Christos's Promise. Jane Porter

this. Everything was too new, too strange, too crazy.

      If he felt her resistance, he ignored it, clasping the back of her head, fingers twining in her long hair. She caught the glint in his dark eyes and a hint of rich, sweet spice. Not vanilla, not cinnamon, but some other fragrance so deep, and familiar, that it tantalized her memory.

      His mouth took possession of hers and she breathed him in again, reminded of almonds, sweet baby powder, the heady musk of antique roses…

      Somehow it all fit, he, this, the kiss. His mouth, the warmth of his skin, the strength in his arms. Tremor after tremor coursed through her veins, creating an intense craving for more sensation.

      Even as his lips parted hers, another electric current shot through her, sparking awareness in every nerve in her body. More, her brain demanded, her lips moving beneath his, her tongue answering the play of his, more, more…

      The kiss deepened, and unconsciously she moved against him seeking to prolong the contact, relishing the hard plane of his chest, the warmth of his skin, the heady sweet spice of his cologne.

      As his tongue sought the sensitive hollows in her mouth, the inside of her lip, the curve of cheek, blood pooled in her lower belly, her veins pulsing. This felt, he felt…

      Incredible.

      Muffled voices penetrated her brain. Voices. People.

      Her eyes flew open, reality returning.

      Cameras pressed against the limousine windows, dozens of lenses, shutters snapping. “Mr. Pateras, we have company.”

      He raised his head, his mouth curving into a satisfied smile. He didn’t even give the throng of reporters a second glance. “Let them watch. After all, this is what they’ve come for.”

      Panicked, she tried to bolt from the car, lunging out thinking only of running from the crowd and the cameras and Christos—

      A hand clamped at her waist, biting into her skin, holding her still. “Mrs. Pateras—” Christos’s husky voice pierced her panic “—smile for the cameras.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      LEAVING the noisy media throng behind, Alysia stepped aboard the yacht, late-afternoon sun glinting off the water in the purest form of golden light.

      Christos swiftly introduced her to his staff and crew, rattling off the dozen names, even as the yacht gently swayed in the harbor waters.

      The emotionally intense afternoon, the numerous introductions, the strangeness of her new surroundings suddenly exhausted her. Or was it the stark realization that until they touched land, she was really and truly caught in this pretend marriage?

      She might never get away.

      She might be trapped forever.

      Her head swimming, she gulped air, panic overriding every other thought. What had she done? What in God’s name had she done?

      “I can’t,” she choked, searching for the exit, her gaze jumping from wall to door to patch of blue sky outside. “I can’t do this, I can’t, I can’t—”

      “You can,” Christos softly countered, stepping closer to her side. “You already did.”

      He cut the introductions short and took her by the elbow, steering her through the formal salon to an elegant stateroom decorated in the palest shades of blue. Just beyond the wide French doors, the ocean shimmered a brilliant royal-blue. The effect was calming, indescribably peaceful, and she relaxed slightly.

      “Do you need a drink?” he asked, sliding his suit jacket off.

      “No.”

      “Brandy might help.”

      Nothing would help, she thought, not until she got off the yacht. But she couldn’t say that, and she couldn’t allow him to become suspicious.

      Christos tossed his jacket across the foot of the bed. “Maybe a long hot bath would feel good. I can’t imagine you were allowed such indulgences in the convent.”

      “No, definitely not. Cold showers were de rigueur.”

      He began unfastening the top button on his fine dress shirt. “Think you’ll be comfortable here?”

      Her gaze took in the massive bed with the bolsters and mountain of pillows. Soft silk drapes hung at the French doors. The same ice-blue silk covered a chaise lounge. Her fingertips caressed the silk chaise, the down-filled cushion giving beneath the weight of her hand. Her room at the convent had been so spartan. “Yes.”

      “Good.” He continued unfastening one small button after another, revealing first his throat and then his darkly tanned chest with the crisp curl of hair.

      Alysia sucked in a breath, the glimpse of his chest hair so personal she felt as if she’d invaded his privacy. Yet she found herself turning to watch him again, half-fascinated, half-fearful. Christos appeared utterly at ease as he slipped the shirt from his shoulders, the smooth muscular planes of his chest rippling.