Warriors of Poseidon 06 - Atlantis Betrayed

worry.
    Change of plans. I want you here at Fiona’s house. Hells, more like a mansion, really. Anyway, I want you to come keep her little brother company while we go out to some charity event.
    Denal’s amusement came through loud and clear.
    Charity event? Really? Did you have to dress up?
    Just get here, already. Christophe projected his location on the connection and then leaned against a wall, arms folded, waiting. Women were never on time, anyway; he probably had time to take a nap if he could find a comfortable sofa nearby.
    The faint sound of an indrawn breath interrupted his mental musings, and he looked up to see Fiona posed on the landing of the staircase, looking like the princess he’d named her. Or a goddess.
    Aphrodite had nothing on her.
    The bodice of the shimmering green gown hugged her curves like a lover, and the bottom floated around her legs like the whisper of a dream. A single, square-cut emerald hung suspended on a silver chain between her perfect breasts, and smaller gems hung from her delicate ears. Her silken hair was pulled up and back into a style that had been popular in Atlantis thousands of years ago according to the mosaics in the palace garden pools. Popular with goddesses, too, if one believed the paintings and sculptures that graced the palace.
    That made sense. The goddess thing. There was no way he was good enough for this woman. The thought stabbed him in the belly like a dagger, and he realized he was standing there staring.
    “Princess.” He swept his best court bow. “You are beautiful beyond any graceless words my poor warrior brain might conjure.”
    She lifted her chin. “You don’t need to mock me.”
    “Trust me, Fiona. I am not mocking you.” He put every bit of the heat he felt into his admiring gaze, and was rewarded when she gasped again.
    “You—you don’t look so bad yourself,” she said, holding her skirt and descending the stairs.
    Atlantis Betrayed – Warriors of Poseidon 06
    Page 73 of 188
    He had no idea how she could walk in those high-heeled shoes and almost hoped she might stumble so he’d have the opportunity to catch her. Hold her in his arms. Strip that dress from her lovely body.
    They’d never make it to the charity event.
    Another plus.
    He met her at the bottom step, blocking her way. “A kiss for good luck, Princess?”
    “You don’t need luck,” she whispered. “You seem to make your own.”
    “Only since I met you.”
    He wondered what would happen if he fell into the bottomless blue of her eyes and never, ever climbed out. He wondered if, finally, he might want to achieve the soul-meld when he’d dreaded it for so long.
    He wondered if he were going insane.
    He kissed her. He could no more help it than he could silence his own heartbeat. He bent forward, barely touching her arms with his hands, and pressed his lips to hers. Just a feather-light touch at first, but then her breath warmed him and he caught her tiny sigh in his mouth. Desire turned molten, passion slowed the passage of time, and he was caught up in a tempest of emotion.
    Surely no kiss had ever been so powerful. He wanted to protect her; possess her; consume her. He wanted all. He wanted everything she could offer and everything she was. Her scent tantalized him, something feminine and light and unmistakably her, and the silken softness of her skin was a marvel to his touch.
    He lifted her off the ground, into his arms, and deepened the kiss, forgetting his vow to never get attached, forgetting his callous and careless image, forgetting his name.
    She was everything, and he needed her more than he needed breath or life or hope.
    Fiona’s hands tightened on Christophe’s shoulders as he lifted her, but she was helpless to draw away.
    His kiss was devouring her, consuming her, lighting her up with flames that she willingly embraced. The memory of their passion from the night before was there, but this was more, too. This was a new beginning; an innocence. This was discovery and exploration; it was comfort in a time of heartache.
    Somehow, he was almost part of her, and she had never wanted anything so fiercely as she wanted him to keep kissing her.
    The sound of bells brought her dazedly back to her senses. She pushed against Christophe’s shoulders and pulled away from his kiss. “That’s the clock. It’s eight o’clock. You have to put me down before someone walks in.”
    Christophe, breathing hard, rested his forehead on hers for a moment and then