“I suppose,” he said in amusement. “I don’t really think of what I do as diplomacy, though. Mostly I read people and figure out puzzles.”
“Are you any good at it?” He was right about the wine. It was excellent. Too bad she couldn’t experience the full effect.
“Well, I’d be fired if you were part of my job. You’re not so easy to read.” When she didn’t say anything, he gave a low chuckle. “But you like that I said that, which starts to tell me something after all.”
She lifted her eyes from the wineglass. “Like what?”
His eyes held her once more as he pondered for a few seconds. “That your whole life is—and has been—about different images. What people think you are. What people want you to be. What you want yourself to be. You don’t like people making assumptions about you, but you don’t want to show them the truth either.”
“And what truth is that?” She tried to sound joking but couldn’t quite manage it. His words hit too close to home. Again, he took a long time to answer.
“That you’re sad, for one thing.” He reached out and brushed messy, damp hair from her face. It was a gentle gesture, but it sent a spark of electricity through her. “What does a devastatingly beautiful Nordic woman who can throw grown men around and play piano arrangements of Saint-Saëns have to be sad about?”
Something in Mae tightened, and she suddenly had to fight an overwhelming urge to tell this handsome stranger about everything: her father, Porfirio, the prætorians, the recurring sense of an inexplicable force controlling her…. Instead, she smiled at something he’d said. “You know Saint-Saëns.”
“Of course I know Saint-Saëns.” The tone of his voice implied it would be ludicrous if he didn’t. “You’re trying to dodge answering.”
“Will you answer the same question? Why are you sad?”
Because he was. She hadn’t noticed it right away, not until he’d called her out. He’d been all charisma and wit tonight, and that disarming smile and the rest of his looks had done a good job at keeping her distracted by what was outside rather than within. But she could see it now as he studied her so intently: a melancholy inside him that resonated with her own. She expected him to respond with a quip, but he answered in all seriousness.
“I’m sad because you remind me of home.” He dropped his hand from her and sighed. “Because you’re beautiful and bright and dynamic and a whole lot of other things I haven’t seen for a long time…and won’t see again any time soon.”
Mae rested her hand on his. She felt an ache in her chest for the pain she sensed, even as the touch of his skin on hers again sent heat through her body. They’d barely known each other for two hours, but there was something about this man, who flipped effortlessly between charming and brooding, that drew her in. Mae had been adrift in her own life for the last few months, and being with him was the first steady moment she’d had in a very long time.
And yes, she wasn’t going to lie to herself about the effect he had on her physically. It was more than those dark good looks—not that those weren’t working too. It was his attitude, she decided. It was in the way he looked at her and flirted, with a confidence that was magnetic all on its own. Men like him get that self-assured because they know they’re good in bed, she thought. The chemicals of desire weren’t all that different from the ones that governed battle, and the implant, sensing the change in her, “helpfully” began increasing her body’s response. Maybe it was fitting. Sex and battle were each dangerous in their own ways.
“You’re talking like I’m already gone,” she told him at last.
“You will be,” he said.
“But I’m not.”
Mae leaned forward and found him already moving toward her. Their lips met and parted, and with that one kiss alone, she was lost. She couldn’t fix all of his problems any more than he could fix hers, but as she wrapped her arms around him and let him pull her body against his, she hoped that maybe when the night was done, they’d each have a few less problems weighing them down.
CHAPTER 4
EACH OTHER’S UNDOING
She was a dream made flesh, with a body even more exquisite than the fantasies his mind had conjured earlier. Her skin was alabaster and felt like silk, a soft contrast to the strong muscles he could feel when he ran his hand over one of her long, sleek legs. His athlete assessment hadn’t been far off. She was definitely someone who trained her body hard, but it hadn’t been at the cost of sensuality or femininity. She was still slim and lovely, with curves that he couldn’t keep his hands off of, and blue eyes that flirted with green.
Her hair, dry and unbound now, cascaded around her face like some golden veil, and her beauty made his chest hurt—which made it surprising when she turned off the lights in the bedroom. Someone like her was meant to be gazed upon while making love, worshipped even. But he didn’t question it. He was too lost in the taste of her wine-sweet lips, intoxicated by the scent of sweat and apple blossoms.
He entered her slowly, almost reverently, exulting in the way she felt around him. She was so wet, her body soft and yielding. She arched it up against his, murmuring softly in Finnish, as he began to move more forcefully. He lost himself in her, and everything in the world vanished, except an urgency to drive his body into union with hers. Her nails dug into his back, and then, without warning, she pushed up and rolled him over. Her hips straddled his, and she rode him into ecstatic oblivion, until at last, he couldn’t hold out against the mounting pleasure. He came with a great cry, finding release in that glorious body. Slowly, they both stilled, staying as they were and holding on to the weight of the moment. She was only a dark silhouette in the doorway’s scanty light as she looked down upon him, but for the space of a heartbeat, he could see her crowned in stars and flowers. It left him breathless for an entirely unexpected set of reasons.
Sated, she shifted off of him and curled up at his side. He wrapped an arm around her, drawing her close as both of them breathed raggedly. They lay like that for a long time, and then he reluctantly disentangled himself to go get the wine. At least it gave him the chance to turn the lights back on and take her all in when he returned. There was a faint sheen of sweat on her brow, and her cheeks were flushed from her own climax. Her disheveled hair spilled over his pillow, and he thought she looked more beautiful now than she had primped and polished for the party. She accepted a glass of wine with trembling hands.
He regarded her fondly for long moments, amazed at how she completely undid him. It wasn’t just the stunning looks either. He’d meant what he said: She reminded him of home. That, and she was a tangle of intriguing contradictions. A castal princess. An avenging Valkyrie. That kind of puzzle was what he lived for, a turn-on in and of itself.
From the long, languid smile she gave Justin, he knew he wasn’t the only one captivated here. They were each other’s undoing. “Why does a devastatingly beautiful woman like you have sex with the lights off?” he asked. “I’ve known women who need to do that. You aren’t one of them.”
“I just like it, that’s all.”
He touched her lips gently with his fingertips and had the satisfaction of seeing her shiver with desire. They’d taken their time, but the night was still young. “You really have walls within walls around you, don’t you?” His fingers moved down her neck and then on to trace the curve of one of her breasts. “What are you afraid I’ll see with the lights on?”
“Everything,” she said simply.
“You like to be in control,” he guessed. “And you’re afraid for me—or anyone—to see you lose it. To see your emotions unbound. To see your soul.”