The Snow Bride. Anne McAllisterЧитать онлайн книгу.
in time to see the castle disappear behind her. Her family, her new husband, everything that was rational and civilized and known—gone.
With a choked gasp, Rose looked at the madman beside her, the dark stranger who’d just stolen her away from everyone she loved. “You kidnapped me,” she whispered. “From my own wedding reception.”
The man stared back at her with dead eyes. His jaw clenched.
She moved away from him to the edge of her seat, her body pressing against the far door, her white tulle skirts spread all around her. “What do you want with me? Why have you taken me?”
The man’s lips curved into a sinister smile as he leaned against the seat. His dark eyes bored into her soul with malevolence and dislike.
Then he reached for her. For a single moment she thought he meant to strike her, so she flinched, closing her eyes. Instead, she felt the tiara and veil ripped from her hair.
Her eyes flew open and she saw his window rolling down as he gripped her diamond tiara and the white gauzy veil in one hand.
“What are you doing?” she gasped.
He didn’t reply. He just flung the tiara and veil out onto the road. The window slid noiselessly back up.
Rose stared out the back window. For an instant, she saw the diamonds sparkle and ghostly white veil wave across the snow behind them like a flag of surrender in a sliver of moonlight.
Then the SUV turned a corner, and it was gone.
Rose turned back, shaking in new fury. “How dare you?”
“It was a fake,” the man replied coldly.
“It’s a priceless heirloom. It has belonged to my husband’s family for generations—”
“Fake,” he cut her off. He turned away, adding in a low voice, “As fake as your so-called marriage.”
“What?” she whispered.
“You heard me.”
“You’re mad.”
For a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer that, either. Then his jaw twitched. “You know your marriage is fake. Just as you know who I am.”
“I don’t!”
“My name is Xerxes Novros,” he bit out, watching her.
Xerxes Novros.
She’d heard Lars shouting out the name in a rage in a Swedish diatribe to his assistants and bodyguards. Now her husband’s apparent enemy had kidnapped her.
Xerxes Novros.
Rose suddenly couldn’t breathe. That name meant this wasn’t a mistake. This wasn’t a dream. She’d been kidnapped by her husband’s enemy. And from what she’d seen, he was a remorseless, vicious villain with a heart of ice.
“What are you going to do with me?” she whispered.
Xerxes gave her a chilling smile. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
She didn’t believe him for an instant. She had to get out of here, before he tossed her out the window next! She grabbed at her door handle, but it was locked.
Grimly, he shackled her wrists with his hands, pushing her back against the seat, his body crushing hers. “You cannot escape.”
“Help!” she screamed, though she knew it was hopeless. “Somebody help me!”
“No help is coming for you, Rose Linden.” He looked down at her with hatred in his black eyes. “You…are mine.”
HE HADN’T expected her to be so beautiful.
As the SUV flew down the road through the snowy night, Xerxes Novros stared down at the petite blonde beneath him, her slender wrists shackled in his hands. The instant she’d tried to escape, he’d instinctively covered her with his body, pressing her into the soft leather of the backseat.
Xerxes could hear the soft pleading pant of her breath, smell the scent of fresh linen and tea roses that clung to her skin. Her every gasp lifted her full breasts higher above the tightly corseted satin bodice, until he thought the fabric could not contain her for much longer.
His body tightened, and he forced himself to look away.
He wasn’t supposed to want Rose Linden. Despise her, yes. Use her? Certainly.
So how to explain this sudden rush of desire?
Xerxes generally had one requirement before he bedded a woman: he had to want her. That was it. He had no interest in learning about her character, her so-called soul. What would be the purpose of such an ex-ercise? He’d be done with her by morning.
It wasn’t as if his mistresses were innocent virgins. They could take care of themselves. They had agendas of their own, usually lusting for his body, his money, his power or all three. Anyone could be bought, he knew. Everyone had a price.
But wanting this particular woman was a new low, even for him. Rose Linden was amoral and mercenary, devious and ruthless and cunning. He’d known that, but somehow, he hadn’t expected her to be so beautiful. Now, he could almost understand why Lars Växborg had risked so much to take her as his pretend wife.
Any man would want to possess a woman like this.
She looked up at him, still panting, her eyes flashing. Her honey-blond hair had tumbled loose from the elegantly smooth chignon when he’d ripped the tiara off her head. Long blond tendrils now fell against her heart-shaped face, against skin like cream, smooth and fine with bright roses in her cheeks. Her eyes were the vivid turquoise of the Aegean, edged with thick black lashes. Her lips were full and pink and parted—her face flushed with passion and fury.
She looked, Xerxes thought, like a woman who’d just made love in the heat of explosive fire.
He wanted her. And that made him angry.
She must be luring him deliberately, he thought, teasing him like a coquette. Turning her feminine charms on him in hopes of evading punishment, in hope of winning his heart to her side.
Too bad for her that he had no heart.
His men had been watching Trollshelm Castle for days, since Xerxes had first heard about this so-called wedding. Xerxes had planned to kidnap the baron, and make him reveal Laetitia’s location by force. But Lars Växborg was too cagey for that. He’d never come out of his castle alone.
Xerxes couldn’t wait any longer. After a year, he was no longer sure of Laetitia’s condition. She could be dying. In desperation, he had nearly stormed into the castle with all his men, guns blazing, even knowing it could only end in disaster.
Then he’d seen the man’s new bride leave the castle in the dark, moonlit garden. When Xerxes saw her illuminated by the eerie northern lights, he’d known it for the miracle it was. And he’d seized the opportunity.
Xerxes knew all about Rose Linden, the American waitress who squandered Laetitia’s fortune on jewels and furs and designer clothes. The little gold digger had just lied her way through the most sacred vows of a marriage ceremony in order to become a rich baroness in the eyes of the world. Rather than escape her poverty through hard work, she had lied for it.
That was all Xerxes needed to know. He felt no pity. He felt nothing for her except scorn and cold anger.
Except that was no longer true. He now also felt lust.
Holding her down in the backseat of his Rolls-Royce, as he gripped her wrists in his hands and heard the pant of her breath, he hated her. And he desired her.
“You won’t get away