by Sara Craven
‘Daughter?’ The word was almost explosive. He leaned forward, resting clenched fists on the desk, the dark eyes blazing. ‘You say you are his daughter? Is he quite mad? What kind of father is he to treat his own child in such a way—expose her to such dangers? Such shame?’
She smoothed a non-existent crease from her skirt. ‘Perhaps a desperate one.’
‘That is an excuse?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘A reason, but not one that a man with your money could ever understand.’
‘You are wrong,’ he bit back at her. ‘Wealth does not make one immune from desperation or any other condition of the human spirit.’ He shook his head. ‘And your mother permitted him to do this? How is it possible?’
‘No.’ There were tears thick in her throat, and she swallowed them back. ‘I started travelling with Daddy after my mother died. He said he—needed me.’
He muttered something harsh and ugly under his breath, then sat down, glancing at the passport again. ‘You are—eighteen?’
‘Almost nineteen.’
‘A child still.’
‘Hardly that,’ she said. ‘Any longer.’
His mouth tightened. Then, ‘A child,’ he repeated coldly. ‘Whose innocence he chose to barter. It is beyond belief. Beyond decency. How could he do such a thing?’
‘He is a gambler,’ Joanna said slowly. ‘He was on a winning streak, and facing the opportunity of a lifetime. It probably didn’t occur to him that he could lose. It rarely did, even when he could afford to do so.’ She paused. ‘And of course he didn’t know how heavily the odds were stacked against him.’
He said softly, ‘That final hand. You think perhaps I cheated? I did not.’
‘What does it matter—now? What does anything matter?’ She lifted her head and looked at him. ‘And who are you to dare talk of decency? If you’d had even a streak of humanity you wouldn’t have enforced that bet. No one could possibly sink that low.’
He said slowly, ‘Petros lied when he said you had given him your body, but did he lie about the rest? Did you lure him to be cheated at that card game?’
‘Yes.’ She bit her lip. ‘He—he told you the truth about that.’
‘And was it your own idea or the suggestion of your father that you should do this?’
Joanna swallowed. ‘Not—just him.’
‘Then your answer is yes, and he deserved to be punished in the way I had chosen,’ he said flatly. ‘Even though I thought I was taking his pillow friend, not his daughter.’
‘And if you’d known?’ she said. ‘If he’d told you—appealed to you—would it have made any difference?’
There was a silence, then he said, ‘No, Joanna mou, on reflection—it would not. On the contrary, it would have taken my revenge on him to another dimension—to watch him realise exactly what he had lost and suffer.’
She said breathlessly, ‘You think he isn’t suffering now—knowing the hell he’s condemned me to and unable to help me?’
‘If so, he is being tortured in comfort, Joanna mou, as you are yourself.’ His mouth curled. ‘It seems your father left France in the company of a Mrs Van Dyne. I am told she is a rich New York socialite.’
She stared at him.
‘I don’t believe you,’ she said at last, her voice uneven. ‘If it was true—if he’s all right—why hasn’t he come to find me?’
Vassos shrugged. ‘Perhaps because he would have to reveal your true relationship to his new companion, and it is not convenient for him to do so at this time.’ His glance was measuring. ‘Would you have told me of it if you were still a virgin? I think not.’
She stared down at her hands, tightly clasped in her lap. ‘Well, now you’ve punished us both, and your revenge is complete. So you don’t need to keep me any longer.’
‘Our views of necessity differ, Joanna mou. And I have no intention of allowing you to leave,’ he added softly. ‘At least not until I have had everything I want from you. And how long that will take, only you can decide.’
She said huskily, ‘I—I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Begin thinking like a woman,’ he said, ‘and it will soon become clear. Which brings me to something I must ask you. May I assume that your total lack of experience extends also to the use of birth control? You do not have to speak,’ he added as embarrassed colour stormed into her face. ‘Just nod or shake your head.’
He watched the tiny movement of confirmation, and sighed. ‘As I thought,’ he commented, half to himself. ‘And does it also follow that you have no wish to bear me a child?’
She looked up quickly, her eyes blank with horror as she met his frankly sardonic gaze.
‘Again I have my answer,’ he murmured. ‘So I shall take the responsibility for your protection. When, of course, your body has had time to recover from its recent ordeal,’ he added courteously.
She said hoarsely, ‘Am I expected to thank you?’
He shrugged. ‘Perhaps, one day, you may be grateful.’ He got to his feet. ‘And now I must return to the tasks I neglected earlier. We will meet again at dinner, Joanna mou.’ He paused. ‘When you will choose something to wear from the clothes I have brought you. They have all been returned to your room—even those you threw in the garden.’
She rose, too, and faced him, lifting her chin. ‘I would prefer not to.’
‘But it is not your preference that is under consideration,’ he said. ‘And if you continue to defy me I shall dress you with my own hands.’ His smile grazed her. ‘It will be no hardship, believe me. The reality of you naked exceeded anything I had imagined.’
He watched the heated colour swamp her face, his smile widening.
‘And to know that I will be the first to enjoy you completely is an undreamed of pleasure also,’ he told her softly. ‘I look forward to the moment.’
He sat down, reaching for the papers he’d been reading earlier.
‘Until later, then,’ he added, as Joanna turned and headed blindly for the door
CHAPTER NINE
JOANNA felt drained when she reached her bedroom that night. She had it to herself, to her relief, although Hara had clearly been there at some point, to turn the bed down on one side only.
She changed into one of her own cotton nightshirts, hanging the slender shift in leaf-green silk that she’d worn for dinner back in the wardrobe with the rest of the clothing Vassos Gordanis had provided, then sat down to brush her hair.
This must rank, she thought, as the worst evening she’d ever spent—in the company of a man who had deliberately outraged her both physically and emotionally, and announced his intention of continuing to do so at some future point.
An abnormal, even impossible situation by any standard, which he, somehow, had made seem almost normal and even—feasible.
Because when he eventually joined her in the saloni he had turned into the perfect host, politely attentive and, she thought, grinding her teeth in chagrin, undeniably charming.
He had acknowledged the new dress with a slight inclination of the head, but there’d been none of the edged remarks she’d expected.
He’d offered her ouzo, which she’d refused, and white wine which, against her better judgement, he’d persuaded her to accept.
And then, over a lamplit dinner on the terrace, he’d chatted to her, lightly and without any hint of flirtation, let alone sexual innuendo, on neutral topics, and in a way that demanded a response from her that could not be as exclusively monosyllabic as she’d planned.
Someone had clearly told him she was a reader, because he enquired as to her favourite authors. Whether she preferred Dickens to Thomas Hardy, or Jane Eyre to Wuthering Heights. Asked if she’d enjoyed The Day of the Jackal and if she thought The Dogs of War was as good.
‘You must tell me if there are any books you would like to read, and I will get them for you,’ he went on, and Joanna looked away.
More pomegranate seeds, she thought, but she was not going to be tempted.
; However, it was a novelty for her to have this kind of conversation again. Denys had no interest in books, and had often told her she was wasting time reading when she could have been acquiring skills as a poker player which would stand her in good stead for the future.
It occurred to her, reluctantly, that if Vassos Gordanis had been anyone else she might almost have begun to enjoy herself. And realised just how dangerous that was.
‘But it seems you do not care for music,’ he said, over the coffee that had been served indoors in the saloni.
‘That’s not true,’ Joanna said defensively. ‘I’m just not used to that kind of system.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You wish me to demonstrate its use, perhaps?’
‘No, thank you. It—it’s not important.’ She put down her empty cup and drew a breath. ‘May I go to my room, please?’
He glanced in surprise at his watch. ‘So early? Why?’
‘Because I—I can’t do this,’ she said raggedly. ‘Can’t sit here and chat as if—as if.’
‘As if we were friends?’ he supplied with a touch of mockery. ‘You don’t think in time we may become so?’
‘I know we won’t.’
‘You disappoint me,’ he said softly. ‘However, run away, if that is what you wish.’
She was on her way to the door but she halted, swinging round to confront him.
‘Wish?’ she repeated. ‘Do you know what I really wish, Mr Gordanis?’
‘Of course, Joanna mou,’ he drawled. ‘You would like never to set eyes on me again, unless I am lying dead at your feet. Is that a summary of your feelings?’
‘Yes,’ she said defiantly.
‘But sadly your wish will not be gratified, unlike my own.’ He paused. ‘And my name is Vassos,’ he added. ‘In future you will use it, if you please.’
‘I take it,’ she said, ‘that is an order, not an option?’
‘Bravo, pedhi mou.’ His smile mocked her. ‘You are beginning to learn.’
And today’s lesson would seem to be don’t challenge him, Joanna thought, as she put down her hairbrush and rose. Just put up and shut up.
It was a hot still night, and she opened her balcony doors to catch any stray breath of wind before fastening the shutters.
She turned back the coverlet, folding it neatly at the foot of the bed, then slipped under the sheet. As she turned to switch off the bedside lamp she heard the rattle of a door handle, and Vassos sauntered into the room.
He was barefoot, wearing black silk pyjama pants that sat low on his lean hips.
Joanna involuntarily pulled the sheet tighter, her eyes dilating as he walked towards the bed.
He halted, brows lifting as he regarded her. ‘You have nothing to fear tonight, pedhi mou, I give you my word. But I did not bring you to this house in order to sleep alone. Although I have decided for once to spare your blushes,’ he added, indicating his attire, his tone almost rueful. ‘In truth I had forgotten I possessed such things.’
He turned off the light and slid into bed beside her, reaching for her and drawing her quivering body against his in one easy movement.
‘Relax,’ he told her softly as she tried to pull away, bracing a hand against his shoulder. ‘I ask only that you lie quietly in my arms. Accustom yourself to being in bed with me.’
She said hoarsely, her heart hammering as she experienced the warmth of him against her, penetrating the thin cotton of her nightshirt, ‘Never. Never in this world.’
‘But this is a different world, Joanna mou.’ He took her hand from his shoulder, placing it instead on his hair-roughened chest, so that the heavy beat of his heart resonated through her palm. His other arm went round her, holding her, his fingers resting lightly on her hip. ‘A world where your life is mine,’ he added quietly. ‘So try to accept that. And me.’
She felt the fleeting pressure of his lips on her hair. ‘Now, let us sleep.’
Sleep? her mind screamed silently. No matter how tired she was, did he really think she could simply curl up against him and close her eyes? Was he mad?
She lay, staring up at the ceiling, silently counting the minutes, listening—waiting on tenterhooks for his breathing to deepen—to become rhythmic. For his clasp to slacken.
Eventually, when she thought enough time had passed and it seemed safe, she began to move, trying to edge slowly and carefully away from him. But, to her exasperation, her progress was minimal, hampered by the soft mattress and the cling of the sheet.
While reclaiming her hand from his chest was yet another problem. As she tried to slide her fingers out from beneath his, she found herself encountering far too much warm, bare skin.
Frustrated, she made a final determined attempt to lift herself away, only to feel her knee graze his silk-clad thigh.
As she froze, his voice came to her in the darkness, his tone even, almost conversational. ‘Continue to wriggle like that if you wish, pedhi mou, but I should warn you my self-control is not limitless.’ He paused. ‘However, you might be more comfortable like this.’
He turned on to his side and pulled her back against him, wrapping his arms round her, and shaping her to the curve of his body.
He whispered, ‘Now, close your eyes.’
Burning with helpless resentment, she obeyed, although she knew she still wouldn’t be able to sleep. Not—close to him like this.
For one thing, she couldn’t empty her mind of images from the past twenty-four hours. And not just the memory of what had happened in this bed a few hours earlier.
It was the other aspects of him that were teasing at her brain, from the laughing pirate who’d come striding in to recapture his domain, to the cold-eyed interrogator who’d faced her across his desk, demanding truths that had come too late to save her, who’d then in some extraordinary way become a pleasant companion at dinner.
And, strangest of all, the man who was holding her at this moment, quietly and without threat, his steady breath warm on her neck. A situation she didn’t really wish to contemplate.
Yet Vassos Gordanis was not the only enigma that Pellas had to offer, she thought. And it was much safer to think about the other one.
To contemplate the house in the olive grove, and remember a small child dressed up for a non-existent party who’d briefly enjoyed a simple, silly game, as well as the shrill voice of the mother who’d warned her to stay away.
But why? she wondered. What harm had it done to befriend a little girl who’d seemed to share her own sense of isolation?
Besides, what was that kind of sultry beauty doing in the back of beyond? Unless, like a good wife, she lived where her husband’s work took her.
Except, of course, the Gordanis workforce lived on Thaliki, so why was this little family an apparent exception?
But I can’t think about that now, Joanna decided drowsily. I’ll mention it to Hara. I’ll do that tomorrow after I’ve had my swim. The one good thing about being here.
She imagined herself in the pool, floating lazily on its surface in the sunlight, sighing her contentment as the softest of warm breezes began to drift dreamily and enticingly across her body, making the tips of her breasts harden into rosy peaks under its slow caress and her soft thighs tremble.
And, as her entire body shivered with this new and astonishing pleasure, she thought—I want this never to end.
Yet end it did, and she turned languidly to swim for the side of the pool, but instead of the tiled edge she’d expected found her fingers clutching a pillow.
Her eyes snapped open. My God, she thought as she sat up, pushing her hair back from her face. I’ve been dreaming. How extraordinary.
Stranger still was the discovery that she was alone in the bed. But worst of all was the shocked realisation that she was naked, the nightshirt she’d been wearing lying in a crumpled heap on the floor.
She snatched it up with a gasp, holding it against her in a protective gesture that even she could see was totally useless.
He took it off, she
thought, hot with embarrassment. Took it off when I was too deeply asleep to know what he was doing. And then he.
She swallowed. Well—at least it hadn’t been that. She’d have to have been in a coma to sleep through a repeat of what he’d done to her the previous afternoon.
But that was small consolation when more details of that sweet and frankly sensuous dream were crowding back into her mind, and she couldn’t be sure what was dream and what reality. Because something had created that delicate whisper of sensation across her body, which reason told her could only have been his hands—or even more disturbingly his mouth.
At least he wasn’t here, she thought feverishly, so she didn’t have to face him—wondering—knowing she could never ask.
She heard a chink of china from the corridor, signalling Hara’s approach with her coffee, and tugged the shirt back on. It was far too late for her to worry about appearances, but, for reasons she couldn’t explain even to herself, she knew she’d rather give the impression that Vassos had spent the night in his own room.
But Hara’s attitude was briskly incurious as she poured the coffee. And she had some news of her own to impart.
‘Kyrios Vassos go to Athens,’ she announced. ‘Go very early.’
‘Oh.’ Joanna was aware of an odd frisson which she told herself was relief not disappointment.
‘Back tonight,’ Hara added, as if offering consolation. ‘Today you rest. Make yourself beautiful for him.’ She went to the wardrobe and took a turquoise bikini from the selection in a drawer, producing a filmy thigh-length jacket in turquoise and gold to go over it. She gave Joanna a beguiling smile. ‘You stay by pool, ne?‘
Joanna sipped her coffee and decided to distract herself from the notion of making herself attractive for Vassos by introducing another topic.
‘Perhaps,’ she returned. ‘I haven’t decided.’ She paused. ‘Hara—who lives at the house in the olive grove?’
The jacket slipped off its hanger to the floor and the older woman bent to retrieve it. She straightened, looking flushed. ‘Is not important, Kyria Joanna. Not a problem for you. Best to keep away.’
So I’ve been told, Joanna thought.
