by Sara Craven
He looked her over again. ‘And wear your hair loose.’
She said in a stifled voice, ‘Very well, if those are your terms. Then I’ll see you when I bring my grandfather to the gallery tomorrow.’
‘Leaving so soon?’ His brows lifted. ‘I am desolate.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you’ll soon find solace.’
‘Are you, Harriet mou? I wish I could be so sure.’ Roan moved his shoulders indolently, almost wearily under the thin blue cotton shirt, then began slowly to unbutton it, still watching her.
‘What—what do you think you’re doing?’ She was ashamed of the quiver in her tone, as she recalled the last time she’d seen him do this. And its aftermath.
‘Exactly what I intended before your arrival,’ he returned casually. ‘I have had a tough day, finishing an important commission. So, I plan a hot shower, followed by—relaxation of some kind.’ He took off the shirt. Dropped it to the floor beside him.
‘Then I’ll leave you to it.’ Harriet turned away too hastily, aware that he was behind her, following her to the door.
He said softly, ‘Tell me something. Why did you come here tonight when it would have been simpler to telephone?’
‘As you said, I wanted a favour, and I wasn’t sure you’d agree.’ She reached for the door handle. ‘It—it seemed more polite to ask in person. Argue my case, if I had to.’
‘And was that your only reason?’ His hand closed over hers.
‘Yes,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Of course. And I—have to go.’
‘Without what you really came for?’ He was stroking her fingers, his breath warm, stirring the fine hairs on the nape of her neck. His voice held a quiet urgency. ‘Why deny what we both know? That if you stayed with me tonight, agapi mou, we’d have no need of pretence tomorrow.’
Oh, God, she thought, swallowing. Was she really so transparent? The hunger he’d awoken in her so hideously, shamingly obvious? It seemed so.
All she would have to do was turn, and she would be in his arms. The arms she’d watched closing around another girl. Holding her near. Which she must never forget.
She wrenched her hand free. ‘With you, it would always be pretence.’ Her voice was a knife. ‘You rate your charms rather too highly, Mr Zandros, and the sooner you go back to Greece the better. You might have more luck there. Who knows? That lady could still be looking for her shoe.’
‘I am grateful for the reminder,’ he said bitingly. ‘Also for your opinion of me. But, in spite of your unwelcome candour, you don’t have to worry. I shall not renege on tomorrow’s agreement.’
He paused. ‘And you should have no trouble in deceiving your grandfather, my sweet wife. Not when you lie so easily to yourself.’
He reached past her. Jerked the door open. ‘Now, go,’ he added with contempt.
And Harriet found herself obeying, her head bent, and her legs shaking under her. Her reason telling her she’d had a fortunate escape. Her body in mourning for its self-imposed starvation. And her emotions in chaos.
‘Miss Flint—or I should really say Mrs Zandros?’ Desmond Slevin came to meet her, smiling, as she walked into the Parsifal Gallery at her grandfather’s side. He shook hands with the older man, at her murmured introduction, then turned back to her, raising an enquiring eyebrow. ‘With your husband safely out of earshot, may I say how very lovely you look?’
She flushed a little. She’d already had to deal with Gregory Flint’s surprised but wholehearted approval of her appearance, yet she still wondered what Roan would think of the supple, fluid lines of her knee-length ivory silk dress, with its deeply slashed cross-over bodice, which had cost more than the rest of the items in her wardrobe put together.
Would he notice, too, that the sandals she was wearing were just as strappy and frivolous as any to be found on a Greek beach, or that, as instructed, her toes and fingers were tipped in soft coral, and her mouth painted to match? Or that her hair, conker-glossy, swung almost to her shoulders?
Also, that she was wearing no jewellery except the wedding gold on the third finger of her left hand.
Would he see how hard she had tried to please him—this last time?
‘Whatever, it’s still good to hear,’ she said. She looked around her in amazement. ‘I never expected such a crowd.’
‘I did,’ Desmond Slevin said with quiet satisfaction. ‘And it’s going really well, although it was a rush getting everything framed and hung, especially as we had to wait until the last minute for the final item. But it was worth it, even if it’s another one that isn’t for sale, alas.’
He paused. ‘But I have a bone to pick with you, young lady. When you first came to see me, you denied any personal involvement with tonight’s star. Now here you are, married to him.’
‘It all happened so quickly,’ Harriet excused herself, aware of Gregory Flint’s interested attention. ‘We met and I was—head over heels almost before I knew it.’
‘Well, he’s been like a cat on hot bricks, waiting for you to arrive.’ Desmond Slevin signalled to a waiter, who appeared with a tray of drinks. Mr Flint accepted champagne, but Harriet took a glass of orange juice, reminding herself that she needed to keep her wits about her, and not cloud her senses with alcohol.
I’ve made my entrance, she thought, bracing herself. Now where’s the leading man?
And felt strong arms encircle her from behind.
‘Agapi mou. My darling.’ Roan drew her back against him, nuzzling her throat. ‘I thought you would never get here,’ he muttered huskily. ‘And you look so beautiful, I wish all these people were at the bottom of the sea.’
He relaxed his hold slightly, allowing her to breathe again. Turned to her grandfather, who was smiling his approval. ‘Kyrios Flint. I am honoured.’
‘And I’m delighted for you, my dear boy. I can see a lot of red stickers around the place already. It seems Harriet was quite right about your talent.’
Roan took her nerveless hand and carried it to his lips. ‘I am glad to have justified her faith in me. And now there are some people I wish her to meet, if you will excuse us.’
‘There’s no need to go overboard with the affection,’ she bit at him as he led her away. ‘And who are these people, anyway?’
‘There is no one—yet.’ Roan’s hand tightened round hers. ‘But I must speak to you privately. Explain something about my life that I should have told you before our marriage. And now—tonight—it can no longer be avoided.’
An iron fist was twisting in her gut. Blonde hair shining in the sunlight. A hand touching his cheek. She said quickly, ‘No explanations are necessary. I already know—anything I need to. And you—you’re a free agent. I thought I’d made that clear.’
‘No one is ever completely free. Not when others are involved. I thought I could forget that, but I have realised since that I cannot do so, and that I do not even want to. I hoped there would be more time, so I could prepare you a little, but that is no longer possible.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Harriet…’
‘Do forgive me, Mrs Zandros.’ Desmond Slevin joined them. ‘Roan, the art critic from the Daily Tribune would like a quick word.’ He glanced from one to the other, noting the set faces. ‘If that’s all right.’
‘It’s fine.’ Harriet rallied herself swiftly. Produced a smile so bright it glittered. ‘I’ll go on looking round, while you—wow your critic, darling.’
Roan released her hand with open reluctance. He said huskily, ‘It won’t take long. Wait for me here—please. We—have to talk.’
No, she thought as she turned away. That isn’t it at all. What you mean is you’re going to talk, and I’ll have to listen. Have to hear how much in love you are. And that you’ve now decided to bring your affair into the open, and that’s why you’re returning to Greece. To keep out of the way until the fuss dies down, and you’re both divorced.
But that could work to my advantage, she told herself, deliberately straightening her shoulders. Because
not even Grandfather could expect me to stay married to a man who was so flagrantly unfaithful. In fact, he might give me Gracemead there and then out of sympathy.
And I should be turning cartwheels at the prospect—so why do I feel as if I want to kneel down in the middle of all these people and howl until I have no voice left?
She stopped, staring at the nearest painting—a maelstrom of savage colour that sucked you in, and would not let you go. An assault on the senses that seemed to match the tearing confusion of emotion inside her.
‘Strange, isn’t it, how his work differs? Some of it’s so—feral.’ A couple had paused beside her, and the woman was speaking. ‘And yet that portrait we just saw has an almost—lyrical quality.’
Her male companion laughed. ‘Well, she’s a gorgeous lady, so I expect it was painted with the eyes of love—or lust. You noticed it’s not for sale? He clearly can’t bear to part with it.’
They moved off, but Harriet remained where she was, as if rooted to the spot. An important commission, she thought numbly, and too personal to be sold.
She found it almost at once. Realised she’d missed it when she arrived because there’d been so many people round it.
But now she had it all to herself, in all its heart-aching beauty.
Roan had painted his lady, using little background, so that there was nothing to detract from her inherent loveliness.
She was wearing a blue silk top and trousers, her hair a shimmering mass round her face, as she sat, legs curled under her, in a corner of that battered sofa. There was a book open on her lap, but she wasn’t reading. She was looking ahead of her, her eyes dreaming, full of sweet secrets.
They were joy. They were anticipation. They were love.
‘Good evening, Mrs Zandros.’
The man’s voice was vaguely familiar, and she turned swiftly, composing herself. ‘Oh,’ she said rather blankly, and then remembered. ‘Mr—Maxwell, isn’t it? The lawyer who witnessed the wedding.’
‘Yes,’ he said. He looked at the portrait. ‘I may be biased, but I still reckon that’s a bloody amazing piece of work.’
‘It’s—wonderful.’ Painted with the eyes of love… ‘But then, he’s a pretty amazing painter.’ Her tone was falsely bright.
‘I agree.’ He paused. ‘Look—would you like to meet Lucy? She’s just over there—see?’
Harriet saw. Tonight the girl was wearing a figure-hugging dark red dress, standing at the centre of a lively group, laughing with her companions.
Her throat tightened. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Thank you, but I think that’s going a little far even in these enlightened times.’
Jack Maxwell’s face closed. ‘As you wish, naturally,’ he said coldly. ‘I realise we didn’t get off to a very good start, you and I, but things have moved on and I hoped tonight we could at least be civil.’
‘Well, this is my best shot at being civilised.’ She seemed to be breathing over sharpened knives. ‘I—I hope Roan and Lucy will be very happy together.’
There was an odd silence, then he said slowly, ‘I rather doubt that. According to my mother in law, they used to fight like cat and dog when they were kids. More like brother and sister than cousins, she said, and they still have a low boiling point now. I’m surprised the portrait got done without bloodshed.’
‘Cousins?’ The word emerged as a croak.
He nodded. ‘Their mothers were sisters. When Vanessa came back from Greece, Roan and Lucy spent a lot of their childhood together, while his parents did the whole tug-of-love custody thing. But surely he’s told you this already?’
She shook her head. ‘We didn’t marry to exchange confidences. You of all people should realise that.’
He looked faintly awkward. ‘Well, perhaps, but I thought things might have changed a little. Anyway,’ he went on, ‘Roan took me to Luce’s twenty-first birthday party, which is how we met. And he was best man at our wedding. We’re just coming up to our third anniversary, and he offered to paint her—as a special gift for us both.’ He gave her a wry look. ‘You obviously saw her when she was at the studio for a sitting, and jumped to the wrong conclusion.’
She bit her lip. ‘I thought they seemed—close,’ she said defensively.
‘They are.’ He was unfazed. ‘When they’re not wanting to kill each other.’ He grinned. ‘I married into a family of great huggers.’
He paused. ‘However, now you know the score, won’t you come and say hello to my wife? After all, you are one of the family.’
‘No,’ Harriet said steadily. ‘I’m not. I—I made a stupid mistake, for which I’m deeply embarrassed, but it doesn’t actually alter a thing. Roan and I are not—in a marriage as such. Therefore meeting his family—friends—would be an unnecessary complication. So, you’ll have to excuse me.’
She turned away almost blindly, fighting for her composure. She’d blundered badly, she thought. Been almost criminally stupid in her assumptions. But was she entirely to blame?
Because it occurred to her that Roan could have put her right about his relationship with Lucy Maxwell the day they met—if he’d wanted.
While I—I saw a molehill, and constructed a mountain. Because I was jealous. Because, from the start, I wanted him myself.
It seemed she was her mother’s daughter after all, letting her body rule her brain. All for the sake of another man who was planning to leave.
To commit a far greater betrayal than any affair, and who could know that better than herself—the child who’d heard the weeping in the night?
Now, more than ever, she needed to keep him at bay. To ignore the temptation of the senses whenever he came near her, by reminding herself icily and repeatedly that their lives lay in totally different directions.
As he’d made clear. She was reaching for Gracemead. Her life—her work—centred here in England. He would be returning—where? She supposed to his father’s taverna, eking out a living by painting pictures for tourists. More instant portraits turned out in minutes.
But going home—his own home in Greece—with no intention of ever coming back.
And instinct told her that if jealousy had been an agony, then loneliness would be the ultimate hell. So permitting any further intimacy between them would be inviting more pain than she could bear.
So, she would subdue the anguish in her heart, and wipe every last, precious, dangerous memory from her mind.
Let the life she’d chosen close round her once more, and keep her safe.
She took a deep unsteady breath. She couldn’t stay here. She wanted—needed—to go home. But what excuse could she possibly find?
She heard Roan say her name, and realised he was walking purposefully towards her, the art critic apparently dealt with.
But nothing he had to say could have any relevance. Not any more. And, somehow, she had to make him understand that.
At the same time, she was aware of a stir running through the gallery. A man’s voice was speaking, deep and imperious like her grandfather’s, but with a pronounced foreign accent, clearly asking a question. And people were staring, then falling back, as if clearing a path.
She saw Roan halt, his face rueful. Saw him look at her and shrug, his hands spread almost fatalistically, before he turned to face the newcomer.
A tall man was striding towards them, swarthily handsome, his powerful frame expensively clothed, his black hair grizzled with silver. Two other men followed, hurrying a little as if caught in his slipstream.
‘Roan, mou. So you have won.’ The man gestured round him. ‘I salute your triumph, even if it has broken my heart. And I shall keep my word—and the terms of our wager. If painting is to be your life, I must accept that.’
Roan stayed where he was, smiling faintly, his head flung back. He said quietly, ‘You are generous, Papa, but also mistaken. Our bet stated that I must arrange for an exhibition of my work to be staged within a year entirely by my own efforts. But that is not the case.
‘Tonight’s success was
gained for me only with the help of Harriet, my wife. I could not have done it without her, so I lose our bet. Accordingly, I shall be returning with you to Greece to take up my position within the corporation as your heir.’
He walked across to Harriet, took her hand, and led her forward. ‘Harriet this is my father, Constantine Zandros.’
He added into a silence suddenly as ominous as the lull before a thunderstorm, ‘Papa, please greet your daughter, and give our marriage your blessing.’
CHAPTER TEN
‘S O, MY son too has taken an English bride.’ Constantine Zandros spoke slowly, but his smile did not reach his eyes as he studied Harriet. ‘Forgive me if I seem surprised.’
Surprised, thought Harriet, did not begin to describe her own sensations. She felt dazed, her mind reeling, as if she’d been sandbagged. Trapped in a nightmare which would not be forgotten in the morning.
And thankful, too, that she was sitting down, otherwise she’d probably have collapsed on the floor by now.
Outside in the gallery, the clearing up process was well under way, after the triumphs and sensations of the evening. Now she was here, in Desmond Slevin’s office, away from any remaining prying eyes and ears eager for further revelations.
Roan stood beside her, his hand resting on her shoulder, and Gregory Flint was occupying another chair close to the door.
While Constantine Zandros sat behind the desk, like a judge presiding over a tribunal.
He went on, ‘Why was I not informed of this marriage until now?’
Roan said evenly, ‘The terms of the bet also stipulated no contact between us until it had been won or lost.’
‘But the wedding of the Zandros heir should be a great occasion—a major celebration. Not a thing of haste and secrecy. Unless,’ his father added slowly, ‘it became necessary because you had allowed your ardour to outweigh your judgement and honour.’ He paused. ‘Is that how it was, my son? Are you and your English girl making me a grandfather? Is that why you felt obliged to marry her?’
