‘No. I meant I wasn’t going to share your bed. Where am I going to sleep?’
‘There’s plenty of room here. You can trust me.’
She looked again at that enormous piece of furniture. With him all bronzed perfection like a god, at its centre. ‘I’m not—’
‘So you can’t trust yourself?’
He smiled. And this smile wasn’t predatory or wolf-like. His face lit up with warmth in his lips, dancing eyes. It made her all tight and shivery, as if she was about to burst from her skin.
‘I need my own room.’
‘If you move to your own room when we’re newly married we’ll be exposed.’
And then it dawned on her what she had really agreed to. She’d not been concentrating as they’d talked, and Christo had outplayed her. Still, there was a possibility of rectifying the situation...
Thea waved at the sitting room area. ‘A gentleman would take the couch.’
Christo sat up and skewered her with a fierce, hot glare. ‘When I married you today I assumed it would be real enough. Arranged? Yes. Unwelcome? Absolutely. But real, nonetheless. That means sleeping in my bed, with my wife. None of this arrangement means I’ll be relegated to the couch. If you want it, it’s yours.’
He flopped back down onto the covers, with his arms behind his head.
Infuriating man.
Thea peeled away her leather jacket. Tore off her boots. She stormed into the still humid en suite bathroom, removed her top and battled with her corset, breathing a sigh as the laces were released. She cast it into a corner, slipped on her black top again and pulled the pins from her hair. They scattered on the benchtop as she raked her hands through it to untangle the braiding. She wiped off her make-up.
All right, she’d play his little game. For now. But what was she going to wear to sleep? The maids had packed her an exotic trousseau, with a variety of the skimpy nightwear her father’s latest mistress deemed she required to entertain ‘a man like Christo Callas’.
The horror of that woman taking her ‘under her wing’, barely older than herself... Thea shuddered.
Tonight she’d sleep in her clothes, and work out the rest in the morning.
Thea marched back into the room and settled on the couch, making a show of fluffing the cushions. She needn’t have. They were soft as down. In a final act of defiance, she bashed a decorative pillow into submission under her head.
Christo chuckled. ‘Sleep well, Thea.’
The lights flicked off and the room was plunged into darkness. As Thea lay there she heard Christo shift on the bed. She imagined the crisp drag of cool sheets over his semi-naked body.
‘I will,’ she said sweetly as the intoxicating vision rolled through her head.
She curled onto her side. And as she sank into the plump cushions the adrenalin leached away to be replaced by leaden exhaustion.
Before she fell asleep, she muttered, ‘Once I overcome my dreams of smothering you in your bed...’
CHAPTER FOUR
CHRISTO ROSE AS dawn bled pale yellow through the window of his bedroom. Thea hadn’t stirred. He walked past the infernal couch she’d made her bed for the past three nights. Three long nights. Her resolve was commendable, but his was rapidly shredding.
When he’d struck their agreement, he hadn’t really considered the implications of having her so close. Every movement she made as she slept, each muffled sigh in the darkness, and he woke. He was at risk of getting no rest so long as she stayed in the room with him. And what she wore... Her nights were spent clothed in an alluring array of silk and lace which clung to her delectable body and set his on high alert.
This morning Thea lay in luxurious blue satin, split to her thigh. As she sprawled the gown parted, to reveal long, slender legs. He craved to stroke her golden skin, to wake her with gentle caresses. To hear her breathy murmurs of surprise as he coaxed her into consciousness. In his imaginings she welcomed him with a sultry smile and open arms...
He shook his head, took a slow breath. Clenched his fists, reining in the desire to touch. Madness lay at the end of these current thoughts. Their marriage was a business relationship. Nothing more. Anyhow, Thea didn’t want him. She never would.
Christo threw himself under a cold shower to douse the fever of Thea raging through his blood. The needles of icy water shocked some sense into him. Once dressed, he made his way to the terrace overlooking a glittering lap pool. He ignored the breakfast of pastry, fruit and meats adorning the table. Of greater interest was the report Raul’s security firm had prepared on Thea’s movements in the months before their marriage.
He’d commissioned the work with only a fleeting pang of guilt. Tito Lambros couldn’t be trusted, and Christo had wanted to know exactly who he was marrying before sliding a ring on Thea’s finger. He’d glanced at the document before their official engagement. Uninteresting reports of her having coffee with her best friend, shopping, the occasional nightclub. Always overseen by bodyguards. Nothing to alert anyone to the suspicion that Thea was anything other than the dutiful, obedient, innocent daughter her father described.
Christo yawned. He sipped his bitter black coffee and turned to the photographs. Grainy, night-time pictures. He hadn’t studied them before the wedding, preferring to rely on the certainty of printed words. Had he chanced a look he’d have noticed immediately. Thea and Elena swapped clothes. Hairstyles. In a darkened venue people wouldn’t notice the difference.
Thea was right. She hid in plain sight.
The click of heels on the tiled terrace alerted him to her approach. He slid the report into his briefcase and threw back the dregs of his coffee. She sauntered to the table in low-slung jeans and a heavy studded belt. A sheer, jewel-coloured top flowed
