The Snow Bride: The Virgin's Choice / Snowbound Seduction / The Santorini Bride. Jennie Lucas
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curled his lip. “I would never hurt a woman.” He rubbed his cheek ruefully.
“A captive has the right to defend herself,” she said stiffly.
He looked down at her. “I would expect no less of you.”
He wasn’t staring at her with that hot light of hatred anymore. And yet there was still an undercurrent between them that she didn’t understand.
She missed Lars, who was so charmingly predictable, who though he didn’t always listen to her words, always gave her endless compliments. It had made her feel a bit uncomfortable, actually, the way he always stared at her so hungrily, telling her over and over that she was perfect. She knew she wasn’t perfect. But she’d told herself he had many years to understand her better after she became his wife.
If she even was his wife.
No! Rose pushed away the gnawing fear growing inside her. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow Xerxes to make her doubt Lars! She couldn’t trust this brutal, powerful man who’d kidnapped her, her husband’s enemy who’d just kissed her against her will.
Xerxes’s words were lies. They had to be.
She would have faith. Lars would save her and prove she was his true and legal wife. She wouldn’t allow Xerxes to make her doubt everything she believed in—not even for an instant!
Slowly, she rose to her feet, holding the torn bodice of her wedding gown tightly together over her chest. “As long as I have your word you won’t harm me.”
He gently brushed hair from her cheek. Lowering his head, he whispered in her ear, “I will not harm you.”
He drew back, looking down at her. Then he held out his hand, steady and strong and confident.
She stared at it. Then, not touching him, she brushed past him regally, as if she still wore a tiara on her head. A baroness in exile.
Her gown still covered her body decently well, as long as she held together the bodice at the jagged, gaping rip over her heart. But she had to hold it tightly. The tulle skirts were heavy and wide, pulling behind her like a train as she went down the steps to the tarmac.
Several cars were waiting, including a black Bentley. As she approached, a uniformed driver opened the passenger door.
“If you please,” Xerxes said quietly, pressing his hand gently against her back. She shivered at his touch, then jumped forward as if he’d burned her.
Silently, he followed her.
The black car drove through the dark night along the edge of a coastal road. She looked out and saw moonlight shimmering across black water. Strange, she thought, to think it was that exact same moonlight shining down on Trollshelm Castle right now.
“Are we near Athens?” she asked to break the silence.
“On an island in the Aegean.”
“Which island?”
“Mine.”
Shocked, she turned to face him. “Your island?”
He shrugged.
“You own the whole island?”
“I own several.”
Her mouth fell open. “Why on earth would you own several islands? Or even one, for that matter!”
“I loan the others out to friends who want to relax without the glare of media attention.”
“So your friends can be alone with their mistresses or something?”
He shrugged.
Grinding her teeth, Rose folded her arms. What else would she expect from a man completely without morals? “How many islands do you have? Or have you lost count?”
“Three now. I recently sold the fourth in exchange for a palace in Istanbul.”
A palace in Istanbul?
“Oh,” she said faintly, trying to act as if that were a normal sort of trade.
“Officially,” he amended, “our trade was an office building in Paris for a few hundred million euros.” He shrugged. “The palace, and then the island, were just tossed in later as extras.”
“Right. Extras.” She swallowed, thinking of her own recent trade of a box of homemade chocolates to an upstairs neighbor in her apartment building in exchange for a macaroni-and-cheese casserole. “Um. Your friend must have really wanted a private place to hide his mistress.”
Xerxes snorted. “I wouldn’t exactly call Rafael Cruz a friend.” He looked away and added softly, “Anyway, I was glad to be rid of that island.”
“Sure.” Rose held up her hand airily. “Owning private Greek islands gets so very dull. I’ve sold all mine recently for Japanese tea houses.”
His lips quirked, then he shook his head. “I grew up on that particular island. My grandfather was a fisherman. Even after my grandparents were dead and I replaced the old shack with a villa, I never wanted to go back there.”
Xerxes had once been poor? For a moment, sympathy threatened to prey on Rose, weakening her. Then she hardened her heart and glared at him.
“It sucks to be you,” she said acidly. “Owning too many private islands, forced to travel all over the world in your jet. Kidnapping married women. You’re clearly a hard case.” She glanced out the car window. “So why are we here and not at your shiny new Turkish palace?”
He turned to look out the window, blocking her view of his face. “I brought you here because this is my home.”
Rose’s jaw dropped.
“You brought me to your home? But, but…” She faltered, then said, “Lars will know exactly where to find you!”
He turned back to her. “Exactly.”
“I don’t understand. What kind of kidnapping is this?”
“I told you. It’s not a kidnapping. It’s a trade.”
The car stopped and the driver opened the door. Xerxes climbed out, then held out his hand back to her.
Careful not to touch his hand, she tripped and stumbled out of the car. She glanced back at him, blushing.
He pulled back his hand, tucking it behind his back.
“Come,” he said, regaining his low, mocking voice. “I’m sure you’re eager to see the inside of your prison. Baroness.”
But he didn’t try to touch her again. She was relieved. After his electric kiss earlier, after feeling the strength of his body and the heat of his embrace that had made her surrender against her will, she was afraid to let him so much as brush his fingertip against her skin.
Following him toward the house, she looked up. Her footsteps faltered.
She’d once dreamed of traveling to Greece, but she’d never imagined anything like this.
The enormous white villa sat on the edge of a sharp cliff, iced with moonlight. The cold, classical architecture made it look like a fortress, and suddenly reminded her of another island closer to home. The prison of Alcatraz.
She caught up with him inside the tall doorway. She only dimly saw the servants awaiting them, greeting Xerxes in low, respectful voices before they disappeared down dark hallways.
He pulled her into a high-ceilinged library edged with leather-bound books. When he opened the French doors to the veranda, a cool breeze blew off the sea, curling up her spine. Rose shivered.
Xerxes turned back to her. “Are you hungry?”
“No,” she whispered, then closed her eyes, trying not to cry. “I just want to call my family.”