The Snow Bride. Anne McAllisterЧитать онлайн книгу.
truth, Rose,” he said quietly.
She stared up at him. His face was too brutally masculine to be conventionally handsome like Lars’s sleek blond features. Instead, Xerxes had a hard, square jawline that was already dark with shadow. He had an aquiline nose and dark eyebrows above black eyes as endless and luminous as the night. His hair was cut short, above his ear, but with a slightly mussed, wild wave.
As he leaned forward, looking into her eyes, she was aware of the warmth and strength of his body. Against her will, she was suddenly aware of the rhythm of his breath, deep and in time with hers. She was aware of his scent, the masculine combination of some kind of woodsy cologne and musk and leather.
He was so close to her. So close.
With a ragged breath, she looked away.
“Who is she, then?” Rose said in a small voice. “His supposed first wife?”
“Laetitia Van Reyn.”
“Van Reyn?”
“You know the name?”
“There’s a wealthy family in San Francisco, mentioned often in the newspapers…”
“The same,” he said grimly.
“But the parents are dead,” Rose recalled. “Their only child is barely out of high school. I read she left for college.”
“She’s in a coma,” he said brutally. “No one knows she needs help. And I can’t find her and get her to a hospital.” His black gaze traced over her. “But you are his weakness. He will trade her. For you.”
She shook her head, dazed.
“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Except for…that.” He frowned as his eyes narrowed. “Take that off.”
“What?”
“Your dress. Take it off.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The wedding dress is an insult. To her. To me. Take it off. You are not a bride.”
“I was—am!”
“Take off that dress,” he growled. “Or I will take it off for you.”
“I have nothing else to wear!”
He gave her a cold smile. “That is not my problem.”
She rose to her feet in fury, lifting her chin. “I have the right to wear this. I am a bride, a married woman. You’re a liar!”
He swiftly rose to his feet, like a predator. “Call me that again, princess,” he said dangerously.
“Baroness,” she corrected fiercely. She tossed her hair, glaring up at him with all the fury of her five feet, four inches. Her eyes glittered as she met him toe to toe. “And you, Xerxes Novros, are a liar!”
“YOU’RE a liar!”
Young and dark-haired, Laetitia Van Reyn had gripped the gilded arms of her chair as she stared at Xerxes in her family’s mansion with views of the Golden Gate Bridge. She’d remained home from boarding school after her father’s death to support her fragile mother, who had collapsed at his funeral. “No!” Laetitia had jumped to her feet at Xerxes’s news. Her hands flew to her ears as she backed away. “You’re a liar! Get out of my house! Never come back!”
Xerxes blinked. Liar. Same accusation. Very different woman.
He stared now at the young blonde who stood before him in the cabin of his private jet. Rose Linden was magnificent. A little too thin, perhaps, but it was hard to notice that when her full breasts swelled up against the bodice with every angry breath. Her waist was tiny, the perfect span for a man’s hands. Her honey-blond hair fell back in waves as she tossed her head, her chignon now completely collapsed, exposing her swanlike throat. Her aquamarine eyes glittered at him in fury.
“You are a liar,” Rose cried. “I don’t believe a word you say!”
A liar. To Xerxes, the integrity of a man’s promise equaled his worth as a man. It was the one accusation he could not endure. In cold rage, he gripped her shoulders.
“I’m selfish,” he ground out. “Ruthless. Even cruel. But not a liar. Never that.”
His gaze fell to her mouth, where she was chewing on her lower lip. He saw her lick her lips with her wet pink tongue, and his body tightened.
He wanted her. And in this moment, the layers of her wedding dress were all that separated them.
The wedding dress.
She was continuing to defiantly wear it, as a visual, physical insult both to Xerxes and to Växborg’s real wife. As if Laetitia were already forgotten. As if she were already dead!
Xerxes’s hands slowly moved down her arms, against the see-through lace of her sleeves. His lips turned down grimly.
“I told you to take that dress off.”
He felt her shiver, even as she stuck out her chin and glared at him with her beautiful turquoise eyes.
“No.”
“Then I will take it off for you.”
Her eyes widened. “You wouldn’t dare to—”
With a rough motion, he ripped apart the shoulders of her wedding dress, tearing through the layers of white lace and popping the line of tiny white buttons off the back. He yanked the sleeves down her arms with such force that she staggered forward, nearly falling to her knees.
He discarded the haute couture gown, with its elaborate layers of white lace and tulle, to the floor of the airplane cabin. He started to press the intercom button to call one of the attendants for a robe. Then he froze.
Rose stood before him, the wedding dress crumpled like a tablecloth at her feet. All she wore was the white silk lingerie intended for her wedding night, a tiny white bra, lacy thong panties and white stockings attached with a garter belt.
He could not look away from the vision of her half-naked body, of her creamy skin and perfect curves. He gaped at the perfect hourglass shape of her petite body, at her full breasts and hips, at her tiny waist, and nearly gasped aloud.
Insult or not, he’d been a fool to take the wedding gown off of her. The image of her beauty was dangerous. To him.
He should have known she’d be wearing tarty white lingerie for her wedding night to the baron. Pretending to be a virgin—just pretending, because he’d obviously been bedding her for some time. No man would resist Rose’s charms, her soft blond beauty, her lush body. They must have been lovers from the moment the man had plucked her from that restaurant in San Francisco.
Växborg was guilty. But was Rose? Had she known about Laetitia?
It doesn’t matter, he told himself harshly. Whether or not Rose had known about his marriage, she’d been eager enough to marry the baron for the sake of his money, his title and his snakelike charm. Everyone had their price. Xerxes learned that long ago. Feelings were a commodity like everything else.
And yet Xerxes’s eyes traced unwillingly over her beautiful, near-naked body.
Rose’s cheeks were red as she looked down, breathing rapidly. She started to cover herself with her slender arms. Then she stopped, gripping her hands into fists at her sides. Slowly, she lifted her chin, her eyes glittering at him in fury.
What a woman, he thought in amazement. Even now, completely in his power, when any other woman might have been prostrate with fear, Rose defied him.
“You owe Lars a wedding dress now,” she said in a low