Katrakis's Last Mistress (7 page)

“If you say so,” he replied. His dark gaze swept over her for a brief, electric moment, then returned to the road in front
of him. “But I think it is far ruder to fall asleep in someone else’s presence. I am wounded that you find me so profoundly boring, Tristanne.”

Intuition—and the suicidal urge to poke at him—made her smile like a cat with a bowl of cream. Perhaps she thought she was dreaming, and that he could not harm her. Awake, she should have known better.

“Poor Nikos,” she said with bright, false sincerity. “This must have been a new experience for you. I am sure the women of your acquaintance normally go to great lengths to pretend that you are so captivating, so
interesting
, that they can scarcely breathe without your express permission. Much less sleep.” She made a show of yawning, and stretched her feet out in front of her, as if she was not in the least bit captivated, interested, or even aware of his brooding presence beside her.

She was dimly aware that the car stopped moving, but she could hardly concentrate on something so minor when he was turning toward her, his big body dwarfing the sleek confines of the car’s leather interior, his dark eyes glittering with something edgy and wild that she could not identify.

Though her body knew exactly what it was, and hummed in sensual response, her breasts growing heavy and her nipples hardening beneath the simple green knit sheath she wore.

“Once again,” he said, his voice smooth and dangerous, “I am astonished at how little you seem to know about being a man’s mistress, Tristanne. Do you truly believe that my former mistresses taunted me?
Mocked
me?”

Some demon took her over, perhaps, or it was that restlessness inside of her that made her ache and burn and
need.
But she did not—could not—cower or apologize or back down at all, despite the clear sensual menace in his voice, his gaze, the way his arm slid along the back of her seat and hemmed
her in, caged her,
reminded
her of the role she was supposed to be playing.

Whatever it was, she met his gaze. Boldly. Unapologetically. As if this was all part of her plan. She raised her brows, challenging him.

“And how quickly did you tire of them, I wonder?” she asked softly, directly. “So accommodating, so spineless. Do you even remember their names?”

Something too primal to be a smile flashed across his face then. His eyes turned to liquid gold, like a sunset across water, and Tristanne forgot how to breathe.

“I will remember yours,” he promised her. “God help you.” He let out a sound too harsh to be laughter, and nodded toward her window, and through it toward the covered archway that led to the imposingly large door of the ancient-looking building before them. “But there is no time for this now. We have arrived.”

She could not say if she was relieved or disappointed when he left her scant moments after he ushered her into the sumptuous foyer of the sprawling flat. It commanded the whole of the top floor of an old building tucked away on an ancient side street in the city center. Tristanne did not realize how central it was, in fact, until the door closed behind Nikos and she turned to gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows that comprised the far wall. She was staring directly at the famous red and marble dome of the cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore itself. Brunelleschi’s world-renowned Duomo was the whole of the view—filling the wall of windows and so close she felt as if she could very nearly reach out and touch it.

Naturally this would be where Nikos Katrakis kept an extraordinarily sumptuous flat he could not possibly use very often. It was an architectural feat—high, graceful ceilings and a loft’s sense of space inside a historical building dating
back to the Middle Ages.
Of course
he simply kept such a place as his Florentine pied-à-terre.

Tristanne had grown up with wealth; had been surrounded by it for all but the last few years of her life. And still, the cold calculation necessary to make and maintain such wealth remained breathtaking to her, even shocking—the reduction of everything, anything,
anyone
to little more than currency, items to be bought, hoarded, sold, or bartered. Tristanne’s father had been that kind of man. Cold. Assessing. Moved by money alone, and sentiment? Emotion? Never.

Nikos had not even glanced at the stunning view that would no doubt transport the sea of tourists who swarmed the city daily into raptures. The Duomo was one of the foremost sights in Italy, in the world. It was internationally, historically significant. And yet he had given a few curt orders to his staff, informed Tristanne he had meetings he expected to return from no later than six in the evening, and had then left. Had he bought this flat because he loved this view and wished to gaze at it whenever he happened to be in Florence? Or had he acquired it simply because it made good business sense as an investment property—because it had one of the most desirable and thus most expensive views in the whole city?

“You are leaving?” she had asked, surprised, when he’d turned to go. “And what am I to do for all of these hours?”

He had looked almost affronted by the question. “What mistresses always do, I would imagine,” he had replied in that silken tone. He’d crooked his brow. “Wait. Prettily.”

Wait. Prettily.
Like a seldom-used property. Had that not been what Tristanne’s mother had done her entire life?

She moved closer to the windows now, something like sadness seeming to suffuse her, to swallow her whole, though she could not have said why. She did not know how long she remained in that same position, staring unseeing at the glorious marble and distinctive red tiles before her. She felt a sudden, sharp pang of homesickness stab at her. She wanted
to be back in her cheerful little apartment in the Kitsilano neighborhood of Vancouver, free again. She wanted none of the past few days to have happened. Or, for that matter, the previous month. Outside, the light changed; dark gray clouds rolled in, and slowly, quietly, it began to rain.

Tristanne pulled out her mobile and called her mother, who was, after all, the reason she was standing in Florence in the first place instead of in her own living room, which she’d set up as a makeshift artist’s studio and from where she had a view of nothing more remarkable than the backyard she shared with her neighbor. She loved that yard, Tristanne reminded herself as the phone rang. She liked to sit out in it with a glass of wine when the evenings were fine. She did not know why she felt as if she needed to defend it to herself now, much less the rest of her life—as if it was all slipping out of her reach with every breath.

“Oh, darling!” Vivienne cried into the phone when she answered. No sign in her voice of her illness, her persistent cough or her unexplained fevers. Tristanne wondered what it cost her—though she knew her mother would never complain. “Are you having a lovely holiday?”

Which was, Tristanne thought when she ended the call a few moments later, really the most she could expect from her mother. Her flighty, fragile, unendingly sweet mother, who had spent her life being looked after by one man or another. Her father, her husband, her stepson. She was anachronistic, Tristanne often thought, with varying degrees of frustration—a throwback to another time, a different world. And yet she had always been the single bright light in Tristanne’s life—the only thing that had made her childhood bearable. Vivienne had been a flash of bright colors and boundless enthusiasm in the midst of so much grim, cold darkness. And now she was unwell, and needed her daughter. Tristanne would do anything for her. Anything at all.

Even this.

“You must take pictures,” Vivienne had said, nearly bubbling over with her excitement—which was at least an improvement over her grief, or her weakness. “You must record your adventures for posterity!” Because a lady did not discuss the reasons for a trip like Tristanne’s, just as a lady did not discuss her debts, or her failing health.

“I’m not sure this is the sort of trip I’ll want to remember,” Tristanne had said dryly, but her mother had only laughed gaily and changed the subject.

What pictures should she take to capture the moment? Tristanne wondered now, her mind reeling. She pressed a hand against her temple. What would best express the Nikos Katrakis experience? What single image would conjure up the dizzy madness of the last two days?

She did not—
would not
—think of his wicked mouth on hers, his hands smoothing fire and need into her skin until she’d shaken with it. She could not think of his devastating quiet on that darkened street, the way he had held her captive with only that dark, too-perceptive gaze. His cutting mockery, that beguiling almost-smile…She wanted none of those images in her mind. She had to remember why she was here—why she was doing this.

She let her head fall forward until it touched the cool glass of the great window, and sighed. It seemed to take over her whole body.

She would do what she must, but that did not mean she had to sit here like this apartment, empty and discarded until Nikos condescended to return and begin their little dance anew. A whole city waited just outside, brimming with art and history in the summer rain, the perfect balm for the heart she told herself did not ache within her chest, the tears she would not allow herself to cry; for the life she suddenly feared would never fit her again as well as it used to, as well as it should.

H
E WAS
waiting for her when she rounded the corner.

At first she thought he was some kind of hallucination—the same one she had been having to some degree or another all afternoon, to her great irritation. She’d seen the side of his head in the crowded rooms of the Uffizi Gallery, startling her as she gazed at Botticelli’s famous painting of Venus rising from the water, all lush curves and flowing hair. But it had only been a dark-haired father bending to whisper to his two wriggling children, not Nikos at all. She’d glimpsed his unmistakable saunter from a distance on the Ponte Vecchio, the ancient bridge crowded full of shops and arches and tourists that stretched across the Arno—but then she had blinked and seen the figure approaching her was nothing so special after all, just a local man crossing a bridge.

So Tristanne did not immediately react when she saw him this time, expecting the figure lounging in the archway that led into Nikos’s old building to turn to vapor, fade into shadow, or step forward and reveal himself to be an ordinary resident of the city, simply going about his business in the wet summer evening.

But as she drew closer, her footsteps echoing off the ancient cobblestones, the image before her only intensified. The jet-black hair. The dark, tea-steeped eyes, swimming with gold and fire. The dragon in him infused his very skin,
making him seem almost to glow with all the power he held carefully leashed in that lean, muscled torso, so wide through the shoulders and narrow at his hips. He leaned against the stone wall, protected from the rain, his long arms crossed and his gaze intent upon her as she approached.

“Where have you been?”

The question seemed to echo even louder than her shoes against the stones, and her heart beat like a drum in her chest. Tristanne told herself that it was simply a trick of the fading light and the effect of the rain, as the old city settled into evening all around her. This section, hidden in a series of twisted age-old streets that seemed to double back and forth on top of each other, was so very quiet in comparison to the high traffic areas she’d walked earlier. He only sounded dangerous and on edge because there were not seas of tourists to dull the sound of his voice.

And even if he was on edge, for some no doubt inscrutable reason he would not bother to share with her, why should she act as if that cowed her? She did not understand why this man made her forget herself so easily, but she could not let it continue. It did not matter how she
felt
, she reminded herself—a key point she had returned to again and again as she wandered through centuries of art all afternoon—it only mattered how she
acted.

“My apologies,” she said, curving her mouth into an approximation of meek smile. “I had so hoped to beat you here, so that I might arrange myself on your sofa like a still-life painting.
Prettily
, of course. As directed.”

He only watched her as she closed the distance between them and stepped under the archway with him. She knew she was soaked through, but she could not bring herself to care as she no doubt should. The rain was warm, and had seemed to her like some kind of necessary cleansing as she’d walked through Florence’s famous piazzas. As if she had needed to bathe in all the sights and centuries arrayed before her, and
if the price of that was her bedraggled appearance now, well, so be it.

“You look half-drowned,” he said after a long moment. His eyes were too hot on hers, too unsettling. “What could possibly be so important that it lured you out in this weather without so much as an umbrella?”

“I cannot imagine,” she said dryly, pushing her damp hair back from her face. “Surely there is nothing in the whole of the city of Florence that could possibly interest an artist.”

“Art?” He pronounced the word as if it was an epithet in some foreign language he did not know. His head tilted to the side as he looked down at her, arrogant and imperious. “Are you certain it was
art
that drew you into the streets, Tristanne? And not something significantly more prosaic?”

“Perhaps a man of your stature does not notice art until you purchase it to grace your walls, or to appear as a coveted view outside your windows,” Tristanne said tartly, before she could think better of it. “But there are people in the world—and I realize this may surprise you—who find art just as moving when it is displayed in a public square as when it is hidden away in private collections for the amusement of the very rich.”

“You will have to forgive me if I cannot live up to your rarified expectations,” Nikos said coolly, though his eyes narrowed. “There were not many opportunities for art appreciation classes in my childhood, in public or private. I was more concerned with living through the week. But do not let me keep you from feeling superior because you can tell the difference between medieval sculptors at a glance. I am sure that is but one among many useful skills you possess.”

“You will not make me feel badly about something that has nothing to do with me!” Tristanne threw at him, her cheeks hot with sudden embarrassment and a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach that she refused to acknowledge. “You
loom here,
oozing
your power from every pore,
dripping
luxury items like yachts and cars and sprawling flats, and yet
I
am supposed to feel badly because of your past? When you have obviously overcome it in every conceivable way and now flaunt it across Europe?”

His dark eyes glittered, and his mouth pulled to one side. Tristanne knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she did not want to hear whatever cutting thing he was about to say—that he would shred her without a second thought, just to assuage whatever mood this was that had him in its grip.

“I am not the one with expectations,” she hissed, hoping to stave him off. “You are.”

“You expect me to believe you wandered around looking at art in the rain?” he asked after a long, brooding moment. There was an urgency in his tone, a certain intensity, that she didn’t understand. That she didn’t
want
to understand, because she didn’t
want
to feel the urge to comfort him, to soothe him, however unlikely it was that he might let her do such a thing. She wanted only to complete this task, to gain her trust fund. That was the only thing she could allow herself to want.

“I do not care if you believe it or not,” she said instead, confused by the direction of her thoughts. She raised her shoulders only to let them fall again. “It is what I did.”

“And why would you do this?” His dark gaze moved over her face, and she was afraid, suddenly, of the things he might see, the urges he might notice and use against her. She looked away, back toward the street, letting her gaze follow the shadows and graze the cobblestones. She crossed her arms over her chest, half to appear defiant, but half to hold herself still as well.

“I suppose you will tell me a mistress does not do such a thing,” she said softly, shaking her head slightly at the water coursing down the street. “I imagine the perfect mistress…what?
Shops for outfits she does not need? Sits in a room and contemplates the state of her hair?”

He almost smiled. She could sense it more than see it, in the closeness of that archway, hidden away together from the falling rain and coming dark.

“Something like that,” Nikos said. “She certainly does not roam the streets in a wild state, dripping wet and looking primitive.”

She looked at him then, and something flashed between them, hot and intimate. Dangerous. Uncontrollable. Tristanne felt her breath catch, and released it, deliberately.
Count to ten
, she cautioned herself.
Do not fan this fire—it will burn you alive. It will ruin everything.

“I only said I wanted to be your mistress,” she said slowly, her voice lower and huskier than she’d intended, as if it had plans of its own. “I never said anything about being perfect.”

Something about her undid him. Her wide brown eyes, perhaps, so clever and yet so wary. The tilt of that chin, so pugilistic, as if she wanted to fight him, hold him off, defy him at all costs when her very presence here as his supposed mistress should have ensured the opposite. That lush, wide mouth that he wanted to taste again, every time he looked at it. And the way that green dress clung, wet and heavy, to curves that he was beginning to believe might haunt him for the rest of his days.

It did not matter that he had deep suspicions about her activities this afternoon. Had she met with her pig of a brother? Had she received further orders, whatever those might be? He could not seem to get a hold of the searing anger he felt when he thought about such a meeting—and he had been unable to think of anything else since he’d arrived back at the flat to find her out, whereabouts unknown. He knew it made no sense. It was not logical, or rational. She had never pretended
to owe him any allegiance, and he had known she must have ulterior motives the moment she’d walked up to him on his yacht. He knew why he was using her—why should he think she was not using him equally?

“No,” he said slowly, pushing away from the wall. “We cannot call you perfect, certainly.”

She blinked. “That sounds significantly more insulting when you say it.”

He wanted to demand that she tell him what her game was, that she admit whatever nefarious scheme she’d cooked up with her vile brother. As if it would mean something, such a confession. As if it would somehow excuse the need for her that itched in him, that he was beginning to worry was not, as it ought to be, purely physical.

The urge to take her, to lose himself in her lush body, to drown in her sweet and spicy scent, in her soft skin, in her scalding heat—all of that was completely understandable. Expected, even. Part and parcel of his ultimate revenge. It was…this other thing that was driving him insane. The odd and novel urge to leave her untouched at the door to her stateroom the night before, with only a gruff demand that she meet him for breakfast. Why had he done that? That had not been the way he’d planned the night at all.

But he had lost his purpose, somehow, between the oddly quiet moment after her outburst on the streets of Portofino and the stunned, hurt look in her eyes after he had ripped into her about her
exalted standards.
If he was someone else, he might have wondered if he’d been loathe to hurt her feelings—which was impossible as well as ridiculous, for how did he expect to enact a fitting revenge on her family without doing exactly that? In spades? It was as if she bewitched him somehow, with her frowns and her challenges, her sharp tongue and her unexpected naps—all things that should have made him dismiss her entirely.

And would have, he told himself fiercely, if she was anyone else.

“And now you are scowling at me,” Tristanne said, her eyes scanning his face as she frowned back at him. “I don’t know what it is you think I did—”

“What haven’t you done?” he asked, almost as an aside. Almost as if he asked himself, not her. Perhaps he did, though he had little hope of an answer.

“I haven’t done anything at all!” she protested.

“That, too,” he said, and sighed. And then gave up.

He reached over and hooked his hand around her crossed arms, tugging her toward him with very little effort. She came without a fight, her expressive face registering a series of emotions—confusion, worry, and what he wanted to see most of all. Desire.

He pulled her off balance, deliberately, so that she sprawled across the wall of his chest and he could feel, finally, her soft breasts pressed into him, her body sodden and warm against his. Her head tipped back so she could look at him, her brown eyes wide and grave but with that heat within.

“Nikos,” she began, that slight frown appearing again between her brows.

He did not know what he meant to do until he did it. He leaned down and pressed his lips to that serious wrinkle, smoothing it away, hearing her gasp even as he felt it against the skin at his neck.

“I think—” she started again.

“You think too much,” he muttered, and then he kissed her.

He wanted lust, fire, passion, and those things were there, underneath. She tasted of the rain, and something else. Something sweet. He could not seem to get enough of it. Of her. He cradled her face between his hands, and kissed her again and again, until they were both gasping for breath.

He pulled away, and, giving in to an urge he didn’t
understand and didn’t care to examine, tucked her beneath his chin. Her arms were folded still, her fists against his chest, and he held her there, listening to their hearts pound out their need together.

Mine
, he thought, and knew he should thrust her away immediately. Put distance between himself and whatever spell this was, that made him feel things he could not allow himself to feel. It wasn’t simply that he should only want her for a very specific reason—he knew better. Hadn’t he paid this price already? Hadn’t he vowed that he would never put himself in a position like this again? That he would not want what he could not have? He did not believe in the things that would make such moments as this possible. Redemption. Forgiveness. Those were for other men. Never for him.
He knew better.

But he did not move.

“I don’t understand you at all,” she whispered. Her hands uncurled against him, and spread open, as if to hold him. As if she could heal him with her touch. As if she knew he was broken in the first place.

He did not believe in any of that, either. He knew exactly who she was and why she was here. What he must do, and would. Still, he did not push her away.

“Neither do I,” he said.

And then stood there, holding her, much longer than he should.

Any leftover feelings Tristanne might have had from their interaction in the rain—and his devastatingly tender kisses—were obliterated the moment she saw herself in the dress.

“I brought you something to wear tonight,” he had said when they entered the flat. His distance and cool tone should have alerted her, but did not. “I will leave it for you when you are finished with your shower.”

“Tonight?” she had asked, her emotions still in a nearpainful
jumble. She’d told herself that was why his suddenly brusque tone seemed to rub her the wrong way, after those unexpected moments in the archway. Or perhaps it was just her impatience with herself, for being so emotional when she could so little afford it.