act of pure will.
“My husband will—”
“You have no husband.”
“Oh, my God,” she whimpered, growing still with shock and horror. “What have you done?”
“You know what I mean,” he said grimly.
Her face grew white, her body absolutely motionless.
“Did you—did you hurt him?”
He’d been tempted to do just that, as recently as an hour ago; but killing Växborg, while personally satisfying, would have had negative repercussions. Xerxes could hardly take care of Laetitia from a jail cell. Especially since he could tell no one about their connection after he’d given his word.
“Take me back,” Rose Linden whispered. “And I—I promise I’ll never tell anyone what you did. I promise!”
“You promise?” he said scornfully. “We both know your promise is worthless.”
“How can you say that?” Her voice trembled, choked with tears. “You don’t even know me!”
Manufactured tears, he told himself, created by a cunning little actress. “I know enough,” he replied harshly. “And now you and your lover will both pay—”
But at that, she began to struggle wildly, kicking at him with her high-heeled shoes. Her wide skirts flew over the backseat in waves of white lace and tulle. The driver in front nearly spun off the road as her knee hit the back of the seat. She kicked the window so hard that Xerxes had to grab her ankle to keep her from breaking the glass.
“Stop!” he commanded, using his body to compel her to obey. But to his amazement, though she was so much smaller, even though she had no chance of winning, she continued to fight.
“You bastard! You coward! You criminal!” she panted. “My husband will find you. He’ll stop you. You’ll never get away with this!”
All of her struggling only increased his desire for her. As she writhed beneath him, and he saw the spark of furious challenge in her eyes, the intensity of his need hit him like a wave. But why did she fight him, when it had to be clear that she had no chance of winning—that she’d already lost?
“Be still!” he demanded.
She stopped struggling, staring at him with dark rage, glaring her hatred and defiance. But it sparked a response in him that was even worse than lust. It was the last thing he wanted to feel for her.
A grudging respect.
As the convoy slowed down, he abruptly released her. Ahead in the moonlight, his largest jet was waiting for them on a deserted landing strip. Amid the whirl of softly shimmering snowflakes lifted from the ground by the wind, the runway had been swept clear of snow and looked like a black river, as dark as the sky above.
When Rose saw the jet, her whole body sagged with sudden despair. The SUV stopped, and she turned to him. A single tear streamed slowly down her cheek.
“Don’t do this,” she whispered. “Please…whatever quarrel you have with Lars, don’t force me on that plane. Please, whoever you are—let me go back to the people I love!”
Love. As if this venal woman knew anything about love!
“Let me go back to my husband,” she continued tearfully.
Xerxes’s lip curled. “I told you. You have no husband.”
She gasped, looking terrified.
He stared back at her as the driver opened his door. She knew perfectly well what he meant. It was an act. It had to be!
“I’m begging you,” she whimpered, her blue eyes luminous with the light of unshed tears. “Don’t hurt him!”
Roughly, he grabbed her arm.
“And the reason you have no husband,” he bit out, “is because Lars Växborg already has a wife.”
ROSE went numb with shock. As Xerxes pulled her from the SUV, leading her across the dark tarmac to the waiting plane, she did not resist.
“But he can’t have a wife,” she said numbly, looking up at him with bewildered confusion. “I’m Lars’s wife!”
“The wedding was fake,” he said coldly. “The vows were fake. The minister was fake. And most of all, Miss Linden—” he glanced down at her with glittering dark eyes as they reached the bottom of the steps “—you are fake.”
He pushed her up the stairs into the cabin of the plane, where they were greeted by two flight attendants, the captain and the copilot. Bodyguards poured in behind them before they disappeared into the back of the jet.
The captain gave Xerxes a respectful nod. “We are ready for takeoff at your order, sir.”
A brunette flight attendant took Xerxes’s coat, while the other one, a redhead, greeted him with a silver tray holding drinks. Rose heard the cabin door close behind her with a loud bang.
“Thank you.” Taking a flute of champagne from the tray, Xerxes sat down on a white leather seat in the front cabin of the jet. He turned carelessly back to Rose. “Champagne, Miss Linden? No?”
When Rose just stared at him in shock without replying, Xerxes gave a small, private smile and nodded at the captain. “You may proceed.”
The captain and copilot disappeared to the front of the cabin to complete their takeoff preparations, and the flight attendants left for the back of the plane. Alone with Rose in the front cabin, Xerxes stretched out his arm on the back of the white leather seat. As he took a sip of his champagne, he seemed relaxed. Contented.
Rose stared at the crystal flute in that large, rough hand. Just an hour ago, she herself had been sipping champagne in the gilded ballroom of her husband’s castle at her gorgeous wedding reception. Lars had looked up and smiled at her across the crowd.
Was it possible it had all been a lie?
A crack of pain went through her heart. No. It couldn’t be true. Couldn’t!
“You’re wrong about Lars,” Rose choked out. “He wouldn’t have done this awful thing you’re accusing him of—”
“Bigamy.”
She flinched. “Don’t use that horrible word!”
“You’re right,” he said coolly, finishing off his flute of champagne and setting it down. “It wasn’t bigamy, because his wedding to you was a sham from start to finish.”
“You’re wrong!”
“Did you ever sign any paperwork?”
Rose sucked in her breath as she realized for the first time that she’d never signed any papers. No marriage license. No forms. Nothing.
He watched her. “Växborg hasn’t visited Sweden for years. None of his friends here know about his first marriage. But the minister who conducted your ceremony was an out-of-work actor from Stockholm.”
“No,” she said automatically. But she remembered how the minister had been strangely young and handsome. She’d been so nervous, almost sick, as she stood in the ruined shell of the ancient stone church and waited to speak her vows. She’d shrugged off the minister’s soap-opera-star good looks, deciding all Swedish men must be as blond and handsome as Lars. But was it possible that what Xerxes Novros was telling her held some shred of truth…?
No! Rose shook her head fiercely. “Lars wouldn’t have pursued me if he were already married. He wouldn’t have even noticed me pouring his coffee in San Francisco!”
“He