Page 66 of Bedding his Innocent Mistress

“And you want me.” It was a statement of wonder and doubt. The lust coursing through her veins was obviously mutual. Only she knew her own cravings had little to do with this man – as gorgeous as he was – and everything to do with a life-or-death obligation to remove her husband from her body.

Jordan was the only man she’d ever slept with and that fact infuriated her now. They had been each other’s first and only lovers. Or so she had stupidly believed.

He dipped his head in concession.

“When?” She reached down and captured his hand in hers; her eyes locked to his as she lifted his finger to her lips and sucked on the end of it. Her mouth was warm and soft. It was his turn to feel the inside of his stomach roll with the promise of what she was offering.

“As soon as this damned plane lands,” he growled, though mentally he factored in how long it would take for the alcohol to leave her system and for her to sleep off the largest hangover in history.

“Not good enough,” she complained petulantly. “There must be somewhere …”

He laughed softly. Her need was an aphrodisiac. He appreciated her sexual appetite; it matched his, which was rare.

He knew instinctively that, until she was safely in his home, he ran the risk of losing her. And he couldn’t let that happen. So he lifted his scotch to his lips and sipped it.

With the alcohol swirling in his mouth, he bent his dark head forward and took possession of her lips.

Despite the tenor of their conversation, it had caught her off guard. She gasped; her lips opened and he trickled the alcohol into her mouth. His tongue lashed against hers and the kiss was so intense that droplets of the amber liquid ran out of the sides of her mouth down her neck.

Saphire didn’t notice. His kiss was heroin and cocaine and its effect was instantaneous. Fire moved through her body, flaring in her womanhood. She was slick with need and burning up suddenly. She was going to do this. She was going to sleep with this man and then she was going to hang it over her idiot husband’s head.

“I have a perfectly good bed in Greece,” he promised seductively. “And you will be joining me in it soon enough.”

By the time the plane had landed, Saphire was almost catatonic with arousal. He linked fingers with hers and guided her off the flight; they were the first to leave. Saphire still felt completely fuzzy around the edges, so she was pleased for his strong arm for support.

Customs passed in a blur. Somehow she managed to behave as though she were the sensible twenty six year old woman most people believed her to be. But her body knew differently.

“Do you have a bag?”

She shook her head. She’d had no time t

o pack one. “I was going to pick up what I needed here.”

He nodded. A man appeared with a suitcase and Mr Konstanides nodded at him. God, Saphire didn’t even know his first name! She was going to sleep with this man – she was aching to sleep with him, in fact – and she knew nothing about him.

“What should I call you?” She asked, as they powered through the airport with an air of sensual urgency.

“I don’t much care,” he said honestly. He bundled her into a waiting black car. To her surprise, he took the position beside her, and the man who’d joined them seated himself at the wheel.

She wanted Mr Konstanides with the strength of a thousand suns and yet the scotch had enervated her. She felt her eyes getting heavier and heavier as the car cut through Athens. By the time they reached the marina, she had fallen asleep. Her head was heavy against his shoulder.

“Where are we?” She mumbled, as he lifted her from the vehicle and held her against his broad chest.

“Almost there.”

The words, short and clipped, reassured her. She sighed and let her eyes drift closed again.

His speedboat made short work of the journey to l’isola ouranos. He watched her the whole time.

In his experience, the women who hit the liquor bottles hard and decided to try their luck with one of the wealthiest eligible bachelors in Europe were all a certain type. Beautiful like Saphire Arana – he had seen her name when she’d flashed it unsteadily at the passport control – but without her vulnerability. It was that softness and sweetness that spoke to him. It was her obvious innocence that set his blood raging in his body.

Thaddeus Konstanides was a strong man. He ran eight miles every morning. He’d had a weights room installed next to his office so that he could break up the sedentary obligations of his corporate requirements with a burning workout whenever he sought it.

And he made love often, and with athleticism and strength.

He lifted Saphire as though she weighed no more than a child and stepped smoothly off the luxury craft. It was his private pontoon and his mansion was at the edge of the garden. He strode over the grass quickly.

Saphire stirred a little and had a brief impression of the most beautiful hotel she’d ever seen. Huge, with rustling palm trees in the foreground and a soft golden glow from within. But her eyes felt like they were weighted with cement and again she dipped back into slumber.

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