by Sara Craven
A fist seemed to clench round her heart. She said swiftly, ‘But not now—please. Can’t it wait—until the party’s over?’
‘I thought you didn’t want a party.’
‘Like so much else, I’ve got used to the idea.’
‘As you wish. But our talk is not something that can be postponed indefinitely.’
‘I’m not trying to be evasive. Just to enjoy what’s left of my birthday.’ She hesitated. ‘It was kind of your father to give me that picture. Especially when he disapproves of me so much.’
‘It is our marriage he deplores, Harriet mou. He has criticised me too, believe me.’
She didn’t look at him. ‘Does he know about your girl in Athens?’
‘No,’ he said softly. ‘Nor about the girl in Paris, the girl in New York or the girl in London. Is that what you wanted to hear?’
‘It—really doesn’t concern me. You’re a free man.’ Her throat tightened. ‘And, with that in mind, perhaps we should talk now, after all.’ She made herself meet his gaze. ‘When are you sending me back to England?’
There was a heartbeat’s pause, then he said, ‘Tomorrow, with your grandfather. That—seems best.’
‘Oh, it does,’ she said. ‘Quick and final, and no messing. Will I have time to pack?’
‘The maids are doing it for you now.’
‘My God,’ she said huskily. ‘Planned to the last detail. You really—can’t wait.’
His own voice was harsh. ‘There is nothing to wait for. This comedy we’ve been playing is finished, Harriet. It has fooled no one. Not my father, and certainly not your grandfather. He knew from the first that you did not wish to be my wife—that it was simply a means to an end. I think he blamed himself for having driven you to such lengths.’
‘But he didn’t stop me.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘But he understands that it is time to put the whole sorry episode behind us and begin to live our own lives again.’ He paused. ‘It will be explained that you are going home to sign some legal documents.’
‘Only I won’t be coming back.’ She picked up her wine glass, spilling a little because her hand was shaking, and drank. ‘Are you planning to divorce me for desertion—history repeating itself?’
‘We have a pre-nuptial agreement,’ he said. ‘Which provides for the ending of the marriage. Perhaps we should use it.’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t I think of that? But, then, you must know it by heart—every loophole—every Freudian slip. I suppose you’ve had the divorce papers drawn up in advance—and they’ll be the documents I’m going to sign.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘That is a different matter, entirely. You see, your grandfather has decided, after all, to transfer Gracemead into your name, Harriet mou. In spite of everything, I think he was impressed with your ingenuity—and your single-minded determination.
‘So, he will announce this special gift at dinner tonight—the evening of your twenty-fifth birthday. Which means that you have won. The house is yours, and your dream has come true at last.’
Only to turn, she thought, into a living nightmare. And all of her own making.
And she would have to smile and pretend to be delighted, when all she wanted to do was hide herself in some dark corner, and weep until she had no tears left to shed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I T WAS nearly three a.m. when Yanni drove Harriet back to the house. Roan did not accompany her, as many of the guests at the Villa Dionysius still showed no sign of leaving, but she couldn’t take any more.
Dead on my feet, she thought wryly, and dying inside.
The ‘dinner for a few friends’ had not turned out at all as she’d expected. Constantine Zandros had simply reverted to Plan A, and buffet tables, sagging under the weight of the food, had been set on the lantern-hung terrace, to feed everyone within a hundred mile radius.
Or that was how it seemed, Harriet had thought, almost reeling back from the jovial roar of laughter and talk that assailed her from all sides from the milling crowd. On top of which, a group of musicians were trying valiantly to make themselves heard, and succeeding well enough for impromptu and vigorous dancing to break out at intervals.
All this when she wanted to disappear into a black hole, and never be found again. When she could have moaned aloud in pain and disbelief at what was happening to her.
Everyone wished to meet her, and her facial muscles were soon aching as badly as her heart from the need to smile and say kalispera as Roan escorted her from group to group, his hand inexorably cupping her elbow. Harriet could see the approving smiles following them, observing the tall young man so solicitous for his shy wife, so concerned for her comfort.
‘This is such hypocrisy,’ she muttered fiercely at one point.
‘But they don’t know that,’ he returned unsmilingly. ‘Look on it as a rite of passage before you regain your freedom. One last ordeal to be endured.’
Before the real one begins, she thought. The ordeal of the rest of my life without you. Oh, God—what am I going to do?
As the evening progressed, Harriet was approached by a steady stream of immaculately garbed, grey-haired men, all wishing to tell her in careful English that it was a matter of rejoicing for them all that their friend Constantine Zandros had been reunited with his son after so many bitter years, and such a fine boy too, so capable—so far-sighted.
But—po po po—the only son of an only son, which was to be regretted. Her duty made clear, accompanied invariably by a kindly smile.
And what am I supposed to say in reply? Harriet wondered wearily. That I’m an only child too, but the girl who’ll be taking my place very soon will probably be a one-woman fertility fest?
She noticed at one point that Roan had been waylaid by a smartly dressed but clearly agitated brunette, her face imploring, and her crimson-tipped hands gesturing wildly as she talked.
But then she was aware of everyone he spoke to, she acknowledged wryly, her eyes endlessly scanning the crowd, looking for him, longing for him. And maybe it would be easier when Europe divided them, and such searching became pointless.
‘Maria Chrysidas,’ he told Harriet laconically, as he rejoined her, indicating that he must have seen her watching. ‘Apparently her husband, who does business with me sometimes, overheard Ianthe bragging about this morning’s escapade, and she has now left their house, never to return.’
‘A move to turn her into a pariah?’ she queried tautly.
‘Not by me. I cannot speak for her own efforts.’ He nodded towards a line of laughing people weaving their way along the terrace in a series of swirling, intricate steps. ‘Come and dance with me.’
She hung back, wondering how much more togetherness she would be able to bear before she cracked. That having him near was almost more torture than when they were apart. ‘No—thank you.’ Adding hastily, ‘I—I don’t know how.’
‘Then learn,’ he said sardonically. ‘Before conclusions are drawn, and every married woman here rushes over to advise you on morning sickness.’
‘Perhaps you’d like to make an announcement,’ she flung back at him. ‘Making it clear that the future of the Zandros dynasty does not depend on me.’
‘I don’t need to say anything. It will become apparent soon enough.’ He took her hand, pulling her into the dance. ‘Now, listen to the rhythm, and watch the woman in yellow. She’s good.’
At first she stumbled along, but gradually, with Roan’s guidance, she began to pick up the pattern of the movements, and when the dance ended she was given a round of delighted applause.
Star of the show tonight, she thought with irony. An outcast like Ianthe tomorrow.
After that, she found herself dancing constantly, but never again with Roan.
However, the highspot of the evening came when Gregory Flint rose to announce the real birthday present he was giving his granddaughter—the English country house known as Gracemead—and Harriet heard a loud murmur of pleased surprise
ripple through the crowd, as his words were translated and passed back.
She stood beside him as he hugged her awkwardly, always a little embarrassed by any public show of affection, and did her best to look grateful, delighted, thrilled, instead of sick at heart, and frightened. As she tried to remember that this was what she’d always wanted, so how could it possibly matter so little—be a burden instead of a joy?
Nobody watching would ever understand why she should see her good fortune as a defeat, and not a victory.
Becoming an instant heiress, she realised, had probably doubled if not trebled her approval rating, and made her almost worthy of her status as a Zandros wife.
She was soon surrounded by some of the younger women she’d met before, all still eager to know when she would visit their houses—have lunch—go shopping—and saw their disappointment as she explained that she had to go back to England, that there were formalities about her wonderful house to attend to, and, yes, she was so lucky—so happy—because it was the best birthday gift in the world—a dream come true.
And saw Roan watching her from the other side of the terrace, his eyes shadowed, his face expressionless.
Her bedroom was cheerless with all those half-packed suitcases lining the walls.
She’d pleaded tiredness in order to excuse herself, but she knew she wouldn’t sleep for what little was left of the night.
And recalled painfully all those other nights, when she’d lain there in that bed, sleepless with loneliness, never guessing that Roan was also awake elsewhere—but for very different reasons.
How casually he’d told her about his other night companions, she thought bitterly, as she struggled out of her dress and tossed it, unfolded, into the nearest case. Assuming, she supposed, that she wouldn’t care, when even the thought of him making love to anyone else tore her emotions to ribbons of blood.
I turned him back into a single man, she thought wretchedly. Now I have to live with the consequences.
And it meant that she was once again a single woman. ‘Hell’s spinster’ as Jon Audley had once cruelly described her. Her future as barren as her body, because the life she was returning to—had thought she wanted—was no life at all.
She slipped off her scraps of underwear, and put on her robe, a classic style in heavy silk, the colour of amethysts, and the only garment that Roan had bought for her before they left London.
She’d been faintly embarrassed when she’d found the beribboned box on her bed, but there’d been nothing about the contents that she could object to. On the contrary, it was beautiful, so she’d offered him a stilted word of thanks, and worn it.
She fastened the sash in a bow around her slender waist, then quietly slid open the glass doors, and stepped out barefoot on to the terrace that surrounded the house.
She sat down on one of the cushioned chairs, and leaned back, staring into the warm darkness. It was very still. Even the cicadas were silent, while, across at the Villa Dionysius, the music had stopped, and she could see the rake of car headlights as the last guests finally departed. The party was over, and Roan would be coming back.
I shouldn’t be out here, she told herself restively. I should be indoors, in bed, pretending to be asleep. Not hanging round as if I was waiting for one last glimpse of him. Hoping for something he can’t give me.
How pathetic, she thought, that here she was, twenty-five years old, sighing for a man who’d once spent the night with her because it was his right to do so. Who’d taught her unforgettably about passion, but left her to discover love for herself. And who’d decided she had no further part to play in his life.
And how ironic that the people she’d met that evening had been so readily prepared to accept her as Roan’s wife, when the three people closest to her couldn’t wait for the marriage to end.
Yes, she’d struggled with the hints about providing him with an heir. But maybe she wouldn’t have minded so much if having his baby had been a real possibility. She might even have shared their comments with him later, as she went, laughing, into his arms.
Instead, it was another sadness she would take with her when she left. And Gracemead, the house her grandfather had always insisted was a home for families, would only compound the hurt. The sense of isolation.
She straightened her shoulders defensively. But her return would not be all unhappiness, she reminded herself. There was Tessa’s baby to look forward to, and, if she was to be denied children of her own, she would make sure she was the world’s best godmother.
‘Harriet.’
She started at the sound of her name, realising she’d been totally unaware of his approach. Yet there he was, standing in front of her, tie unfastened, and carrying his shoes.
‘What are you doing out here?’
‘I could ask you the same thing,’ she returned defensively. ‘I didn’t expect you to be creeping around the garden.’
‘I decided to walk back along the beach. But you have a journey tomorrow. You should be asleep.’
I have years and years to sleep, she thought, but only such a little while to stay awake with you.
She shrugged. ‘I can rest on the plane.’ She paused. ‘It was lucky you could get me a ticket at such short notice.’
‘We are part-owners of the airline,’ he said. ‘It helps.’
‘Ah, yes,’ she said. ‘I was forgetting. One snap of your fingers, and people rush to do your bidding.’
His voice was dry. ‘I never found you particularly biddable, Harriet mou.’ He moved across the terrace towards the glass doors.
She said jerkily, ‘Roan—don’t go. Not yet.’
His voice was quiet. ‘I have to work tomorrow.’
‘Of course.’ She bent her head. ‘Just—another busy day.’
He hesitated. ‘Did you want something in particular?’
Yes, she thought, I—I want you, and if it was just a question of crossing this terrace to reach you, then I’d do it. But there’ve been too many harsh words—too many rejections—and you’ve gone far—far away. Too far.
She said haltingly, ‘There might still be—things to say.’
‘If it is a question of money,’ he said, ‘you will find me generous.’ He smiled faintly. ‘More so than you were prepared to be with me.’
‘No,’ she said, gasping. ‘Oh, God, no. I—I won’t take a penny. I have contacts with a couple of firms of head-hunters in the UK, and I intend to work.’
He was silent for a moment, then he said courteously, ‘Allow me to wish you every success. Kallinichta.’
She followed him into the lamplit bedroom. Do something, she thought. Take a risk. After all, he’s a gambler, and he might understand.
She caught at his sleeve. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’ Her voice was small, husky. ‘Not tonight. Stay with me—please.’
He looked at the bed, and then at her, his mouth twisting, as she fumbled with the sash of her robe, trying to unfasten the bow.
He said quite gently, ‘You don’t know what you are asking, Harriet. And the answer is—no.’
Her hands stilled. ‘You don’t want me?’
‘No doubt I could do so.’ He lifted a shoulder in an infinitesimal shrug. ‘But I have discovered that wanting is not enough. So—goodnight.’
His door closed behind him. That would be her abiding memory of her time here, she thought, numbly. Doors closing—shutting her out.
And, now, none of them would ever open for her again.
‘Well, that’s that,’ Gregory Flint said briskly. ‘And everything has finally turned out for the best.’ He patted her hand. ‘Don’t look so wan, my dear. You’ll soon be home where you belong, and you can put all this nonsense behind you.’
Harriet, who’d been staring dully out of the car window, roused herself, and nodded dutifully.
She said, ‘Grandfather, I’m really sorry for what I did. It was—unspeakably stupid.’
‘You’re not entirely to blame, my child. I assumed that you’d b
e seeing people—young men—and if it was simply a question of making your mind up, all you needed was—a gentle push in the right direction.’
A gentle push? thought Harriet. My God, it was like being rammed amidships.
‘I never thought you would deliberately pick a complete stranger. And was quite stunned when he came to see me, and told me what was going on.’ He snorted. ‘And he had the nerve to beat me at chess, arrogant young devil. Well, he’s not so sure of himself now, in spite of his millions, and his damned charm.’
‘Did he beat you?’ Harriet frowned. ‘He told me it had ended in stalemate.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘That was another matter entirely.’
She was silent for a moment. ‘Gramps, if you—knew, why didn’t you say something—put a stop to it?’
‘I should have done, but I had this irresistible desire to see your would-be husband fall flat on his face. Well, he can’t say he wasn’t warned. And he’s behaved decently enough, I suppose, for someone who hasn’t had many failures in life—especially with women.’
‘Warned—about what? I don’t understand.’
‘About you, my dear, and Gracemead. I told him he wouldn’t win. That nothing and no one in this world would ever matter to you as much as that house. But he didn’t believe me. Said that, although you did not love him yet, that would change when you were married, because he loved you so much that he knew he could persuade you to care for him in return.
‘He was actually convinced that he could make you forget Gracemead, and choose to spend your life with him instead.’
‘He—said that?’ Harriet hardly recognised her own voice.
‘With a lot of other nonsense about protecting you, and wanting to devote his life to your happiness. Sheer self-delusion, and I told him so. But I offered him a sporting chance. Told him he had until your birthday to win you over.
‘I wasn’t best pleased when he whisked you over to Greece, but I made it clear the deadline stood. That all I’d have to do was dangle the house in front of you, and you’d be off back to England in spite of his money.’
He looked at her with an air of satisfaction. ‘And here we are. I knew you wouldn’t let me down, bless you.’
