the second he saw her hurry toward a model draped in a muted floral gown. Seeing her again was a punch to his gut, bringing back memories that had never left him, reminding him of days at the palace. Of nights in her arms.

She moved away from the throng of models and he immediately noted the changes in her. She'd lost weight, and there were obvious lines of stress marring her beautiful face.

He ached to go to her, to take her in his arms, to take her away from here. Back to Angyra. To the palace and his bed. He wanted her so badly he could savor the satin of her skin against his lips, feel the comfort of her arms around him, the rightness of her body as he sank into her.

He wanted her more than he ever had before. Wanted her now. But her partner was right. This was
her
moment, not his.

She gave the model's abbreviated skirt a final adjustment and smiled. “Walk down the runway like you own the world.”

As soon as the girl did as she was bid, Demetria turned back to the next model in line. Only the person behind her was him.

She went still, and stared at him a long moment, the air around them charged with desire, need and another emotion he had just recently come to grips with.

It still scared him to admit how he felt, for it made him
look at the man he'd been in a whole new light. He hadn't liked what he'd seen. Hadn't liked the man he'd become. Domineering. Aloof. Alone.

He was like Angyra—adrift in the sea.

His mother had told him to marry for love. His brother had simply said a man should love his wife.

Love
. What did they know that he didn't? Why was this emotion so difficult for him to understand?

Now he knew. Now he hoped to hell he wasn't too late.

She stepped toward him and stopped, staring hard, as if trying to decide if he were real or imagined. “Kristo?”

He allowed a brief smile as his hungry gaze swept over her thin form again. There was nothing to indicate she was with child. Nothing binding them now. Nothing that would make this easy.

His jaw clenched. He didn't deserve easy. He needed to put effort into this—as much as with any deal he'd ever made or more. For his future hinged on this moment. On her.

Yet even now that would have to wait. People were watching them. Listening.

He noted Yannis was looking for her, looking frantic when he spotted them together. “Go on with what you are doing,” Kristo said. “I'll wait here until the show is over.”

He would wait forever for her if he must.

She hesitated a long moment, as if unsure what to do, as if not trusting he'd stay. But then what had he ever done to instill trust in her?

“Demi,” her partner said. “They want you onstage.”

“Coming.” She turned and hurried back to the designer and the nervous models clustered just offstage, back to her world.

Kristo listened to Demetria's credentials and the short list of her styles presented today. Applause rang in the hall. Her partner motioned her to take the stage, but she balked.

“We both know this is your show,” she said to Yannis, surprising Kristo, who'd inched forward to watch, to admire her in action. In control. “If not for you and Ari I wouldn't have been invited to this showing.”

“We just held things together until you returned,” Yannis said, and all but pushed her out on the stage. “Go. Accept the honor and praise you deserve.”

Kristo bunched his hands at his sides as she took hesitant steps out onto the stage. She looked so small out there. So alone. So removed from him.

I could lose her right now. Forever.

That possibility clutched at his heart, paining him as nothing else had. Losing her would devastate him. Leave a scar that would never heal.

“Thank you for your enthusiastic applause,” Demetria said to the crowd, her voice surprisingly strong. “But much of the credit goes to my partner, Yannis Petropoulos.”

The audience clapped, but before the applause had fully died down, before she'd exited the stage, a man called out, “Miss Andreou? Will you give up designing if you marry the King of Angyra?”

“Is the wedding still on?” another shouted.

An immediate hush fell over the hall, followed by a ripple of nervous whispers. Instead of answering, Demetria simply waved and returned backstage.

It was then that he noticed the tears glistening in her eyes. She stopped to exchange one fierce hug with her partner, but her gaze remained on Kristo.

His heart started thundering as she pulled away and walked toward him. She stopped just out of arm's reach, eyes now dry but wary. “Why did you come?”

Because he couldn't sleep, couldn't eat for wanting her. Because without her his life simply wasn't the same.

But he wasn't about to tell her that here—not with so many
eyes watching them. “That should be obvious,” he said, and when she frowned, he huffed out a sigh. “Please. I have a limo waiting outside. We can talk there in private.”

Her solemn eyes, with dark lashes still spiked with moisture, searched Kristo's face—questioning. Sad.

He wondered about her thoughts. Wondered if she'd refuse. Wondered if anything or anyone could drag her away from this exciting world.

“This sounds serious,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He couldn't begin to tell her how much. How he was barely able to draw a breath for fear that she'd refuse him.