by Sara Craven
She smiled and shook her head. ‘Not today. Three’s a crowd, and always will be.’ As I know only too well, she added under her breath, wincing.
‘So,’ she said mischievously, as Linda accompanied her out to her car. ‘How long has this been going on?’
Linda’s flush deepened. ‘There’s nothing “going on”,’ she responded with dignity. ‘Just as I said, we are old friends. And he dropped by a couple of times while you were away to ask my advice about Ismene. That’s all.’
Kate kissed her lightly. ‘And now he wants to consult your expertise on winemaking. Fine.’
She was smiling to herself as she drove away. Maybe one good thing was going to emerge out of this unholy mess after all, she thought wistfully.
Although it would also mean that Mick was totally free to reclaim Victorine for himself. His trophy woman, she thought, as an aching sigh escaped her.
Within a few days, the countdown to the wedding had begun in earnest, leaving Kate little time for unhappy introspection. But, though her days might be full, her nights were another matter. Behind her locked door, she tossed and turned, searching vainly for peace and tranquillity.
Sharing the beach house with Mick was not easy, although she couldn’t fault his behaviour. He was working hard, constantly away on short trips. But, when he was at home, he kept out of her way as much as possible, and, when they did meet, treated her with cool civility. Which, she supposed, was as much as she could hope for.
The weather had changed as prophesied, and rain fell from grey skies accompanied by a swirling wind. Without her usual escape routes through the pine woods, and to the beach, Kate began to feel almost claustrophobic, especially as nervous pressure began to build up at the villa with Ismene complaining that the village party would be ruined.
Even when money was no object, weddings were still tricky to arrange, Kate realised, as she dealt with temperamental caterers, and found a replacement for the folk-dance troupe whose leading male dancer had broken his leg.
The shopping trip to Athens was a welcome break, with Ismene making heroic and endearing efforts to keep her spending within bounds, so as not to shock her future mother-in-law.
Kate had no need to set herself any such limits. She had been stunned to discover how much money was waiting in her personal account. It seemed that Mick had continued to pay her allowance during their separation. She couldn’t fault his generosity in that regard, she thought, biting her lip.
And yet, in the end, she spent hardly anything. She trawled the boutiques and designer salons around Kolonaki Square with almost feverish energy, and tried on an astonishing array of garments to try and find an outfit for the wedding, but there was nothing that aroused more than a lukewarm interest in her.
In the past, when she’d gone clothes shopping, Mick had usually accompanied her. It had been fun to emerge from the changing room and parade breathlessly in front of him, waiting for him to signal approval or negation as he lounged in one of those spindly gilt chairs.
A nod was generally enough but, sometimes, she saw his attention sharpen, brows lifting, and mouth slanting in a smile as his eyes met hers, making her dizzyingly aware that he was anticipating the pleasure of taking off whatever expensive piece of nonsense she was wearing.
Now, it no longer mattered what she wore, she thought.
And she had the pale-green dress in reserve, she reminded herself. It was simple and elegant, and not overtly sexy, so it was suitable for a wedding, and, hopefully, would enable her to fade into the background during the day-long celebration.
But her restraint had not passed unnoticed.
‘She tried on every dress in Athens,’ Ismene reported teasingly on the evening of their return, when the family had assembled in the saloni before dinner. ‘And bought none of them. What do you think of that, Michalis?’
‘Only that, for once, my prayers have been answered,’ he returned wryly. Above the laughter, he added, ‘And, anyway, I have my own ideas about what Kate should wear to your wedding, pedhi mou.’
‘Po, po, po.’ Ismene turned to Kate. ‘What is he planning, do you suppose?’
‘Who knows.’ Kate made herself speak lightly. ‘Your brother is good at surprises—and secrets.’
Her glance met his in unspoken challenge.
He said softly, ‘And for that, matia mou, I shall make you wait until the day itself.’
As they went into the dining room, Kate found Victorine beside her.
‘Your thrift is admirable, chère, and also wise.’ The crimson mouth was smiling, as she whispered in Kate’s ear. ‘After all, one’s financial circumstances can change so quickly, n’est ce pas? It is good to be prepared.’
Kate drew a sharp breath. ‘I am more than ready, believe me,’ she said icily, and turned away.
In spite of Ismene’s gloomy forebodings, the clouds rolled away the day before the wedding, and a mellow sun appeared, bringing the island to life in shades of green and gold.
In twenty-four hours it will all be over, Kate thought bleakly. Ismene will be a wife—and I shall cease to be one.
A top hair stylist had come from Athens to attend to the bride, on the morning of the wedding, but Kate had declined his services. She already planned to wear her hair loose, with a small spray of cream roses instead of a hat.
But she still hadn’t the least idea what dress Mick wished her to wear. The subject had not been referred to during any of their fleeting encounters, and she was damned if she was going to ask.
Let him be mysterious, she told herself, lifting her chin. What difference does it make? It’s just one more thing to endure on one more day from the rest of my life.
She had a leisurely bath, applied her favourite body lotion, and put on bra and briefs in ivory silk and lace, smoothing gossamer tights over her slim legs.
Holding her robe round her, she walked back into her bedroom, and checked, her lips parting in a little cry of shocked negation.
Lying across her bed was a slender slip of a dress in cream silk, cut on the bias so it would swirl around her as she moved, and beside it, its matching collarless jacket, the front panels embroidered with a delicate tracery of gold and silver flowers.
Her own wedding dress—worn only once before on that December day in London when all the happiness she’d ever dreamed of seemed to be within her grasp.
The last time she’d seen the dress, it had been hanging in her closet in the New York apartment.
He’d brought it back with him specially, she realised numbly. But why?
How could he hurt her like this? Why provide such a potent reminder of how things had once been between them, when they both knew their marriage was over? And that he was about to discard her forever?
She snatched up the folds of silk from the bed, and stormed down the passage to his room, rapping sharply at the closed door.
He called, ‘Peraste,’ and Kate opened the door and marched in.
He was standing at the dressing table fastening his tie, but turned, brows raised, his gaze flicking her robed figure, and the dress hanging over her arm.
He said coolly, ‘Is there a problem? Do you need help with your zipper perhaps?’
‘No problem. I simply came to return this.’ Kate confronted him, chin lifted, allowing anger to mask her hurt and bewilderment. ‘I won’t wear it. You can’t expect me to.’
He turned back to the mirror, making minute adjustments to the elegant knot at his throat.
‘But I do expect it, Katharina mou,’ he told her quietly. ‘None of my family were at our wedding, so they have never seen you in that dress, or known how beautiful you looked. An omission I intend to rectify today.’
He paused. ‘Besides, I told them last night what I was planning, so you cannot disappoint them. Such a romantic gesture to convince them all that we are the picture of marital harmony,’ he added icily. ‘Remember our bargain, and that you still have your part to play in it.’ His smile was hard. ‘Look on it as your costum
e for the last act, if you prefer. That might make it easier to bear.’
She said unevenly, ‘I never thought you could be so cruel. Don’t my feelings matter in all this?’
‘Did you consider mine when you ran back to England?’ he shot back at her. ‘Without giving me a chance to explain—to apologise? Forcing me to invent stories to explain your absence.’
She said shakily, ‘What you did was beyond apology. It would have been more honourable to have accepted responsibility and told the truth. But of course that might have jeopardised your ultimate ambition.’
‘We are preparing for my sister’s wedding,’ Mick said flatly. ‘Shall we discuss my ambitions at a more convenient moment?’ He turned and confronted her, hands on lean hips, long legs sheathed in elegant charcoal pants, his crisp white shirt dazzling against his olive skin.
‘Now go, and change,’ he directed. ‘Unless you wish me to dress you with my own hands,’ he added significantly.
She took a step backwards. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Don’t tempt me, agapi mou.’ His voice slowed to a drawl, blatantly sexy, almost amused. ‘Or we might miss the wedding altogether. Now go.’
She gave him a fulminating glance, then turned and went out of his room back to her own, trying not to run.
She closed her door and leaned against it. Her reflection in the mirror opposite showed spots of colour burning in her pale face, and an almost feral glitter in her eyes.
Further protest was futile, and she knew it. Even if she locked herself in, and refused to go to the wedding, she couldn’t win. Because no lock would be strong enough to keep him out, if he decided to impose his will on her, and she knew it.
‘Damn him,’ she said raggedly. ‘Oh—damn him…’
CHAPTER TWELVE
KATE learned to smile that day. To smile at the aunts, uncles and cousins who embraced her and welcomed her so warmly to the family.
To smile at Ari when he said slowly, ‘But what a vision, pedhi mou. A bride again yourself. Your husband is indeed a fortunate man.’
To smile as she stood beside Mick in the small incense-filled church, brilliant with candlelight and glittering with icons, and he took her hand in his. And the female members of both families sighed sentimentally, because they thought it was a gesture of love and he was remembering his own wedding day. Because they didn’t know the truth—that it was all a pretence.
And to smile, at last, with genuine mistiness at Ismene, as she appeared, amid gasps and sighs from the onlookers, in her shimmering gown, her veil floating around her, to join her bridegroom.
It was a beautiful ceremony full of symbolism and ritual, and Ismene’s voice was tremulous as she took her vows in front of the tall bearded priest. Petros was looking at her as if she was some goddess come to earth, and Kate felt tears prick her eyelids as she scattered handfuls of rice over the newly married pair at the conclusion of the marriage.
Afterwards musicians conducted Ismene and Petros to the square outside. It was festive in the sunlight, draped with bunting, and wreaths of flowers. Long tables had been set up, with platters of fish and chicken, bowls of salad and hummous, and still-warm loaves of bread. There was lamb roasting on spits, and tall jugs of local wine. The whole village seemed to be in attendance, and there was a carnival atmosphere as they jostled for seats.
Kate realised that Mick was taking her to the top table, where the bride and groom were already ensconced. Victorine had not attended the church ceremony, but she was there now in a vivid yellow dress and a matching picture hat, fussing over where to sit.
Kate hung back. ‘Please, I—I’d rather sit somewhere else.’
He said quietly, ‘Kate, you are my wife, and you will take your proper place.’
‘Well, my son,’ Ari came up to them. ‘Are you asking Katharina’s forgiveness for having cheated her?’
There was a sudden roaring in her ears. She said faintly, ‘What—did you say?’
But he’d turned back to Mick. ‘Your wedding should have been like this. Not in some cold London office,’ he chided jovially. ‘But I was thinking, as I watched the children just now, that we should ask the good father to perform a blessing on your marriage, in the church with all of us to see. Kate would like that, ne?’
Kate murmured something faintly, and let Mick lead her away. She stole a glance at him, and saw that his face was grim, his mouth hard and set.
She said, with a catch in her voice, ‘We can’t go on like this. You must—say something.’
He said brusquely, ‘I intend to.’
She saw an empty chair and took it, finding herself wedged between Dr Alessou and an elderly aunt, with a fierce stare and a diamond brooch like a sunburst.
She applauded as Petros and Ismene walked round the square, handing out sugared almonds from decorated baskets, and pretended to eat when the food was served. And she did not once look at Mick who was sitting further down the table, with Victorine beside him.
Was it intended as some kind of public declaration? she wondered. Had it begun?
It was good when the dancing started, and she had something she could focus on. The dancers wore traditional costume, the men in waistcoats and baggy breeches, with broad sashes and striped stockings, and the girls, their heads covered by scarves, in long skirts under flowered aprons, but there was no doubting the sheer athleticism of their performance.
And when they’d finished their exhibition, it was everyone else’s turn. The dancers began to weave their way round the square, between the tables, pulling people up to join them in a long chain.
Kate saw Linda seized, laughing a protest as she went.
Then they reached her, and a plump woman in a red dress grabbed her hand, tugging her up in turn.
At first Kate felt clumsy—a fish out of water—as she tried to copy the intricate pattern of steps they were repeating over and over again, but the women holding her hands on either side were loud in their encouragement, and gradually the rhythm took over, and she was able to follow them with mounting confidence.
I used to do this kind of thing all the time when I was a rep, she thought. I’m just out of practice.
As the chain twisted and wove past the top table again, she saw Ari clapping enthusiastically, and Ismene and Petros beaming at her. And she saw Mick, his expression unreadable. And his companion, her beautiful face a mask of contempt.
To hell with her, Kate thought with sudden passion. To hell with both of them.
The sun was on her face, and the throb of the music had found an echo in her veins. In spite of herself, she was caught up in the sheer exuberance of the moment. The unexpected pleasure of belonging.
The rhythm changed, and she found herself dancing with a man from the village, linked to him by the coloured handkerchief he ceremoniously offered her.
She was breathless when the music eventually paused, and excused herself smilingly, amid protests.
She sank into her seat, grateful for the water that Dr Alessou poured for her.
‘Why did he do that?’ she asked, as she put down the empty glass. ‘With the handkerchief, I mean? The other men are holding the women’s hands.’
The doctor smiled at her. ‘Because you are still a new wife, kyria, and it is believed that your hand should touch no other man’s but your husband’s.’
‘Oh,’ Kate said, and hastily poured herself some wine.
At sunset, the cars arrived to take the guests back to the villa, and the private evening party, but the celebrations in the village would clearly go on well into the night.
The saloni had been cleared for dancing, and there was more food laid out in the dining room.
Petros and Ismene opened the dancing, moving slowly to the music in each other’s arms. Champagne was drunk, then Ari made a speech formally welcoming Petros to his family, and then the bride and groom were free to get changed and leave on their honeymoon.
Kate was at the back of the laughing throng that watched them depart,
and she turned back with a sigh, wondering if it would be noticed if she too slipped away.
The music had resumed in the saloni, the small band playing something soft and dreamy, and people were heading back there. Kate went along with them, ostensibly part of the group, but separate, making her private plans.
She’d go out on the terrace as if she needed air, then take the steps at the end to get to the beach house. Where she would pack. She wouldn’t be able to get off the island tonight, but she would leave first thing in the morning, and Mick would be free to do whatever he wanted. And she would not have to watch.
She began to move round the edge of the room, looking down to avoid eye contact. Trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.
Only someone was barring the way. She raised unwilling eyes and saw Mick regarding her gravely.
He said quietly, ‘Dance with me, matia mou.’
‘In order to keep up appearances?’ Kate lifted her chin. ‘I think I’ll sit this one out.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘You will not. You have danced with everyone else today. Now it is my turn.’ He took her hand and drew her on to the floor.
His arms enfolded her, holding her intimately against him, as they began to move to the music.
For a moment, Kate was rigid in his embrace. Her reason, the sudden clamour of her outraged senses were all telling her that this was a pretence too far. That she should not permit him to take this advantage.
Then, almost imperceptibly, she began to relax. To move with the flow, and go where the music and her husband’s arms took her.
She felt the touch of his cheek against her hair. The swift brush of his mouth on her temple.
Even with that briefest of contacts, she felt her heartbeat hurry into madness. She felt the warm blood mantling her face. Was aware that her nipples had hardened in sweet, excruciating need against the silk that covered them.
And as if in response to some secret signal, Mick’s arms tightened around her, his hand feathering across her spine, and his lips grazing the curve of her cheek, the corner of her trembling mouth.