Antic.i.p.ation drew on already tight muscles as he waited to see what she would do.

She set her jaw first, the sweet curve of it firming as she broke their gaze and looked down at the tub controls. A dripping hand emerged from the water to still the jets. Nic couldn't help the way his eyes dropped to the calming water to search out the sight of her naked flesh. He caught a glimpse of rounded thighs and slim calves before she curled her legs underneath herself and pushed out of the concealing liquid.

The sight of her took his breath away.

All rosy and dewy with moisture, her skin looked like clotted cream spread thick over strawberry jam. He'd known before that she had a slender, graceful figure, but seeing it now without the concealment of her fancy gown made his tongue thicken and his erection swell until he wondered how his body managed to divide the blood flow between the two heads. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were not large but heavy and exquisitely formed, the berry-colored nipples tightening at the contrasting chill of the room after the heat of her bath. She had a slim torso that flared deliciously at the hip and a belly that curved just enough to make her look like a woman instead of an emaciated supermodel. The sweet plane dipped down to a small patch of damp curls that looked like an even fierier version of her hair, framed by long, rounded thighs Nic could practically feel wrapped around his hips.

He swallowed hard and beat back an aggressive snarl. d.a.m.n, she was gorgeous. His muscles screamed with tension as he fought against the urge to throw her down on the cold tile floor and mate her like an animal. Such a loss of control would be entirely unacceptable to him, not to mention what it might do to his clearly modest mate. He grasped hard at his self-control and spread his arms to open the towel in invitation.

"Come on. Before you get cold."

She stepped from the tub with natural grace and Nic noticed even her feet were small and cute, her toes polished a deep rose color. She curled them into the thick pile of the bath mat as she reached to take the towel from him.

He shook his head and wrapped the cloth around her, enveloping her in the nubby warmth. "I've got this."

Saskia opened her mouth to protest, but Nic ignored her. He wrapped the towel around her, front to back, trapping her arms at her sides and drawing her tense form against his as he rubbed his hands over the cotton barrier between them and the long, smooth line of her back. He felt her shiver and wondered if it was because of the contrast of cool air against her heated skin or because of the way he held her pressed against him as he dried her. Either way, he savored the small movement, pressing the towel to her shoulders, back, and soft, lush b.u.t.tocks. He squeezed then and made her jump. With her body pressed against his and her face buried against his chest, Nic could let himself indulge in a grin of satisfaction. His mate might be nervous, but she was also a responsive little thing. It made him look forward even more to the process of sealing their engagement.

Taking a half step back, Nic drew the towel around to dry each of her arms in turn, then dropped into a squat to pat water away from her feet and legs. When he rose back to his feet and cupped his cloth-covered hands beneath her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to blot away the moisture trapped beneath them, she shivered. He had to school his features to careful blankness before he could meet her gaze and ask a casual, "Cold?"

She jumped on the offered excuse. "Yes. Getting out of a hot bath is the one downside to taking one."

He smiled and dragged the towel down her belly. "Then we should hurry up and get you dry so you can climb under the covers."

The mention of covers, and by extension the bed they currently stretched across, drew Saskia's muscles freshly taut. Nic ignored it, because he knew he was about to make her twice as tense, if such a thing was even possible. Keeping his gaze locked with hers, he used a foot to nudge her legs apart and slid his towel-covered hand between her legs to cup her damp s.e.x.

Her breath hissed between her teeth like steam from a kettle. Her hands flew up to press into his shoulders and froze there, as if she couldn't decide whether to hold on for dear life or shove him violently away. Nic simply ignored them and continued to rub the towel over her mound, blotting away the moisture from her bath. Any other moisture was something he would address separately. And with relish.

She stopped breathing, trembling against him like a trapped bird, her fingers fluttering against the heavy linen of his shirt. Her wide blue eyes stared up at him as if mesmerized, and Nic found it equally impossible to look away. He could lose himself in those eyes and never even feel the desire to escape.

Slowly and carefully, he dragged his hand out from between her legs, making no effort to conceal his reluctance. He could happily have touched her forever, but the d.a.m.ned towel would have to go. He wanted to feel those soft folds against his skin, wanted to part and explore them, to pinch and nibble and taste, and tonight he had every right to do so.

Thank G.o.d for engagement nights.

"All done," he murmured, barely recognizing his own voice. It sounded gruff and rasping in the still quiet of the bathroom. "Soft and dry and ready for bed." He bent down and pressed his lips to the top of her shoulder. "Aren't you, little tigress?"

He felt her tremble and caught the mingled scents of nervousness, uncertainty, and arousal drifting up from her skin. He understood the uncertainty and had every intention of easing his way through the nerves, but the arousal made him purr in satisfaction. Arousal he could work with. Knowing that her body craved his allowed him to focus on her physical reactions and keep both of them so occupied with sensation that emotion would have no chance to intrude. He could still salvage this match if he acted now.

His hands took up the challenge before his mind had finished forming the thought. They released the towel he'd been clenching in tight fists and filled themselves instead with the warm silk of her skin. They settled on her back, fingers spread wide as if trying to touch every inch of her at once, and from there they set about exploring.

She shuddered out a sigh when he touched her bare skin with no barrier left between them. Looking down, he saw her lids drop to half-mast, concealing the expression in the liquid blue depths. That displeased him. He wanted to be able to read her reactions there, but he would have to content himself with what her body told him. Maybe that was better, anyway. Her body wouldn't confuse things with unnecessary emotions. It would be acting purely on instinct.

Nic shifted her closer, pressing her nude form against his half-clothed body, relishing the feeling of control it gave him. It excited him to feel her bare softness against his hands and his chest where his unfastened shirt had fallen open and tantalized him to realize only the fabric of his trousers separated him from the hot, damp valley between her thighs.

Her nipples tightened where they pressed against his chest, and he shifted her deliberately to allow the curling hair there to abrade the sensitive peaks. Her reaction was a soft, sharp exhalation accompanied by the thrilling sensation of her hands shooting up to grip her arms, as if she felt the need to hang on to something solid. He would be more than happy to do her that service.

He bent his head to hers and shifted forward, throwing her off balance, his hands firming to hold her securely as he forced her body to arch backward until he could set his mouth to hers. Unlike their exchange earlier in the back of the car, this kiss never pretended to innocence. It seized and claimed and devoured, his mouth opening over hers, firm pressure forcing her lips to part and allow him entrance. He took immediate advantage, surging inside to touch and taste. The unique flavor of her acted like a catalyst to his l.u.s.t, sending pure hunger through his veins with every hammering beat of his heart. His fingers tightened until he thought he must be leaving bruises on her delicate skin, but he couldn't bring himself to ease back. His beast had taken control, and it would not be denied.

Saskia whimpered against his lips, her body arching stiffly for a moment, as if she meant to fight him. But a second later she melted, her sweet curves easing against his demands for surrender. Her fingers gripped his arms and kneaded, no longer seeking to steady herself but instead taking obvious pleasure in the feel of powerful muscles moving beneath her hands.

This was what he wanted, what he intended to have-his mate heating and yielding and wanting beneath his hands. Nothing else mattered and nothing else was necessary. He would have this relationship, enjoy his mate, get her with cubs, and otherwise live his life exactly the way he wanted. As ther, he would accept nothing less than his due.

His beast agreed, roaring its impatience and fighting hard at his already tenuous control. It wanted her now, wanted to come up behind her and cover her, to force the joining of their bodies in the most primitive way. It didn't care about comfort or mutual pleasure; it would take her here on the cold tile floor if Nic didn't get ahold of himself. Even if he did, he knew the beast wouldn't be thwarted for long. About all the man could do now was move them some place where he could ravage her in comfort. He had just enough control left to give her that.

Maybe.

Somewhere in the back of Nic's mind it registered that she wasn't fighting him. In fact, she seemed as involved in the kiss as he was. She sucked on his tongue, tangled and teased it with her own, nipped at his lips, and shifted in his arms to press her b.r.e.a.s.t.s tighter against his chest. When he shifted his hands to grip her a.s.s and lift her off her feet, she rubbed her bottom into his palms and spread her thighs until she gripped his hips between her legs. She made tiny little mewling sounds of need and clung to his shoulders as he carried her through the door and into the enormous bedroom. When he moved to drop her on the bed and step back to shed his clothes, she refused to release him and growled low in her throat at any attempt he made to put s.p.a.ce between them. Somehow, the press of their bodies together had transformed her from the cool, elegant stranger he'd become engaged to into a fierce, demanding tigress in heat.

Thank G.o.d and everything holy.

He sank back into their kiss, reveling in the way her body surrounded him, arms and legs clasping him close. He couldn't wait to feel her s.e.x clasping him, too. He wanted to sink his aching erection deep into the hot cavern at her center and feel them joined together in one sweating, straining body of l.u.s.t. He wanted to match their stripes until there was no way to tell where he ended and she began.

He wanted her like his next breath.

It didn't appear that she would be all that difficult to convince. Her body writhed and twisted under his, sinking deep into the softly mounded bedding, then rising up with surprising, agile strength. He loved the feel of her female power, loved the knowledge that because she was his Tiguri mate her body had been designed to match his, to take his power in a way few other women could manage. Even other shape-shifters tended to be intimidated by the strength of a dominant Tiguri. The largest of the big cats, tigers possessed an awesome strength comparable to that of any predator on earth, and their shape-shifting cousins, the Tiguri, easily duplicated that power. Even Leos-the Lion shifters-found themselves reluctant to take on the Tiguri in battle. The same could be said for most female shifters of any species; they preferred not to face off against a grown male Tiguri, on the battlefield or in the bedroom.

As for human women, making love to them felt like trying to embrace a soap bubble-it could be done, and the accomplishment offered a certain sense of satisfaction, but it required so much care and patience that it rarely seemed worth the effort. Of course, Nic had had human lovers, but he could never relax around them, never forget to control his strength for fear of seriously injuring them. The freedom he felt in touching Saskia and knowing she could take anything he could dish out nearly drove him over the edge of reason. The urge to take her, to f.u.c.k her, had reached flash point. He had to get inside her.

Now.

Tearing his mouth from hers, Nic reared back and ripped at his shirt, his hands b.u.mping into his mate's as they both struggled with frantic fingers to strip him naked. Saskia finally won the battle and yanked his arms free of the sleeves before sending the garment flying into the nearest wall. He heard another purr when her hands settled on the bare skin of his back and shoulders, and the warm, rasping sound shot straight to his groin, drawing his b.a.l.l.s even tighter.

He cursed, low and profane, and he forced his hands between their bodies to deal with the fastening of his trousers. The backs of his knuckles brushed against the wet folds of her l.a.b.i.a and he hissed at the sensation of liquid heat coating his skin. Saskia groaned softly and pressed tighter against him, grinding herself against the back of his hand. That was it. He could take no more.

Abandoning the plan to send his trousers in the direction of his shirt, Nic simply shoved the loosened fabric down off his hips and grabbed his mate's trembling thighs, positioning her with rough force until their bodies came into perfect alignment. His lips drew back over teeth he knew had to be growing long and sharp as fangs as he gazed down into her unseeing blue eyes and savored one final moment of burning antic.i.p.ation.

The sound of the telephone rang like a bullet in the wordless moment.

Saskia jumped, awareness bursting back into her eyes as if some magical spell had been broken. Nic cursed in three languages and dropped his head to his fiancee's sweat-sheened chest. This couldn't be f.u.c.king happening.

Brrrrrrrrrinnnnnnnng!

The second ring mocked him, telling him that the f.u.c.king was absolutely not happening, thank you very much. Beneath him, he felt the supple quality of arousal leach from Saskia's body until she lay stiffly pinned between him and the mattress. Her hands no longer clung to his shoulders in silent demand but braced against them as if warding him off.

"Whoever that is, I'm going to kill them." He said the words calmly, his voice quiet and level and utterly rational. And in his head, he was wondering how hard it would be to find medieval torture devices on eBay.

Saskia cleared her throat. The sound of nerves and embarra.s.sment made him long for a rack. Or maybe a nice old-fashioned crucifix.

"It must be important, don't you think?" The third ring nearly drowned out her words, but Nic heard them. It would be hard not to with her mouth practically at his ear. "I mean, I can't imagine many people who know you wouldn't realize tonight might be an ... awkward time to telephone."

Nic chuffed in wry amus.e.m.e.nt. "'Awkward.' I suppose that's one word for it."

With another oath, he levered himself off his fiancee's delectable body to sit on the edge of the bed. Reaching for the phone, he saw the way she s.n.a.t.c.hed at a blanket to cover her nudity and decided crucifixion was too merciful for whoever was on the other line. Maybe he should buy a boat. Keelhauling had definite possibilities.

He s.n.a.t.c.hed up the receiver in the middle of the fourth ring. "What?" he roared, hoping he deafened whoever had the nerve to interrupt what had promised to be the greatest s.e.x of his life. Not to mention the most culturally important.

His father's voice both surprised and worried him.

"You've been summoned before the Council of Others," Stefan announced with no preliminaries. "We both have. They expect us there in fifteen minutes. Or half an hour ago, whichever comes first."

Nic felt Saskia's gaze on him, could see her look of concern out of the corner of his eye, but he ignored her. "What are you talking about?" he demanded. "We're not members of the Council. They can't 'summon' us to the f.u.c.king restroom. What the h.e.l.l is going on?"

Behind him, Saskia pushed herself into a sitting position, the blanket clutched to her chest like a wooden shield. He had to struggle to block her out. He didn't have time for the distraction.

"Apparently there was an attempt a short while ago on the life of the head of the Council," Stefan said, his voice grim and bitter and filled with sarcasm. "In a surprise move, the other members seem to have jumped to the conclusion that the Tiguri must have something to do with it."

d.a.m.n it. Nic had known matters between the native Others and the new Tiguri inhabitants of the city would come to a head eventually, but he had hoped it wouldn't be this soon. h.e.l.l, he'd been optimistic enough to predict he had at least another month before he had to begin worrying. So much for the best-case scenario.

"Is De Santos dead?"

"No. From what I hear, the jungle beast made his escape without coming to any serious harm." Stefan, like most Tiguri of his generation, viewed all other Feline shifters as inferior species. Nic didn't even bother trying to point out his bigotry. "I think we can a.s.sume he'll be present at the inquisition. I'm getting into the car now. I'll have Robert drive by your apartment to pick you up. I think it's best if we present a united front in this matter. I'll be there in five minutes."

Nic was already striding across the room to his closet and yanking out the first things that came to hand. "What about Arcos? Is he on the invitation list, too?"

"I believe he must be, but Gregor is a big boy. He can take care of himself. We'll see him when we get there. Five minutes," he repeated, and Nic heard the click of the line going dead.

His thumb viciously punched the off b.u.t.ton on the cordless receiver before he tossed the thing onto the top of his dresser. Before the rattle of plastic on wood had faded, he had fastened a pair of faded jeans and was yanking a dark green sweater in place over his head.

"Nicolas?"

The sound of Saskia's voice startled him. For a second, he'd almost forgotten she was still there. Being accused of attempted murder, even secondhand, could apparently f.u.c.k with a guy's mind.

"I'm going out," he said, shoving his feet into a pair of battered loafers and reaching for the wallet he habitually pulled out of his pocket and set on the dresser every evening. "Don't wait up. I have no idea how long this will take."

"How long what will take?" she demanded, squirming to the edge of the mattress and struggling to her feet. "Nicolas, what's going on? Who was that on the phone? Why did you ask if De Santos was dead? Did you mean Rafe De Santos?"

He glared at her and headed for the door. "I don't have time for you, Saskia," he bit out, his mind already racing toward the interview ahead of him. He had more important things to worry about right now than keeping his new fiancee in the loop, especially since the matter at hand didn't concern her. "Go to bed. I'll see you tomorrow."

With that, he exited the room, leaving his new mate behind him and wondering who the h.e.l.l had decided to mess with the Tiguri. Whoever it was, they would come to regret it. Nic would make sure of that.

Three.

Saskia couldn't decide if she felt more like crying or kicking something.

Scratch that. She knew very well she wanted to kick something, but unfortunately, her fiance's arrogant, dismissive, chauvinistic a.s.s wasn't available at the moment and taking her aggression out on anything else promised nothing more than bitter disappointment. And the definite possibility of a broken toe.

She couldn't believe the man had left her-just left her!-without a word of explanation. Without so much as a b.l.o.o.d.y backward glance. One minute he'd been poised to claim her body like an undiscovered country, and the next he'd been marching out the door telling her to go to sleep as if she were a naughty four-year-old up past her bedtime. Just who the h.e.l.l did he think he was?

With a groan, Saskia slumped back on the bed and stared glumly at the ceiling. She very much feared she knew the answer to that question-Nicolas Preda was a Tiguri male, a dominant Tiguri male, and as such he seemed to have been molded very much in the image of all the theri before him, men like her father and his, the kind of archaic-minded, pigheaded, mule-stubborn idiots she had vowed as a teenager she would never take as her mate.

So much for the best-laid plans, right?

Saskia's desire not to marry a man like her father had very little to do with her affection for that man. She adored her father and had from the days when he would come home from work in the evenings and indulge her love of dry, doll-filled tea parties every night before bed. She'd loved him when he'd made it clear that she would not be dating like the other girls she went to school with, and she had loved him when he sent her off to boarding school in Switzerland so she could learn to be a proper mate for a man just like him. She still loved her father, and she couldn't deny that her deeply rooted desire to please him hadn't weighed in her decision to accept the proposal offered to her by Nicolas Preda. Of course, her own long-standing infatuation with the man had played a larger role, but now she was beginning to regret her decision.

Not that she had any right to. She had known what she was getting herself into; she'd seen it from the very beginning. The Predas, both young and old, had made it clear from the outset that she-Saskia Eloisa Arcos-had very little to do with the match they were determined to make. Who she was mattered less to them than her bloodlines, her background, and the fact that her family had made very sure to raise her with the traditional values of the Tiguri. As she was growing up, her few friends outside her own kind had teased her often about her family's old-fashioned ways. She had been the only girl in her middle school who never wore jeans to cla.s.s, the last girl to experiment with makeup, the only one who was never allowed to attend parties or other events where boys might be present.

She had known from the beginning that her marriage would be arranged for her, and none of her friends had understood how she could pretend to accept that. Why hadn't she run away? Or just told her parents they were crazy if they thought she was going to be traded to another family like a piece of livestock? Her friends hadn't understood that Saskia wasn't pretending; she did accept that, the same way she accepted that the sky was blue, the sun rose in the east, and her parents loved her very much. In her world, that was just the way things worked. Why argue with inevitability?

That was the million-dollar question, right there. If she had grown up knowing what sort of marriage she would eventually have, if she had accepted that when she was eight or twelve or sixteen years old, where were these feelings of disappointment coming from? Was she really going to bother getting upset because her new fiance hadn't shared the nature of what was clearly an emergency with her before he headed out to deal with it? There was no point to it. Tiguri men lived by actions, not words. They preferred to tackle problems head-on instead of talking about them, and they possessed fiercely rigid beliefs about the role of women in their lives. Tiguri females were meant to be protected, showered with gifts, shown off to the world, and set aside when the time for mating was past. They didn't partic.i.p.ate in the family decision-making process, or suggest new ways of doing things, or question their mates' choices. "Seen and not heard" would describe the ideal Tiguri female in the minds of most of the males. Pretty as a picture and half as useful.

Saskia had known what she had agreed to, so why did it sting when that was exactly what she got?

"Maybe my mother was right," she muttered to the ceiling, the sound of her voice all but echoing in the huge, empty bedroom. "What was that Alcott quote she was always spouting? 'She is too fond of books, and it has turned her brain.' Maybe that's my problem."

Whatever she chose to blame it on, Saskia had to face facts-the mating she had agreed to was no longer one she could live with. But what were the alternatives?

Did she tell Nicolas she had changed her mind? Technically, until they actually had s.e.x-the real thing, not just mind-blowing foreplay-their engagement wasn't considered binding under Tiguri law. She could still back out.

She snorted. Yeah, she could really see Nicolas reacting well to that. He might not have any feelings for her in particular, but he had chosen her as his mate and publically declared his intention to keep her. If nothing else, his pride would never allow him to release her from their agreement. Plus, he had seemed to view the whole formal betrothal process the Tiguri still used as a huge pain in the behind. She doubted he'd be very eager to repeat it all with someone new when his current fiancee had no rational reason to back out of their engagement. Disappointment with their first night together would not qualify in his mind as a rational reason. Or in the minds of any other of their kind.

So if she couldn't back out, what other choices did she have? She supposed she could try to just live with it, to like it or lump it, as her grandmother would have said. After all, if she'd been prepared before to accept a relationship more akin to the one she had with her banker than the one she'd hoped to have with her mate, she should be able to find that resolve inside herself again. It had to be in there somewhere, right? Maybe tucked behind the frustrated l.u.s.t, or covered up by the growing piles of self-pity. If she'd felt it before, she could feel it again.

Couldn't she?

Sighing, Saskia twisted onto her side and clutched a pillow to her chest. Honestly, she wasn't sure she could. She couldn't figure out what had changed between the moment she signed the betrothal contract-yes, the Tiguri were the only living beings on earth who still used the antiquated things-and the moment Nicolas had strode out of their bedroom, leaving her alone and frustrated on their engagement night. She thought it had to be more than just the unfulfilled desire that had left her with this restless, hollow feeling. The one in her chest, that is-she knew the one between her legs had everything to do with the desire to feel her mate's body joined with hers in the elemental celebration of their union. But the ache below her b.r.e.a.s.t.s felt like more than that. It felt like the insistent drive she felt to put her pencil to paper and draw the images that flitted past her mind's eye, a sort of itching need that could only be a.s.suaged by taking action.

Now she just had to decide what action to take.

She needed to do something. The idea of just sitting back and letting her mate dictate the future of their relationship no longer seemed remotely acceptable, not if it meant she could find herself abandoned at a moment's notice without so much as a word of explanation. It wasn't like she expected her mate to report his every move to her; she had no desire to track his footsteps like some sort of jail warden. But when he stopped in the middle of making love to her and got a phone call about something so important that he climbed out of her bed and into the d.a.m.ned elevators she thought she had every right to ask him what was going on. And she did not want to be told, "I don't have time for you."

Ooh, that statement just chapped her a.s.s. She had the feeling, though, that if she didn't want to hear it again, she needed to start as she meant to go on. She had to set a whole new tone to this relationship, one in which she demonstrated to him clearly the fact that she intended to be a whole lot more than an accessory for him to wear when it suited. Saskia would make herself a partner in this relationship, or die trying.

She just hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Sleep didn't come easily that night, and by the time she finally drifted off Saskia felt as if she'd gone around the world in eighty days. On foot. As a consequence, she woke at her accustomed time shortly after seven feeling about as cheerful as a mortician. When she dragged herself out of bed-still empty except for herself-and stumbled into the bathroom, a quick glance in the mirror told her she looked more like the corpse. Exhaustion had turned her skin even paler than usual, until her freckles stood out in sharp relief, and had painted purple bruises beneath bloodshot eyes.

Oh, yeah, if her mate saw her now, he wouldn't just walk out the door; he'd run straight through it to get away from her.

A scalding shower managed to steam away the worst of her mental fog, but it took twice as long as usual with her makeup to temper the ravages of her restless night. Saskia tried every trick she knew, but in the end she was forced to settle for "not completely pathetic." So much for using her looks to bring her mate in line.

She pulled her hair back into a neat chignon and dressed casually, for her, in tailored gray slacks and a cashmere sweater the color of ripe plums. The cowl-neck drooped just low enough to hint at her cleavage, allowing her to go with the old standby of relying on the power of the b.r.e.a.s.t.s to distract a man from the flaws on the face. In defiance of the rules, she ignored the rows of shoes neatly arranged in her new closet and padded out of the bedroom in her stocking feet.

Yup, she'd already turned into such a rebel. The way her hems, cut to allow for the elegant heels she customarily wore, bunched and trailed on the ground would have appalled her mother and every deportment teacher she'd ever had. Take that, rules!

The huge apartment seemed to echo around her, the feeling of emptiness convincing her that her erstwhile fiance still hadn't returned from his middle-of-the-night mystery task. Still, a niggling touch of hope had her poking her head into each room as she pa.s.sed until by the time she left his silent office she had to remind herself that anything worth accomplishing took time and dedication. She just didn't like the fact that she couldn't get started convincing her mate how much he needed her until he actually came back to see her.

She found the kitchen easily. After years of training her memory to never forget a name or a face, a simple floor plan offered no challenge at all. Like every other room, this one sat empty and a little cold, the huge expanses of granite counter gleaming in the light that streamed in through the large window.

Saskia might have grown up in a world of privilege, but she prided herself on her ability to take care of herself in any situation. Nicolas had told her he hadn't yet hired any staff for their new home, and she felt glad of it as she located the expensive and complicated coffee machine at one end of the counter. Dealing with her own disappointment at waking up alone the night after her engagement was hard enough; she would have hated to face the pitying looks of strangers if servants had popped out of the woodwork and offered to cater to her every whim. Keeping her hands busy and her mind occupied with mundane tasks might actually keep her sane until she could corner her new mate for a serious talk.

It took a few minutes to locate beans and filters in the ma.s.sive kitchen, but soon enough Saskia was cradling an elegant porcelain cup in her hands and sipping from the heavily creamed brew. She had contemplated and rejected the idea of a more substantial breakfast while she rooted through a refrigerator the size of some New York apartments looking for the half-and-half. Her stomach hadn't settled enough for her to eat. The coffee would do for now.