The Royal House Of Karedes Collection Books 1-12. Кейт Хьюит
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let her thoughts wander. Of course, tonight was important. She had the commission; now, she had to make sure she had the hearts and minds of her clients.
Her clients. The king of Aristo and his queen. She’d come a long way from the phony Frenchman of L’Orangerie.
The dressing room made her laugh. Add some plumbing and most Manhattan residents would have happily called it an apartment. And there were her things, on a rack all by themselves, surrounded by other racks filled with men’s clothes. Alex’s clothes.
And no, she was not going to think about that now. Dinner was everything. It had to go well.
Her clothes, as Athenia had told her, had been pressed, hung and organized by color. Giddy laughter rose in her throat. Jeans and jeans and jeans, T-shirts and blouses and sweaters. Organized and pressed, and what in hell was there hanging in front of her she could wear to a palace?
Casual, Alex had said. Easy for him to say. And to do.
What was he going to wear? And where would he shower and dress?
Not here, and that was all that mattered. For all she knew, he kept a complete wardrobe in each bedroom. A mistress in each, too. Or maybe this was the way installing a new mistress was handled. Maybe his staff was trained to move some of the master’s clothes, just enough to get his latest conquest through the confusion of her first night here.
Stop it, Maria thought furiously.
She was most assuredly not Alex’s conquest, she was his—What would be the correct word? Never mind. She would not dwell on how or why she was in his bedroom, or the implications of it, either—or on the fact that his entire staff surely now understood she would be sleeping with him.
A dozen other women probably had gone this route. She lacked their experience in the art or business of being a kept woman but instinct told her that a woman who filled that role would not blush at such information being public.
She’d do her best not to blush, either.
Besides, Alex would not ‘keep’ her. The money for the commission didn’t come from him. It was for the design and execution of the queen’s birthday gift, and she would not accept so much as a penny for anything else.
A phone rang.
Maria looked around. There it was. A small white telephone on the wall of the dressing room. It rang again and she plucked it from its cradle, put it to her ear and said a careful, “Hello?”
“You’re down to twelve minutes, glyka mou.”
“Alexandros?”
“I like it when you call me that.”
His voice was husky. Why did that roughness always send a tingle along her skin?
“Alexandros!” She looked around wildly. “Where are you?”
He laughed. “Relax, sweetheart. I can’t see you—but I know exactly what you’re doing. You’re standing in the middle of my bedroom, trying not to look at the bed and wondering what on earth possessed you to bring nothing suitable to wear this evening.”
She blinked. “Wrong,” she said airily. After all, she was in the dressing room, not the bedroom, and she’d already wasted time trying not to look at the bed.
“Try the emerald silk dress and the black stiletto sandals. And before you tell me you won’t wear another woman’s cast-offs, let me assure you they aren’t. The dress and shoes were both delivered from the Chanel boutique in Ellos a couple of hours before we arrived.” His words took on that same sexy softness again. “I had to guess at the size, glyka mou, so I hope I got them right. Of course, we won’t have any such difficulties after tonight.”
Maria felt her entire body blush as she slammed the phone back onto its cradle. How dared he buy her clothes? Did he really think she’d wear anything he’d paid for?
There it was. The dress. And right below it, the shoes. Both were gorgeous. The brilliant color of the dress would be perfect with the delicately spiked heels. Exactly what she’d have bought for an occasion like this… if she’d been in a position to spend, what, ten thousand bucks?
She would not wear these things.
She would wear something of her own.
Black jeans. A white silk blouse. Dressy enough for dinner at an upscale New York restaurant… but for dinner at a palace? For what was, basically, a business meeting that was surely going to change her life?
“Damn you, Alexandros,” she said bitterly—and knew she had lost Round One.
She showered quickly, and never mind that the faint, clean scent of the hand-milled soap reminded her of Alex. The shampoo had the same effect. So what? Soap was soap, shampoo was shampoo. She towel-dried her hair—no time for anything else—and hurried into the dressing room.
There were more than shoes with the dress. There was a tiny black evening purse. And undies. A black lace bra. A black lace thong. The sheerest thigh-high nylons she’d ever seen.
She had her own underwear.
But not like this.
To hell with it.
She put on the bits of black lace, the sheer stockings. Hair loose or up? Maria peered into the mirror. Up. The mass of dark strands was too damp, too wild, too curly to leave loose. Finally, she slipped on the emerald silk dress. Stepped into the black sandals.
And saw herself in the mirror.
He had good taste, the Prince of Arrogance, she thought wryly. A career as a personal shopper could be his in the blink of an eye.
The dress was a perfect fit, demure and businesslike even as it made the most of her slender figure. The shoes were gorgeous. Straps that wound around her foot. Stiletto heels as thin as the blade for which they were named.
Could he possibly know shoes were her weakness?
No, she thought. The better probability was that they were his weakness. Maybe later tonight, he’d want her in the stilettos and nothing besides the black lace thong…
“Oh God,” she whispered, and felt her heart rate shoot into the stratosphere.
Jewelry, she thought numbly, because it was safer to think about that than about what happened to her body each time she imagined being in this room, in that bed, with the gorgeous Alexandros. How could you hate a man and still want him?
A question for another time, not for the one minute—the one minute she had left!
Fortunately, she’d dumped a couple of pieces of her stuff into her handbag. A twisted gold chain? No. A shorter one, intricately braided? No. A slender gold rope with a hunk of polished amber knotted at the center? Yes. Perfect. Small gold hoops in her ears. Had she forgotten anything? She certainly had. A quick swipe of mascara. Sheer cherry lip gloss. A dab of powder on her suddenly shiny nose.
She took a steadying breath. Another. Ready or not, she thought, and she unlocked the bedroom door.
He was right outside it, waiting for her.
‘Gorgeous’ was the wrong word to describe him. ‘Spectacular’ came closer, but it still didn’t quite cover it.
Say something, Maria told herself, but her brain was numb. She could only look at him as he stood leaning back against the cypress balustrade that enclosed the open loft, arms folded, ankles crossed, the very portrait of The Male Waiting for his Date. He wore a grey jacket, a black open-necked shirt, black trousers and darkest brown mocs. His hair was damp; he was freshly shaven…
He was beautiful. The in-the-flesh subject of a woman’s dreams, except she didn’t have dreams like those. Well, not until after that night they’d made love. Correction. That night they’d had sex, and look where that had led.
He said nothing. Showed nothing. Slowly, slowly enough to make her wonder