Katrakis's Last Mistress (16 page)

She could not remember who she had been before him, or who she had tried to be during these past weeks. She could not imagine a future without him in it. She had…simply kept standing, because there was nothing else to do. But now that he was here, she could feel the difference singing through her, lighting her up from within, even though it hurt—even though none of this was easy, and all of it was far more painful than she could ever have imagined she could bear.

“Tristanne,” he said, as if her name was a plea. His eyes were agonized, as dark and stormy as she felt. “I tried to let you go, but I cannot do it.”

She reached over and took his hand, exulting in the feeling of his skin against hers, the heat of him, the sense of
rightness
that flooded through her. What else could she do? She had already lost everything, and survived it. He had already done his worst. And even so, she loved him. She could not hide from that inconvenient truth. It might not be wise. It might not make sense. But the inescapable truth of it felt like heat, like dragonfire, and burned its way through her, marking her forever. As his.

“Then do not let me go,” she said over the lump in her throat, looking at him with all she felt bright and hot in her gaze. Because she had already chosen, long ago, to be brave if she could not be safe. She had already decided. “If you dare.”

“W
HAT
am I to do with you?” he asked her much later, his voice rough. He sat next to her in the luxurious depths of his private jet’s leather seats. Far below them, North America was spread out like a patchwork quilt, and above them was nothing but blue sky and sun. He reached over and pulled a blonde wave into his hand, wrapping it around one finger. He tugged on it slightly.

“Marry me, apparently,” she said. She did not shiver away from his dark golden gaze. She leaned closer. She had wanted him when she was just a girl. She had chosen him on his yacht, so long ago now. Then in the villa. And again, just yesterday, on a street in Vancouver. She had chosen
him.
“That is why we are flying across the world, isn’t it?”

“And what makes you think you can handle such a thing?” he asked, searching her face with a deep frown marring his. “I warn you, Tristanne, I do not improve upon a longer acquaintance. Familiarity breeds—”

“Contempt?” she finished for him. She wanted to kiss him, though she did not dare, not when he was in so dark a mood. “Surely not. You are Nikos Katrakis. Who alive could be more fascinating?”

“I am not joking.” His voice was stark, and she understood, suddenly, that he was terrified. This strong, harsh, ruthless
man. She had this power over him. She reached over and put a hand on his muscled thigh.

You must love who you love,
Vivienne had said with a shrug when Tristanne had haltingly explained that, indeed, she planned to marry Nikos after all, despite everything.
And it is only cowards who do not follow their hearts, Tristanne. Remember that.

“I am not from your world, much as I pretend to be,” Nikos said, almost more to himself than to Tristanne. He drummed his fingers against the polished armrest. “People enjoy my money, my power, but do not mistake it—they never forget where I came from.”

“Nor should they,” she shot back at once. His head snapped around in surprise. “You say that as if it is something shameful. There is no shame in your past, Nikos. You overcame near-insurmountable obstacles, and you did it with absolutely no help from anyone. Not even your own father.” She shook her head. “You should be proud.”

“You do not understand,” he began.

“And who, may I ask, finds it so impossible to overlook your origins?” she asked, cutting him off. “People like my brother? Pampered and spoiled, handed vast fortunes made by others? Why should you care what they think?”

He stared at her then, his gaze hotter and more flinty than she had ever seen it. There was no hint of gold there, only dark like the night. Possessive. Implacable. A deep fire that she knew, low in her bones, was for her alone.

“You cannot take it back,” he told her, his voice flat. If she did not know him better, she might have thought him unemotional. “If you marry me, Tristanne, that is the end of it.”

“As usual,” she said, slipping her arm through his and tilting her head back to look at him, so strong and grim against
the bright light all around them, flooding into the cabin, “you have it all wrong. This is only the beginning.”

And then, finally, she leaned over and pressed her mouth to his.

He knew the moment she woke.

He turned away from the full moon that shone above the dark sea, and watched as the light skimmed into the room and illuminated her.
His wife.

He had married her in a private ceremony in the very spot he had abandoned her before; the symmetry healing, somehow. And now she was his, forever.

Nikos could not seem to get his head around the concept.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice a mere thread of sound. He moved across the moonlit room to the bed, and lowered himself down to sit beside her. He wanted to take her into his arms again, to lose himself in her body as he had done so many times before—as he had done this very night—but there were too many questions swirling around them and he could not ignore them any longer.

Though part of him wanted to ignore them forever.

“I do not understand,” he said quietly.

Next to him, she sat up, pulling the coverlet with her to drape it around her naked shoulders. Her hair tumbled wild and free around her, emphasizing the delicate arch of her collarbone, the creamy softness of her skin. She was exquisite. And she was
his.
She had chosen him, after everything.

“What is there to understand?” she asked, that warm humor lacing her tone, making him nearly forget himself. “It is the middle of the night. Surely understanding can wait until dawn.”

“Why would you do this?” he asked, the question ripped from him as if by unseen hands. He did not want to know
the answer. Yet he had to know. “After all that I did to you? Why would you not run as fast and as far as you could?”

Her eyes seemed to melt in the darkness, and she reached over to run her fingers along his shoulder, then down to his bicep before dropping her hand back to the bed.

“You already know why.”

“Love,” he said, harshly. Almost angrily. “Is that what you mean? Love does not exist, Tristanne. It is a lie people tell themselves. A way to hide, to make excuses.”

“Here, now, it is real,” she said softly, leaning toward him to press her lips against his shoulder. “It is not conditional. You have nothing to prove. It is a fact.”

He felt disarmed by that. His heart beat too fast. He felt drunk when he knew he had not touched any spirits in hours. He could not bring himself to look at her, to see whatever lurked in her expression then. Or, perhaps, he was afraid to let her see what was in his own.

“Tomorrow we will leave for our honeymoon,” he said instead, his voice too loud in the dark. “The Maldives. Fiji. Whatever you prefer.”

“We are already on an island, Nikos,” she said in a dry voice, the one that made his heart feel lighter in his chest. “Must we travel great distances to find ourselves on a different one?”

“It is what people do. Or so I am informed.”

“Must we worry about what people do?” she asked. “Or shall we worry instead about what we will do?”

He shook his head, unable to answer. Responding to an urge he could not make any sense of, yet could not deny, he slid from the bed and found himself on his knees before her. He ran his palms along her warm thighs, and then gazed up at her. She was heat, warmth. She had melted away all of his defenses.

“I love you,” she said. Her tough chin tilted into the air, daring him to argue with her. Daring him not to love her, just
as she had dared him not to leave her. She was the bravest woman he had ever known.

“I do not know what love is,” he said, the words coming to him as if in a new language. He picked through them carefully. “No one has ever loved me, I do not think. All those who should have—whose obligation it might have been—abandoned me. Hated me.”

“I know,” she whispered. Her full mouth trembled—for him. She reached for him, ran her fingers through his hair.

“You are the only person who has ever known the truth about me,” he managed to say, from that darkness inside of him that he had denied for so long, and that new, strange wellspring of hope that had appeared with her on a Canadian street, so shining and bright and impossible. “The only one who has seen the worst of me, and stayed with me anyway.”

She made a soft noise of distress, and then leaned forward to press a kiss against his brow, his cheek.

“I love you,” she said simply. “Your darkness as well as your light. How could I do anything but marry you?”

“I told you that you should hate me,” he said. “I meant it.”

“But it is too late,” she whispered. “I have been in love with you since I met you. Perhaps even before. I am the incapable of hating you, I think, despite your best efforts.”

“Tristanne…” But he did not know what he could say, except the prayer of hope that was her name. It was like a song in him. He felt that cracking inside of him again, as if he had been buried deep in ice but the long, bitter winter in him had finally ended. And he was starting, at last, to thaw.

“I do not know what love is, or how to go about it,” he whispered, looking into the chocolate-colored eyes that were all the world to him now. All that mattered. “But I will spend my life trying to love you as you deserve, Tristanne. I swear it.
Even if you have to teach me, even if it is remedial, I promise I will learn.”

She smiled then, a real smile, bright and true. He felt something in him ease, even as he began to burn for her anew. Again. Always.

“I think I can meet that challenge,” she said, that strong, sure love in her gaze, changing him as she looked at him. “But first things first, Nikos.”

He remembered his own words, long ago, and found himself smiling.

“First things first?” he echoed.

“Why don’t you greet me properly?” she dared him. “I am your wife.”

“Indeed you are,” he said in a low voice. “And I am your husband.”

“And this is the first night of our married life. Of the future.”

“Our future,” he said, and part of him dared to believe in it.

She opened her arms wide, offering him everything he’d ever wanted, and long since ceased hoping for, until she burned her way into his life. Home. Family. Love.

For her, he would dare. For her.

“Then come here,” she whispered, her eyes full. “We have a lot of ground to cover.”

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

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First published in Great Britain 2010

Harlequin Mills & Boon Limited,

Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR

© Caitlin Crews 2010

ISBN: 978-1-408-91927-9