The Pregnant Mistress. Sandra Marton
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sounds…fascinating,” he said politely. “And I’m certain she is as beautiful as your wife.”
Rafe seemed to think about it. “No,” he said, after a minute, “I must admit, Sam doesn’t look anything like Carin. She doesn’t look like Amanda, either.”
Worse and worse. His old friend was trying to fix him up with an over-the-hill grouch who bore a man’s name and had none of the beauty of her sisters.
“Well,” Demetrios said, lying through his teeth, “she sounds delightful—but I have to make that call. And I see some people I know. Let me make the call, say hello, and then I’ll certainly get back to you so you can introduce me to your sister-in-law.”
Rafe sighed. “No, you won’t.”
“Don’t give me that look. I’m not trying to, ah, to avoid meeting this—this paragon. I simply—”
“You’re simply not ready to lose your beloved freedom.” Rafe’s sigh became a smile. “It’s all right, Demetrios. I said as much to Carin, but she insisted you and Sam would be a perfect match. What can I tell you, my friend? You know how women are.”
“All too well,” Demetrios said, sighing with relief. “That’s why I’m happy to remain single.”
Rafe walked away. He started towards the terrace only to be waylaid yet again, this time by a blonde with whom he’d had a long-forgotten liaison.
“Darling,” she squealed, and he kissed her cheek when she tilted her face to his, but there was a limit to his patience.
“Forgive me,” he said, with a show of teeth he hoped would appear to be a smile, “but I really must—”
And then a hint of fragrance drifted towards him. Jasmine? Lilac?
“Hello.”
The voice was soft, husky, and touched with amusement. Demetrios felt all his senses go on alert. Only one woman at this party had the power to turn him on with a simple word; he knew, instantly, it was she. He turned slowly, wondering if the reality of her would match his fantasies…
Yes. God, yes. She was more than beautiful. She was magnificent. Eyes a man could get lost in. A mouth that begged to be kissed. Hair that glinted with the fire of the sun.
“How lovely you are,” he said softly.
She laughed. “How direct you are.”
“I’ve been watching you. And you’ve been watching me. Why should either of us pretend?” He moved a step closer. “I’ve spent the entire evening trying to get to your side.”
She smiled and held out a glass. Until then, he hadn’t even noticed that she held one in each hand, both filled with crushed ice and pale golden liquid.
“In that case, you must be thirsty.”
Demetrios smiled. “Don’t tell me…caparhinias?”
“I thought you asked me not to tell you.” Their fingers brushed as he took one of the glasses from her and a charge of electricity flashed through him. Through her, too. He saw her eyes suddenly darken and knew she must have felt the same hot surge. “Do you like what I’ve brought you, Mr. Karas?”
“Yes,” he said in a low voice, his eyes locked on hers, knowing she wasn’t talking about the caparhinias. “Very much.”
“Good.” She smiled, lifted her drink to her lips and took a sip of the sugary rum concoction. “I thought you might.”
She was a flirt. A tease. And yet, she was blunt about what she wanted. The combination was dazzling. He wanted to take her into his arms, carry her through the house, up the stairs to his bed…
“Demetrios?” a voice behind him whined.
Hell. “One moment,” he said softly, and turned to the blonde. “I’m sorry,” he said politely. “But I’m busy.”
He was being rude. He knew it, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was the woman…
She was gone. But where? The terrace. Yes. He saw a flash of green silk being swallowed up by the darkness. He put his glass on a table and shouldered his way through the crowd, ignoring everything but the woman.
There she was, hurrying down the wide steps that led to the gently sloping lawn.
“Wait!”
Her pace quickened, until she was almost running. Demetrios cursed, went after her, caught her as she reached a shadowed gazebo. He clasped her shoulders and swung her towards him. Moonlight lit her face.
“Why did you run away? Are you afraid of me?” Gently, he cupped her face in his hands, his fingers stroking the curve of her cheekbones. “There’s no reason to be. I won’t hurt you.”
Sam stared up at him. There was no way to explain. What could she tell him? That she’d only been teasing, at first, because it was fun to know she’d been coming on to the evening’s unknowing quarry? That what had started as fun had changed? That she could imagine going to bed with him, wanted to go to bed with him, but that not even she, for all her talk, fell into bed so fast? It was out of the question anyway. Her entire family had pointed her in his direction. She doubted if he’d want to hear that.
Sam moistened her lips. “I’m sorry if I misled you. But I’m—I’m tired. And—”
“And, you don’t know me. That’s the problem, isn’t it?” His gaze fell to her lips, then rose. “You could know me,” he said softly. “One kiss. That is all it would take, and then we would both know all we need to know.”
“I don’t think—”
“Don’t think. Not tonight.”
Slowly, he lowered his head to hers. Despite his words, she knew he was giving her time to end the game before it was too late.
His eyes were pools of indigo, half shielded by thick, black lashes.
I could drown in his eyes, she thought, and then his mouth brushed hers like a whisper of moonlight, brushed it again and again, and with a little sigh, Sam gave up thinking, closed her eyes, parted her lips and welcomed his kiss.
He tasted of wine and of moonlight, of a thousand forgotten dreams and of a quest that had never quite been fulfilled. And despite everything, she knew, as he kissed her, that she wanted more.
Unbidden, the word whispered from her lips. “More.”
Demetrios groaned. More. Yes. He would give her more. He would give her everything, take everything. He brought her closer, slipped his hands up her throat, felt the urgent pulsing of her blood, cupped her face and lifted it to his.
Samantha leaned into him, wanting the feel of him against her breasts, her belly, her thighs. He slid his hands down her shoulders and she trembled at the rough brush of his fingers against her bare skin, moaned when he gathered her tightly in his arms.
Her hands lifted, wrapped around his neck, and he knew she was surrendering herself to him, to the night, to passion. He bit lightly at her bottom lip, then soothed the tiny hurt with his tongue. She tasted of rum and sugar, of heat and desire, and he groaned again and fell back against the wall, taking her with him, sweeping his hand possessively down her body. He cupped her breast, swallowed her cry as the silk-covered nipple rose against his palm, curved his hand around her hip.
“Matya mou,” he said thickly, turning so that their positions were reversed and it was she who leaned against the gazebo. He moved into the vee of her legs and she arched against him, moved against him, and he knew he was as close to losing himself as he had ever been in all the years since he’d left boyhood behind.
“Wait,” he whispered, but she was touching him, sliding her hands under his jacket, tearing at his shirt so that the studs popped free and fell to the ground. He caught his breath at the feel of her cool fingers against his skin, and he clasped her