by Julia James
And take her.
She shut her eyes, shame burning through her.
‘Vicky—are you all right?’
Her eyes flew open. The concern in Jem’s voice making her instantly tense.
‘Yes—fine.’ She got to her feet. ‘Just a bit depressed—which isn’t surprising really, is it?’
She tried to keep the edge from her voice, and failed. Like a pressure cooker with the lid tightly screwed down, she could feel the fury and rage boil within her.
‘You know,’ Jem was saying, ‘I still think the best thing to do would simply be to tell him what Pycott Grange is going to be used for. Surely the man can’t refuse to release the money then?’
Vicky’s face tightened instantly.
‘It wouldn’t do any good. He’ll never hand the money over. Never.’
Her mouth snapped shut like a clam.
Jem gave a heavy, exasperated sigh, and ran his hand through his hair.
‘Well, what about my other suggestion, then? Give the story to the press. OK, the guy’s in Greece, but even so, surely the tabloids there would snap up a story about some rich tycoon who won’t fund a holiday home for deprived kids?’
‘No!’ A shudder went through her. ‘I could never do that. And anyway, it won’t work. Look, Jem, nothing will work! The man is a total and absolute bastard!’
‘Well, what about your uncle, then? The money came from him originally. Maybe he’d give you what he agreed, and then get the original amount back from your ex?’
‘No!’ Her negation came again, more high-pitched this time. ‘Jem, stop it—there isn’t any way. There just isn’t!’
‘Maybe your uncle would simply make a charitable donation, then, irrespective of any deal or whatever that was set up when you married—’
‘Jem! No! It’s impossible. I can’t go to my uncle—I can’t!’
Jem’s face set. ‘Vicky, it’s your family, I know, and I don’t want to interfere. But think about it—your uncle is rich. It’s insane to ignore that. We need the money so urgently—we really do. We can do what we can—get some local help, try and raise money here—but it’s just so frustrating knowing that you’re owed that money and your ex is too bloody tight-fisted to hand it over.’
Vicky’s hands clutched together. ‘I’m sorry, Jem. I’m really, really sorry. But I can’t get in touch again—I just can’t. Please don’t ask me to.’
She kept her voice calm, as calm as she could. But Jem’s searching eyes looked at her.
‘OK, I’ll back off.’ His arms came around her in a warm, comforting bear hug. ‘You’re very important to me, Vic, and I don’t want you upset by anything or anyone.’ He released his hug, but slid big hands either side of her face. Then he dropped a kiss on her forehead. ‘You take care now, OK? Promise me?’
He smiled reassuringly at her. ‘We’ll work something out. Don’t you worry. We haven’t got this far just to give in now. Look, I tell you what—I’ll drive down to Devon tomorrow, see what the latest state of play is down there. Maybe there are areas the builders can suggest we do a temporary, cheaper job on, just for the moment, so we can still open this summer. There are ways and means—there always are.’
He dropped a last kiss on her forehead and let go of her. But even as he released her her arms wrapped around his waist, and she pressed her cheek against his chest.
‘Oh, Jem, I’m so sorry—I really am.’
He patted her back. ‘That’s OK, Vic—truly. I know that whole marriage scene was a bad time. But you’ve got me—you know that. We go back a long way, you and I. Thick and thin.’
She pulled away from him, smiling up at him.
‘Right back to when you thumped Peter Richards from the year above, for lobbing that conker at me!’
‘Yeah, and then he thumped me back. I can still remember the nosebleed.’ He gave a rueful laugh. ‘Well, I always was foolhardy. Weighing in to fight the big, bad guys.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better go. The tube will be shutting down soon.’
‘You can stay the night if you want.’
He shook his head. ‘No, I’ll make a dawn getaway tomorrow morning. Be in Devon by mid-morning.’
She saw him to the door. Her smile was strained by then, but she kept it pinned to her face.
Only when he had gone did it crumple into little pieces.
Theo eased his dinner jacket over his shoulders. He was due at the opera within the hour, and he still had some phone calls to put in to the States. Not that he was eager to get to the opera, either. Or, indeed, to escort Christina Poussos there. But it was a gala of some kind, and she wanted to show off—and show him off, too, at her side.
His face tightened as he checked his dress tie and slid his wallet into his tuxedo. He’d take her back to her own apartment afterwards. He had no intention of bringing her back here, either, to the Theakis mansion, or to his office penthouse.
Above all, not there.
He hadn’t used it much recently. It was a damn nuisance that it was part of the Theakis HQ or he’d have sold it straight away. He must buy another city apartment. It might not be as convenient as the one at his HQ, but it would have fewer…. associations.
It was irritating that he could not dispose of this mansion, either. But it had been the Theakis family residence for too long for him to sell. Even so, he was spending less and less time there.
He’d already sold another property he possessed. One with a sea view.
And far, far too many memories…
He picked up his mobile and headed downstairs. Christina wanted him to arrive early, to collect her from her apartment, but he did not intend to do so. She would want sex, and he was not intending to oblige her. He was not in the mood for sex.
These days he was seldom in the mood for sex.
And when he was it was definitely not Christina that he wanted.
Or any other suitable woman.
He stalked across the wide hallway and into his study, shutting the door with unnecessary force. Then he started to make his calls.
He needed something to divert him. His mood was not good.
Damn her—damn her to hell…
Anger stabbed through him. She was nothing but a shameless, adulterous—
He cut the thought out of his head. He knew what she was—so what was the point of repeating it? She was out of his life now, and no power on earth could let her intrude again. She had been a mistake—a bad mistake. But that was hardly a reason for making a bad situation worse.
Deliberately, he conjured an image of Christina Poussos to his mind. She was chic, beautiful, desirable. Better still, she quite obviously wanted to restart their former affair—the one that had been interrupted when she’d decided to marry. But now she was back in circulation, her marriage over, and she was eager to show the world that she was still capable of picking the lovers she wanted. Well, maybe he would change his mind and oblige her after all. She had meant little to him the first time around, and she would mean less this time, but her advantage was that she was a known commodity. With Christina Poussos he knew exactly what he was getting.
Unlike—
He cut out again. Like a circuit breaker. A safety trip.
The ring tones on his phone ceased, and the voice of the person he was calling answered. He leant back in his chair and started to talk business.
Another safety trip. He needed a lot of them these days.
It was some twenty minutes later that the house phone went. It would be his chauffeur, reminding him they must set off or miss the start of the opera. That wouldn’t bother him, but it would put Christina in a sulk—she liked making a grand entrance. And since he wanted sex from her tonight he didn’t want to have to dispose of female sulks beforehand. Not that Christina would deny him her bed. She would be too triumphant to risk taking that tack. She knew all too well that there were any number of women who would follow her. There always had been. He’d always taken it for granted that since he was Theo Theaki
s he would never be short of willing females to interest him sexually. He was not conceited—merely realistic. It was not a big issue.
Nor was it a major concern in his life. His major concern was Theakis Corp, and ensuring that those in his employ kept their jobs. It was all too easy to see how danger could threaten—Aristides Fournatos was demonstration of that. Theo’s expression changed. Despite the disaster that his ill-judged marriage had proved, he did not regret it. He had done the right thing, he knew. Business was a close-knit affair, and mutual co-operation was mutually profitable. He had made substantial money from his investment in Fournatos, and honoured his father’s memory, as well, standing by one of his close friends.
His eyes hardened. Honour. A strange word. Meaning nothing—and everything.
She should have told me. Told me right from the start that she could not marry me because she was still involved with another man. Aristides might not have approved—might have wanted to know why she was not marrying this man if he meant so much to her as to have an affair with him—but he would not have persisted in his hopes and plans for a dynastic marriage to underpin and justify my investing in Fournatos.
But she had said nothing. Why? She had been vociferous enough on the whole subject of the kind of marriage that was commonplace in his and Aristides’ circles. Vociferous and scathing. Yet not a word on the one subject that would have put an instant stop to the whole notion.
About that she had kept completely silent.
Keeping it her little secret…
Her dirty, dishonourable secret.
Not worth disclosing.
Again in his head he heard her indignantly self-justifying outburst. ‘It wasn’t a real marriage…’
Did she really think that gave either of them carte blanche to ignore its existence? Did she really think that was what he had done? Had she actually thought that he would continue with other women for the duration of their marriage?
I gave her no cause to think that. None! And she knows it!
No, she had just trotted out that convenient disclaimer of all responsibility for her own act of adultery! Trying to make out he was as culpable as she! Just to exonerate her own despicable behaviour.
He felt anger knife through him, as emotion so strong it seemed to white out in his head.
She went to him from me…
From my bed to his…
The violence of his emotion shook him.
The house phone rang again. Insistent. Intrusive. But he needed its interruption. With visible force he wiped his mind. Took back control of himself.
He lifted the phone.
It was not his chauffeur, but the on-duty security guard. A visitor was at the entrance, asking for him.
‘He refuses to give his name or state his business, kyrios. Should I phone the police? I have him on camera, if you wish to view him.’
The monitor in Theo’s office flickered, cutting to the exterior view of the electronically controlled gates to the driveway. A taxi was pulled up, and standing by the intercom, in full view of the security camera trained on him, was the man who was asking for him.
For a second Theo just looked at the image in front of him. Then, slowly, his face drained of expression.
‘Show him in,’ he instructed.
‘Vicky, these figures don’t add up to that total.’
Vicky looked up from her work. One of her colleagues was holding a printout of some financial calculations she’d just produced.
‘Oh, Lord, sorry. I’ll sort it—’ She held out her hand for the papers.
Her colleague handed them over. ‘So long as the master file is accurate. I’ve marked where the sums went wonky,’ she said with a smile, and headed back to her own desk.
Vicky stared bleakly at the figures in front of her. They were blurring even as she looked. She just couldn’t get her head around numbers these days. Or around anything else. She seemed to be moving in a perpetual fog. Everything seemed so very hard to do—even the simplest things, like making a cup of coffee, or getting up in the mornings. Let alone anything that required the slightest brain power.
Depression—that might be the clinical name for it.
She had another name. But it was not one she must ever, ever give voice to.
It was her secret. Her terrible, unspeakable secret. And she could tell no one. No one at all.
Certainly not Jem. He would be so angry—so appalled and horrified.
Thank God he was away at the moment. Last night she’d nearly cracked in front of him, and it had taken more strength than she could bear to use to hold it together until he had gone. But now at least she had a couple of days without him. Not that the knowledge of where he was did anything to cheer her. She glanced at the clock on the wall. Even now he was probably walking around Pycott with the builder, realising just how daunting the task of making it even partially habitable would be without the money they had been expecting.
Despair crushed her. If only she could go to Aristides! He would give her the money, she knew he would—he was kind and generous, and his heart would be moved by what she and Jem were attempting to do. But she could never go to him. Not now Theo had told him just why their marriage had come to its abrupt premature end.
She was trapped—trapped on all sides. There was nowhere she could go, no one she could turn to.
If only she could go to her mother and Geoff! They couldn’t help financially, she knew that, but just to see them again—just to get out of here, flee somewhere as far away as Australia! She was good at fleeing…
But sometimes…Her stomach hollowed with cruel self-knowledge. Sometimes when she fled from the unbearable, what happened thereafter was even worse.
Like when she had fled the island…
She pressed her lips together. No, leaving the island had been essential. And Jem had been there for her—a wonderful, life-saving surprise she had clung to. But she still could not tell him what she had done. She could not. Shame flushed through her.
And if she did run away again this time it would be even worse! Her mother would ask questions, want answers. Would want to know how it was that she had done what she had…
No, she was trapped. Trapped here, in the prison of her enforced silence.
I can’t tell anyone—I can’t tell anyone what I’ve gone and done…
Numbly, rubbing a hand across her weary forehead, she called up the master file of the report she’d compiled, and slowly and laboriously started to retype the corrections.
They took a long, long time to do.
Around her heart a cold, tight shell of despair was forming.
Theo crossed to the drinks cabinet in the corner of his study. He normally never went near it unless he had a visitor. But the visitor on his way into the house now would not be offered a drink.
With controlled, economic movements he opened a single malt, poured a shot into a glass, and knocked it back. It was doing grave disservice to a fine malt, but he didn’t care. Right now he cared about nothing—except the visitor who was about to walk into his house.
Was he mad to let him in? No man would let such a visitor into his domain.
And yet he had.
But then, he had his reasons.
He wanted to look into the man’s eyes. See him face to face.
Tell him just what he thought of him. He might…He felt his left hand fist. He might just do more than that…
But not in anger. He would remain, as it was imperative to do, in total and absolute control. That was essential.
With total, absolute control, he set back the empty glass and closed the cabinet. Crossed back to his desk. Pulling back his chair, he sat down, and with total, absolute control he waited for the study door to open.
He could hear the visitor arrive. Hear the front door open and two voices speak, but both were inaudible. Then his door opened. The man walked in.
Theo looked at him. Looked at the man whose face he had last seen looking out at him from the photogra
phs that scum of a paparazzo had placed in front of him in this very room, on this very desk, standing back, waiting—waiting for Theo to take his fill of what they meant, to reach for his chequebook. To pay him the money he required to ensure the photos never saw the light of day.
His eyes rested on him. Expressionless and implacable, dark and impenetrable. The other man’s eyes were blue, and they were filled, like the rest of his face, with one expression only.
Anger.
Theo leant back. The movement was again controlled. Then he opened his mouth to speak. To enunciate his views on the man who stood on the other side of his desk.
But the other man spoke first, anger sparking electrically from his eyes, his voice vehement.
‘You can tell me one thing, Theakis—and one thing only. You can tell me right now, to my face, just what the hell you think you’re playing at! And what the hell makes you think you have the slightest business in keeping my sister’s money from her?’
With total, absolute control, Theo froze.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
VICKY was washing out a jumper. It was two in the morning, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t sleep. Not these days. If she went to bed she simply lay awake, staring up the ceiling, listening to the dying sound of traffic outside in the street.
Thinking.
In the dark it was impossible not to think.
Not to feel.
She would lie there, hour after hour, staring upwards, her emotions stripped naked.
As naked as her body had once been.
Thinking about that. Remembering.
So that was why she was standing here at the kitchen sink, in her thin cotton bathrobe, her hands in suds, rhythmically squeezing warm, soapy water through the woollen jumper. On the draining board a soggy pile of washed clothes was accumulating, waiting to be rinsed. On the other side of the sink was a heap of more clothes to wash. She’d set the radio to a classical music station, and it was playing softly from the top of the cooker. It wasn’t a very good choice of music right now, however. Strauss’s Four Last Songs.
The terrible, ravishing, dying elegies wound in and out of her, the voice of the soprano tearing at her with emotion.