no. If Alex had made love to her—Correction. If they’d had sex, she’d remember. Besides, except for her jacket and boots, she was still dressed in the ratty outfit she’d worn last night.
Somehow, the thought that she’d slept between silk sheets and beneath what was probably a cashmere blanket dressed like this made her want to laugh.
God, she was coming apart! Aches where she’d never had aches. Laughter that could just as easily turn to tears. Nausea when she least expected it. Joaquin was right. She’d been working too hard. Stress could do terrible things.
She rose to her feet. There was a stall shower. A big terrycloth robe hanging from a hook. Shampoo and soap and—
And Alex, just outside the bedroom door.
How was she going to face him? What was she going to say? Could she ask him if he’d slept with her? Well, not with her. In the same bed. Not that it mattered. He had the right. Hadn’t she agreed to share his bed, and not just for sleep?
It was a miracle he hadn’t held her to that unspoken agreement already, but then a woman who tossed her cookies at a man’s feet wasn’t exactly a turn-on. Not that she wanted to turn him on. Not that she wanted him to undress her, touch her, carry her to his bed and do more, much more than sleep next to her…
Someone knocked at the door. The knob rattled. Maria swung around and stared as if it were a live thing about to launch an attack.
“Ms. Santos?” A woman’s voice. “Ms. Santos?”
She took a deep breath. “Yes?”
The door opened. A pleasant-faced woman of about fifty smiled at her.
“Good morning, Ms. Santos. I’m Thalia. The stewardess. The prince asked me to tell you we’ll be landing in a couple of hours. He asks that you join him for breakfast.”
Maria felt her face heat. “Thank you.”
“I’ve left your bag at the foot of the bed.”
Could her cheeks get any hotter? “Fine. Thank you again.”
Thalia smiled, stepped out of the room and shut the door behind her. Maria flew to it and turned the lock.
How could she face anyone? She’d all but died of humiliation just now and there were other people to deal with. The pilot. A co-pilot. Half the kingdom of Aristo, for all she knew. So what? the logical part of her said. Common sense assured her that Prince Alexandros had a long tradition of having women travel with him and share his bed.
The knowledge would come as no shock to anyone.
Yes, but it came as a shock to her. She had never been a mistress before.
The fact was, she had never been with a man before that night two months ago. Not that His Royal Arrogance would believe it if she told him. Not that she would tell him. Her humiliation was already devastating enough. Why make it worse? Far better to let him think that she was as experienced as he obviously believed.
Why hadn’t she thought of that sooner?
Maria stripped off her clothes and stepped into the shower.
Alex had called her a liar. She wasn’t, but she could carry things off when she had to. Hadn’t she prepped for the interview at FIT without letting her mother know? And then there’d been the interview itself, when she’d sat in a waiting room like an ugly duckling lost in a bevy of swans. And years later, after she’d won the Caligari prize and approached a buyer at a posh Fifth Avenue store with a small box filled with earrings of her own design…
Oh yes, she thought as she tilted her face up to the spray, yes, she could do this. Pretend that being his sex toy for a month meant nothing. Not a problem.
Not at all.
Where in blazes was Maria?
Alex had awakened hours ago. Awakened? His mouth twisted. He had not really slept. How could a man sleep with a woman curled against him, her breath warm and light against his throat, her hand on his chest? Maria had curved her body into his as if she’d belonged there. He’d told himself it didn’t affect him and it hadn’t…
For about thirty seconds.
Then, he’d gone into a full state of arousal.
He’d imagined rolling her onto her back. Undressing her. Caressing her. Imagined her waking slowly as she felt his hands and mouth moving gently on her flesh.
“Alexandros?” she’d have whispered, as she had that night they’d spent together, as she had just a little while ago, when he’d put her to bed, and he’d have said, Yes, it’s Alexandros. Say my name again, Maria. Touch me with your cool hands. Open your mouth so I can taste your sweetness …
That was when he’d shot from the bed.
A cold shower. A change of clothes. Then he’d left the room without a backward glance because he hadn’t trusted himself. He’d waited weeks for this. He wasn’t going to take her now, when she was exhausted and sick and only half aware of him.
He wanted her wide awake when he possessed her, wanted her eyes on his as he took what she had only pretended to give him that first time.
His flight crew, of course, had asked no questions, nor had Thalia when he’d told her to inform his guest that they’d be landing soon.
“Is Ms. Santos awake?” he’d asked brusquely, when Thalia brought him coffee.
“Yessir. I gave her your message.”
Alex looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes had gone by. What was taking her so long? Did she think she could stay locked in the bedroom? That she could put off what would happen next?
The hell she could.
They’d land soon, his car would be waiting. He would drive to his apartment in Ellos and take her to his bed.
He looked at his watch again. He was weary of playing her games. He put down his coffee cup. Blotted his lips with a linen napkin. There was still time to assert his possession now…
The door at the rear of the cabin opened. Maria stood framed within it; her eyes met his. He saw her take a breath and then she started toward him. The ugly sweats and boots had been replaced by a pale gray long-sleeved sweater that fell to her hips, black tights and pale gray ankle boots. Her hair, still damp, tumbled around her shoulders.
His gut tightened. By God, she was beautiful. And composed.
He had not expected that. The fact was, he wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Tears, maybe. Pleas that he send her home. He’d judged wrong. The look on her face was a study in self-assurance.
“Good morning,” he said, and rose to his feet. He gestured to the chair opposite his. She took it, plucked the napkin from under the heavy silverware and spread it in her lap. “How do you feel?”
“I’m fine. I’m sorry about last night—”
“That you slept curled in my arms?”
“That I got sick,” she said quickly, but the tiniest bit of color crept into her face.
So. Perhaps she wasn’t as self-confident as she appeared.
“I’m just happy a night’s sleep helped. I tried not to disturb you when I left the bed,” he said, pouring coffee for her. He glanced at her, to see what effect his deliberate use of the word ‘bed’ had made. None. None at all. Her expression was impersonal again. “You were curled so tightly in my arms that I had to disentangle us.”
There it was again. That little rush of color. She shot him a look, then buried it in a sip of coffee. She swallowed, looked up. The tip of her tongue peeped out; she swiped it over her lips. To his annoyance, he felt his body stir.
“I was sure I’d wake you when I took my arm out from around your shoulders.”
She