by Sara Craven
Madame Papadimos said, ‘Ah, dear God,’ and her eyes closed for a moment.
When she spoke again, her voice was low and sad. ‘You should have been married three years ago, Natasha. Become a beloved and cherished wife and, by now, a happy mother. I knew it then, and said so, but I was not listened to, and, to my eternal shame, I failed to insist.’
Natasha stared at her in bewilderment. ‘But it was my decision to stay single, and mine alone,’ she objected gently. ‘Darling, you can’t have forgotten that. Thio Basilis tried his best to persuade me, usually at the top of his voice,’ she added, forcing a smile. ‘But I had my own plans.
‘And, in spite of everything that’s happened, I’m still sure I was right to stick to my guns, and make my own life.’
Thia Theodosia sighed again. ‘But if there had been a man—someone you might have loved and who would have offered you his heart, as well as the protection of his name—what then, my little one?’ She spread her hands. ‘After all, where is this life you speak of now?’
‘It’s there—waiting for my return.’ Natasha tried to sound buoyant.
‘This…arrangement is strictly temporary. To the victor the spoils, and all that.’ She lifted her chin. ‘But Kyrios Mandrakis will soon be looking for new worlds to conquer like his namesake, and then I’ll be free.’
Madame Papadimos looked at her gravely. ‘Will you, my child? Can you be so sure that is what you will still want—when the time comes? When you know him better than you do now?’
Natasha gasped. ‘I can’t believe you’ve just said that.’ Her voice was shaky. ‘You, of all people, Thia Theodosia. Do you imagine I could ever forgive him for the way he’s treated me? Or that I’d willingly spend an hour longer with him than I have to?’
Thia Theodosia shook her head. ‘I do not condone what Alexandros Mandrakis has done, whatever provocation he may have received. Never think that, my dear girl.’
She paused. ‘I simply suggest that, perhaps, you should not judge him too harshly. This trouble between our families was none of his making.
‘He was a child when it began, forced to take sides. And, maybe, a time will arrive when you might find him…kinder than you believe.’
Natasha’s mouth tightened. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘I’ve already experienced what passes for kindness with Alex Mandrakis, so I know exactly what to expect.’
Nor do you have to be afraid of me…
But that isn’t true, because I now have something else to fear, she thought with a pang, fighting the memory of her body’s brief, involuntary response to his possession, and the quivering torment of frustration that had succeeded it.
Something which promises to be a thousand times worse.
There was real shock in Theodosia Papadimos’s face. ‘My child—are you saying that he was brutal? When he must have known you had never been with a man before?’
‘No,’ Natasha said quietly. ‘He didn’t know that. In fact, he had good reason to think I’d be…willing, and more. Even so, he wasn’t…brutal.’
Now, why did I say that? she asked herself with vexation. I sound as if I’m making excuses for him, when there are none. And suppose she asks me, What good reason? What do I say then? That he believed that life in London had turned me into the kind of girl who gets drunk in Greek bars, strips off and has sex with any man who asks?
It will have to be something like that, she thought, because the contents of that gleefully concocted letter were something she’d rather not share with Madame Papadimos. She hurried on, forcing a smile. ‘But—hey—nothing lasts forever. He’ll soon get bored and move on. While I—I won’t have suffered any lasting damage, except maybe to my pride.
‘And one day I’ll meet a man I can love, and be happy with him, just as you’ve always wanted.’
There was another long silence, then Thia Theodosia said gently, ‘Then that, pedhi mou, is what we must work towards, and pray for, once this present sadness ends.’
And, leaning forward, she kissed Natasha on both cheeks.
It had been a strange conversation, Natasha thought later as she sat returning reluctant answers to Mr Stanopoulos’s civil but thorough questions, which seemed to be covering every possible eventuality in the life she led in England. Altogether too wide an area, and too lengthy a timescale, she fretted silently, and possibly revealing that the lawyer believed that his client’s preoccupation with his new pillow friend might last weeks and months rather than hours and days as she’d hoped.
And, looking back, it seemed that Thia Theodosia had almost hinted the same thing.
No, she told herself firmly. That’s ludicrous. The events of the past twenty-four hours have thrown you completely off balance, that’s all, and you’re letting your imagination run wild.
But she knew she hadn’t imagined the odd exchange between Mr Stanopoulos and Thia Theodosia when they’d met in the passage outside his office.
Natasha’s Greek might be a little rusty, but she’d heard her foster mother say, ‘So it has come to this. Who could have thought it possible?’
And picked up the lawyer’s gravely reserved reply, ‘Yes, kyria, to my sorrow. But perhaps it may end here too.’
Except it wasn’t going to end—or not for the foreseeable future—she acknowledged grimly as the reins of her life were coolly and efficiently detached from her hands.
And knowing that it would all be seamlessly restored to her in due course was small consolation.
She said suddenly, ‘Kyrios Stanopoulos, will you tell me something?’
His expression was instantly wary. ‘If I can, thespinis.’
‘This feud between your clients and my family,’ she said. ‘How did it start? You see, I thought…I was always given the impression that it was simply a business rivalry that had been going on for generations, and had just got nastier. But now I gather it’s far more recent than that.’
There was a pause, then he said, ‘Who knows how these distressing situations arise? Sadly, I am unable to enlighten you, thespinis.’
‘And if I was to ask Kyrios Mandrakis—would he tell me?’
‘That would be a matter entirely for him, thespinis.’ He riffled through his papers. ‘I believe that is everything.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ she said, rising. ‘My entire life—signed away.’
‘Your private and business transactions properly conducted in your absence,’ he corrected, and paused, an awkward note entering his voice.
‘Please believe, Kyria Kirby, that I wish it could have been otherwise.’
‘One view at least that we share,’ Natasha said evenly, turning to the door.
‘Ne,’ he said drily, adding, ‘if for very different reasons. Good afternoon, thespinis. I wish you good fortune.’
She could have walked back to the Villa Demeter blindfold from any point in the city, but the route to the Mandrakis house was still relatively unfamiliar. And it would probably remain so, she thought while she was obliged to travel it in the back of the chauffeured car, with Iorgos the Rottweiler riding shotgun beside the driver once more. Alex Mandrakis was clearly taking no chances with his latest acquisition.
She moved restively, and heard a crackle of paper. It was the envelope that he’d given her, forgotten in the pocket of her jacket.
She retrieved it, and sat for a moment, turning it in her hands. She supposed it must be money—an advance cheque for the services she’d be obliged to render him in bed that night. And, as such, she was sorely tempted to tear it up and fling it out of the car window. Except that it was securely closed because of the air-conditioning.
Besides, a kind of mordant curiosity was stirring her to see precisely how much he thought she was worth.
But there was no cheque. Instead she found just a single sheet of paper, and when she unfolded it and saw the typed lines and her signature at the foot of the page she realised exactly what she’d been given.
For a moment she stared down at it, words and ph
rases leaping out at her, drying her mouth and setting her stomach churning. Then, with unsteady fingers, she began to tear the paper into strips, reducing each strip in turn to smaller and smaller fragments before cramming them back into the envelope, and pushing it to the bottom of her handbag to be finally disposed of later.
Gone, she told herself, straightening her shoulders. Finished and done with. Although she knew that the memory of its vileness—and the ensuing consequences—could not be so easily dismissed. They would haunt her forever.
She could never be sure when she first realised that the car was not heading for the exclusive residential district where Alex Mandrakis lived, but out of Athens altogether. Sitting in the rear passenger seat behind the driver, she’d been sitting in silence, staring almost listlessly out of the window until a road sign intruded jarringly into her thoughts.
She sat up swiftly, her attention alerted, then tapped on the glass.
‘Thespinis?’ It was Iorgos who turned almost warily to speak to her.
‘You’re going the wrong way,’ she told him urgently. ‘This is the road to Piraeus.’
‘Takis is a good driver, thespinis.’ He sounded almost soothing. ‘He knows the route he must take.’
He closed the glass partition and turned back, making a low-voiced comment to the driver, and they both laughed.
Piraeus, Natasha thought feverishly. They were driving to the port.
She sat upright, her hands clenched in her lap, as a desperate suspicion took hold of her.
She banged on the glass again. ‘I’ll pay you both double your salary,’ she said, her voice strained, ‘treble, if you’ll turn the car round and take me to the airport instead.’ She paused. ‘You can say that I—I distracted you, and ran off from the car. That you searched, but couldn’t find me in the crowd. I swear you can trust me, and that I’ll send you the money as soon as I get to England.’
‘But we two are also trusted, thespinis, by Kyrios Alexandros.’ He spoke brusquely. ‘We obey his orders and no one else’s, and he has told us to bring you to Piraeus and the Pala Marina. And that is what we shall do.’
Her throat muscles tightened uncontrollably.
Dear God, she thought, her heart thudding. She was right. The Pala Marina was where many of the biggest and most luxurious yachts had their moorings, and that would naturally include the Mandrakis boat Selene.
The Floating Harem, she thought. As a final humiliation, that was where she was being taken, as Concubine of the Month, she thought bitterly, touching the tip of her tongue to her dry lips.
She’d only seen Selene in newspaper photographs, generally under some scandalous headline, but she recognised its gleaming white splendour instantly as it rode at anchor in solitary state a short distance from the shore.
And, at the quayside, a sleek and powerful launch was waiting to transport her on board, together with the set of matching luggage in light tan kid which had suddenly appeared from the boot.
As she climbed the metal stairs to the main deck a stocky, fair-haired man, smart in white shorts and a crisp shirt, walked forward to greet her.
‘Miss Kirby? Welcome to Selene. I’m Mr Mandrakis’s skipper, Mac Whitaker.’ He beckoned to a small man with eyes like those of a sad monkey and a thick black moustache. ‘This is Kostas,’ he went on. ‘He’ll show you to the master suite, and his niece, Josefina, is waiting to unpack for you. Once Alex joins us, we’ll be sailing.’
For a moment panic twisted in her stomach, but she clung to her self-command and merely nodded before following Kostas up to the bridge deck.
He threw open a door and motioned her politely to precede him into the room beyond. It was almost as big, she thought shakily, as the drawing room at the Villa Demeter. The walls were lined with shelves, holding books and a sophisticated music system, and there were bowls of fresh flowers everywhere.
At one side, an alcove held a circular table and chairs for dining. The floor was covered in a thick, off-white carpet, while comfortable chairs and thickly cushioned sofas upholstered in a rich, deep blue were grouped round occasional tables. The viewing windows were curtained in the same colour, and also repeated in the quilted spread and curtains in the spacious bedroom, which could be glimpsed through double doors at the far side of the room.
The room, it seemed, where she would sleep with Alex that night. And all the nights that might follow. The room where so many other girls had shared his bed, she thought, biting her lip almost fiercely.
‘You are pleased, thespinis? It is all to your liking?’ Kostas sounded anxious.
And if I say I hate it, will that get me safely back to shore? Natasha wondered grimly. I doubt that very much.
And, anyway, what’s the point of upsetting him? Nothing that’s happening here is in any way his fault. He’s just obeying his master’s orders like everyone else.
She forced a smile. ‘It’s—beautiful.’ Which, she thought, was no more than the truth. And wondered how many times he’d had the same enthralled answer from his former companions.
The arrival of her luggage provided a welcome diversion, and it was closely followed by Josefina, a plump, pretty girl, her dark, glossy braids wound into a coronet on top of her head, with a smile that wavered between shy and friendly.
At her insistence, Natasha reluctantly allowed herself to be ushered into the bedroom, but she was unable to share Josefina’s admiration for its splendours. She made polite noises about the fitted wardrobes, with their shoe racks, shelving and drawers, all in the same pale, expensive wood, and tried not to notice that a lot of the space was already occupied by Alex’s clothing.
Establishing beyond question, she realised, his intention to enforce the intimacy of their relationship, and banishing any faint hope of privacy she might still have cherished.
He could have pretended that I was just one of his guests, she thought unhappily. Given me a stateroom of my own—a line of retreat when all this becomes more than I can bear.
She didn’t even want to glance at the massive bed that he’d shared with her predecessors, and not always one at a time, according to the more salacious Press stories, she recalled, biting her lip again.
And paused, as it occurred to her with heart-stopping suddenness how much she hated the idea of being just one more girl on a long list.
But why, in the light of everything else that had happened, should that trouble her particularly? she asked herself restively. When it had to be the very least of the sins he’d committed against her?
After all, she wasn’t the first person Neil had dated by any means, and almost certainly he’d slept with his other girlfriends. It had never occurred to her to speculate or become wound up about his past, even though, at the time, she’d thought Neil might well become a major factor in her life.
Something Alex Mandrakis would never be, so how could anything he might or might not have done possibly matter to her?
Except it tells me loud and clear that I don’t matter, either, she thought defensively, and who wants to hear that, whatever the circumstances?
She became aware that Josefina had apparently finished extolling the wonders of the bedroom, and was now proudly leading the way to the bathroom. Sighing silently, she followed.
But the other girl’s enthusiasm was entirely justified, she admitted, looking at the white tiles marbled with gold, plus twin washbasins, toilet and bidet, all with gold fittings, and the ultimate in power showers, housed inside its glass and gilded screens.
Certainly large enough for multiple occupation, Natasha told herself, trying to be casual about it, and failing, as unwanted memories of the shower she’d taken with him Alex night—the touch of his hands on her body—came back to haunt her.
As she turned away hurriedly a thought came to her that, rather like the rest of the suite, every luxurious square inch of the bathroom seemed totally pristine and glossy, giving the impression that no one had set foot there before. Which, of course, was nonsense.
But
it seemed that Alex Mandrakis had a fastidious streak wholly at odds with his raffish reputation, she acknowledged reluctantly, and his housekeeping staff must work their fingers to the bone keeping his various establishments in this kind of order.
It made her realise too how standards at the Villa Demeter had slipped since Thio Basilis had died. Neither Christina nor Maria seemed particularly adept in handling servants, she thought ruefully, and it showed.
She delighted Josefina by agreeing that everything was wonderful, then made her escape back into the saloon.
She sank down on one of the sofas, curling almost defensively into its corner.
Maybe she should concentrate on practicalities and get some rest while she could, working on the assumption that there might not be much opportunity later on, she told herself.
And she would not think of Alex Mandrakis and the way his smile lit the darkness of his eyes, or how the treacherous nerve-endings in her skin reacted to the mere brush of his mouth.
A journey to make together…
Even the memory of the words was enough to make her body shiver, and press more deeply into the softness of the cushions.
Oh, why couldn’t he have been seriously unattractive like—like Stavros’s friend Yannis who had thick lips, fleshy hands and hair like wire wool?
And one of the young men who’d wanted to marry her three years ago, she remembered, appalled. Pleasant enough—in his way. Kind—probably. Rich—certainly. But in every other respect…
Was that the fate Thia Theodosia really wished she’d chosen? she wondered, wincing. Because that really could have been worse than death.
Almost on the same disaster level as her current situation.
Couldn’t Alex Mandrakis be satisfied with winning on a commercial level? she thought with bitterness. And not as if he had some personal score to settle? With me?
She should have been on her way back to London by now. That evening, in the ordinary way, she’d be at home, chatting to Molly and probably fixing herself some scrambled eggs, before taking a leisurely bath and falling into bed and dreamless sleep.
