Page 43 of Reclaimed By His Billion-Dollar Ring

She felt Nikos’s gaze narrow assessingly. She made her expression relax. ‘Some more may occur to me, but for now that’s it. After all...’ she looked at him straight ‘...right now we’re only talking about an engagement. Nothing is fixed until we marry and you sign whatever paperwork my father has had drawn up for you.’

He sat back, lifting his martini glass, eyes resting on her. ‘Thinking of jilting me at the altar?’ he said casually.

Was there humour in his voice? Baiting? Teasing, even?

She wouldn’t rise to it. She was feeling a sense of relief—a reaction to the tension that had gripped her since he’d walked up to the table—and now the effect of his physical presence was there again, impacting her, overwhelming her, making her blood kick, her breath quicken...mixing memory and desire...

No!

Slamming down on that oh-so-dangerous word, she said instead, ‘No altar, Nikos. A civil wedding only.’

He frowned. ‘Won’t your father want the full works?’

‘Let’s keep this simple, Nikos,’ she said.

Her voice was low. She felt the tremble in it. A tremble she didn’t want. Her eyes dropped to the tablecloth.

Suddenly, she felt her arm being touched. The briefest gesture on her bare forearm.

‘Calanthe...’ she heard him say. His voice was soft. Almost tender.

She looked up, blinking. He was gazing at her—openly so. She couldn’t bear it...but she could not look away.

‘You will not regret this,’ he said. ‘I have rushed you, I know, because of your father’s illness. But even if I cannot woo you properly before our wedding, I will woo you after.’

His smile was a caress, a promise...

She felt colour beat up in her—and heat. His eyes, so dark, so drowning, were telling her how beautiful he found her, how desirable, how he could not resist her...

Nor could she resist him.

She heard herself speak. A mere breath of air. Saying his name. ‘Nikos...’ A sigh, an exhalation.

Heat flushed her body, filling it with longing, with desire. He took her hand, cradled it in his. His eyes didn’t leave her. He turned her hand over in his and then, the tender skin of her inner wrist exposed, drew it to his mouth. Grazed its silken surface with his lips. Weakness drowned through her...

‘Mademoiselle...’

It was the waiter, arriving with their first courses.

She yanked her hand away, cheeks burning. Nikos gave a low laugh, leaning back as the waiter deposited his assiette, having bestowed Calanthe’s upon her.

‘Is there anything else?’ the waiter asked politely.

Nikos glanced up at him. ‘A glass of champagne for each of us,’ he announced.

As the waiter murmured his assent, Nikos’s glance turned to Calanthe. ‘To celebrate,’ he said.

The waiter glided away, and Nikos reached inside his jacket, drawing out a small, distinctive box, flicking it open.

‘And not just with champagne,’ he murmured. His gaze rested on her, sending a message to her, along with the contents of the box. A message it was impossible for her to deny—though it made her own gaze veil, her throat tighten suddenly.

Calanthe’s eyes dropped to the ring he was placing in front of her. The diamond solitaire—worth a fortune, she knew—glittered at her, its message clear. Nikos, staking his claim to her.

Re-claiming her, after eight long years...

And never, never, had it rung so bitter.

So achingly hollow...

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