Claimed by the Sicilian Tycoon (17 page)

“And
yet…” Mainwright nodded in Lyra’s direction. “They always turn closer to home
in the end. Take care, Casstellini, you may be in deeper than you know.”

Andros
did not pause to answer the other man, but strode over to the bar where Lyra
was laughing at something the fucking bartender was saying. He couldn’t be any
older than twenty-five.
Lyra’s age. Fuck.
If the anger he’d felt as she laughed at Ainsley’s jokes had been bad, this
was way beyond it.

Andros
paused just by them, and watched with mounting rage, as the bartender leaned
forward and said something that made Lyra laugh again, her hair flicking behind
her shoulders as she did so.

Closer to home. Any man’s mistress. Just
happened to be you.

The
thoughts tumbled through his mind one after the other, and Andros clenched his
jaw tight. Was it because they were back at the scene of their very first
meeting? That here he could not forget how it had all started, that Lyra had
tied him in knots so fucking hard for a very specific purpose.

She
was his and yet…

“Lyra,”
he growled, stepping forward. “We’re leaving.”

She
turned with a start. “Of course.”

He
practically dragged her from the room. Andros knew it, knew that people were
probably staring, wondering why he was making such a hasty departure, but at
that moment he did not give a fuck.

He
was angry. The possessiveness, the weird nature of his relationship with Lyra,
not to mention her flirting with a fucking member of staff, all combining to
make him at last—after so many weeks—question what the hell he was doing.
 

In too deep?

For
once an Englishman might actually have alerted him, a Sicilian, to something
that had passed him by, something he’d known but refused to accept, and Andros
had no idea what to do about any of it.

Chapter Nineteen

Andros
slammed the door behind them, pulling his tie free as he entered the living
area. His eyes were blazing, his mouth set into a hard line, and Lyra shifted
from one foot to the other, her heart thudding uncomfortably. The exit from the
club had been hurried, the drive home hideous, and she had no damn idea why!

Once,
no twice, Lyra had opened her mouth to say something, but then shut it a moment
later. She wasn’t really sure
what
to
say. Wasn’t sure how to approach the Andros now prowling in front of her.

He
was angry.

He
was formidable.

And
he was making her nervous.

Obviously
she had done something wrong, for what else could have made him so mad? Only
she wasn’t sure what. She evaluated her behavior at the club as he shrugged off
his suit jacket, wondering what might have set him off, but could find nothing.
Maybe she’d spent too long talking to the stiffs? Flirted too much with one of
the other guys? She wasn’t sure.

Or
maybe she’d gotten it all wrong and he’d had one of his business deals hit the
skids, or even met up with an old enemy…that Mainwright guy, perhaps. Again,
she wasn’t sure.
 
The only thing she
was
sure of was that they needed to
talk it through. The drive home had not been the best place obviously, but now
they
were
home…

“Andros,”
she began, her tongue tripping over the best way to approach him. “Is
everything okay—”

“Do
you seek to anger me?” he demanded.

His
voice was clipped, the anger clearly seething beneath it, and Lyra’s eyes
widened. “You know I don’t.”

“You
must, Lyra. That is what I am thinking. That you were purposefully trying to
make me angry, no?”

His
accent was marked. Lyra shivered. She only heard it like that when he was
buried deep inside of her. “Why on earth would I do that?

“I
do not know.”

“Andros,
what is this about? I don’t—”

He
came to a halt in front of her, eyes blazing, and when he spoke, she wasn’t
sure she heard him right. “You were flirting with that boy.”

Her
mouth fell open.
That boy?
“Who?”

“The
bartender,” he snapped. “The fucking bartender.”

So
that was what he was angry about?
Jesus
.
“Mitch?” she said slowly. “I was doing no such thing! I was being friendly is
all.”

Andros
glared, his fists clenching and unclenching. “How do you know his name?”

“It’s
on his name tag,” she said carefully.

“Name
tag or no you were too friendly for my liking.”

“For
your liking?” She paused, took in his stance and shook her head slightly. How
could Andros be so angry over such a little thing? “Are you serious?”

He
shot her a glare. “Lyra, my control is shaky right now. Do not make it any
worse.”

“Well
what do you want me to say?” Lyra threw her clutch bag onto the couch. “You’re
being ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?
Whilst you are under my protection, Lyra, you do not talk to other men.”

The
shoes followed the bag. “Andros, really? You can’t ban me from talking to fifty
percent of everyone.”

“I
can and I will,” he growled. “Who placed those jewels around your neck, that
silk against your skin?”

“You
did.”

“I
own you, Lyra. That was the deal was it not, the deal you yourself brokered?”

She
frowned at his words, not liking the way they sounded, or the meaning behind
them. No one owned her, not now, not ever. “I brokered a deal to become your
mistress,” she said slowly. “Not your possession.”

“They
are one and the same.”

Lyra
opened her mouth to deny that, but closed it a moment later. Pointing out the
finer points of mistressdom whilst Andros was in such a bad mood didn’t seem
like a good idea. “Look, Andros,” she said instead. “What do you care if I talk
to other men? You know that at the end of the night I am coming home with you,
that you will be the one taking me to bed.”

“Because
you are fucking mine!” he roared, making her jump back—her aching feet
protesting the action. “Is that a difficult concept for you to grasp, Lyra?”

She
swallowed carefully, her heart thudding, because she’d never seen him like
this. Never. “Your jealousy is.”

He
glared. “I am not jealous!”

“What
else would you call it?” she asked. “Dragging me out of the club, banning me
from talking to every single man on the planet?”

“I
am merely ensuring that you behave.”

“Behave?”
Lyra spluttered, unbelieving the way their conversation was going. “What is it
you think I might do?”

“Perhaps
at some point you will decide that another protector is in order?” he asked,
and his voice was deadly. “Or maybe you will seek to spice things up? You have
all day by yourself when I am working. Not to mention the evenings when I have
other engagements. I have never thought of it before now but it occurs to me
now, Lyra, to wonder how you fill the time.”

“I
shop.”

“All
day, every day?”

“I
get my hair done, my nails, I have massages, all the things you told me to do.
Don’t believe me? Check your card statements.”

“I
will, and if I find many hours are unaccounted for, you and I will be having a
conversation.”

She
gaped. “You’re seriously suggesting I would fuck someone else whilst I’m
fucking you?

“I
do not know,” he grated. “You tell me nothing about you. Nothing! I know every
inch of your skin. Every place to make you sigh and gasp and moan, but not your
secrets.” He threw his hands in the air. “You keep them well hidden. You tell
me nothing. Not about your background, your family, nothing.”

“And
what is it you wish to know?” Lyra asked.

He
gestured, his accent thickening even more. “Everything. Your sisters, for
instance. Where are they, why do you never see them?”

Lyra’s
heart raced. “They’re busy. I’ll see them soon.”

He
growled. “That answer makes my point entirely.”

“You’re
missing one.”

“And
that is?”

Lyra
shrugged. “I am the perfect mistress. I do not ask you for anything other than
what you give me. I do not ask how you spend your nights when you are not here
or who you spend them with. I spend my days ensuring I look beautiful for when
you come and see me, and when you do, I pleasure you in every single way you
require. There is nothing you have asked of me that I have not done.”

“This
is true—”

“I
am giving you everything I said I would,” she added.
 
“And up until this point you have done the same.
Our relationship is not about secrets and personalities or the like. It is
about this. You, me, the pleasure we give one another.”

“And
the money,” he snapped. “Do not forget about the money.”

She
sighed inwardly even as those words bounced around in her brain.
The money.
Wasn’t it always about that?
Hadn’t the mission been about that from the very, very start….and yet…this was
Andros. Andros who bought her fried chicken, and flashes of fire, treating them
all in exactly the same way, as if neither was more important than the other.
Andros who, despite his denial, was jealous.

Jealous.

Lyra
couldn’t help the way that thought made her heart ache. She turned her back to
him and looked over her shoulder. “Undo my dress.”

He
narrowed his eyes, bent forward, took the two sides of the slit, and ripped
them upwards. Lyra stood perfectly still as the delicate fabric parted from her
skin.

“You
will not wear these types of dresses again,” he said.

She
shrugged a delicate shoulder. “I never wanted to in the first place. I told you
that in the beginning.”

He
stepped forward so that she was pulled flush against him and rested his mouth
on her neck. “You are mine,
Rossa
.”

“Until
you tire of me,” she said—unsure why her heart ached in an entirely different
fashion from those words.

“Until
then,” he agreed, and bit into her neck.
 
“Until then.”

Chapter Twenty

Later,
as Lyra lay sleeping curled up against him, Andros could not settle. He was
sated—Lyra was right about one thing, she pleasured him in ways he could barely
comprehend—but she was wrong too about many other things. This relationship of
theirs, if you could even call it that, was not perfect. The jealousy he had
felt seeing her laughing and talking with the boy was like nothing he had ever
experienced. It ate at him, clawed at his gut, and that was unacceptable.
Andros could not afford to start have feelings for Lyra.

She
was his mistress, he her protector.

There
must be no tender feelings in their relationship.

He
turned over onto his back, seeking to put a little distance between them. It
did not work. She turned too and cuddled up against him, draping one leg over
his thigh, and placing her arm across his chest. Her hair feathered out across
the pillow, and through the myriad lights still shining across London city he
could see the perfect redness of it.

With
something that felt suspiciously like a sigh, Andros reached out and picked up
a strand of that hair. It felt so soft as he rubbed it between his finger and
thumb, marveling at the different hues.

She
was so fucking beautiful.

The
image of the bartender leaning forward to laugh with her hit, and he growled.
He knew exactly what that boy was thinking. Fucking hell, he knew what they
were all thinking whenever she walked past them. Lyra was sexy as hell.
Everyone, him included knew it, and she was so…nice. That was the real problem,
he thought. She didn’t wear the brittle mask of many other women who looked
like her. Instead, she was charming, and sweet, and she made every man she
talked to feel like she was there for him and him alone.

He
knew that because that was precisely how she made him feel!

Perhaps
if she were a little more dismissive, a little haughty. But no, that was not
her personality, and right now he hated that fact. Hated the jealousy she
created in him, and
 
hated himself for
not having better control over his unruly emotions.

He
dropped the strand of hair, and almost absently ran his fingers along her bare
arm. She was lightly tanned, the skin even softer than the hair. Everything about
her was soft. Everything was warm.

Fucking hell.