this. She’d surely planned it. But still Sophia remained invisible. It was Andreas who did the serving, disappearing and appearing again like a genie producing his magic.
He was still dressed in full dress uniform, his tunic buttoned high to his throat, his scarlet sash and medals emblazoned on his chest. He’d removed his dress sword but that was his only concession to casual. His high leather boots gleamed like jet-black mirrors. And his tight-fitting pants…There should be a law against them, she thought. For a man to wear such things…For a prince to wear them as he served her…
He was a prince serving his bride. And with food fit for the bride of such a man. Course after course, each small, each tantalizing, each delicious.
He’d made this for her before, she remembered, once when her parents had left them alone together for the evening. ‘I’ll cook,’ he’d said, and she’d scoffed but he’d simply smiled his fabulously sexy smile and made her a soup she’d remembered ever since.
She’d watched him make it. For years after he left she’d tried to make it again, but it had never tasted the same.
It did tonight.
She raised her spoon to her mouth and he was watching every move; a hawk watching his prey, she thought.
‘You like?’ he said and she closed her eyes and savoured the taste of it and the memories and she couldn’t lie.
‘It’s magic. You cooked this for me years ago…’
‘I did,’ he said and smiled. ‘You remembered. I’ll cook it for you again. Whenever you want, my heart.’
She almost choked. She looked across the table and he was smiling at her and she thought of those six condoms and she thought, No, no, no.
‘Leave me alone,’ she managed, sounding virtuous. ‘I need to concentrate.’
‘There’s plenty to concentrate on,’ he agreed gravely. ‘You keep concentrating, my heart, and I’ll keep feeding you.’
So she kept eating. There was no choice-and in truth she had been hungry.
There was no way she was leaving this table hungry. Andreas was already leaving, to return with what came next. Tiny vol au vents, made with flaky, buttery pastry that melted almost as it touched her lips, filled with ingredients she couldn’t identify and didn’t need to-the combination of flavours was just right. Just perfect. Tiny and exquisite.
Then there was a modest medallion of rare fillet beef, served with baby mushrooms and a rich burgundy sauce. There were slivers of young asparagus, oozing butter. A tiny pile of creamy mashed potato. With truffle? Surely not. But, yes, she’d tasted truffle once in the distant past, and here it was again, unmistakable.
They didn’t talk. She couldn’t talk. She was saying a mantra over and over in her head.
Sensible. Sensible. Sensible.
How could she stay sensible? She was achingly aware of his every movement, of every flicker of those dark, dark eyes. He was watching her as she ate, devouring her with his eyes. She should object. She should…
Just eat, she told herself. Just watch him. Maybe even relax a little? Just take every moment of this magic meal as it came. The time for making things clear they were going no further was for later.
The steak was gone, the plates cleared by her prince, her waiter, her husband. He poured her a glass of dessert wine, a botrytis-affected Semillon. To her amazement it was Australian, a winemaker she knew, a wine she’d loved for always.
‘How…?’
‘I remembered,’ he said and smiled. ‘I had Georgiou find this wine. Just for tonight.’
She drank and her resolutions grew hazier. This was only her second glass. She was hardly drunk. She was just…entranced?
Seduced?
No!
But he’d remembered her wine.
And then there were sweets-tiny, bite-sized eclairs oozing with rich, dark chocolate and creamy custard. There were strawberries tasting how strawberries should and never did, but this night how could they help but taste like this? Andreas watched her as she put each red fruit between her lips, and he smiled and they might as well be making love. The candles were flickering, burning to stubs. They were going out, one by one, and the light was fading.
The night was ending.
She was half expecting Sophia to appear, to clear the table, to bid them goodnight, but there was still no one in sight. Just the two of them. She and her husband.
She took her last sip of coffee. ‘I need to go to bed,’ she said, a little unsteadily, and Andreas was behind her, drawing out her chair, helping her to her feet, his hands holding hers with strength and desire and absolute surety of what was to follow.
‘I believe we’ve missed our bridal waltz,’ he whispered into her ear and suddenly it was all she could do not to chuckle.
‘You have some set-up here.’
‘I knew I built it for something. I believe I built it for tonight.’ He was whispering into her ear, his breath warm on her skin, his touch sending heat surging to every part of her body. He deliberately unfastened the top two buttons of his tunic, loosening the garment as a non-royal would shrug off a tie. Then before she could respond, before she could haul her resolutions into line again, he swept her up into his arms and strode to a central panel. Still holding her in his arms, he pushed discreet buttons and on came a waltz, slow and soft and dreamy.
Wordlessly he carried her back to the side of the pool, he set her to her feet, he drew her into his arms and started to dance with her.
This was the most perfect seduction scene. And she was being perfectly seduced.
She should fight. She should push away and leave.
How could she do such a thing when Andreas was holding her in his arms?
So she danced.
With the social ambition of her parents she’d been taught to dance almost before she’d been taught to ride, but it was years since she had. Like riding a horse, though, you never forgot. And she’d never forgotten dancing with Andreas. The first night he’d arrived in Munwannay her parents had put on a dance to welcome him. He’d asked for the waltz, she’d been swept onto the floor-and her life had changed.
Not one thing had changed since then, she thought dazedly. She was falling in love all over again. She was being swept around the floor with her lovely bridal gown looped up and held, the rich folds of silk swaying around her. Andreas’s arms were holding her as if she were the most precious porcelain; as if she was the most desirable woman in the world.
As he was her most desirable man. Her prince.
She was melting into him. Her face was against his breast. His opened tunic meant that her face was brushing his chest. He felt…irresistible. He smelled irresistible. Strong and male and…her husband.
No. This wasn’t sensible. This marriage was for a few weeks only and if something happened…
But she wanted him so badly it was like a searing, physical ache. A void that had
