Page 30 of The Billionaire's Demand

‘I’m having the lamb,’ Leandros was saying now. ‘I recommend it.’

‘Then, yes, the lamb,’ she agreed, setting aside the menu and agreeing, too, to his recommendation of a salmon and seafood first course.

He was back to being civil to her—no more cutting remarks likening her to Manon. She was glad of it, but she knew now that the pain it caused her did not matter any longer. His bitterness against her was as justified as ever—how could it not be?—but she knew she could not change that. Accepted that she could not. It was only she who had changed, not him, with her new self-knowledge, her new self-awareness. She was no longer confused, or denying, or conflicted. Only clear and certain.

As they dined, they made conversation, as they had that afternoon. Careful, yes, and civil, about neutral matters—the sights of Paris, what was of interest, history and art. Yet all the time she was aware of his eyes lingering on her as he reached for his wine, as he set aside his plate. He did not make it obvious, but it was there all the time.

She welcomed it.

Welcomed, too, her own answering response, knowing how much she wanted to let her gaze rest on him, glory in him...rejoice in what she knew he wanted of her...

Even though it could never match all that she wanted of him...

A sliver of a needle slid under her skin, but she accepted the pain. Leandros would not—could not—think differently about her. He desired her—and despised her. He had brought her here to Paris for the reason he had told her. That would not change. Only she had changed.

I told myself I owed it to him, that I could assuage my guilt at what I did to him by acceding to what he wants of me. That that was all I wanted. But I deceived myself—that was not all.

But now there was no more self-deception, no more denial. Not any more. Now, as his gaze lingered on her, she knew—with every passing moment, with every lingering glance exchanged between them, with her newfound clarity and certainty and acceptance, with all that was flowing within her, lifting her, changing her, quickening her—what tonight would bring.

For Leandros—and herself.

CHAPTER EIGHT

LEANDROS TOOK A slow mouthful of the cognac he’d poured for himself and taken into his bedroom. On their return to their suite, Eliana had made a point of murmuring goodnight to him and disappearing into her own room. Leandros had watched her go, wondering whether to stay her. His mood was strange—but then so was hers.

She seemed...different. He wasn’t sure how, only that she was. Since the curtain had fallen at the opera she had been different. Over dinner—different. In the car on the way back to the hotel—different. But he didn’t know how, or why.

What he did know, as he took another mouthful of the fiery liquid, was that all evening it had become increasingly impossible to take his eyes from her. Even now he could feel heat beating up in his body, filling him with a restlessness that he knew could be assuaged in only one way.

Should he respond to it? Go to her room? Fulfil the reason he had brought her here to Paris with him? Why should he not? She’d agreed to it, gone along with it, so why should he feel this reluctance now?

He swirled the cognac slowly in its glass. His body was telling him—increasingly so—that now was the hour. Her beauty, so breathtakingly displayed in that ice-blue evening gown, had been inflaming him all evening. Yet his own scathing words to her the previous night, spoken right here in this room, saying that he wanted no sacrificial martyr in his bed, that he wanted her as eager for him as he was for her, were sounding in his mind.

But there was no sign of that. Not tonight. His mouth twisted a moment. Maybe he should stop jibing at her, cutting at her to relieve his own bitterness, indulging in his accusations of her. He’d made an effort over dinner, keeping conversation civil, even though sometimes it had been an effort. His mouth twisted again. Not for that reason, but because his eyes had kept going to her, distracting his attention.

He had known his blood was quickening... And it was doing so again now. Tormentingly so.

He knocked back the rest of his cognac, knowing he was doing a disservice to its XXO status.

Maybe he should consider a shower—that might take his mind off where it wanted to go.

He set the empty cognac glass down on the antique mahogany chest of drawers with a click, reaching up to rid himself of his bow tie, loosen his collar.

Restlessness was possessing him again.

And he knew why.

Carefully, Eliana cleansed her face of make-up, taking trouble to do so, making full use of the generously supplied toiletries in her en suite bathroom, then she washed her face with scented soap, patting it dry gently with a soft towel.

She gazed at her reflection, eyes wide and clear.

I told myself I came to Paris because I owed it to Leandros—because I saw it as a way of finally getting closure for myself.

But she knew that now for the self-deception it had always been. She knew the truth now—had seen it, felt it, faced it as Puccini’s heartbreaking music had soared all around her, revealing to her the truth she had been hiding from, denying.

Her hands lifted to her head, removing the pins one by one from her hair, so that it started to fall in luxuriant tresses to her shoulders. She shook it out, cascading down her back in soft, silken folds that framed her face, then reached to the bodice of her gown from which she now removed the two safety pins. Immediately, the drapery dipped across her breasts, exposing her cleavage, the soft swell of her breasts.

She gazed once more at her reflection.

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