He was staring into the fire, the firelight licking at his hard profile and highlighting his body in red and shadowed detail. She thought that he managed to look both relaxed yet alert to danger—like a jungle cat which had momentarily ceased its relentless prowling. He represented all the things she inherently shied away from and yet Bianca was aware that her feelings towards him were changing. Was that because he had taken command of them both in a life-threatening situation and somehow made her feel secure?
She wasn’t used to a man making decisions on her behalf yet, disturbingly, she was finding she rather liked it. His imperturbable manner was almost as attractive as his undeniable good looks, and she was rapidly becoming aware that Xanthos Antoniou was the kind of man who could burrow underneath her defences. Was that what was happening to her? Was that why all she could think about was wanting totouchhim—to run her fingertips over that hard body in a slow and very thorough exploration? She wanted to break the rule of a lifetime. To find out if he could possibly feel as good as he looked. To discover whether his skin reallywaslike silk, or the honed ridges of muscle as rock-like as they seemed.
And she had to call a halt to what was nothing but madness. She had to change the dynamic between them, as of now. To move from infatuation to impartiality.
But how? Her flippancy and stonewalling of earlier hadn’t worked, had they? If anything it had only increased the spiralling tension between them. It had created a dialogue which bordered on flirtation. So try something different. Pretend he’s a colleague you’ve met at some out-of-town conference. Pretend he’s got a wife and two children waiting for him at home. Do that chatty, superficial thing—knowing that once this is over, you need never see one another again. Leaning back in the battered armchair, she tucked up her legs beneath her, and slanted him a companionable smile. ‘Well, I must say, this is the last place I ever imagined spending Christmas.’
He lifted his arms above his head to give a slow stretch and Bianca found herself thinking that none of her work colleagues had ever displayed a physique as achingly muscular as his.
‘Ditto,’ he growled.
She cleared her throat. ‘What are you supposed to be doing for the holidays?’
Dark eyebrows were elevated. ‘Do you really want to know?’
Bianca felt an unexpected flutter of nerves. ‘Of course,’ she affirmed brightly. ‘And after all, what else are we going to talk about? The likelihood of anyone ever finding us? The rapidly plummeting temperature outside?’
Or the most pressing question of all, Xanthos thought grimly. Which was, where the hell were they going to sleep? And how was that going to happen when his groin felt so heavy that he could barely move? He sighed. Better to humour her, he supposed—while remaining as detached as possible. Which meant ignoring the shapely legs she’d just crossed, sending a battery of erotic thoughts fizzing to his starved senses. Maybe the boredom of making small talk would help him forget how much he wanted to kiss her. ‘I was intending to catch up with some friends in Geneva for a short skiing break. I’m supposed to be meeting them on Christmas Eve.’
‘That’s tomorrow.’
‘I know when it is, Bianca.’
‘Do you think they’ll miss you?’
He thought about Kiki—the supermodel he’d met briefly in Monaco last summer, who had been chasing down a meeting with him ever since. She would certainly miss him. But disconcertingly, he wasn’t the least bit disappointed at passing up on what could have been a delicious booty call, not even when he thought about the model’s traffic-stopping long legs and her stunning blonde beauty, which had graced the covers of so many magazines. Was that because, in the here and now, the voluptuous frame of the petite Bianca curled up in the armchair opposite was a far more tantalising prospect?
‘I’m pretty sure they will,’ he said wryly. ‘But since I’m hoping we might be rescued before that happens, I might still make the slopes for Christmas morning.’ He forced himself to enquire about her own plans, reminding himself that women liked to talk about themselves, which would curtail the inevitable questions she might ask him. Because he didn’t like answering questions. He preferred enigma to openness.More importantly, he didn’t want her to know who he really was.He had no desire to open that particular can of worms.
His mouth twisted. The truth of his conception had sickened him—coating his already difficult past with yet another unsavoury layer. He had thought it might be possible to overcome it, wondering if Corso’s persuasive words were true and that maybe they could form some kind of relationship. But deep in his heart he knew that was never going to happen. He should never have gone to the wedding. Should never have agreed to see his brother again. He had felt like a fish out of water. He didn’t need Corso. He didn’t need anyone.
‘What about your own plans?’ he asked.
‘Oh, very quiet. Just me. Well, I had a couple of invitations from friends to spend the day with them, but you know what it’s like...’ She shrugged. ‘I’m not really a big fan of the holiday.’
‘You don’t like Christmas?’
‘Well, that’s going a bit far. It’s just never really meant very much to me. Not like it does to other people. It’s mostly about family, isn’t it?’
‘But you have your sister. And your mother was at the wedding, wasn’t she?’
‘Yes, with my aunt. They’re both staying on at the palace to be waited on hand and foot, while Rosie and Corso are on honeymoon. They wanted me to join them, but I said no.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Because the idea didn’t appeal to you?’
Bianca stared briefly into the golden-red heart of the fire, wondering if he was actually interested in her answer or whether, like her, he was simply going through the motions of conversation. The latter, she suspected. But surely it was safer to concentrate on the subject of Christmas, rather than on her hardening nipples, which were thankfully hidden by her overcoat. ‘Not really,’ she admitted. ‘I used to spend the holidays in Monterosso when I was growing up and—well, so much has changed. I never particularly enjoyed my Christmases there. They always seemed to be about the royal family and nobody else. And I didn’t want...’ She hesitated. ‘I had no desire to go back there.’
‘No. I can understand that. Connecting with the past is often difficult.’
It was an observation she wasn’t expecting him to make and although she wanted to know more about what had made him say it, something told Bianca to hold the growing silence, to lethimbe the one to break it.
‘What was it like as a child in Monterosso?’ he questioned at last. ‘Did you spend Christmas with Corso and his family?’
‘Gosh, no, nothing like that,’ she said slowly. ‘Our worlds were miles apart. Inevitably. He was the Crown Prince, and although my father might have been the palace archivist, essentially, he was still a servant. And the late King was a stickler for protocol.’
‘Was he?’ he questioned, and Bianca realised that his voice had grown very harsh. ‘Was he really?’
‘Oh, yes. He was very particular about everyone knowing their place. All the cooks and butlers and maids used to be working round the clock for days leading up to the holiday.’ She hesitated as her mind took her back. ‘But he used to throw a party for all the palace staff at lunchtime on Christmas Eve. It was all very old-fashioned. And afterwards we would all gather round the tree and be given our presents from the King.’ She remembered how much she’d hated that sense of being an inferior. The sense of being a recipient of the King’s patronage and having to be excessivelygratefulfor everything which came her way. Hadn’t it been that which had spurred her on to work so hard at school and forge for herself her own career, knowing that financial and emotional independence were more important to her than anything?