The Bride He Stole For Christmas by Caitlin Crews

CHAPTER TWO

CRETE ASGARDIDnot chase women before he went to bed with them.

He certainly did not chase them afterward.

There was absolutely no reason he should have found himself in a frozen garden on Christmas Eve, no matter who his former mistress was marrying.

It was a matter of no little astonishment that he was even aware of Timoney’s betrothal. He supposed it was possible that all of the women he had once claimed as his for a time had moved on into matrimony, but it was of no matter to him, as he could barely recall any of them.

And yet he felt as if he’d been assaulted by Timoney’s engagement from the start. All the tabloids that had taken such delight in chasing the two of them all over London while they were together had taken an equal delight in arch commentaryregarding Timoney’s new choice of man. He hadn’t gone looking for these accounts—and yet, it had seemed as if he could not avoid them.

Crete was not normally one to heed or even notice the opinions of others,so he had dismissed each and every article that had flashed at him from newsstands. For the whole month since her engagement announcement—a mere two months since the end of his relationship with her, not that he had counted—he had tended to his usual business affairs and told himself it was no matter to him what his former lover did.

He told himself this repeatedly, because it was usually true.If she chose to shackle herself to some old man, what was it to him?

As it turned out, Crete cared a great deal.

Far more than he would have liked.

And yet, having never chased a woman in his life, he had found himself...at something of a loss. Or as close to as he was capable of coming to such a state, given that he did not lose. As a matter of preference, will, and precedent.

He had never visited Timoney’s family home. Having been ejected from what passed for his own family twice—first as a toddler and then again when he was a young man—Crete had never found himself particularly interested in the familial institution. He had made his fortune with no help from anyone and disdained these English notions of blood and honor as a matter of course. He also could not recall Timoney ever speaking too much about the people she came from—but then, they had never done much in the way of talking.

But it had still been easy enough to find his way to this rambling estate in the quiet of the countryside, far enough outside town that London seemed like it belonged in a different lifetime altogether. That was the thing with these English landowners. The houses themselves had names and everyone knew how to find them.

When he’d set out from London tonight, Crete had told himself he was only going for a drive. Then, as he found that he was inexorably winding his way into Oxfordshire, he told himself that he would stop by to see her, that was all. Have a lovely cup of tea, the English answer to any awkward moment, and be on his way again.

That it was Christmas Eve hadn’t really occurred to him. But if it had, it wouldn’t have stopped him. He had about as much use for Christmas as he did for families.

The real question was why he thought it necessary that he see her at all.

For Crete never returned to scenes of crimes, passion, or pain. Ever. He did not look back, for his life was about new horizons. He had always had a terrible hunger that he preferred to slake as often as possible, which was why he kept mistresses. He liked his sex consistent, constant, and without all the games involved in meeting a new woman. And when they claimed they’d fallen in love with him, as they often did when they sensed his interest was waning, he simply moved on.

Though another truth was that after separating from Timoney, Crete had found his typical hunger...changed. Not muted or removed, but somehow, though two months had passed, he had not yet slaked his thirst.

And he had told himself a hundred stories to explain that bizarre lapse in his usual habits, but the truth was before him now.

Timoney, with her hair like spun gold flowing down her back tonight, catching the moonlight and gleaming brighter. Timoney, wrapped in a cloak that looked thick against the cold night air, but did nothing to disguise the lush ripeness of her figure. Perhaps it was that he recalled it too well.

And maybe it was the Greek in him who could never get enough of her eyes, as blue as the Mediterranean, even in the shadows of this cold winter garden.

“What are you doing here?” she asked him, staring up at him as if he was a ghost.

It was possible that Crete had entertained the notion that merely glancing upon him would wake her up from whatever spell she was laboring under. It was possible that he’d expected her to fly into his arms, the way she always had while they were together.

He scowled when she did not. “Surely that should be obvious.”

She did not look chastened. Her blue eyes blazed. Her chin tilted upward. “I can think of no reason.”

Something sparked in him, and it surprised him. For she was as beautiful as ever, that was true. And God knew, he was a man who not only appreciated beautiful things, but had appreciated her beauty in particular. Moreover, there were certain brands of fire that she’d shared with him and he had greatly enjoyed the flames of each.

But this was different.

Because for once, Timoney was not looking at him with her customary awe and emotion.

In fact, to his astonishment, she appeared to be glaring at him. At him.

With what he could only call hostility.

He would not say he was disconcerted, per se. But only because he did not get disconcerted. His scowl deepened. “I was in the neighborhood.”

“Crete Asgar himself? Roaming about England’s greenest hills? Surely not.” He was sure he had to be mistaken, but she sounded...mocking. Sharply amused, when he could see no call for amusement. “You were always at pains to tell me that the countryside held no allure for you. What could a man who owns his own Mediterranean islands want with rainy hedgerows and stodgy Georgian facades?”

“And yet here I am. In the neighborhood. As you see.”

Crete had the strangest sensation then, when all she did was gaze back at him. And not as if she was transported by his glory as in simpler times. He could not even name the sensation, it was so foreign. And then, as she made no move toward him, he belatedly understood. He had never seen her look at him like this before.

As if she did not want him.

As if she did not want him, which was impossible.

It was unthinkable.

“You must know that I’m getting married in the morning,” was what she said. Eventually. In a tone he did not like. “Have you come to wish me well? Perhaps you needed my registry details?”

Crete took that in, aware that a different kind of heat was humming in him. His months with Timoney had been lush. Sweet. From their explosive first moments in that ridiculous club straight through to the inevitable finish. He sometimes thought that had she not so foolishly fallen in love with him, they might still be together—though he very rarely kept a mistress for more than a few months. She had been that delectable.

What she had never been was sardonic.

He couldn’t deny that it surprised him. But it also made him hard, so there was that.

Crete had deeply appreciated her sweetness. Yet deep down, he was a man who appreciated a fight. It was hard not to appreciate the only thing he had ever known.

“Did you grow a backbone, little one?” he asked quietly, letting the hunger and the need wash over him. Through him, like a baptism, out in the dark and cold with the mist and the moon and no more stories to explain the truth away. He wanted her. “I think perhaps it suits you.”

“Maybe it’s a backbone.” But she sniffed. “Or maybe it’s that I’m wearing another man’s ring. Either way, there’s nothing here for you, Crete. You made that clear.”

She had not fought with him that night. That was what he had found himself brooding over in the days, the weeks, the two long months since. She had cried out her love. He had shared his philosophy with her and then, to prevent any misunderstandings, he had ordered her to go.

Standard practice, really.

Normally, the kind of women who dared tell him that they loved him were outraged at that point. They would scream at him, berate him, prove to him beyond any shadow of a doubt that their love was more squarely focused on his bank details than anything else.

But Timoney had only stared at him, tears rolling down her perfect cheeks, her soft lips parted as if she found it hard to breathe.

He hated to admit how many times that image had distracted him as he went about his business.

And now she was sitting there on the little bench before him, staring up at him like he was a stranger. He couldn’t bear it. So he reached out to fit his palm to her cheek as he had a thousand times before—

But unlike before, she knocked his hand away.

And then surged to her feet. “You don’t get to show up here in the middle of the night and just...touch me whenever you feel like it.”

“Do you not wish for me to touch you?” He let his hand fall back to his side. “I think you are a liar, Timoney.”

“If you wished to touch me, you shouldn’t have tossed me aside like so much trash,” she threw back at him. “Should you?”

“It wasn’t the touching I had an issue with.”

He thought she might shout at him, and he couldn’t decide if he would find that exciting—or if it would once again make her seem like a stranger to him.

But she didn’t.

Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, the cloak spilling out all around her, a deep red. She put him in mind of some kind of fairy tale, out here in the misty moonlight, when he had as little use for children’s stories as he did for Christmas Eve.

Crete was not one for holidays in general, but especially not this holiday. It seemed a part and parcel of that kind of home and hearth, overtly familial notion he had never really experienced. But Timoney in a red cloak had him feeling the closest to festive he’d felt in a long time.

Maybe ever.

“Why are you here, Crete?” she asked, her voice even. When the Timoney he knew had never seemed to have herself in control. She’d never indicated she wanted to try to keep herself in control. “You made it clear to me that you don’t care about me. Crystal clear. So why should it matter to you who I marry?”

He let out a bark of disbelief. “You cannot marry this man. To begin with, he is ancient.”

“Some would say he must be filled with wisdom, then.” Her smile seemed sharp. “What luck.”

“He cannot possibly satisfy you, Timoney.” Crete studied her. “I could barely keep up with you.”

There was a telltale bloom of color in her cheeks, but all she did was square her shoulders. “That remains to be seen. My previous experience left much to be desired.”

He laughed. “We both know that is a lie.”

“Yes, Crete. We had chemistry. But I can’t say I have much admiration for the way it ended.” She crossed her arms before her, as if she was warding him off. And she frowned at him. At him. “And here’s what I know about Julian. He will not leave me. He will not cruelly cast me aside if I say the wrong thing. He will honor the promises he makes me tomorrow. Any way I look at it, marrying him seems like a good bargain.”

“You cannot be serious.”

Crete moved closer to her. And he, who prided himself on his iron self-control to match his will of steel, had no idea how his hands rose to grip her slender shoulders. Only that they did, and that holding her made him...feel.

He concentrated on the part he understood. The heat. And the faint scent of her, teasing him on the cold breeze like a memory.

“Let me assure you of something,” she whispered, her chin still high and her arms still crossed. “Unlike some people standing in this garden, I do not take relationships lightly. But I certainly do not take the prospect of marriage lightly, either. You can be certain that whatever else I might be in regard to my wedding tomorrow, I am deadly serious.”

Crete zeroed in on the most egregious part of that little speech. “You think I took our relationship lightly?”

She scowled at him, another first. Then she lifted her hands as if to knock his grip off her shoulders. But instead, her fingers braceleted his wrists, not quite managing to close, and stayed there.

And he had the notion that she could feel the way his blood pumped in his veins. That she could feel it in her, too. That their bodies were still that connected, that attuned.

The song of it seemed to pool in his sex, then beat hard, like a drum.

“The only thing you take seriously is your money,” she threw at him.

And she clearly meant it to wound.

But Crete only laughed and pulled her closer, because he could smell that wildflower honey scent of her everywhere. And he could feel the heat of that in his blood, too, because everything about Timoney was heat and honey, longing and that need so deep, it felt like it was in his bones.

“Yes, I care about my money,” he confessed. He laughed again. “I think you’ll find it comes as a habit to those who remember having none.” He jerked his chin at the sprawling mansion behind her and the extensive grounds. It had been a ten-minute drive in from the lane to find the house. “Not all of us grew up surrounded by such finery.”

“I think you’ll find that the rags-to-riches tale is more relatable after your first fortune,” Timoney retorted. “Not so much your tenth. Or is it your twentieth by now?” Her eyes were bright with a new kind of fire, and it took him long moments to understand that it was temper. Why did he want to drown himself in her—temper and all? “I have all of seventy pounds to my name at present, Crete. Tell me which one of us is privileged?”

“Seventy pounds, a rich fiancé, and a fortune to come.” He shook his head at her. “You’re not exactly the Little Match Girl yourself, are you?”

“What I am or am not is none of your concern,” she threw at him. “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here. Did you pop round to infuriate me?”

“That is but a happy side effect.”

“I would have thought you’d be thrilled to find that I was getting married.” Her eyes flashed. “No need to worry about scraping me off your boot heel if I’m someone else’s problem, isn’t that right?”

He didn’t think he’d said precisely that to her, though Crete knew that it aligned perhaps too closely with his feelings on the topic. For it was a fact that he had always been delighted when—if—he heard that his former mistresses had moved on. There was far less chance that they would hang about making things tedious that way.

But this was Timoney.

And nothing about her was tedious.

And he was here, wasn’t he? It spoke volumes.

“Very well,” she was saying, in that bristling British way. “I can see that you really did come here just to be difficult.”

“Some would argue that I do this without even trying.”

“Here’s the great news, Crete,” she said, and he felt certain that he would not find whatever news she was about to share at all great. “When I was your mistress, it fell to me to try to keep you happy. And I failed at that. I failed at it so completely that you not only finished things, but ordered me to move out immediately—then made sure your security detail saw to it that I did.”

“That is not entirely true.” But it was close enough to make him uncomfortable, he was forced to acknowledge.

“Whatever it is you want tonight, both you and I already know that I don’t have what it takes to please you,” Timoney said. Not as if she was apologizing or even particularly broken up about it. She inclined her head. “So perhaps you’d best move along.”

It was an order, clearly. But against his will, all he could think about was all the ways she really had made him happy.

Again and again and again.

He had moved her into his flat within a week of meeting her—and with only the most superficial vetting—because once he’d tasted her, he couldn’t bear to have a single free moment and not indulge himself with more of her. His craving for her had been so intense that he’d reasoned the only way to handle it was to immerse himself.

Completely.

And still it hadn’t been enough.

For the first time, he admitted that maybe, just maybe, there had been some small part of him that had been relieved when she’d crossed his uncrossable line that night. When she’d spilled over with those words she should never have said.

Especially when he was not the least bit tired with her yet.

Because he had spent whole months consumed with her, and maybe, just maybe, he had been grateful to get his head back.

But he realized now, as the mist swirled around between them and her blue eyes glistened in the dark, that he’d only been fooling himself.

“You cannot marry that man,” he growled at her.

“Why not?” she tossed back at him. “It seems to me that Julian is as good as anyone else. Better than most.”

“He is neither. He is a cretinous gasbag who sheds wives—”

“The way you shed mistresses?”

He didn’t care for that. “There are no similarities between us.”

“That’s why I agreed to marry him in the first place,” she snapped. “I understand his expectations of me, Crete. There’s no pretense.”

“Your body. Your soul. Your life.”

Timoney laughed at that, but the sound was bitter, and he hated that. She had been so joyful. So bright. He hated that he had rendered her something less than that. That he had taken it along with her innocence.

Maybe he truly was the monster his father’s wife had always maintained he was.

All evidence suggested it.

“Imagine that,” Timoney said when she stopped laughing, and her blue eyes shone cold. “Julian wants the same things from me that you did. But look at all he’s willing to offer me in return. His name. Children, if I wish it. Primarily my body, yes, but the difference between the two of you is that he’s not afraid to sweeten the pot. Nor will he cast me aside if I displease him, unlike his former wives. Divorce would be far too expensive. My uncle has seen to it.”

That she was comparing him to the likes of Julian Browning-Case was insult enough. That he was losing by her reckoning was insupportable.

“You cannot marry him,” Crete said again, while a terrible storm wailed in him as he pictured, against his will, what she was describing. Surrendering herself. Selling herself. Giving the decrepit old man that body of hers that Crete understood, with a certain resignation, he had long since considered only and ever his.

It turned out that he was not prepared to share.

“Why not?” she demanded. Her hands turned to fists and she knocked them into his chest. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t?”

He welcomed the faint kiss of her fists. He welcomed any touch from her at all, and what did it say that he’d fallen so far? But there was no arguing with the truth. There was only accepting it and moving forward.

Crete had built his life on exactly this premise.

And he was more than happy to provide her with all the reasons she needed to see this truth as he had. Surely that, in the end, was why he’d come here.

Surely that was what mattered.

“Because, little one,” he growled at her, “you have belonged to me since the moment we met. You still do.”

And then Crete proved it the way he always had, by crushing his mouth to hers.