by Sara Craven
‘How dare you?’ His voice was molten. ‘How dare you shame me like that in front of my household?’
‘I think their sympathies might rest with me.’ She tried for defiance, wrenching herself from his grasp. ‘What was it, Roan—a belated wedding present? You might have warned me what to expect. And how to react.’
She adopted a brittle drawl. ‘How fascinating, darling. From your early period, I suppose. Someone else whose every inch you once had cause to study. Forgive me if I find the overall effect rather too exotic—like her perfume.’ She drew a harsh breath. ‘Is that better?’
‘Take care, Harriet mou,’ he said harshly. ‘Or you might begin to sound like a jealous woman.’
Her heart seemed to twist. ‘Hardly,’ she returned. ‘I made it clear from the start that I wouldn’t interfere in your private life. I just didn’t bargain for finding it—in my face. I had hoped you’d be more discreet.’
She looked away. ‘Maybe you should tell me her name, in case I suddenly encounter her leaving your bedroom one of these days, and need to say Good morning.’
‘Her name is Ianthe Dimitriou,’ he said. ‘And you will not meet her in this house, or, I hope, anywhere else. She belongs in the past, and what has happened today means nothing.’
How can you say that, she asked silently, when I’m standing here—dying inside? I believed I’d suffered thinking of you with Lucy, but I knew nothing—nothing…
‘But she was—your mistress?’ Even asking these things was like stabbing herself repeatedly with a knife, she thought. A pain she must submit to. And at any moment the blood might flow.
‘Of course.’ He sounded impatient. ‘Harriet, if I had wished to lead a celibate life, I would have entered a monastery. You knew there had been other women in my life before we met, so do not pretend.’
‘Pretence seems to have become second nature to me.’ She looked around her at the shadowy room, absorbing the details of a bed made up with a striped cover, a chest of drawers, a fitted closet, and a half-open door which clearly led into a bathroom. ‘But I find I have my limits. So, I’ll be sleeping in here tonight, and all the nights to come while I remain here.’
She lifted her chin. ‘In one way, your Ianthe has done me an enormous favour. After her intervention, no one will question that we’re—estranged. Problem solved.’
‘You are wrong,’ he said. ‘At this moment, everyone in the house believes that we are on that bed together, enjoying a passionate reconciliation. And that, after I have atoned for my past sins with a suitably expensive gift, the incident will be forgotten, and you will take your place as my dutiful and adoring wife.
‘And that, matia mou,’ he added softly, ‘is exactly how it will be, at least in the eyes of our small world. Only you and I will know the truth.’
‘You think I’m going back to that room—under any circumstances?’
She drew a ragged breath. ‘I won’t do it.’
‘I think you will,’ Roan told her with faint grimness. ‘Unless you want me to make this physical reunion of ours a reality. Perhaps that would solve even more problems.’
He paused. ‘Well?’
Harriet stared at the floor. ‘I’ll—sleep in the other room.’
‘How disappointing.’ She could hear the smile in his voice. Then he moved away, and presently she heard the creak of a mattress. She looked up, startled, and saw that Roan, his shoes and socks discarded, was stretched out on top of the bed.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Allowing some time to pass,’ he said. ‘After all, we are supposed to be making love, taking each other to paradise. Something unlikely to be achieved in a few minutes.’ Reflectively, he folded his arms behind his head. ‘Almost certainly you are making me plead a little first,’ he went on. His mouth twisted wryly. ‘But not too much, I hope.’
He glanced across at her. ‘There is a chair, if you wish to sit while you are waiting. Or you could join me here.’
‘The chair will be fine.’ She sat down primly, knees and feet together like a schoolgirl. Minutes ticked by. The silence began to grow oppressive, or she found it so at least. Roan, on the other hand, seemed perfectly relaxed, almost as if he was on the brink of falling asleep.
She said, ‘May I ask you something?’
‘Anything.’
‘Ianthe—how did you meet her?’
‘She was staying further along the coast at the villa a friend of hers had rented for the summer. A woman called Maria Chrysidas. There was a party, and I was invited. Ianthe had learned somehow that I had ambitions to be a painter, and talked to me about art—asked if she could see my work.
‘Accordingly, she came to my studio in the village the following day. She expressed her admiration for what I was trying to do, and suggested I should paint her. I had to explain I had little experience in portraiture.’
He paused. ‘While I was explaining, she took off her clothes, and it seemed pointless to argue further.’
She took a breath. ‘Were you in love with her?’
He said quite gently. ‘You have seen her, Harriet mou. Let us say only that, at the time, she—suited my needs.’
‘She’s—incredibly beautiful.’ She was proud of the steadiness in her voice. ‘Had she done modelling before?’
‘Probably. She was not shy about revealing herself,’ he added dryly. ‘But her real ambition, she told me, was to act. And, although she did not say so at first, to persuade me to use some of my money to finance her career.’
‘And did you?’
‘I might have done, but she made the mistake of letting me see her play a small role in a private production.’ He sighed. ‘She was—truly dreadful.’
He grinned suddenly. ‘When I saw the bedroom today, it occurred to me that she might have been more successful off-stage as a set designer. But only with a suitable assistant to do the real work,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘Which makes me wonder which of the servants helped her.’
‘Yet they all seemed so surprised,’ Harriet pointed out. ‘Perhaps she—slipped in while no one was looking.’
His mouth twisted. ‘Carrying a large and awkward parcel to an unfamiliar house, and needing to find one specific room? I don’t think so. She is spiteful, but not particularly ingenious. No, I believe she issued her instructions, leaving someone else to place her portrait in that particular way, and pour a bottle of her favourite scent all over the bed. Our bed, as she thought.’
He paused. ‘I told Panayotis to burn all the bedding as well as the canvas.’
She said slowly, ‘You’re saying you never brought her here? How can that be when you were—involved?’ She swallowed. ‘Lovers.’
‘We met elsewhere—at the studio—Maria’s villa—my apartment in Athens. Also, I was travelling a good deal, and she went with me. But not here. I decided a long time ago, pedhi mou, that the only woman I would ever bring to my home would be my wife.’
She took a breath. ‘But you used to be together down in the bay, surely? That was her shoe?’
‘Yes. She lost it while flouncing off in temper.’ He turned his head slowly and looked at her. ‘Do you want to know why we quarrelled?’
‘It’s hardly my business…’
‘You have made it so. And I have told you everything else, therefore if you mean yes, then say it.’
She bit her lip. ‘All right, then. Yes.’
‘I told her I was going to London to paint. I’d assumed she would wish to go with me. But when she found out there would be no first class travel or five-star accommodation, and I would be living on what I could earn, her passion for me waned with embarrassing speed.
‘She still wanted my lifestyle, but not, it seemed, my life. I was being selfish and a fool, she told me. If I wanted to indulge my little hobby, why not California? As a celebrity painter, I could make another fortune, and she could further her career at the same time. She even hinted that we might get married.
‘And why, she demanded, should
I risk upsetting my father, who had only just regained me as his son, when I might lose out on my inheritance?
‘Clearly she had her future all mapped out, and she was furious with me for spoiling her plans. So, eventually I got angry too, for thinking even for a second that she might want me more than my bank balance.
‘As we parted, she screamed I was a callous, unfeeling bastard, and she would make me sorry one day.’ He added wryly, ‘Presumably, this is the day she chose.’ He felt the cheek Harriet had slapped with his fingertips. ‘I should hate to think there might be another.’
She said stiffly, ‘I—I apologise for hitting you. I didn’t understand.’
‘Endaxi.’ He sent her a brief smile. ‘I too am sorry—that she will have the satisfaction of knowing your reaction to her malice.’
There was a silence, then he said, ‘Now will you tell me something?’
She was instantly on guard. ‘Maybe. It depends.’
He said, ‘Why do you never speak of your mother?’
Harriet bit her lip. ‘I suppose my grandfather must have mentioned her—told you what happened.’
‘He said she had left you in his care when you were a small child, and that over the last few years all contact with her had been lost.’
Harriet nodded, not looking at him. ‘The last address was somewhere in Argentina, but she replied to none of the letters that I—that we sent. Of course, she might just have met someone else—another man—and moved on. She tended to do that. There were—always other men.’
‘Is that why—for you—there were no men at all?’
He was too perceptive, she thought painfully. She lifted her chin. ‘If that was true, I wouldn’t be here.’
‘Ah,’ Roan said softly. ‘But you are not really here. Not yet.’ He paused. ‘It might be possible to trace her.’
She gave a careful smile. ‘A needle in a haystack, I’m afraid. Besides, if she ever wants to make contact, she knows where I’ll be.’
He said gently, ‘Is that why Gracemead is so important to you? Because it is the place where your mother left you, and where she might find you again—if she came back?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s my home, just as this is yours. Nothing more. So forget any deep psychological reasoning.’
‘As you wish.’ With a slight shrug, Roan sat up. ‘And now I think I have allowed sufficient time for us to have—renewed our marriage vows.’ His tone was sardonic as he glanced at his watch. ‘I shall tell Toula you are sleeping, and ask her to wake you in an hour with some coffee. So, when I go, take off your clothes and get into bed.’
‘What for?’
His sigh was brief and impatient, as he reached for his shoes. ‘Because I would hardly have made love to you with your clothes on.’
‘Oh, I see,’ she marvelled. ‘It’s to bolster your image as the great lover. Now, why should I wish to do that?’
‘Because I have asked you to.’ He swung himself off the bed, and walked towards her. He halted, his dark eyes scanning her face and travelling over her body, then suddenly pulled her towards him, his hands seeking the zip at the back of her dress, and tugging it downward.
He said silkily, ‘But perhaps I should overcome your reluctance by reminding you, agapi mou, exactly how I can make you feel—if I wish.’
‘No—please.’ She clutched at the slipping dress in panic, as her whole body seemed to lurch in desire. ‘I’ll do what you say—when you’ve gone.’
‘Another disappointment.’ Roan’s hand cupped the nape of her neck, his thumb slowly and deliberately caressing the side of her throat. He said softly, ‘Have you never wondered, Harriet, if we might somehow rediscover what we shared on that magical night in London?’
Her heart missed a beat. ‘Magical?’ She managed scorn. ‘Your description—not mine.’ And afterwards you—walked away…
‘Because I found it so,’ he said. ‘I even allowed myself to dream—to hope that perhaps the joy we had known might change things between us. That you might find that you—wanted me. And that, if I was patient, you would come to me.’
His voice deepened. ‘Do you know how many days and nights I waited, matia mou, before I gave up hoping?’
And I waited just forty-eight hours, she thought, only to find you with Lucy, and be saved from myself. I wish I could feel more grateful.
She said, ‘Our marriage was a business arrangement. For me, that still applies.’
Roan released her abruptly. ‘Then, as a matter of business, let us discuss how I can make amends for this traumatic homecoming—what form my penance should take.’ His tone was silky. ‘You don’t want rubies or sapphires, so is there anything else you can suggest?’
‘There’s only one thing in the world I want,’ she said coldly and clearly. ‘And that, unfortunately, is not in your gift, or I would not have to be here.’
She added, ‘And my real homecoming—to Gracemead—will be very different. I promise you that.’
He nodded, turning away. ‘Then there is no more to be said,’ he told her curtly over his shoulder, and went, leaving Harriet, standing alone in the shadows of the room, trembling suddenly, and close to tears.
‘It’s a question of survival,’ she whispered into the silence. ‘And I’ll get through this—somehow, whatever it takes. And this will be my penance.’
Harriet replaced the cap on the sunblock, and lay back on her lounger with a sigh, listening to the soft whisper of the sea only yards away from her. It was just over half an hour from noon, and the heat was building in intensity.
‘Don’t be tempted to stay out in the middle of the day,’ Roan had warned her. ‘Protect your skin at all times, especially in the sea, and drink water constantly.’
She’d followed his advice, and so far remained unscathed. Or on the surface at least.
In spite of its past associations, she’d come to love this little beach, much preferring it to the hothouse atmosphere that often prevailed in the villa, she thought wryly. Since that first day, the staff had tended to tiptoe around her as if she was made of crystal.
She’d returned to the master bedroom, embarrassed to her soul to know what they must all be thinking, and found a transformation had been effected.
A thorough cleaning had taken place, and the glass doors on to the terrace had been flung wide to admit the sunlit air. In addition all the furniture had been moved around, so that the freshly made-up bed no longer faced the door. Leaving, she realised, not a trace of the scene—or the scent—that had greeted her on arrival.
And she’d discovered that the pretty, sullen-looking maid she’d noticed earlier had been summarily dismissed, after she’d tearfully confessed to Panayotis that she had smuggled in the portrait, and emptied that entire bottle of Summer Orchid over the kyrie’s bed, because the Kyria Dimitriou had promised to help her to a career as a model if she did so.
Poor kid, Harriet thought, with a sigh. And all to wreck a marriage that’s on the rocks anyway.
She’d had to work hard to reassure Panayotis, who clearly blamed himself for his lack of vigilance.
‘Never—never did I dream such a thing could happen,’ he told her mournfully. ‘Your own room, kyria, with everything that Kyrios Roan ordered to make it beautiful for you—the exquisite linen—that wonderful cover, handmade and embroidered in gold—all ruined. At least the new bed was spared.’
He threw his hands towards heaven. ‘That creature—she should be taken out and whipped.’
‘That’s a bit harsh,’ Harriet objected, startled. ‘She’s just young and silly.’
‘No, kyria. Not Mitsa, who is indeed a fool. That other one.’ He snorted contemptuously. ‘Never would she accept that it was over—that her day was done. Always the letters—the telephone calls—even after Kyrios Roan had gone away. And when it was known he would return—daring to come here to his door—demanding to be admitted—to leave messages.’
He became belatedly aware that this might not be information his
master’s wife would welcome, and halted abruptly.
‘And in the end, she succeeded,’ Harriet said lightly. She forced a smile. ‘And what a message. Not that it matters any more.’
Except that it did—it did…
Because it wasn’t simply the bedroom that had changed. When she had next encountered Roan over dinner that night, it was to find he’d retreated behind an invisible wall of cool courtesy bordering on indifference.
The man who’d talked to her softly in the semi-darkness—who’d touched her with the hands of desire only an hour or so before—had somehow ceased to exist.
In his place was the polite stranger she was now learning to live with. Someone who spent as little time in her company as possible, refrained from any unnecessary physical contact, and carefully avoided all personal topics when they were obliged to talk to each other—usually over meals. At those times, he focussed on the political situation, regional agriculture, and the economics of tourism.
Sometimes, as she rose from the dining table, Harriet felt she could have answered a test paper on any of them.
She supposed she should have been reassured that he was no longer trying to persuade her to be his wife in any real sense. Instead, she found herself torn apart by the conflict in her emotions, bewildered—even scared—by the totally irrational joy that overwhelmed her when she saw him. Knowing it was only the fear of a rebuff that kept her from running to him, and throwing herself into his arms each time he returned home.
Aware that, on another level, she missed, inconsolably, the smile in his eyes, the warmth of his hand clasping hers, the softly spoken endearments that she knew meant nothing, yet somehow mattered so very much now that she no longer heard them.
Not that he was at home a great deal. She had soon learned that the Zandros Corporation was more than just a hotel chain, with far-reaching interests in shipping, industry and even farming. So, Roan’s workload, since his return, had provided him with a perfect excuse to be elsewhere.
Not that she blamed him, Harriet thought, with another small sigh. In his place she would pick a hotel suite anywhere in the world over the narrow single bed in the adjoining dressing room where he spent his nights at the villa.
