Katrakis's Last Mistress (8 page)

“It is a small business function,” he had said with a dismissive shrug, and she had thought no more about it until it came time to pull the dress from the hanger where he had left it, suspended from the door inside the guest suite he had indicated she should use to get ready.

Now, her hair dried and blown out to hang in a straight, gleaming curtain, cosmetics carefully applied to accent and emphasize her eyes, she stared at herself in the full-length mirror that stood at an angle in the corner of the richly furnished room. But she could not see the royal blue and gold accents that graced the walls and brocaded the commanding, four-poster bed. She could hardly catch her breath. She could only stare at her reflection, literally struck dumb.

She felt herself flush, deep and red and panicked, so red she nearly matched the scarlet fabric that
barely
made up the dress she wore. He could not mean that he wanted her to wear what little there was of
this
dress, could he? She could not go out in public dressed like this! She could not leave the
room
dressed like this!

She tried to take a deep breath, and made a sound like a sob instead. She squeezed her eyes shut, and her hands into fists. Then, slowly, she opened her eyes and forced her hands to open, too.

The dress was obscene. There was no other word for it.

It clung to her body like paint, leaving nothing to the imagination. There was not a single curve that was not outlined by the tight, clinging garment that slicked its way from tiny capped sleeves to her midthighs. If she tried to cover a decent amount of her breasts, the hem rose to a scandalous height, and if she tugged the hem lower, she risked having her breasts
fall out of the tiny bodice. There was no happy medium. It required that she remove her undergarments entirely, or risk calling more attention to them, so clearly outlined were they by the tight, too-tight, material.

There was only one kind of woman who wore a dress like this, Tristanne thought, humiliation thick in the back of her throat, and she was pretending to be one of them. Was this Nikos’s goal? Did he
want
her to feel this way? Did he take pleasure in imagining Tristanne walking into a public event like this? So scandalously, tackily,
barely
attired?

Or, she thought, fighting back the angry tears that flooded her eyes, that she refused to shed, perhaps she was missing the point entirely. Perhaps he was not trying to embarrass her, necessarily—perhaps this was how he preferred to see his women dressed. Perhaps he liked to make his mistress’s position perfectly clear to everyone he encountered. It need not be personal at all. It should not have felt like such a slap.

She glanced at the clock and saw that she had wasted far too much time, and was once again late. She bit at her lower lip as she looked at herself again, but she knew she had no choice but to brazen it out. She had to do what he wanted for just a little bit longer. Her mother had made it sound as if Peter was already in a much better frame of mind, which made Tristanne hopeful that her plan was working and this mad scheme of hers could end. Because she was not at all sure that she could take too much more of this…exposure, in all senses of the term.

But whatever might happen in the days to come, she still had to walk out of this room in this scandalous, appalling dress. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, a breath, and then turned on her heel and forced herself to leave the room before she could think better of it.

She found him in the living room, swirling whiskey in a crystal tumbler and staring out at the glorious Dome before him. He turned slowly, and Tristanne came to a stop in the
center of the room to let him look his fill. Surely that was his intention—the point of this whole exercise?

“Is this what you had in mind?” she asked, her voice throatier than she would have liked, from all the emotions she was fighting to keep to herself, to keep inside. To pretend she did not feel at all.

His face was in shadow, yet she could still feel the searing heat of his dark gaze. She could feel it traveling over her exposed skin, making her nipples contract and goose bumps shiver across her shoulders. It was as if some unseen cord connected them, forcing her to react to him, however little she might wish to do so.

“Do I please you?” she asked, an edge in her voice that she could not control. “Is that not what mistresses ask?”

“If they do not, they should,” he replied in that lethally quiet voice that made her knees weaken beneath her. She wanted to hate him. She did. “And I must congratulate you, Tristanne.”

His mouth moved into that mocking curve, and she braced herself. But he moved closer, and there was no mistaking the hot, possessive gleam in his burnished dark gold eyes. Nor the answering throb that bloomed in her sex and made her mouth go dry.

What she would do to hate him! Or, at the very least, not to want him.

He reached over and took her hand, enveloping it in the heat of his own. Never taking his eyes from hers, pinning her to the spot and making her pulse flutter wildly in her temples, her throat, he raised her hand to his warm, full lips.

“You have finally met, if not exceeded, all my expectations,” he murmured.

But what she heard was the sound of her own doom, the clang of a cage door slamming shut, as something in her she did not want to acknowledge whispered words she could not bring herself to accept. And it had nothing to do with her
mother, with her reasons for being here.
You will never escape this man
, the voice told her, wise and deep, as something like truth twisted in her gut.
You will never be free of him.

T
HE
party Nikos took her to was neither small nor a stuffy business affair—it was a star-studded gala event held at the Palazzo Pitti, a vast Renaissance palace that had once been home to the Medicis, not far from the Ponte Vecchio on the south side of the Arno. The building was a cold and severe stone edifice that hovered imposingly over her, Tristanne thought, glancing up at the forbidding facade as Nikos helped her out of his car into the sudden blaze of flashbulbs.

Though in truth, the same could be said of Nikos.

Tristanne had no choice but to walk at his side as if she did not notice the second-looks, the ripple of whispers in her wake. She had no choice but to smile for the photographers who formed a scrum at the entrance to the palace, and pretend she was delighted to be seen out with Nikos, thrilled to be displayed like the spoils of war in a bimbo’s dress. There was nothing she could do except attempt to handle the whole thing gracefully. She kept her head held high, her smile in place, and hoped that all the years of pretending to be made of Barbery ice would pay off now, when needed.

And after all, she reminded herself, the publicity was the point—not what she happened to be wearing.

Nikos led her into a courtyard open beneath the clear night sky. The rain had finally ended and the evening was warm and close, making the lights seem denser and more intriguing
as they shone on the fountain up above and the white marble statues that stood frozen still in their giant stone alcoves. Aristocrats and matinee idols wore the finest Italian couture and dripped priceless gems, murmuring to each other over cocktails at small white-topped tables.

“What business is this, exactly?” Tristanne asked, glancing around. To her left she saw businessmen whose names were always mentioned in awed tones in newspaper editorials, to her right, a philanthropic rock star stood in deep conversation with a British socialite.

Nikos slanted a look down at her. “Mine,” he said, with a certain amused finality.

“Meaning you own it?” Tristanne asked with asperity. “Or that you would like me to mind my own? A man in possession of as many things as you are really must be more clear.”

Their eyes met, and once again, she felt a melting that shook her to her bones. Could it not leave her for even a moment? she wondered, in something like despair. Not even for tonight, when he had deliberately dressed her like a tart and dragged her here to make certain she—and half of Europe—knew her place? But none of that seemed to matter. He looked at her as if he knew things about her that she did not, yet, and she felt her chest constrict, her pulse race in helpless reaction, as if there was no greater purpose to her being with him than that. As if she was his mistress.

“Would you like a drink, Tristanne?” he asked softly.

“That would be lovely,” she managed to say. “Thank you.”

She watched him cut through the crowd on his way to the bar, his lean form expertly displayed in a dark Italian suit that made love to his wide shoulders and long legs. As he had on the yacht—had that been only days ago?—Nikos stood out from the rest. It was the simmering energy that he exuded as some men did cologne. It was the way he moved, restless and aware, ready for anything. His history showed
in his body, she thought, if nowhere else. He was ready to fight, and his well-honed physique was his first weapon. It was why some avoided him, why others were drawn to him. He was a man, in the most traditional, physical sense of the term. She had no doubt that he knew what every single one of his muscles was for, and how best to use each one to get the better of an opponent. It was almost unfair that such a formidable physical presence was not the sum total of who he was—that it should merely be the packaging for a mind such as his, incisive and quick. He was like no one she had ever met. It was one more thing about him she wished she did not admire.

Not that it mattered, she reminded herself forcefully. She could admire him all she liked—it did not change what she must do, did it? She had known when she’d first approached him that this would be a terrible mistake. It had not stopped her then. And now it was much too late.

“Ah, Tristanne.”

The sneering, hateful voice announced his identity, making her stiffen in surprise and dismay, before she turned to confirm it.
Peter.

“I see you have finally embraced your true heritage,” he continued.

She turned to face him fully, taking her time as if that might lessen her shock. Her brother stood before her, his dark eyes alive with malevolence. Could no one else see it? she wondered—and not for the first time. A well-cut suit could not hide the darkness in him, the bully he truly was. She had always seen it. She suspected he’d wanted her to see it, to fear it, from the start.

“Peter,” she said with a great and abiding calm she did not feel. She forced herself not to look down at her arm, where the bruises he’d left were almost completely faded now—only a smudge or two of yellow remained as testament to
his violence, his utter disregard for her. “What a delightful surprise.”

“I asked myself what sort of trollop would parade through the Palazzo Pitti dressed like a two-dollar whore,” he said in his most snide voice, just loud enough to insinuate itself into Tristanne’s ear and make her feel dirty by association. “I should have known at once that it was you.”

“Do you not like my dress?” she asked. She raised her brows, allowing herself no other expression, no outward sign of how her stomach heaved, how her pulse raced in panic. “Of course, Nikos picked it out. Would you prefer I fight with him over something so small as a dress?”

Peter only glared at her for a moment, his gaze cold. Tristanne ordered herself to gaze back with every appearance of unruffled tranquility.

“You have outdone yourself, my dear sister,” he said after an uncomfortable moment, his lips curled. “I assumed Katrakis would use what you so blatantly offered him and cast you aside.” His gaze raked over her, and she knew, with a scorching sense of shame, exactly what he could see, and in what detail. It made her wish she could disappear into the stones beneath her feet. Instead she stood straighter. “And yet here you are with him, tarted up at his command. How enterprising and inventive you have turned out to be.”

She should feel triumphant, she realized as she looked at her brother. He believed she was Nikos’s mistress. Her plan was working, just as she’d anticipated. So why did she feel so hollow instead?

“I want my trust fund,” she told him flatly. She smiled then. “Wasn’t this what you wanted? Surely Nikos Katrakis is
visible
enough to suit you? I believe our picture was taken at least fifty times as we walked in.”

That had been his claim the night before she had boarded Nikos’s boat—that her liaison must be with someone
visible.
He had wanted to choose the man, of course, for reasons
Tristanne would prefer not to investigate too closely. It was clear, he had shouted that awful night, that she would only make a fool of herself with a man like Nikos and then be ruined for his purposes. She’d suspected he’d simply wanted an excuse to put his hand on her and shake her. Hard. And so he had.

“Careful you do not overplay your hand,” Peter retorted now, his eyes cold. “What is his angle? Have you figured it out?” When she did not respond, he laughed in a way that made her skin crawl. “Surely you don’t believe that a man like Katrakis would find
you
quite so captivating, Tristanne. Perhaps he wishes to trade on the Barbery name himself.” He shook his head, his lips thinning. “A man can climb out of the sewer, one supposes, but he still walks around with the stench of it.”

Tristanne wanted to haul off and slap him for that, but she did not dare.
Think of your mother!
she warned herself. There was too much at stake. And Nikos did not need her to defend him to Peter, of all people. So why did she want to? She was not even sure where the urge to defend him had come from, nor why it lingered, making her stomach tense.

“He has not shared his ulterior motives with me,” she said icily. “Just as I have neglected to share yours with him.”

“You will need to keep him happy for the next few weeks, at least,” Peter said offhandedly, his attention on the crowd around them, as if he was searching for more important people. “Perhaps a month.”

“A month?” Tristanne clamped down on her panic, her anger. “Don’t be absurd, Peter. That is far too long. The pictures taken tonight should be all you need.”

“I will decide what I need, Tristanne, thank you,” he snapped. His gaze narrowed, and an insinuating smile played on his thin lips. “What’s the matter? Afraid you don’t have what it takes to keep Katrakis’s interest? I have heard his tastes are…earthy.”

“I want my trust find,” she said again, more succinctly. She did not know what Peter meant by that comment, nor wish to know. Though her imagination could not help but supply vivid images to suit the word earthy, each more devastating than the last. Nikos’s hot, tender mouth upon her flesh, his strong, capable hands lifting her, his whipcord strength all around her, above her—

“It will take a month,” Peter said, snapping Tristanne back into the courtyard with a jolt. Peter’s cold eyes bored into her. “But if it makes you feel any better, I think it is clear that you have found your life’s work.” He laughed, unpleasantly.

He thinks I am nothing but a whore,
Tristanne thought dully. Yet she could not seem to summon up any outrage on her own behalf. After all, he always had. The only difference was that now, if she peeled away the shocking heat that consumed her whenever she thought of Nikos, she feared that Peter might be right. And worse, that she might like it where Nikos was concerned—but she could not allow herself such incendiary thoughts!

“I want to see the paperwork regarding the transfer of my funds by next week.” She gazed at him coldly, determined to look unafraid. Unaffected. “Is that clear enough? Do we understand each other?”

“I understand you better than you think,
sister,
” Peter hissed at her, the word
sister
sounding like a vicious insult, like the hard slap he no doubt wished to give her. But Tristanne did not recoil. Not even when he smiled that horrible smile. “All the years you spent spouting off about your
principles
and your
honor
, and all the while you were no better than a whore, just waiting for the right price.” He waited, letting that sink in, and then his nasty smile deepened. “Exactly like your mother.”

Each word, she knew, was carefully calculated to maim, to wound. To prey on her feelings for Vivienne and force her to reveal herself. But she would rather die than give him
the satisfaction of knowing he’d been successful. She would keep what she felt locked down, hidden away. She would not react.
She would not.

“Next week, Peter,” she said through her teeth. “Or you can forget the whole thing.”

His eyes narrowed, that malevolent gleam flaring to sickening life, and she braced herself for whatever he might say next.

But instead she felt her body thrill to a sudden heat beside her, and knew without looking that Nikos had returned. Was it absurd that she felt as if he’d saved her, simply by standing beside her?
It is certainly foolish,
she admonished herself. Nonetheless, relief—thick and sweet—flooded through her. She had the insane urge to move closer to him, to burrow against his hard chest as if they were truly lovers, as if he would care for her in that way, protect her, but she shook it off.

“Katrakis.” Peter nodded in greeting, looking at Nikos with ill-concealed distaste.

Nikos smiled. It was that wolf’s smile, far too dangerous, and Tristanne knew that Peter was out of his depth even if he seemed to be unaware of that fact. She took a deep breath, feeling her spine ease its erect posture just a bit.

“Barbery,” Nikos said, his arrogant brows raised and his expression faintly amused. Tristanne could see how little Peter liked it. His gaze darkened.

“When my sister announced that she was spending a few days sailing to Greece, I could not imagine she meant with you,” Peter said.

As if there was some other Nikos Katrakis? What game was he playing now? Not for the first time, Tristanne wondered
why
Peter hated Nikos so much, when surely Nikos was exactly the sort of man Peter normally attempted to cultivate. All she had ever known was that Peter hated even the mention of his name, and always had.

“What, I wondered, could a Katrakis want with a Barbery?” Peter asked.

“It cannot be a mystery to you, surely,” Nikos drawled. Tristanne felt her skin prickle with heat. Nikos’s smile deepened, turned more mocking. “Buy me a drink sometime and I will clear it up for you.”

“My sister is usually not quite so charming as you seem to find her,” Peter said darkly, as if he was discussing a fractious mare or a disobedient hound. “I am amazed you have found her so…congenial.”

“No doubt your amazement is what caused you to lose your head and put your hands upon her,” Nikos said then, his voice smooth and deadly, like a whip. His eyes flashed dark gold fire. To Tristanne’s shock—and shame—he reached over and sketched the back of his fingers across the fading bruises on her upper arm, though he never looked away from Peter. “For surely you must know that I prefer that what is mine bear no mark but my own.”

She did not care for that, Nikos could tell. He was learning to read her now, and though her facial expression remained remote, almost bored, he could feel her tense beneath his hand. She did not look up at him, though that defiant chin inched upward. She kept her eyes trained on the snake before her, her brother, who could not keep the vicious glee from his own gaze.

Nikos had expected Peter’s presence—it was why they had come to Florence in the first place—but he had not anticipated the hard kick of anger that had spiked through his gut when he’d seen the vicious look on Peter’s face, and Tristanne’s carefully blank expression. It had taken him by surprise. He told himself it was because Barbery believed that he’d won, that he’d planted Tristanne with Nikos and Nikos was none the wiser. He told himself that it had nothing to do with his protective urges toward this woman, urges he could
not permit himself to indulge unless they aided him in his revenge against the swine of a man before him.