Katrakis's Last Mistress by Caitlin Crews Read Free Book Online Page B

point of the entire exercise.” His voice was low, rich, amused. His midnight brows arched up, while his dark gold eyes saw far too much.
    It would be so easy, Tristanne thought as she fell into that dark, honeyed gaze—too easy—to simply bend into his will. He was so powerful, so commanding, and it would be the simplest thing in the world to let herself go, and let him take control as he was, clearly, so used to doing. Hadn’t yesterday showed her exactly how easy that would be? It would be like diving into the sea—the decision to dive would be the only difficult part, and everything after that would be gravity.
    But who would she be then, when she had fought so hard to make a life for herself—a name for herself that borrowed nothing from her family, had nothing to do with any of them? And more important—what would become of her mother?
    She thought of her mother’s tears at Gustave’s grave. She thought of Vivienne’s forced, determined cheer in the following weeks. She thought of the fine bones on the back of her mother’s delicate hand, far too visible now.
    Tristanne could not acquiesce to this man, however easy it might be. Especially because it would be so easy to do so, and such a mistake. She had to maintain control of thissituation—tenuous though it might be—or she would lose everything she had worked for over the past years, and everything she hoped for her own future and her mother’s life. She had to stand up to this man, somehow—when she had chosen him precisely because he was the kind of man that no one stood up to, because no one would dare.
    “Not at all,” she said now, gathering her courage as best she could. She tossed her hair back from her face, and made herself smile down at him, still perched on his lap like she was sitting on a hot, iron stove. She could do this. She could hide everything she felt, and show him only what she wanted him to see. Hadn’t Peter accused her of being frigid and cold a thousand times? She could pull it off. Couldn’t she?
    “Oh?” he asked, still so amused. Still so unmanageable, so impossible.
    “While I appreciate your list of rules and regulations, and will make every effort to follow them, being a mistress is much more than the ability to follow orders.” She traced the strong line of his jaw, the proud jut of his chin, with a lazy fingertip—though she felt as far from lazy as it was possible to feel. She kept on. “A good mistress must anticipate her partner’s needs. She must adapt to his moods, and follow his lead. It is like a complicated dance, is it not?”
    “It is not like a dance at all,” Nikos replied, his eyes glittering. “Not if you are doing it correctly. Euphemism cannot change the facts, only the way they are relayed, Tristanne.”
    “The man is not supposed to see the steps of this dance, of course,” Tristanne continued airily, as if she had such conversations regularly and they affected her not at all. “That is my job. And I do not wish to be protected from anything, I assure you. Least of all you.” She lied easily, because she had no choice, and then met his gaze, hoping her own was clear, guileless. Unclouded by her own fears and indecision. “But I will confess that I am something of a perfectionist.”
    She shifted her weight then, leaning back so that he wouldhave to choose between letting her stand up or grabbing her close to his chest and making a deliberate show of his superior strength. He chose the former—though not without the faintest hint of a smirk. But Tristanne would take whatever small victories she could with this man. She knew without having to be told directly that they would be far and few between.
    “By all means,” he murmured, lounging back against his seat, his eyes trained on her, burning into her, “tell me more about this job you plan to perform with your perfectionist tendencies.”
    “Sex is so reductive,” Tristanne said briskly. Rather than take her seat, she moved over