by Sara Craven
Hara went on looking at her, but an odd bewilderment had replaced her usual hostility, and something that was almost pity.
Although that was nonsense. Hara might not wholly approve of the way her master was conducting his revenge, but at the same time she was a Greek woman who probably believed in Nemesis, the goddess of retribution. She would no doubt think that Joanna had asked for all the trouble that was coming her way and then some. There was no sisterhood here.
She said, ‘You wish I get you something—for the headache?’
‘No,’ Joanna returned. ‘I just want to be alone—please.’
There was another silence, then Hara shrugged and left, closing the door quietly behind her.
Joanna sat down on the edge of the bed, running a weary hand round the nape of her neck. She felt hot and sticky, and the thought of a cool shower had a definite appeal.
Collecting her elderly white cotton dressing gown, she trailed into the bathroom and set the water running, before discarding her clothes and pinning her hair on top of her head.
The gentle cascade was like balm against her heated skin as she soaped her body, then rinsed and rinsed again.
As she patted herself dry she gave a small sigh of satisfaction, then reached for her robe, tying the sash loosely round her slender waist.
She unfastened her hair and shook it loose as she walked back into the bedroom.
And stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes dilating.
‘You have been a long time, matia mou,’ said Vassos Gordanis. He too was wearing a robe, but in crimson silk, as he lounged on the bed. ‘I began to think I would have to fetch you.’
He smiled at her. ‘But here you are—so my waiting is over at last. Now, come to me.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
FOR a moment Joanna stood staring at him, unable to move or speak. Those last few precious hours of freedom she’d counted were gone, she realised dazedly. Time had finally run out.
Eventually, she said hoarsely, ‘I—I don’t understand. I thought—you—you said you had work to do.’
He shrugged, the robe slipping away from one tanned, muscular shoulder. ‘I found concentration difficult, agapi mou. During our separation I found that I desired you more than I had planned to do. So I decided that while work could wait, you could not. And I could not.’ He held out his hand. ‘Ela etho,‘ he commanded softly. ‘Come here.’
She said, dry-mouthed, ‘It’s the middle of the afternoon!’
‘The time of siesta,’ he said. ‘A habit I understand you have acquired since your arrival. Today you will spend it with me instead of alone.’
‘But I have a headache.’ She despised herself for the note of pleading she could hear in her voice.
‘I also ache,’ he said with faint amusement. ‘But in a different way. Perhaps we will heal each other.’ He added more crisply, ‘And now, Joanna mou, please do not weary me with any further excuses. You know why you are here.’
She made herself move then. Made herself walk to the bed, knowing with certainty that there was nothing else she could do, and also that there was a part of her—a part she tried desperately to banish—that flared with sparks of excitement.
He took her hand, drawing her down beside him not un-gently. She saw that he was no longer smiling. Instead his expression was serious—even intense—as he reached for the sash of her robe and untied it slowly, almost carefully, pushing apart its concealing folds.
She knew that this was only the beginning, but all the same she turned her head away, closing her eyes so she would not have to see his dark gaze burning over her naked body.
If I don’t look at him, she thought, maybe I can pretend this isn’t really happening. But that won’t work, either, because he’s been there in my dreams every night since we first met. Which is something I need to forget.
The silence that followed was broken only by his sigh of pleasure, hardly more than a breath.
She lay still as he removed her robe completely, her hands clenched at her sides to hide the fact that her body was, against her will, responding to his touch.
He said softly, ‘You are very lovely. But worth the ruin of a man’s whole future life? I truly wonder.’
She had not, of course, realised that shutting off the sight of him would simply heighten all her other senses, making her vividly aware of the slight dip in the mattress as he moved even closer. So close that she thought she could feel the strong heavy beat of his heart echo in her own bloodstream. Could absorb the clean, soap-enhanced scent of his warm skin. Hear the sharp rustle of silk as he discarded his own robe.
He began to touch her, his hand skimming lightly from the curve of her cheek down her throat to her shoulder, then moulding the slender outline of her body in one long, sweeping movement that, in spite of her inexperience, Joanna recognised as more a declaration of intent than a caress. A gesture that promised total possession.
In her self-imposed darkness, she was conscious of other things, too. The strange sensation of a man lying next to her, his heated nakedness grazing her own skin. The powerful and potent reality of his male arousal.
She felt his fingers cup her chin, turning her face towards him, and then experienced the first brush of his lips on hers, lingering, searing, and oddly, unexpectedly gentle. He kissed her again, his mouth persuasive—insistent. Seeking, some instinct told her, the beginnings of a surrender she dared not risk. Because once she had yielded she knew with utter certainty that there would be no way back—and, more shockingly, nor did she want there to be.
His hand found her small breast, taking its rounded softness in his palm, his thumb teasing her nipple and bringing it to aching, hardening life with an ease that amazed her. And warned her, too, that her lips were beginning to soften under the subtle pressure of his kiss. Even—parting.
With a gasp, she jerked her mouth from his, at the same time seizing his wrist and dragging it away from her.
She felt him pause, and waited, her pulses pounding unevenly. Wondering.
He said quietly, ‘Look at me.’
She obeyed unwillingly, her gaze uncertain as it met his.
‘So what are you telling me, matia mou?’ Propped on an elbow, he studied her, his expression enigmatic. ‘That any further attempt to arouse you for our mutual pleasure would be wasted?’
No, she thought. That I’m out of my depth and liable to drown in a sea of longing. Because you make me feel—make me want impossible things. And I can’t let that happen. I can’t let you happen.
‘Think what you please.’ She found a voice from somewhere, as she stared rigidly past him. ‘It makes no odds to me. I hate and despise you, Vassos Gordanis, and nothing you say or do to me will change that. Not now. Not ever.’
There was a tingling silence, then Vassos said softly, ‘If you imagine I shall appreciate such frankness you are wrong. My own wishes are very different.’ His hand cupped her chin as he stared down at her, his dark eyes brooding. ‘But I am not unrealistic. I expect you to give no more than you have offered in the past to any other man.’
She swallowed. ‘I offer nothing, Kyrios Gordanis. So—take what you want, then leave me alone.’
‘And if I had met you under other circumstances, is that still what you would have said to me?’ He moved, drawing her closer. ‘If I had come ashore from Persephone that afternoon and found you, asked you to come with me—be with me—would you have fought me then?’
‘Yes,’ she said, aware that her heart was suddenly thudding against her ribcage. ‘Because once you’d discovered who I was you’d have remembered your revenge, and everything would have been just the same.’
‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But—I wonder. About that—and also other things.’ He bent his head, brushing her mouth once more with his, surprising her with his sudden gentleness. ‘For example,’ he went on softly, ‘how can lips that speak such hard words taste so sweet?’
The erratic behaviour of her heartbeat held her mute as, once more, his finger
tips stroked her breast, luring the delicate nipple to pucker in response before taking it between his lips in an arousal as delicious as it was irresistible.
Only she had to resist it, she thought, stifling a gasp. That—and the slow, beguiling glide of his hand down her flushed and restless body to the curve of her hip. Had to, or she would never be able to live with the shame of it.
Vassos raised his head and looked down at her. He said quietly, ‘I warned you that I would not be cheated of my satisfaction, and I meant it. But it is a pleasure I find that I wish you to share, Joanna mou. So—I ask you to put your arms around me and give me your lovely mouth.’
She said huskily, ‘You ask for too much.’
A bronzed shoulder lifted in a shrug. ‘Then remember, matia mou, that the choice was yours.’
He lifted himself over her, almost negligently parting her thighs with his knee, before sliding his hands under her flanks and lifting her towards him.
Joanna felt the rigid hardness of him pressing against her, demanding entry to the secret place of her womanhood, and gave in to the sudden scald of excitement deep within her.
Hastily, she shut her eyes again, telling herself it was so that she would not have to see his smile of triumph as he achieved his ultimate revenge. Knowing that she had to hide that unwelcome, impossible stir of desire in case he recognised it. Determined to deny him any kind of response, whatever the cost.
Vassos moved with commanding purpose, penetrating her with one powerful thrust of his loins, and in that same instant her world blurred into a pain she’d never dreamed could exist as her virgin flesh impeded his invasion.
Spikes of coloured light danced behind her closed lids, her resolution to remain silent and passive forgotten with her first shocked cry.
Then, it was over. She heard him say, ‘Theos,’ his voice raw and shaken, then pull away from her. Out of her.
Vassos flung himself on his back beside her, his breathing hoarse and ragged, and she lay motionless, slow tears squeezing from beneath her lids and scalding a path down her face. The flash of pain had subsided, and his withdrawal had left her hating herself for aching for his continued touch.
He moved again, and Joanna flinched involuntarily. But he was only reaching for his robe and dragging it on, fastening the belt as he left the bed and walked to the door. He threw it wide and shouted an imperative summons.
A moment later Hara appeared, and he bent his head, talking softly and rapidly in his own language. Joanna saw the older woman’s hand go to her cheek in a kind of horror as she listened. She began to speak, but he silenced her, patting her shoulder and turning her towards the bed before he left, closing the door quietly behind him.
Which, in some strange way, seemed to make things a hundred times worse, Joanna thought numbly. Simply watching him walk away, without a word except a muttered blasphemy.
A sob rose in her throat, and then another, and she found she was crying in earnest, her body shaking as she turned to bury her wet face in the pillow.
And then she felt herself lifted with astonishing gentleness and held against Hara’s generous bosom, while her hair was stroked and words were murmured that she could not comprehend but which sounded oddly comforting just the same.
She didn’t understand this volte face, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter.
It was a while before she felt sufficiently in command of herself to draw back, wiping her wet face with her fingers.
She saw Hara looking down at the bed, and, following her gaze, saw with desperate embarrassment that there was blood on her thighs and on the sheet.
She said shakily, ‘Oh, God—I—I’m so sorry.’
‘No need for sorrow.’ Hara’s tone was kind but firm. ‘Sometimes, for a girl, the first time is easy. For others, like you, not good. It is how it is.’ She touched Joanna’s hot cheek. ‘And now that Kyrios Vassos knows that you are a girl of purity—of honour—he will be kind to you in bed. Make sure there is no more pain, only pleasure.’ She smiled. ‘Now I fill bath for you.’
‘No,’ Joanna said. ‘That’s the last thing I want.’
‘Not bath?’ Hara was bewildered.
‘Mr Gordanis being—kind.’ She sat up. ‘He’ll never come near me—never touch me again.’
‘Po, po, po. Such foolishness,’ Hara chided. ‘How could he know? If he had been husband on wedding night, same pain, same blood.’ She gave Joanna a look that was almost roguish. ‘There will be more loving. You are beautiful girl, Kyria Joanna. You need beautiful man to give you joy in bed. Make.’ She stopped suddenly, an awkward expression flitting across her face. ‘Make much happiness.’
And she bustled off to the bathroom, leaving Joanna to wonder what she’d intended to say.
But, she discovered, she was glad of the bath. Thankful to sink down into warm scented water and reclaim her body.
If only, she thought, it was as easy to erase from her mind the way her body had reacted to his touch at the beginning—how her lips had bloomed under his kiss and her breast had seemed to swell under the provocative stroke of his fingers.
The way her body had seemed prepared to welcome him.
And, to her eternal shame, she felt her nipples again tauten into rosebuds at the memory.
There was more humiliation waiting for her in the bedroom. The maids who’d been there earlier were just leaving, having changed the bedlinen at Hara’s direction.
Now everyone in the house would know what had happened, she thought, and wanted to howl all over again.
Hara sat her on the dressing stool and began to brush her hair.
‘You rest now,’ she ordained. ‘Later, I bring the new dresses,’ she added guilelessly. ‘Make you look beautiful for Kyrios Vassos.’
‘No,’ Joanna said, swiftly and definitely. ‘I meant what I said. I won’t accept anything he’s bought me. And I don’t want to look beautiful for anyone—least of all him. Because if I’d been ugly I wouldn’t be here, and none of this would have happened.’
Argue with that, she thought, but Hara didn’t even try. She simply closed the shutters, drew the curtains, and put Joanna to bed as if she was a child, covering her with a sheet.
‘Now sleep, pedhi mou,’ she said quietly, and went.
But oblivion, so much desired, was a long time coming. Joanna was too tense, too alert, every distant quiet noise of an occupied house assailing her ears in stereophonic sound, and her eyes constantly returning to the door, scared that it would open to admit him.
Because how could she ever bear to face him again—even if he didn’t want—want …?
But there was no question of that, she assured herself. He would let her go now. He had to. She’d surely paid for what she’d done, so there was no reason for him to keep her any longer. Not when she would never provide him with the kind of entertainment he required.
She burrowed deeper into the mattress, shivering. How could she have allowed herself to be used like that? She would make sure that no man ever got close enough again to treat her in the same way. She would rather remain celibate for the rest of her life.
She slept at last, deeply and dreamlessly, and woke to find vivid sunset light falling in slats across the floor.
For a moment she wanted to stay where she was. To ask for her dinner to be served up here in this room. Except he might join her, and she could not risk that.
Behave as this was any other evening, she thought, gritting her teeth as she pushed the sheet back. As if nothing had happened between you. Or nothing that mattered anyway.
She washed and cleaned her teeth, then swept back her hair and plaited it into one long braid before dressing in the daisy skirt and cotton top she’d rejected only that morning, and not the lifetime ago that it seemed.
As she descended the wide sweep of marble stair, she looked across at the statue of Persephone.
You should never have eaten those pomegranate seeds, she thought. But I won’t make the same mistake, because I’ll accept nothing
from Vassos Gordanis. Not one stitch of clothing, not one stone of jewellery. And none of this so-called ‘kindness,’ because I know what that really means.
And I’ll give nothing, either. Not a kiss, a touch nor a smile of my own free will—no matter what he does. I’ll make him desperate to be rid of me.
‘The spinis.’ She realised with a start that Stavros had appeared, and was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. ‘Kyrios Vassos wishes to speak with you in his study.’
How totally incongruous that sounded, she thought, as she nodded briefly and followed him. As if she was being summoned to the school principal’s office for a reprimand.
She was taken to a room at the rear of the house, overlooking the swimming pool.
Vassos was sitting at a massive desk, checking a sheaf of papers in front of him. As Joanna entered he put down his pen and rose to his feet. He was wearing white jeans that hugged his lean hips, topped by a dark red shirt, open nearly to the waist.
It was almost the same colour as the robe he’d worn earlier, and for a moment she paused, her memories holding her captive.
Don’t let him see, she repeated silently. Don’t let him see …
‘Kalispera.’ His voice was coolly courteous, as if, for him, those brief tumultuous moments in her bedroom had never happened. ‘Please have a chair.’
Not a rebuke after all, she told herself, a bubble of hysteria building inside her as she seated herself opposite him. But something that seemed more like a job interview.
He opened a drawer in the desk and extracted the UK passport which had been taken from her by Stavros before she left France. He flicked it open, studied her photograph, then skimmed through the other pages. He put it down and looked at her.
He said quietly, ‘Joanna Vernon. So you are related to him, and never his mistress as you appeared to be.’ He paused. ‘Levaux told me there was a story that you were his niece, which no one believed. Is it perhaps true?’
Joanna hesitated, then shook her head, realising that there was little point in persisting with the fabrication. She said, ‘Not his niece. His—his daughter.’