Devil in Disguise

by Jessica Steele

  Clare felt herself freezing up inside. Her expression solemn, she turned and walked into the dining room, taking her by now usual place at the table. What had happened to him? she wondered in bewilderment, any questions she had to ask him about Kit pushed out of her mind by her confusion at this hard-eyed stranger sitting opposite.

  Rasmus came in, unobtrusively serving a meal that though deliciously cooked tasted like nothing in her mouth. Silently the meal continued. What Lazar was thinking Clare had no idea, but he was making no attempt to converse as he had on other occasions, and back in her shell, she found she just couldn't bring herself to break the oppressive air in the room.

  Swallowing became difficult, her nerves stretching to breaking point so that when her dessert arrived, it was no surprise to her that she lost her grip on her spoon and it went spinning from her hand. A blush coloured her cheeks as she bent to pick it up, only to halt half way as Lazar rapped out curtly, `Leave it.'

  Rasmus finished serving his master the cheese and biscuits he preferred and smiling at Clare placed a fresh spoon on the table in front of her. Wanting to push the dish of fresh fruit salad and ice cream away, wanting to race from the table and shut herself in her room, Clare forced herself to stay. She had to ask about Kit if it killed her. She waited only until Rasmus had left the room with their used dishes, then struggled to find her voice.

  `Lazar,' she began, feeling that with him in this mood he would probably prefer it if she called him Mr Vardakas, `Lazar, I—there's something I wanted to ask.. .

  To her amazement he stood up, not allowing her to finish. 'I'm afraid whatever it is will have to wait,' she was told coldly. `I have to be at the hospital shortly.'

  `Oh.' He was at the door before her mind caught up with what he had said, then a semi-relief surged through her. It wasn't her he was so out of sorts with! He must be terribly worried about his uncle. At the door he half turned and her sympathetic smile winged to him. 'Oh, Lazar, I'm so sorry. Is your uncle worse?'

  If it was possible his face hardened further at her smile, his glance flicking her face. She saw a muscle move in his jaw. 'No,' he said distinctly. 'He is improving by the hour.'

  Had he slapped her Clare could not have felt more wounded. But he was not waiting to see how she took his departing remark, the door closed after him and she was alone.

  Her glance returned to the table, to where he had sat, his biscuits and cheese untouched. He can't bear to be in my company! She couldn't stop the thought. Then like a bolt from the blue another thought flashed into her mind, and she saw then what her naïve mind had not been able to pick up all through the meal.

  She had disgusted him with her revelations, disgusted him so much she had turned his stomach. He had eaten barely anything either, she recalled, hadn't spoken to her because just the sight of her made him nauseous. He couldn't bear looking at her, hadn't even been able to stick it out and wait for his coffee.

  Appalled that Lazar, who had been so kind to her in her distress, should when he had carried her out of his sight—carried her, she saw now, in order to get her out of the way more quickly—have then got round to thinking that the blame for that terrible episode was entirely hers, she could not stay staring at the chair he had so recently occupied.

  She was crying by the time she got to her room, hurt to her very soul that she had told him everything. Revealed to him things he had insisted on knowing, things that had been so tightly locked up within her she couldn't even talk to her family about them. Was she so wrong to have told him? But how could she have done any other? He had looked determined to know. Yet to have told him all, received his understanding—she had been so sure of that understanding too—only to have him think over what she had told him and end up disgusted with her, made her deeply upset.

  Perhaps Greek women were thought lower than low when and if such a thing happened to them, she thought, wishing she had found out more about their culture before she had said anything. Lazar had said Sophronia's chances of making a suitable marriage were now nil because of what Kit was supposed to have done. So perhaps being the innocent victim of an attack carried the same sort of slur.

  She could feel his disgust now like salt in a raw wound, and didn't know why it should matter so much that by revealing what she had she had earned his contempt.

  Rinsing her face, she decided she might as well go to bed. A wry thought came as she reached for a towel. Since he loathed her so much she was sure she had no reason to worry about Lazar expecting her in his bed tonight. He would turf her out on her ear if she so much as rattled his door knob. But whether he liked- it or not she was going to have to tackle him in the morning about Kit. Tomorrow was Saturday, the last day of the time he had allotted her.

  Clare lay awake for what seemed an age. At midnight she looked at her watch and quelled the feeling that came with being thought the dregs; they certainly kept some strange visiting hours at whatever hospital Lazar's uncle was in. The idea came that he might be with some woman—some sophisticated woman, she amended. Some sophisticated, untarnished—untarnished? She doubted it—woman who wouldn't take very long to make him forget the disgust he felt with Clare Harper.

  The thought that he was with a woman made her feel sick, but she wasn't very surprised. Everything she had thought about since she had come to bed had disturbed her. Emotionally worn out after everything that had happened that day, she turned out the lamp and moved to her side. Two minutes later she was raising her head from her pillow listening to the purr of a car that could be heard coming down the drive. Her head fell back to her pillow and within minutes she was fast asleep.

  For the first few hours her sleep was satisfying. Then she stirred and opened her eyes to find it was still dark. Stretching out a hurried hand for her watch, she saw from its illuminated dial that it was ten past three. She hated the dark, wished it was daylight. Close your eyes, try to get back to sleep again, she told herself. When you open your eyes again it will be daylight.

  She closed her eyes, thought of her family, thought of Lazar in the room next door. She thought of Kit. They were going to beat Kit if she couldn't stop them, so she had to stop them. She had to slop them, they couldn't beat Kit. She had been beaten once—she mustn't think about that. Think about your family. Think about Kit—Clare fell into an uneasy sleep.

  They were going to beat Kit. They mustn't beat him, they mustn't beat him. They mustn't beat—her! It was dark in the lane. Who ... She was frightened. Who ... No! No, stop. Stop it. Stop! Stop! No! ! ! Somebody was screaming, screaming, dreadful terrified screams, horrendous screams. Why didn't they stop? Stop—stop! Oh God, that bloodcurdling scream. Why didn't they stop? She was frightened. Somebody was being tortured! Oh, please stop. Please, please stop. She couldn't bear it. What was happening? Why was that man ... Why couldn't she scream? Her mouth was open, forcing sound, but no sound was coming. He was going to hit her again....

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  `CLARE! Wake up, Clare!'

  Someone shaking her, calling her name brought her out of her frightening nightmare. Bathed in sweat, she opened wild terror-filled eyes, as blinding light struck her.

  `You are safe now, agapémene,' Lazar told her urgently. `You are safe, Clare, nothing will harm you.'

  Wide-eyed, she looked at him, having no idea how long he had been there trying to shake her awake, but feeling no surprise that he should be there and not her parents as her eyes took in that the communicating door between the two rooms was wide open as though her screams had brought him in jet-propelled.

  Strong hands were holding her shoulders, to her distressed vision his face looked grey. She opened her mouth to tell him she was all right, but no sound came from her fear-dried throat.

  `Theos!' Lazar exclaimed as he witnessed the difficulty she was having in endeavouring to form her words, and she thought he lost more colour. `Speak to me, Clare,' he demanded, recovering. `For the love of God say something—anything!'

  Her mouth working, she tried for al
l she was worth, knowing fear that she might never speak again. The hands on her shoulders tightened their grip.

  'Try Clare, try,' he urged, her fear communicating itself to him.

  She sucked in dry breath, her eyes wild again, panic-filled. Then as she let her breath out a painful, harsh shuddering sound came with it.

  'Oh—Lazar!' broke from her, and she began to sob.

  `Thank God!' he breathed, and she was in his arms, being rocked like a baby, while over and over he said, `Agapémene, agapémene. You are safe now.'

  His words comforted her, but the tears just wouldn't stop as she clutched on to him as though frightened he might go away, leaving her in the dark.

  Minutes passed while he sat holding her sob-racked body. Then words came from her without thought. 'It wasn't—my fault,' she sobbed brokenly, her fingers convulsively clutching and unclutching the back of him. 'I couldn't h-help it.'

  Lazar tried to shush her, his one arm round her waist, his other stroking her hair in soothing movements. But she didn't want to be shushed and became more agitated.

  'It wasn't! ' she cried. 'I'm not to blame.'

  `What are you not to blame for, Clare?' he asked gently, sensing she had a worry that had to be talked out.

  'I dis-disgusted you whe-when I told you—about me. You thought it w-was all my fault. But it wasn't—it wasn't,' she broke off to hiccup a sob. `You were awful to me at dinner, but I couldn't help it. He—he grabbed in-me ...'

  A whole stream of Greek left Lazar as, still holding on to her, he pushed her away so he could see into her unhappy eyes. Clare caught the stunned look on his face and wondered if she had read his reason for being the way he had at dinner totally wrong.

  'Clare, beautiful little Clare,' he said, reverting to English now that he had adjusted to what she had said, 'I wasn't disgusted—not with you. How could I be, my little innocent?'

  'You weren't?' she said, her sobs dying as she stared at him wide-eyed.

  'Not with you,' he repeated, admitting, 'I did feel disgust, yes, but only because your father had not done a full job of killing the man:

  'But—but at dinner ...' she faltered on a shuddering breath as a dry sob shook her body.

  'Forgive me, I was a brute,' Lazar apologised. `What you told me upset me a little. I knew I had put you through hell in making you tell me—and this nightmare proves it. I was afraid of something like this happening. Having dragged all that out of you I wanted you to go to bed with a clear mind—I was afraid to say anything to you that might have you fearing me in the room next door. I purposely stayed out until I thought you would be asleep.'

  He pulled her to him again, cradling her loosely in his arms, his hand moving to smooth the hair back from her brow as he had done the previous afternoon. Clare wanted to tell him she had no fear of him, not in the way he meant, but the words wouldn't come. Gently he continued to hold her, soothing her, until gradually the terror of her nightmare left her.

  She had witnessed this gentleness in him before, knew he had a fine sensitivity, and suddenly she was forgetting her own need for comfort. It becoming urgent that Lazar should know some comfort too since he must be blaming himself that he had brought this on.

  `Lazar,' she said softly, and the brief stilling of his hand on her forehead told her she had his attention. She pulled to sit up, and immediately he let her go. 'It wasn't you—my telling you—you know—that was responsible for my having a nightmare.' Perhaps that was a bit of a lie, but that wasn't important. 'I've been having nightmares for years,' and at his quick look, `but not as frequently now as I used to.'

  She had been no comfort at all, she could see that. She could see he was still blaming himself. And it came to her then that he was so set on taking all the blame that anything she might say was going to be disbelieved. Perhaps even the sight of her had him inwardly whipping up anger against himself.

  `I'll be all right now,' she told him, knowing he would get her meaning that she was ready to be left on her own.

  `Do you have a spare nightdress?' he asked, startling her by the unexpected question into pointing and answering:

  `There's one in that bottom drawer, but ...'

  'The one you are wearing is soaked through,' he told her, going over to the chest of drawers.

  Only then did she become aware that she was sitting up in a cotton nightdress that clung damply after the sweat of fear had lathered her. For the first time too she became aware of the way in which Lazar was dressed. She had been too upset to notice before. But now as he extracted a nightdress from one of the drawers she saw he appeared to be wearing nothing but a hastily pulled on robe, his legs bare from below knee level reminding her vividly of the few clothes that had separated them when she had discovered she wanted more than just kisses from him.

  Her face was stained crimson at her thoughts when he came back to the bed. She saw his face tighten momentarily as he observed her blush, saw his eyes flick to her well defined breasts, and held her breath as the most wanton of feelings rioted through her.

  'It's all right, Clare.' The tight look left him. 'I do not intend to personally change your nightwear.'

  He dropped the nightdress near her hand, then walked round to the other side of the bed to switch on the small bedside lamp.

  'Get into your dry nightdress as soon as I've gone,' he instructed, then with a swift look at her, he strode to switch off the centre light and through the communicating door. Clare wanted to thank him for coming to her, but the door had closed.

  For a while she lay just thinking about him, about that treacherous feeling she had had of wanting him to kiss her again. It was a joy to her to know she was normal, to know she hadn't been permanently damaged by what had happened five years ago, but for a moment she had cause to chew at her bottom lip, remembering she had felt quite wanton just before Lazar had left, and wondering if it had sent her to the other extreme. But the thought didn't stay, because -it wasn't every man she felt that way about. Though she couldn't figure out just why it was only Lazar Vardakas who stirred her in that particular fashion.

  She was still awake when the first fingers of dawn crept across the night sky. And as she put out the bedside lamp, a tender smile crossed her face at Lazar's thoughtfulness in switching it on. It was as though he knew she hadn't wanted to be left in the dark after that awful nightmare.

  For another half an hour she lay there, sleep nowhere near. A restless feeling possessing her made it impossible to settle to sleep. She lay for some more minutes, then acted on the impulse that came to go to the salóni where she could watch the sun come up in all its glory.

  Silently, knowing she had already disturbed Lazar's rest too much for one night, she tiptoed out of bed, found her lightweight cotton robe and shrugged into it. Her door made a slight click as she opened it. She held her breath, but heard no other sound.

  Her slippered feet whispered along the hall, where daylight filtered in from the wide expanse of glass. Quietly she turned the handle of the door to the salóni, and then, 'Oh!' she exclaimed, for the salóni was not as deserted as she fully expected.

  Lazar sat there still in his robe as though he had never taken it off after leaving her. A telephone had been plugged in, the base standing on the table she had last seen holding their two empty drinking glasses, the receiving end of the instrument in Lazar's hand.

  'I'm sorry,' she said, apologising for interrupting him, seeing he must be half way through a call. She made to leave, but before she could do so, Lazar had held out an arm inviting her to join him. Hesitating, she watched a warm smile break from him for her, and her feet were taking her to sit beside him on the couch whether he meant she was to sit precisely there or not.

  'They are taking their time in answering,' he remarked, his arm stretched along the couch behind her.

  'It is a little early,' Clare opined, giving him a smile.

  Quite naturally it seemed to her, his arm left the back of the couch and draped over her shoulders. She didn't flinch.
She wanted his arm there.

  Loosely he held her against him, near to his heart. Then the phone must have been answered, for he was speaking rapidly in Greek, pausing every so often to listen to what was being said at the other end, inserting something of his own. When he replaced the receiver, his call finished, Clare thought for one disappointing moment he was going to take his arm away, but he didn't.

  'Can't you sleep either?' he asked softly.

  About to tell him she had come to watch the sun come up, she answered only a straightforward, 'No.'

  She felt his arm squeeze her shoulders, then he had removed it. 'How about us raiding Phoebe's kitchen? I could do with a drink of something and I'm sure you could.'

  Happily Clare went with him, and thought he was the most considerate man she had ever met when instead of making the coffee she was sure he would have preferred, perhaps because he knew of the English and their penchant for tea, it was a cup of tea he placed before her as they sat across from each other at the kitchen table.'

  She couldn't keep her eyes from straying to the gaping front of his robe, his movements pulling it apart, showing that line of hair which she knew reached down to his navel. Lazar must have followed her look and after that she made sure she looked anywhere but at his chest when quietly he said: