by Anne Mather
Dion’s response was a sigh of impatience. ‘I will close my eyes, if it will make you feel any happier,’ he essayed heavily. ‘But do not imagine I do not remember exactly how you look without any clothes at all.’
Martha got abruptly to her feet, unable to sit still under such a disruptive statement, and Dion rolled on to his stomach, folding his arms beneath his head and turning his face aside. It was the nearest she was likely to come to complete privacy, and with fingers that stumbled over their task, she stripped off the vest and shorts and pulled on the briefs of the bikini. The bra was harder to manage. Dampness had distorted the elastic, and she was still struggling with the fastening when Dion rolled on to his back again.
His gaze swept up her, over the narrow feet and shapely calves, to the rounded promise of her thighs and the flat smoothness of her stomach. It was a deeply disturbing appraisal he subjected her to, and then, as his gaze moved higher, he perceived her difficulties, and got easily to his feet.
‘Let me,’ he said, turning her resisting body about, and taking the two sides of her bra from her. ‘Eki, it is done. Tora, I suggest we swim for a little, so that you do not catch cold from putting on a wet costume, hmm—’
Martha pressed her lips together. ‘Thanks,’ she murmured, in belated gratitude for his fastening the bra, and with an offhand nod she indicated that she was willing to fall in with his plans.
The water felt cold at first, and she could not repress the squeal of excitement that escaped her when the first wave lapped about her hips and thighs. Dion grinned and dived into the succeeding breakers, but Martha met it head on, gasping in the spray, and finding herself forced to take her feet from the sandy bottom and swim into calmer waters. As her blood cooled with the temperature of the water, she realised how warm it really was, refreshingly vital against her stimulated flesh.
Dion swam back to her, circling her with lazy strokes, and she turned on to her back to float to avoid his mocking eyes. But a hand on her midriff propelled her downwards, and she came up spluttering to find him laughing at her confusion. She was angry as she swam after him, though when she caught him she knew he had let her, and her indignation gave way to amusement as she fought to duck him as he had done to her.
‘You are not strong enough,’ he teased, fending off her attacks without much effort. ‘See, I will go under, if that is what you wish—’ and he dived down beneath her, terrifying her by swimming between her legs and bringing her up gasping on his shoulders.
‘Dion!’ she squealed, forgetting altogether the prelude to this outing, and he obediently did a backward somersault into the water, allowing her to scramble free of him once again.
Martha discovered she was enjoying herself tremendously. It was years since anyone had played with her like this, indeed, only Dion had ever done so, and a wave of nostalgia swept over her for those days before all the rows and recriminations had raised their ugly heads.
Later, they stretched out on the sand on towels, side by side, curiously at peace, Martha realised, despite their obvious differences. But lying there, she knew an almost overwhelming temptation to induce the kind of scene they had had in the bedroom the previous evening, and she had to actually steel herself from reaching out and touching him.
‘Tell me,’ Dion said suddenly, shading his eyes with a lazy arm, ‘would you ever have told me about Josy, if this situation with Scott had not arisen?’
Martha sighed, loath to spoil the harmony between them. ‘I don’t know,’ she answered honestly. ‘I would like to think so. But after seeing you again…’
‘Yes?’ Dion rolled on to his side, propping himself up on one elbow. ‘What then?’
Martha shook her head helplessly. ‘You—you seemed so—so hard, so implacable! When you—when you made me tell you, I—I think I hated you then.’
Dion’s mouth twisted. ‘Go on.’
Martha glanced sideways at him. ‘What more is there to say? You know what happened next. You came to England, and after you’d seen Josy, you knew!’
‘No,’ Dion made a negative gesture, ‘I do not mean that. I mean—tell me why you like to think you would have told me yourself, without any inducement. I want to know.’
‘Oh…’ Martha moved her shoulders uneasily. ‘Because of Josy, I suppose. I mean, I knew it wasn’t fair to her not—not telling you.’
‘And that is all?’ Dion’s eyes narrowed.
‘What—what else could there be?’
‘You might have wanted to show me what a beautiful child we had made together,’ he suggested huskily, and her senses quivered in awareness of his devastating attraction.
‘After—after what you had said?’ she ventured, and his eyes darkened in impatience.
‘Mou theos, Martha, you can have no conception of what it feels like to believe that the woman you love—the woman you worship—has lain with another man!’ His face twisted in remembered bitterness. ‘I wanted to hurt you, as you had hurt me, but worse—much worse, and there was nothing I could do! So I said things, unforgivable things, I admit, but I believed them at that time. That is my only excuse!’
Trembling, Martha sat up, wrapping her arms around her drawn-up knees, and staring out blindly towards the headland. So there was no mistake. He had believed the worst of her. How could he talk of love, of worship, when there was no trust? That was not love, it was desire, as she had known all along. Did he expect her to condone it now—now that he had taken her back?
‘Martha…’ He had sat up, too, and was regarding her with those liquid dark eyes, eyes that could drag the very soul out of her, and bare it to his uncaring domination. ‘Is it impossible for you to understand how I was feeling? Is there no shred of compassion in your heart for someone who has gone through five years of hell since you left him?’
Martha’s emotions were scarcely proof against such a blatant assault, and unwilling to pursue such a volatile subject, she said, somewhat unsteadily:
‘Five years is a long time for anyone to wait, Dion. I find your—your declaration of suffering hard to believe after—after all this time.’
His oath was in his own language, but none the less savage because of that. ‘Hristo, Martha, what did you expect me to do, when—when—’
‘When what?’ she asked, puzzled by the look of anguish that crossed his face as he broke off what he was saying, and he turned his head away, massaging the back of his neck with a violence that mirrored his agitation.
There was silence for several minutes, and then he expelled his breath on a sigh, turning back to her wearily. ‘You are never going to believe me, are you?’ he demanded harshly. ‘You will always blame me for what has happened.’
Martha bent her head, disturbed in spite of herself by the look in his eyes. ‘Dion…she began unhappily, but then faltered into silence when his hand came to grip her neck, just below the ear, turning her face towards him.
‘Tell me you do not want me to do this, and I will stop,’ he said roughly, his tongue stroking the outline of her mouth, and almost involuntarily her lips parted. ‘So tender—it is like kissing the virgin you were when first I made love to you,’ he added hoarsely. ‘Theos, little one, do you remember how it was then?’
Martha remembered. How could she forget, with his lips coaxing her instinctive response to his invasion, his mouth searching the parted contours of hers, as if eager to taste every inch of its moist sweetness. With her lungs quickening in breathless haste, her hand touched Dion’s shoulder almost tentatively, responding to its cool masculinity by digging her nails into his flesh. Then, as he pressed her back against the towel, his hand freed the clip he had earlier fastened, and his hair-roughened chest rubbed sensuously against the hardening nipples of her breasts.
He lay half over her, one of his legs imprisoning both of hers, his hands moving intimately over her, invading the secret places of her body. She had no will to resist him as his mouth performed its own exploration, returning again and again to hers, drugging her with long dem
anding kisses.
Her hands were smooth against his shoulders, eagerly stroking his muscular flesh, inspiring sensations she had thought she no longer possessed. The hair at the nape of his neck was virile to her touch, and the powerful strength of his body aroused an answering need in her own. She wanted him, she thought helplessly, she needed him to satisfy this ache that was growing inside her, and no matter what came after, she would not prevent him from taking what was undeniably his.
‘Is good?’ he muttered, biting her ear-lobe, his English suffering at the hands of his emotions, and Martha arched her body provocatively under his, nodding eagerly, as she whispered: ‘You know it is,’ in urgent husky tones. ‘Oh, Dion, there’s never been anyone else but you…’
‘I know that now,’ he assured her passionately, and although Martha heard his words in pained denigration, she could not stifle the desires that were shredding her resistance, making a mockery of her will to deny him.
She was bereft when he suddenly rolled away from her, turning on to his back and gazing up into the heavens with tightly controlled features. She couldn’t believe he had left her, that he had actually repulsed her once again, and for several minutes she could not move, tom by the pain of emotions aroused and not satisfied. He couldn’t do this to her, she thought disbelievingly, nor to himself. But the fact remained that he had, and the merciless awareness of rejection swept over her.
That brought her to puppet-like life. Jerkily she sat up, groping for the bra of the bikini and fastening it now without any of the effort she had experienced earlier. It was silly really, she thought, trying to restore some measure of reality. Maybe the fact that her fingers were trembling so badly accounted for their accuracy. At any rate, with the bra in place, she felt less vulnerable to his contempt, for she could think of no other reason for his incomprehensible behaviour.
As if becoming aware of her movements, Dion moved now, pushing himself up on to his haunches, squatting before her with curiously angry eyes.
‘What of your resentment now, my love?’ he demanded harshly. ‘Exactly what kind of a man do you think I am?’
‘I—I don’t know what you mean—’
‘Oh, I think you do.’ His lips twisted. ‘I am not a fool. You want me—I know that. And God alone knows, I cannot disguise my own desire. But how long will it last, that is what I ask myself. When the doubts return? I can arouse your emotions, but can I arouse your heart? You do me an injustice, if you think I want only your body. That is not the way of my family.’
‘To—total possession, is that what you mean?’ Martha faltered tremulously. ‘And—and can you deny you only want me because—because of Josy?’
‘Josy!’ He glared at her so savagely that she shrank away from him. ‘You can speak of Josy at a time like this?’ With a discarded gesture, he got to his feet. ‘Put on your clothes,’ he said wearily. ‘Cover yourself! We have nothing more to say to one another!’
CHAPTER NINE
THE Myconos villa in Athens was a far more formal residence than the casual luxury of the villa on Mycos. For one thing, there was not the freedom to come and go at will, the easy familiarity between servant and master that existed far from the seat of power. The bodyguards that patrolled the main entrance and the grounds were all too real and necessary, and despite the lived-in atmosphere of the family apartments, most of the rooms at the villa were chillingly impersonal.
Preparing for dinner in the bedroom she was supposed to share with Dion, Martha felt the weight of her own uncertainties bearing down upon her. She felt nervous and uneasy, and terribly confused, and her husband’s attitude towards her in no way relieved her burden.
She supposed she ought to feel glad that he had refrained from tormenting her, from touching her or mocking her, or doing anything to discompose her carefully erected façade of confidence, but she wasn’t. She was tom between the knowledge that he expected more of her than he could conceivably demand, and the growing awareness that his detached impartiality was the purest kind of torture.
Not that he was unkind to her. On the contrary, since that scene at Atvia more than a week ago he had behaved with the utmost circumspection, treating her with polite deference in the company of others, and total indifference when they were alone.
Leaving Mycos had not been the ordeal Martha had expected. Josy’s reactions to Miss Powell—or Jill, as she preferred to be called—had made life easier for her, and her fears about her daughter’s loyalties had proved groundless. Jill was a thoroughly nice girl, but she was only twenty-two, and far more interested in Alex than in stealing the affections of a five-year-old. She did her job, and the little girl liked her, but the novelty of having someone constantly available to supervise her had soon worn off, and Josy had reverted to asking her mother to read her stories, and plaguing both Dion and Alex to play with her in the pool.
Nevertheless, it had been simpler to leave her on Mycos in Jill’s charge, Martha had to admit, although Sarah had not refrained from voicing her biased opinions. Her continuing bitterness left a sour taste in Martha’s mouth, and she wondered if she was truly as gullible as Sarah would have her believe.
The night before she left Mycos she had voiced some of these doubts to Roger, but he had only scoffed at her anxieties. ‘Sarah likes to complain, haven’t you noticed?’ he exclaimed, breaking off the stem of a camellia and inhaling its delicate fragrance. ‘I don’t know, maybe she was always like this. Maybe we just didn’t notice it before.’
Martha shook her head, tilting it backwards so that she could look up at the arc of the night sky above them. Velvet-soft, and studded with stars, it had a jewel-like brilliance, and she wondered how her sister could view so much beauty with so little pleasure.
‘What else could I do, Roger?’ she asked rather helplessly now. ‘Dion—’
‘Stop blaming yourself!’ declared Roger impatiently. ‘It had to happen sooner or later, I could see that. As Josy grew older, you were bound to have doubts.’
‘Doubts?’
‘Yes, doubts.’ Roger’s sigh was exasperated. ‘You know I’m right, so why don’t you admit it? I saw how you reacted, every time the child’s parentage was questioned. You were eaten up with guilt, and you know it.’
Martha sighed. ‘So you think I was right to—to tell him?’
‘Of course. Don’t you? Honestly?’
Now Martha touched the strand of silky hair that trailed effectively over one shoulder. She had not really given Roger an answer, but her expression had said it for her. Dear Roger, she thought regretfully. If only she had fallen in love with someone like him, someone she liked and understood, instead of a volatile Greek, with all the pride and arrogance of his race.
Coming to Athens, to the Myconos villa, had been a nerve-racking experience. Athens was sweltering in the midsummer heat, but these halls and apartments were air-conditioned, and Dion’s parents had greeted her as coolly as their surroundings allowed. Not that she could entirely blame them. Naturally, they only saw the situation from Dion’s viewpoint, and obviously they had been hoping that he was about to break this connection which had caused them so much distress.
Someone else had greeted her coolly, too. The woman who, according to the little maid who had been assigned to look after her, had been hoping to become the next Madame Myconos. Julia Kuriakin, whom she had met on her first night in Athens, and who had made it patently clear that she saw Martha’s intervention as only a temporary setback. She had treated Dion with an annoying familiarity, that spoke of the closeness of their association, and Martha had spent the entire evening fretting with emotions she had imagined were his sole prerogative.
Maybe Julia was right, she thought now, touching a delicate perfume to her neck and wrists. Maybe Dion had had his own motives for behaving as he had. Had she imagined his ardour down on the beach? Had his intention been to seduce her, and her involuntary response thwarted him? She did not know. She did not even understand why he had got so angry with her. But what was b
ecoming painfully evident was that she could not live with Dion in this state of bland neutrality.
She shook her head, and the curtain of her hair swung softly against her cheek. Could she forgive him? she asked herself helplessly, the bruised darkness of sleepless nights shadowing her eyes. Was that what she really wanted? Was it what he wanted? And if not, how could she, even for Josy’s sake, prolong this agony of aching emptiness? Even the half life she had had with him before was better than nothing, though her mind rebelled from the weeks and months of separation she had been expected to bear.
The door to Dion’s dressing room opened to admit the man whose nearness promoted an increasing anguish. In a dark grey velvet dinner suit, he was disturbingly attractive, the fine texture of the cloth only accentuating his rugged maleness. Martha’s eyes were drawn to him like a magnet, lingering on the muscular width of his shoulders, the powerful strength of his legs.
The dressing room was also the place where he had slept since they came to Athens, much to the whispered speculation of the servants, she was sure. However, he seemed unconcerned that there might be any conjecture about them, behaving as if it was the most natural thing in the world that they should have separate rooms. She was waiting in nervous anticipation for the information to come to the ears of his parents, for she was sure when that happened, her position here would become completely intolerable.
‘Are you ready?’ Dion enquired now, coming into the room and closing the dressing room door behind him. ‘I see you took my advice about what to wear. I am glad. The colour suits you.’
‘Thank you.’
Martha endeavoured to keep her voice as expressionless as his as she rose from her seat at the vanity unit. She could not help but see that the rich, wine-coloured silk did wonders for her creamily-tanned flesh, its draped skirt hinting at the length of leg visible between each of the floating panels. The bodice was low and simple, two bootlace straps tied in provocative knots above the rounded smoothness of her shoulders, while a narrow waistline accentuated the swaying maturity of her hips. Irene, the little maid who attended her, had delivered the message that Kirios Dionysus wished her to wear this particular gown this evening, and because the prospect of this party was already quite intimidating, she had had no hesitation in obeying his instructions. Besides, the gown was beautiful, and she wanted to look her best.
