Beware the Beast

by Anne Mather

  After she was seated and Tina had served them each with a bowl of iced consomme!, Alex spoke. "These past couple of hours," he said slowly. "Did you enjoy yourself?" Charlotte decided to be honest, "Very much." "Then don't you think it would be more sensible if we spent more time together?" he suggested quietly.

  Charlotte looked up and found his dark eyes upon her. She looked away again. "What does that mean exactly?"

  Alex's grimace was exasperated. "Well, it doesn't mean in bed, if that's what you're afraid of I"

  Charlotte spooned soup into her mouth. "Is that what you want?" she asked tentatively.

  Alex sighed. "Yes. I see no reason why we shouldn't

  be - friends, at least."

  "How can I be your friend?" Charlotte exclaimed, feeling almost a traitor at the thought.

  "How can you be my enemy?" he retorted, and with an exclamation of impatience got up from the table and walked to the top of the shallow stairs which led down into the hall. Then he turned to look at her, his hands in his pockets, the dose-fitting pants exposing the taut muscles of his thighs. "Charlotte, I've been very patient with you, more patient than you could have expected me to be. Why do you continue to fight me every inch of the way? Is your life here so miser­able? Is it such an arduous existence I've chosen for you?

  Would yon rather be in the chills and fogs of an approaching English winter?"

  Charlotte put down her spoon. "Those are not fair ques­tions."

  "I disagree. You're here, aren't you? And you are my wife. How many times must I remind you of that?"

  "I don't need reminding," she retorted, pushing back the heavy swathe of hair which fell across her cheek. Then despis­ing herself because of it, she added: "Come and eat your lunch. You must be hungry."

  Alex's eyes narrowed- "What do you care? You'd stand by and see me starve I Don't deny it."

  "But I do," she protested fiercely. "I -! wouldn't stand by and see anybody starve I"

  "Oh, thanks very much."

  Alex resumed his seat, his expression sardonic, and with a feeling of remorse, she exclaimed: "All right, all right. Let's - try it. Spending more time together, I mean."

  Alex frowned. "Is this some new gambit?" he asked sus­piciously.

  Charlotte had to smile. "No. No, I mean it. You can — show me the island. I really would like to see all of it."

  During the next few days, Charlotte ignored her conscience and allowed herself to enjoy Alex's company. And he was good company. He knew the contours of the island blindfold,

  from the wilder coastline at the north side of the island to the sunbleached coves below ,the villa. The barren cliffs made the island a virtual fortress, and it came as no surprise to her to learn that that was why Alex's father had acquired it. His subsequent death at the hands of terrorist assassins made his vulnerability that much more real, and Charlotte found her

  self wondering whether Alex ever thought about the dangers he ran when he left the island. He had a bodyguard, of course, but what good would he be in the face of machine-gun bullets?

  They went swimming, Alex subjugating his love of freedom for her benefit by wearing his shorts in the water. He taught her how to handle the power launch which took them swiftly out into the blue-green waters of the Aegean, and twice he took her sailing in the bay. The first occasion, he took her in the racing dinghy she had seen that first morning. Charlotte had only rarely crewed for her father, and in spite of the poignancy of that remembrance, she found it an exhilarating experience. On the second occasion, they used the twin-hulled catamaran which she soon learned was his rea^ obsession. It occupied pride of place in the boathouse, alongside the launch, and had the quixotic name of EasyRider.

  Unlike her father, Alex did not insist on handling everything himself. He was quite prepared to give her control for a while, and with him stretched out lazily on the cabin roof, she felt the certain thrill of complete possession. It was at times like these when she found it almost impossible to drum up any feeling of antagonism towards him.

  As well as showing her the island, Alex talked to her. He knew the islands of the Cyclades like the back of his hand -their people, their industry, their legends. Charlotte found the legends particularly fascinating. She had always loved the magic that could be found in myths and fairy stories, and when she discovered accidentally from Maria that Lydros had its own legend she was eager to hear-it.

  But in this Alex proved strangely reticent, and it was left to her to search among the books in the library until she found what she was looking for. She was curled up in an armchair after dinner one evening, studying a massive tome of myths and legends she had taken from the shelf, when Alex came into the library.

  She was surprised to see him. The strains of a Carpenters L.P. drifted through from the lounge, and she had thought he was in there, listening to it. These past few days she had learn­ed that he liked all kinds of music, from beat music and jazz to the classical composers, and the similarities in their tastes had been quite startling. But now he strolled into the room, dark and disturbing, in dose-fitting black pants and a dark red silk shirt.

  "What are you doing?" he asked, squinting at the ledger like volume she was supporting on her culotte-dad knees. "What is it? Myths and legends?"

  She looked up. "I'm looking for the Lydros legend," she told him levelly. "You don't have any objections, do you?"

  Alex lifted the huge book out of her hands. "As a matter of fact, yes."

  Charlotte screwed up her face disappointedly. "Oh, don't take it away," she pleaded. "I'd just found it."

  Alex closed the book with a distinct thud. "Why are you so curious about our legend?" he demanded.

  "Why shouldn't I be?" she protested, getting out of her chair, slim and youthful in the vivid blending of blues and greens to be found in her culotte suit. She stretched out her hand to take the book again. "Alex, please! Don't be mean!"

  He smiled then, a lazy teasing smile, that did strange things to her lower limbs, so that despising the weakness, she flopped down into her chair again. Her lips curved sulkily, and Alex regarded her with knowing amusement.

  "All right," he said at last, and her eyes widened. "If you're so determined to hear it, I'll tell you. It's quite simple really. Lydros — that was the god's name, of course - rescued a beautiful maiden from the wreck of a vessel come to grief on the rocks around our coastline." He paused. "Lydros fell in love with the girl, but she thought he was old and ugly, and. she was terrified of him. But he made her live on the island, and gradually, over a period of time, she came to know him and care for him. He didn't know this, until he finally took pity on her and offered to send her away, and she refused to go. That's all there is to it."

  "Oh, I like it!" Charlotte had been listening intently, and now she leaned forward, her chin cupped in her hands. "It's almost like the story of Beauty and the Beast, isn't it?" she breathed. "Except that the girl's father wasn't involved. h-"

  She broke off suddenly and stared at him, and Alex's mouth turned down at the corners. He turned away and thrust the book back into its place on the shelves. "Beware the Beast !" he remarked mockingly, and left the room.

  Charlotte turned to stare after him, her brow furrowed. Now she knew why he had not wanted her to read the story. There were too many similarities to her own situation. She turned back, and grimaced at her hands. But Alex was not old - or ugly - and she was no longer afraid of him.

  Pressing her hands down on the arms of her chair, she got to her feet again, and padded slowly through to the lounge. Alex was standing by the drinks trolley, helping himself to a large scotch. Even as she watched, he threw the raw spirit to the back of his throat, wincing slightly at the onslaught. Then he seemed to sense that he was not alone, for he half turned and saw her in the doorway. He frowned down at his empty glass for a moment, and then with a shrug replaced it on the tray.

  "Well?" he said. "Have you finished reading for this evening?"

  Charlotte nodded. "Alex, I -! w
ant you to know, I had no idea..."

  His lips twisted. "No idea about what?"

  "Oh, you know what I meant The legend, that story!"

  "What about it?"

  His eyes were narrowed and challenging and she sighed impatiently. "Alex, you know what I'm trying to say. You're not making it very easy for me."

  He ran a hand over his thick hair, coming to rest at the back of his neck. Then he gestured with his free hand towards the trolley. "Can I offer you a drink?"

  Charlotte scuffed her bare toe against a skin rug. "No. I'm not thirsty."

  "Are you going to sit down, then?" he suggested, indicating a nearby couch.

  "Why won't you talk about it?" she burst out at length as he walked over to the turntable to change the record. "I know you think there are comparisons to our situation, but it's not really similar. I mean - well, I'm not afraid of you."

  Alex straightened and looked at her. "Aren't you?" he asked quietly.

  "No." Charlotte took a deep breath. "And you're not old, or — or ugly."

  Alex half smiled then. "Oh, yes, Charlotte, I am old. At least old enough to be your father."

  She flushed. "Age has nothing to do with it. You're not like - like Daddy was." She bent her head, realizing what she was saying. She, who had maintained she would always hate this man. "I suppose I seem childish to you, but that doesn't mean you're old I"

  Alex bent to set the automatic player in motion, and present­ly the strings of the bouzouki filled the room with their plaintive melody. Then he turned back to her and smiled. "Come on, I'll teach you how to dance to this music. Do you want to learn?"

  Charlotte looked at him mutinously through her lashes. "Oh - oh, all right," she conceded with ill grace, and he came towards her, smiling at her frustration.

  Charlotte had* seen Greek dancing before, on television, but that had not prepared her for the reality. Alex's arm about her shoulders brought her close beside him, its weight a distracting influence to the things he was attempting to teach her. Her own arm was around his waist and she was conscious that only the fine material of his shirt separated her from the muscular warmth of his hard body.

  Even so, she tried to concentrate on what he was saying, following the sideways movements without too much diffi­culty, the crossing steps - three times, twice, once, dip. The music on the turntable was gradually quickening, and their steps quickened in time to the music. Charlotte forgot her awareness of her husband in the simple concentration of the dance. Her breathing had quickened, and she emitted little gasps of achievement as she managed to keep up with him. She was laughing up into his face, confident of her own ability, when she missed a step and gasped with pain as Alex's suede-booted foot came down on her bare toes. She crumpled away from him, sinking down on to the floor to nurse her bruised toes, and he came down on his haunches beside her, his face taut with anxiety.

  "God, I'm sorry," he muttered, brushing her hands aside and taking the injured foot between his own fingers. "Does it hurt a lot?"

  Charlotte raised half humorous eyes to his. "Mmm," she admitted teasingly. "You're no light weight, you know."

  His expression softened. "Well, I don't think there are any bone* broken anyway. Can you stand, or shall I lift you?"

  Charlotte shook her head, resenting a little his concern for her, which smacked of patronage. "I can manage." She strug­gled to her feet, resisting his assistance. "The pain's wearing off now. I'm not a child; you know, to be picked up every time it hurts itselfl"

  Alex looked at her with curiously intent eyes. "I never imagined you were."

  "No, but you do think of me as a child, don't you?" she exclaimed. "Talking about being old enough to be my father !"

  Alex's eyes darkened. "How would you have me behave? You want I should treat you as a woman? As my wife?"

  Charlotte coloured hotly. "I -! just want to be treated as an adult, that's all."

  Alex turned away, his jaw taut with impatience. "This is a stupid conversation!" he told her flatly. "I married you, didn't I?"

  "I sometimes wonder why!" she flashed, almost without thinking, and he turned on her angrily.

  "Oh, Charlotte ! Don't provoke me I We're only just beginning to have some kind of a relationship. Don't imagine anything has changed I"

  Charlotte's breasts heaved. "Oh, I see. So - so these past days, they've just been pretence, have they?"

  "NoI" Alex smote his fist against his thigh. "No. They'vt been - ordinary, satisfactory days, when we've enjoyed each other's company. Or at least, I've enjoyed yours. You may cot have enjoyed mine, but there's nothing I can do about that I"

  Charlotte hunched her shoulders, feeling ridiculously near to tears. They had been good days, and now. she was coming dangerously near to ruining them.

  "I -I do enjoy your company," she murmured unhappily, "Oh, Alex, I'm sorry. I was just being - bitchy."

  He expelled his breath on a heavy sigh. "Yes - well, let's forget it, shall we?"

  Charlotte stretched out a hand and touched his arm, bare to the elbow where he had rolled back his sleeves. She could feel the taut muscles, sense his instinctive stiffening without actu­ally seeing it. "Alex, don't be mad at me! I know I say the wrong things - do the wrong things. But I don't like it when you - patronize me."

  "Patronize you?" He raised his eyes heavenwards. "I don't patronize you, Charlotte. Oh, for God's sake - " He put his free hand over hers, holding it against his arm, and her pulses raced alarmingly at this exhibition of how easily he could take control of her emotions. His eyes held hers captive, and there was a caressing quality about them which weakened her knees and set her trembling. "Charlotte, believe me, I do not regard you as a child. God forgive me, perhaps I should, but I don't."

  Charlotte found it incredibly difficult to articulate at all. "I -I - it's getting late. I - I'm tired," she managed jerkily, and to her relief, he allowed her to withdraw her fingers. "Good - goodnight, Alex."

  He made no reply, merely nodded his head, and the sudden gauntness of his expression was almost her undoing. She realized with a shattering sense of horror at her own body's duplicity that had he drawn her into his arms just then, she would not have been able - or wanted - to stop him.

  In the bedroom, she stared at her reflection with troubled eyes. The colour in her cheeks was hectic, her eyes were abnormally bright, and her breathing was more rapid than could be accounted for by merely walking along the length of the corridor. Her feet were still bare, and she remembered she had left her cork-soled sandals in the library. Thinking of the library reminded her once more of the legend, but with a brisk determination she refused to think of that, and went quickly into the bathroom.

  But once she was in bed, between the satin sheets, her thoughts were not so easy to control, and she despised herself for the way she had behaved. Was she so impressionable that two weeks of Alex's company could make her completely forget her reasons for being there? Was his personality such that she had no control over her own feelings? Could she excuse so easily his determination to make her honour her father's debt? She refused to acknowledge such things, and with a smothered gulp buried her face in the lace-covered pillow.

  She awoke in the pale light of dawn to the realization that someone was sitting on the side of the bed, gently shaking her. She opened her eyes reluctantly, and widened them in amazement when she recognized Alex's shadowy frame.

  "What do you want?"

  Alex was partially dressed, and as her eyes adjusted them­selves to the light, she realized his trousers were dark and immaculately creased, and his unbuttoned shirt was made of white silk. They were not at all the sort of clothes he had worn about the island, and a twinge of alarm feathered along her veins.

  "I have to leave," he told her quietly. "Within the next hour. I've had word from the States that there's some hang-up over the Achilles merger. It must be pretty important or they wouldn't have had George contact me. He's waiting in the salon. He came in the helicopter, and we'll take it back
to Athens and fly out from there in the jet. With a bit of luck we should be in New York by this afternoon, their time."

  Charlotte absorbed this with dismay. Propping herself up on her elbows, uncaring right then that the sheet had fallen back to reveal the lace bodice of her nightgown, she stared at him anxiously.

  "But couldn't George handle it himself?" she protested. "I mean, this is supposed to be your honeymoon."

  "I know." Alex nodded resignedly. "Like I said, it must be important or they wouldn't have contacted me."

  Charlotte made an impatient sound. "If you weren't avail­able, they would have had to manage without you."

  "But I am available," he pointed out steadily, running a questing hand over the hair on his chest. "Honey, I'm sorry."

  "So am I." Charlotte chewed worriedly at her lower lip. As she became fully alert, other anxieties were troubling her. His own father had been killed by a terrorist's bullet, and yet he was taking leaving the island so calmly. To her, it had become a retreat, and the world outside had ceased to exist

  "Alex ..." She stretched out her hand and touched his chest, her nails digging into his flesh. "Alex, I don't want you to go."

  She heard his swiftly in-drawn breath, as he said roughly: "Do you think I want to leave you?"

  Her fingers strayed slowly up to his chin, and with a surge of emotion, she cupped his cheek. "Oh, Alex, there are men out there who probably hate you just as much as they hated your father !"

  Alex turned his head so that his mouth encountered her palm. "I don't think about things like that," he muttered huskily.

  "But you should I" she breathed, suddenly achingly aware of her own vulnerability so far as he was concerned. "Alex, don't go !"

  "I must," he said harshly. "I have no choice."

  "Then let me come with you."

  "No."

  His refusal brooked no argument, and Charlotte's lips trembled. With an exclamation, almost of impatience, his hand slid down her bare arm to her shoulder, sliding the strap of her nightgown aside so that he could bend his head and touch the soft skin he had exposed with caressing lips. He smelt of shaving lotion and soap after his shower, and his hair was still damp where it brushed her cheek. The dark hair on his chest was rough against the creamy skin rising from the lowcut bodice of her nightgown, but it was not an un­pleasant roughness. Charlotte's breathing was laboured and shallow, but when his mouth moved over her throat and cheek to hers, she expelled a small sigh of involuntary satisfaction. Her arms slid round his neck, under the fine material of his shirt, and with an urgency that was taking possession of her, too, Alex shrugged off the shirt without taking his mouth from hers. Then he gathered her completely into his arms, and buried his face in the silky tangle of her hair.