Redeemed by Her Innocence

by Bella Frances

  His eyes had darted from the glass to a mirror where she could see in the reflection that he was watching her. A hall of mirrors, all reflecting this same dreadful scene.

  ‘Forget it. You’re wasting your breath.’

  He lifted the glass to his mouth again but this time she couldn’t stand it.

  ‘Stop all this self-pity. Just stop it!’

  She stormed across the room, her heels sinking into the heavy oriental rug, slowing her down, but she wouldn’t be put off and she reached him, reached the glass and yanked it out of his hand.

  As quickly he grabbed her arm and the whisky sloshed over her hand and down her arm. Drops landed on her face, her lips, and some on her chest.

  His face was blazing, and his grip was unremitting. They stood, like a still life, a cartoon scene of power and anger and beauty, completely still apart from their panting chests and the hard, fast breaths that sounded from their noses and mouths.

  He was magnificent, and intimidating, but she would not back down. She stood tall and faced him toe to toe, focusing on his blazing dark eyes, his high stained cheekbones, and tense, square jaw. His lips, when she looked there, had softened, parted.

  But it was his presence that undid her. His brooding, masculine presence, close, so close and so magnetic she was utterly compelled to let her guard drop and sink into his space.

  And then desire flooded her whole body. She felt it rise like a tide, flushing into her most sensitive parts, weakening her mind, her resolve, her fight.

  ‘What do you suggest we do now, Jacquelyn?’ he hissed. ‘Are you going to give me another lecture on self-love or do we rip each other’s clothes off and make love? Do I take your body the way I did the last time? My God, you’re so ready for me, look at you.’

  He dropped her arm but he spun her round until they were both facing one of the mirrors. He stood right behind her, holding her arms down by her sides, the splashes of the whisky clearly marked on her dress, one nipple bold like a stud under the damp satin. Her cheeks were pink, her lips were open, her hair was tousled and trailing her shoulders.

  She looked wanton.

  Behind her, she saw his dark jaw and short dark hair, the inked tattoos of his muscled arm and bare chest exposed, the sheer breadth of him surrounding her, and behind them the opulence of the room, huge, lofty, elegant, immutable.

  ‘Tell me and I’ll do it.’

  Her head fell back, she longed for his touch, she willed his hands to move, to mould her, his lips to kiss her, his tongue to lick her. She yearned with every fibre of her being to have that night again.

  She could feel the heat, the strength, the force of him, hard and desperate, and she knew that he was her lover, she could be his lover again, rolling in his arms, showering him with her kisses, feeling those strong limbs entwined with hers, feeling complete, and whole. Feeling that she was a woman.

  ‘Mmm...Jacquelyn,’ he whispered, softening, drawing her further into his space. Her neck was extended now, her whole body throbbing with desire. In the mirror she saw his head bend towards her, his lips close to her ear, and a shudder loosened itself and reverberated from her neck to her core to her very fingertips and the sensitive buds of her nipples.

  She opened her eyes wide, watching. How wonderful they looked together, she in the sleeveless blue satin and he in his slate-grey trousers and pale blue shirt. She was the woman in her sketches. He, the groom of her dreams.

  Almost. But that wasn’t real; they weren’t that couple. They were two single people alone in New York. And tonight there would be love but what would there be tomorrow?

  Regret. Pain. Guilt, when she finally, in however many months or years, stood next to her real husband, whoever he may be, promising that she would love him for ever, but knowing that she hadn’t waited for him, that she had given in to temptation and bedded Nikos again, broken her vow, not just once, but twice.

  He wasn’t going to change. He’d been as plain as he could be. He was never going to settle down, or fall in love with anyone again, not in the way she needed to be loved. If she slept with him now, she’d lose him for ever.

  And she’d been as plain as she could be. There was no compromise. No winner or loser. Nothing for either of them to gain but another night of memories.

  How could she live with herself?

  She closed her eyes, and shook her head, and with a force of will that felt as if she were moving the earth itself she pushed herself away.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  Yes, screamed her body. But she shook her head and prayed that he would listen.

  ‘No,’ she said again. ‘It’s not who I am. I can’t do this again.’

  He moved away, just a fraction of an inch, and in the chasm of silence that stretched now between them she bowed her head and heard the steady tick of a clock, each second moving on in time, past this moment.

  It hit the hour and chimed ten long beats.

  Like a spell broken, she stepped back onto the rug, sank down on the silk cushions of a hard, high sofa. She was safe. She was back on solid ground.

  He sat opposite her, his head in his hands. The long, strong fingers cradled his head, tufts of black hair poking through and the snake of ink disappearing down his forearm.

  She stared at him, and such a pain, a physical pain of loss and longing, pierced her that tears sprang in her eyes and she wiped them away. If she stayed a moment longer she would want him so badly that she wouldn’t be able to stop. She had to get away.

  ‘Nikos. Can you call me a cab?’

  After a few moments he sat up, shook his head. His eyes were dark, unfocused.

  ‘Sure. Whatever you want. Where do you want to go?’

  She didn’t know. She truly didn’t know.

  ‘Home,’ was all she could think of to say.

  He looked sharply at her now.

  ‘When you’ve come all this way? You’re nearly there. Stay on. Finalise things with Brody.’

  ‘You won’t pull the plug on that?’

  ‘I’m a bastard, Jacquelyn, but I’m not that much of a bastard.’

  He sighed, long and slow, and in every particle she could hear how exhausted he was.

  ‘I’ve got things to take care of. I’ll be heading back to Greece tonight. I’ll make arrangements for a hotel; my car’s downstairs. Lauren will take care of everything for you.’

  ‘I can’t go to a hotel. I don’t have any money.’

  A look passed over his eyes, fleeting and final. He nodded. ‘You won’t need any. You’re here now. You’ve arrived. Things are going to work out for you. I’ll take care of the short term.’

  He stood up, and she stood up.

  They faced each other for the second time, and she stretched out her hand to shake his, businesslike, just how it should be.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘We’re more than that. Way more than that. You don’t need to worry. You’ve drawn your line and I’ll respect that.’

  He nodded behind him to the space they’d just stood in.

  ‘That won’t ever happen again.’

  She glanced there and it was as if she could still see that version of Nikos and Jacquelyn, crushed together and loving one another. The way her life would have unfolded if she’d only let it happen.

  ‘Jacquelyn, I would never put you in a position you didn’t want to be in, you can be sure of that.’

  ‘Maybe we could date?’

  She heard the words escape her mouth—desperate, begging, a last-ditch attempt at staying in his life—and cursed herself.

  ‘We could. But you want to be married. And I don’t want to feel responsible for anyone else for the rest of my life. I’m not very good at it.’

  He turned on his heel, and walked back through the vast room, picking up his keys and his jacket. He lifted her bag where she�
�d dropped it and handed it to her, walked to the elevator and it opened immediately.

  ‘I’ll see you downstairs.’

  She didn’t argue, because these were the last few moments she would have with him, possibly ever. Her last supper, those gulps of air, the intoxicating joy of being with Nikos were soon to be gone, and she knew that more and more painfully with each passing second.

  As if she were walking to her own execution she followed him downstairs and back through the cavernous lobby. The concierge lifted her face in a smile and dipped it back to her screen. The lilies, proud and beautiful in their square vase, the gleam of the cherrywood table and the wide cold mouth of the fireplace—all still there, as they had been less than an hour earlier.

  Nothing had changed except them. Life moved on.

  On the pavement outside, his car waited just beyond the green carpet, its windows reflecting this man and this woman, and this parting.

  Nikos smiled and put out his hand to her, then stepped towards her and wrapped his arms around her, surely and confidently, and she felt the tremors of terror build. Panic began to creep over her. She wrapped herself around him, tighter and tighter.

  Please don’t go, don’t leave me, she whispered to herself.

  He held her, unmoving, solid and still.

  ‘Shh...’ he whispered. ‘You’ll be fine.’

  He knew.

  There in the power of his body she slowly began to quieten and they held each other, like friends, like long-lost friends who’d found each other and who knew they must say goodbye again. For ever.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SUMMER ROLLED BRIGHT and warm, like a cheerful carpet of colour, all the way down Fifth Avenue. Here and there yellow cabs and cars cruised and paused patiently at lights. It was early, it was quiet, but Jacquelyn could feel the energy build, like an audience taking its place in a theatre, just before curtain up.

  She had three more blocks to walk in heels that were better suited to office floors than pavements. She eyed the trainers of other women who were already making their way to work, fast, efficient, appropriate.

  If she stayed on here that would be what she would do, but in two days’ time she would be heading back to Lower Linton, back to her studio and to Victor, to the girls in the workshop, finally able to share the good news.

  It was the best present of all, and had managed to eclipse some of her sorrow. Her morning mask was truly in place but her eyes were puffy and her mouth pinched. She’d positioned it over and over into the deceitful smile, trying so hard to stop her mind drifting off into hopelessness.

  Her business was her husband. That was how it would be. She had been offered this union and she would make it work, for all of them, and she would force her face into that smile all day long if she had to. Because she had the nights to cry into her pillow.

  Her heels rubbed again and part of her was glad of the extra pain. It seemed to amplify her suffering even more. But she couldn’t afford to get a blister, not with a full day of meetings, lunch and dinner. Brody had taken her schedule from Lauren now and between them they had remodelled it into another series of amazing opportunities. In two days every single worry had been obliterated. Everything except Nikos.

  As well as the investment, her new designs were incredible. More than Brody had taken notice; she was in talks to make couture and occasionwear too, with the buyer from one of Nikos’s biggest rivals. They were going to run her designs in the biggest stores in the States, Canada and Australia.

  And she couldn’t stop designing. Her Achilles heel had been repaired and become her engine. Her pen was flying, her designs improving, refining. These women that she sketched now had bodies and felt pleasure behind their blank faces. There was a completeness that had never been there before, an understanding of what it was to be a woman.

  She knew she was drawing herself. She wasn’t that stupid. She knew it was her way of pretending that her fairy tale was still unravelling to its joyful conclusion, the woman she was now, the bride she was going to be. The last thing she could do was stop to remind herself that the major part of her fairy tale missing was the handsome prince.

  No, those thoughts were for the darkness of night, the pillow soaked with tears and the emptiness of her bed, the misery of another day dawning, cold and all alone. The woman who designed wedding dresses she knew she would never wear. Because she couldn’t have Nikos.

  Her eyes burned again. There was no time for this now. She had to keep on this treadmill, keep focused, keep going, until she got back to Lower Linton and could finally close the door on the world for a while.

  She paused at a junction. Her heel throbbed as she waited with the other pedestrians for the Walk sign to change. At the corner of her eye, a limo rolled by, more slowly than the others. So much money in this part of the world, on this street. Luxury everywhere she looked.

  The crossing sign changed and she stepped out, caught in the crush of people moving. She checked the street signs, noting the numbers, counting where she should be. Two more blocks to go. Brody would be waiting. He’d offered to send his car but she’d wanted to walk. Another stupid mistake. This blister was sending darts of pain along her foot; every step hurt.

  And it was getting busier now. A woman stepped out in front, she adjusted her path; a man appeared at the side, a car parked right next to the kerb, she had no room to move and was bumped, stumbling into someone else’s path.

  ‘Sorry,’ she muttered, trying to right her steps, but somehow she couldn’t rebalance, somehow she was heading further off to the side, dragged by the flow of people.

  But then a car door opened and she seemed to be falling towards it.

  ‘No,’ she tried to say, ‘this isn’t my car,’ but hands grabbed her and she was shoved right inside, falling on her knees. Her shoe loosened, the door closed, the car moved.

  ‘No!’ she said again, pulling herself up from the carpet to the leather seat. The car turned sharply, throwing her across it to the other door. She lunged for the handle, desperately feeling for a button to click, but there was none—just smooth plastic. Panic doubled with every missing lever on the door, the window, but no matter how much she grasped, there were no buttons, no escape.

  Frantically she battered her fists against the smoky glass. People passed by, legs moving, heads forward, oblivious.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ came a voice behind her. Gruff, Australian.

  Arms circled her waist and heaved her onto the seat. She tried to push back up but huge fingers curled round her shoulders, shoving her down.

  ‘Sit down. And shut up.’

  She sank back in the seat, shrinking away from him, this dark malevolent presence, this strong, terrifying man, but she knew who he was, even as her mind tried to make sense of this, and grasped for reasons why, and how wrong this was, what a mistake.

  ‘You’re Nikos’s father.’ She gasped, daring to look at him.

  ‘Ten out of ten.’

  He sat back beside her and she scuttled along the seat, away from him to the door, staring out of the corner of her eye. He didn’t move, stared straight ahead. His face weathered, and coarse, his head shaved, he was every bit as brutal as she’d imagined.

  ‘I’m nothing to do with him. I’m not his girlfriend.’

  ‘I told you to shut up, Blondie.’

  And then he reached over and grabbed her hair, tugging her neck back, and a sharp pain lanced her. She cried out but he tugged tighter.

  ‘How much further, Bruno?’ he said, over her scream. Then he tugged again until she realised that with every sound he tightened his grip. She had to swallow the pain, and her scream, and then when she was silent, save for her breath and her feet scraping on the floor, he let her go with a shove.

  ‘It works like this. Quiet—no pain. Noise—pain. You got it?’

  He lifted his hand as if he was going t
o strike her. She flinched, then nodded and scuttled even further into the corner, pulling her legs up and hugging herself into as tiny a ball as she could. There was a driver in front, the doors were locked, the car was rolling through Manhattan, and she was terrified for her life.

  Central Park appeared. The railings, the awnings, Nikos’s apartment block.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said, leaning forward to the driver. ‘Circle the block and then pull up.’

  He looked over at Jacquelyn and there in that look she saw Nikos. She saw his eyes and his jaw. She saw the shape of his head and the stretch of his shoulders. She saw his power and might and the strength that had driven him to greatness, but here in his father all that power had turned into evil and terror, and she shuddered to think what he would have been like as a father. How brutal.

  Poor Nikos. And his poor mother. Her heart broke to think of them.

  ‘How much longer?’ he asked the driver, who shrugged his shoulders.

  The car had rounded the block and now rolled to a stop and parked, well back from the entrance.

  ‘I don’t know. Ten, maybe.’

  ‘OK, Blondie. Your turn. Time to call your little sweetheart.’

  * * *

  Nikos tossed his mobile phone down on the sofa and walked out onto the terrace. The magnificent panorama across the park and beyond had been one of this apartment’s selling points. It wasn’t unique. There were loads of great spaces on Fifth Avenue that he could have had, still could, but this place had grandeur and elegance, and it was isolated. It was impossible to break into and after the burglary at the villa it had been a weight off his mind to know that, no matter where he was in the world, this little slice of Manhattan was safe.

  But now that the dragon was out of his lair, nowhere was safe any more.

  He was still coming to terms with what he’d found out these past days. The investigators had tracked down Maria’s old maid, and, just as he’d predicted, she had delivered up the news.

  He was shocked, but not that shocked. Maybe because he’d always suspected his old man had been behind the break-in at the villa, and maybe that was why he had refused the police offers of help. Any path that led back to Arthur was a path he wasn’t prepared to take. Even if his father was stealing from him. Even if he’d been naked in a tub with his wife. Nikos had walked away that night, too full of dread at starting something he couldn’t control. It was easier to ‘turn the other cheek’. Or be a ‘pathetic little girl’. Those words had been flung at his back, his father’s daggers hitting home.