The plea was automatic, urgent. If anything happened to Markos she would die.
As she watched with bated breath, him drawing closer to her, she found herself wondering yet again how it was that this extraordinary miracle had occurred.
How could she ever have thought, the morning she went out to explore Paris for the very first time, that her life would change for ever on that very day? She had not known it—not that first day, nor any of the magical days that followed—until that wondrous fairytale night when he had swept her away and made her his.
And then she had known, completely and utterly, with a certainty that had flooded through her, consuming her and possessing her and overwhelming her.
She was in love.
In love with the most wonderful man in the world.
She had never been in love before. How could she have? She had lived at home, quietly and sedately, occasionally going out with young men she worked with, or friends of friends—men who were safe, that her grandparents had felt her to be safe with. She had experienced some kisses, nothing more. Nothing to make her want more, nothing to melt her like ice in a searing flame the way Markos’s kisses melted her, the way his touch inflamed her, the way his eyes caressed her, his arms held her, his body possessed her.
She felt weakness flooding through her just thinking of him. And wonder—above all, wonder.
He chose me—from all the women he could choose from, he chose me!
Every day, every night, the miracle that that choice had brought about for her consumed her. She had been chosen by the man she adored.
She still could not really understand why. Now that she knew his lifestyle, where he could have anything and anyone he wanted, it made it all the more miraculous that he was so content with her.
And she was content just to be with him. Wanting nothing else. The past had ceased to exist, and the future too. Nothing existed for her except the perpetual now of being with Markos, only with Markos. Going where he went, doing what he wanted, being what he wanted.
Nothing else existed.
Only Markos—and his wanting her, and her loving him so much, so very much…
He filled her world.
And it was enough—oh, more than enough. It was everything to her.
He slewed to a snow-spraying halt in front of her, jabbing his ski poles deep into the snow and lifting his visor. His eyes went to her immediately.
‘Did you think I’d kill myself?’ he asked, a grin dazzling in his face.
Numbly she nodded, sick with relief that he had made his descent of the black run safely.
He gave a laugh for answer. ‘You’ll be doing black runs yourself soon,’ he told her, removing his helmet and shaking out his dark hair.
Vanessa paled.
‘Oh, no, I couldn’t—really.’
He laughed again, handing his helmet across to Taki, who had stepped forward to take it.
‘How was your lesson?’
She made a face. ‘Poor Christian was very polite, but he knows I’m useless.’
Markos’s dark eyes glinted. ‘Would you prefer another instructor?’
Vanessa looked rueful. ‘It’s not the teacher that’s the problem—it’s the pupil, I’m afraid.’
The laugh came again, as Markos stooped to unlatch his skis and step free. He left them where they were for Taki to sort out, and wrapped an arm around Vanessa’s shoulder.
‘Perhaps I should give you personal lessons.’ His head bent lower. ‘After all, I’ve been a good teacher in other respects, no?’
There was a huskiness in his voice that brought colour flaring out along her cheeks. The sight of it never failed to amuse Markos. Though she had been with him for five months, she could still be astonishingly reserved. Even a casual comment like this, reminding her of how much he had taught her about sexual pleasure, could bring it on. Not that he objected. It was one of the reasons she still continued to have such intense charms for him—the novelty of having a mistress who was so entirely unlike any other had still not yet worn off.