by Julia James
A grim light glowered in her eyes. It had been the paparazzi, trailing her to that hotel, who had precipitated the vicious ending of her marriage…
She pulled her mind away. She would not let herself recall that hideous scene again, in which Theo had poured down on her all the savage fury he was capable of. Just as she would not, would not, let herself think about what she was doing now, returning to Greece.
A car was waiting for her, large, sleek and expensive, with tinted windows and a chauffeur. The moment she realised that that was to be her form of transport Vicky felt relief flush through her. The car indicated that she was staying on the mainland. God alone knew just how many beds Theo owned across his myriad properties, but there was one above all others that she dreaded.
No—no thinking of that. No memories allowed. Total shutdown of brain function—that was all that was allowed when it came to that subject.
Don’t think—don’t think about the island…
The island where she had endured her greatest ordeal.
Far more unbearable than the vicious savaging with which he had disposed of her as his wife.
Far more unbearable than that…
Cold snaked down her spine at the thought of Theo maximising his revenge by taking her back to that place…
But if she had been spared the island, where was he then intending to keep her? Pincers nipped at her insides. Was he planning on having her stay in the Theakis mansion? Please, no! It would be far too easy for her uncle to discover her presence there—
As ever, when she thought of Aristides, anger flushed through Vicky. Theo had not spared her uncle either in his vicious savagery. He had destroyed her relationship with Aristides, her only living paternal relative, and she would not forgive him for that any more than she would forgive him anything else.
As the car started to leave the airport complex she saw it was not heading towards Athens, and the pincers in her stomach stilled. Nor were they heading for Piraeus, the port of Athens, so it was not to be his yacht, either.
So where, then?
It was as the car headed for the coast, and she made herself look at the road signs, that she finally realized. And when she did she felt a spurt of uncontrollable, furious anger.
She knew exactly where she was being taken!
Bastard! The absolute bastard!
Fury bit in her.
He was doing it on purpose—that was obvious. Making his point. Rubbing it in. Showing her, very visibly, what he intended to make of her! She felt her temper seethe. Then, out of her bile, another emotion emerged. The same one she had summoned last night, as she’d steeled herself to do what she had to do. This was a game two people could play. He thought he was calling the shots—well, he could think again!
He could damn well think again!
She had her own agenda for this hellish interlude, and she’d stick to it through thick and thin.
She sat back in the soft leather seat as the chauffeured car whisked her luxuriously to her destination. It did not take very long to get there, and she was not surprised. After all, it had to be a convenient distance from Athens. A quick enough run to fit in with the crowded agenda of a busy chief executive whose time was scarce and valuable.
‘Kyria?’
The voice of the driver was impersonal, but his glance, as Vicky got out of the car at her destination, was less so. As she caught the discreet appraisal in his eyes, his expression of brief puzzlement only confirmed that she had been delivered to the correct place. Why else would Theo’s chauffeur think it odd that he had just delivered a woman dressed in jeans and a cheap top to a place like this? The women who were brought here were light years away from her—they would never have worn chainstore clothes, or have been seen without a full face of make-up and hair done up to match. They would be svelte and chic and sophisticated, and above all always stunningly beautiful—the way Christina Poussos was.
And they would be preeningly gratified to be the object of his attentions. Even more gratified, Vicky knew, with another caustic glint in her eye as she surveyed her destination, to have been brought here.
Her eyes ran over the house in front of her. It had been built well off the main coast road, tucked discreetly away, far from prying eyes, deep in lushly watered gardens, surrounded by a high wall and the usual electronic security the wealthy found normal. It was small by the standards of the rich, not a mansion, but it was opulent and luxurious and Vicky knew exactly what sort of place it was.
She’d been told about it—but not by her husband. By a woman who had been at one time a guest here—‘Many times, my dear’—so she had informed Vicky, with one of those sweetly insincere smiles she had become accustomed to. Vicky hadn’t reacted—why should she have? It had meant nothing to her—and her blankness had clearly annoyed the woman.
She reacted with the same blankness now as she walked into the house, the door opened for her by a member of staff she had no reason to recognise from her marriage. The staff here would be quite different from those at any of the other Theakis properties in Greece—the vast mansion in Kifissia, the apartment in the city centre, the ski lodge in the mountains and the faux-primitive beach villa on the island.
Even if they did recognise her, it would not matter. The staff here, Vicky knew, would have been selected not just for their ability to be invisible, but primarily for their absolute and total discretion, blind and deaf to the identities of their employer’s ‘guests’. There would be no leaks to gossip columnists or paparazzi from these servants.
It was cool indoors, compared to the brief heat of the exterior between the air-conditioned car and the air-conditioned interior, and Vicky gave an unconscious shiver. It was the sudden chill that had made her shiver, she told herself. Nothing else.
With studied blankness she strolled forward, across the marble floored entrance hall and then into the shaded reception room beyond. It had been, she surmised, professionally designed for style and luxury, lacking any kind of personal touch. Through the slatted blinds she could make out a veranda, and the sea beyond.
Hefting her backpack to her other shoulder, she walked back out into the hall and headed upstairs. There was no sign of any more staff anywhere, but Vicky knew that if she dumped her backpack on the hall floor it would invisibly be taken upstairs at some point, and its meagre contents unpacked for her.
On the upper landing were several doors, and she opened one at random. It was a guest bedroom. The next was a bathroom as large as a bedroom. A small, scornful smile nicked her mouth, devoid of humour—with a sunken bath easily able to accommodate two people, plus a Jacuzzi and a walk-in shower. The next door opened to what must be the master bedroom, with a bed the size of her own bathroom.
She shut the door abruptly and returned to the first bedroom. That, at least, though still opulently decorated in the same professionally anonymous style of the downstairs décor, lacked a football pitch of a bed in which sleeping was obviously not the designated activity.
Like an automaton she crossed to the window, drawing up the blinds and staring out. She could see down over the gardens and the swimming pool to a small, private shingle beach, with a jetty to one side and the sea glinting with a blue that the colder shores of the UK never saw.
Emotion moved within her, and she slammed down on it. Her face set, she dumped her backpack on the bed and started to empty the contents over the counterpane. Unpacking would help to pass the time.
Stop her thinking.
That was essential. Quite essential.
But her unpacking took almost no time at all, and within minutes it was done. She glanced out of the window again. The shadows were lengthening; the two-hour time difference, plus the flight time, had eaten up the day. On a sudden impulse she lifted the house phone. It was answered immediately, and she issued a request for coffee to be served on the terrace. Then, armed with her book, she went downstairs.
The temperature on the terrace, despite the time of day, was still warm enough
to make her wish she’d changed into more lightweight clothes. But if she’d done that she would have had to have a shower first, and she was in no mood to do that. It would have meant stripping off, seeing her naked body.
Her stomach plunged. Suddenly the reality of why she was here hit her all over again like a sledgehammer. She felt panic explode in her chest.
Oh, God, I can’t do this! I can’t! I can’t!
Panic beat like a wild animal, and she could feel her heart rate leaping. Then, clenching her hands, she forced herself to calm.
Stop it—stop it right now. Ruthlessly she clamped down on her burst of emotion. You can do it—but the only way is to not think. Just don’t think about what you’re doing. That’s all you have to do.
That’s all…
Grimly, she forced herself back into that state of deliberate blankness she’d managed before, sitting herself down on one of the padded chairs set out in the shade from which she could see the swimming pool, one end curved around into a whirlpool, with a set of waterproof switches inset into a stone slab at one end. She looked away and flicked open her book, making herself start to read. A few minutes later the coffee arrived. It was filter coffee, not Greek, and there was a plate of little Greek pastries and biscuits to go with it. She eyed them a moment. She ought to make herself eat something, she knew, because she’d been unable to eat on the plane, and breakfast had been an impossibility, too. But she contented herself just with sipping coffee instead.
Sip and read. Sip and read.
Don’t think. Sip and read. Sip and read.
But thoughts came all the same. Threading into her brain between the words of her book, pooling like acid into her stomach.
She was here, in Greece. She had not been here for two years. All around she could hear the chitter of cicadas, feel the warmth of the southern clime, see the Mediterranean vegetation and the sparkle of the sun on blue, blue water. This time yesterday she’d had no idea at all that she would be here.
No idea of the ordeal ahead of her.
Am I mad to do this? Even to think I can do this?
Doubt assailed her, eroding what little dogged determination she was retaining. Disbelief swept over her, and then panic again, and she had to fight them both down.
I can do this—I can get through it, and I can come out the other side. And I will. That’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to come out the other side, and I’m going to get my money, and then I’m going home—home to my real life. Home far, far away from here—and farther away from Theo Theakis than he can ever reach again.
She felt anger and loathing for him pool deep within her. She let it gather, taking strength from it. Let his image form in her mind.
Tall, dark, deadly.
Abruptly she jumped to her feet, dumping her coffee cup on the tray and letting her book tumble to the floor. She strode off the terrace, past the pool, with its purpose-built whirlpool, and plunged down the set of steps that led on to the shingle beach. It was only a tiny beach, hardly enough to stride along. The vegetation at either end was too thick for her to negotiate, and she was reduced to crossing and recrossing the patch of shingle as all around her the warm Mediterranean dusk gathered like a thickening blanket, pierced only by the noise of the cicadas in the foliage.
Agitation poured through her, a sick anxiety, as she strode up and down, backwards and forwards, the soles of her trainers crunching the gravel. Then, without knowing why, she halted. Her skin seemed to prickle. She had heard nothing, but she was spiked with awareness.
Slowly, very slowly, she turned to look back at the villa.
Theo was standing on the veranda.
Watching her.
Theo let his eyes continue to rest on her, even though she was now aware of his presence.
She was agitated. That was good. It meant that the air of blankness she’d pulled over herself during the flight had been nothing but a pose. She was good at poses, he knew—all too well. Posing at being his wife—until she’d been caught in flagrante by the gutter press who had, for once in their sordid, voyeuristic lives, come in useful.
A familiar fury gripped him—fury on so many, many counts. Fury at her sheer gall, at her daring to do what she had and then, when confronted with it, being without shame or repentance. Fury at her continued shamelessness, thinking she was entitled to the money Aristides had set aside for her, for which she had repaid him with dishonour and disgrace. But she hadn’t cared about that, either. Or about anyone else…
Deliberately he let the fury drain out of him. It had had two years to drain out now, and there was no point letting it return. Emotion was out of place now. All emotion. He did not need to be Greek to know that the first rule of revenge held true whatever the nationality of the injured party. Revenge was a dish to be eaten cold.
It was a dish he would start to dine on tonight.
Abruptly he raised a hand, and summoned her to him.
Vicky went back up to the villa. She didn’t want to. She wanted to find a power boat—a fast one—climb into it, let out the throttle and carve a way through the sea until the land behind was gone. Until Theo Theakis was gone.
But she couldn’t. So instead, with steady tread, she walked up the steps and on to the veranda. She stood, saying nothing. Not meeting his eyes.
But punishingly aware of his physical presence.
For a moment he stayed silent. Then he spoke.
‘Get changed. Clothes have been delivered for you. I’ll meet you for drinks in an hour.’
She didn’t deign to answer, just walked past him into the villa and out into the hall to go up the stairs. In the room she’d selected there were two people. One was a member of the house staff, and the other, she assumed, was some kind of personal shopper. They were placing clothes in the closet, on rails and in drawers.
‘I’m going to take a shower,’ Vicky announced, and went through to the bathroom, shutting the door firmly. Inside, she felt the bitterness starting to pool again. She took a sharp breath, stared dead ahead of her into the mirror above the vanity unit. But she did not meet her own gaze. She did not even look at herself. She looked at the reflection of the far wall in the glass. Then, counting to three, she steeled herself and started to pull her clothes off.
By the time she emerged a few minutes later she was clean, her hair towelled dry, swathed in a bathrobe. It was too skimpy on her, and she felt too much of her legs exposed. Both the other women were still in her room, clearly awaiting her. She forced a polite smile to her face, thanked them and dismissed them. She did not want anyone around while she dressed.
With a calmness she had to impose rigidly on herself she set to, sliding open drawers and sifting through the plastic-swathed clothes now hanging in the closet. It didn’t take more than a few seconds to see exactly what instructions the personal shopper had been given. For a brief moment anger surged in Vicky. Then, with a grim tightening of her mouth, she reminded herself that that choice of attire suited her purposes entirely, as it happened. Whatever Theo’s agenda was, she had one of her own. One that she must not waver from.
With iron discipline, stony-faced, she made her selection and started to get ready.
She hadn’t brought a stick of make-up with her. But the personal shopper had seen to that, as well. A vanity case bearing the logo of a famous parfumier had been set out for her.
It took nearly all of the hour Theo had allocated her to do what she had to, and she did it with all the blankness she could summon to her aid. Then, with nothing more than a last, expressionless glance at her own reflection, she made her way downstairs.
He was in the reception room, and he was on his mobile. She walked in, crossed to the cocktail cabinet which had been opened to show a lavish display, and poured herself a vermouth. A large one.
Then she turned, glass in hand.
Her ex-husband had stopped talking.
Slowly, very slowly, he slid the phone back into his jacket pocket. Then he just stood and look
ed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THEO could feel his body react. It would have been impossible for it not to have done. Emotions surged through him along with his body’s animalistic response.
One emotion was obvious, but the other—
The other was completely out of place. He thrust it aside.
Then, like the connoisseur of fine women he was, he allowed his overriding sensation free rein—along with his eyes.
She was wearing eau-de-nil silk, clinging to her body more closely than her own pale skin, the material cupping her breasts and revealing their deep, exposed cleavage. Her fair hair was swept loose around one shoulder, falling seductively over one side of her face. Her eyes were huge in her face, lashes sooted with mascara, deepened by shadow, and her mouth was a lush curve of shimmering colour.
She stood, weight on one leg, one hand loose, the other raising a glass to her mouth. She took a slow, deliberate sip, then lowered the glass again. It was a calculated, provocative gesture.
So, he thought, that was how she was going to play this, was it? The mix of emotions clashed in him again, and, as before, he thrust aside the irrelevant one.
He knew what the woman in front of him was. He’d known it for a long time now, and it was not knowledge that drew from him anything other than the desire to do exactly what he was going to start tonight. The dish he was going to consume cold, and so very, very enjoyably.
He started to walk towards her.
Vicky stood, completely frozen, glass in her hand, like a rabbit that was being approached by a lean, intent predator. But beneath the frozen stillness of her pose something was running. Running in her veins, her nerves, her skin, like a fire through tinder-dry grass.
And it was tinder-dry all right.
Two years—two years—since that fire had last run in her veins.
Memory crashed through her, fusing present with past in a searing moment.
Theo, walking towards her, with one intention, one intention only, in his eyes, eyes that held hers, not letting her go, not letting her move.
