Innocent Obsession

by Anne Mather

  ‘You have lost weight,’ he said at last, and the way he said it, it was almost an accusation.

  Sylvie’s uncertain smile came and went. ‘Yes,’ she murmured. It was all she could think of. ‘So have you.’

  Andreas glanced about him half impatiently, as if resentful of the people who were milling about them, then said sharply; ‘Where do you want to eat? I know several good restaurants in London, and the grill-room here is quite excellent.’ He paused. ‘Or we could have dinner in my suite.’

  Sylvie quivered. ‘Oh, yes,’ she breathed. ‘Yes, please. In your suite. I—well, I’m sure I’m not dressed to go to any expensive restaurant.’

  Andreas’s mouth twisted. ‘You look perfectly all right to me,’ he retorted. ‘But if that is really what you wish …’

  ‘It is,’ Sylvie nodded jerkily. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Do not thank me, Sylvie,’ he retorted, a trace of irritation in his voice, which she identified instinctively. Was he already regretting the impulse to invite her here? she wondered. Had he remembered her differently from what she really was? Was he sorry for her? Was he disappointed in her? Oh, God, why had she come here? It was all a terrible mistake!

  ‘This way,’ he said, gripping her upper arm and urging her towards the bank of lifts, his fingers hard, even through the skin of her coat.

  Sylvie hesitated. ‘Are—are you sure you want to—to do this?’ she stammered, looking up at him apprehensively. ‘I mean—if you’d rather we just had a drink somewhere—–’

  ‘Do you not want to have dinner with me?’ he countered tautly, his dark face stiff and controlled, and Sylvie’s knees shook.

  ‘Well—yes,’ she got out unsteadily, and without an other word he propelled her into the lift, pressing the button for his floor before anyone else could enter the cubicle.

  With his eyes upon her, Sylvie was hopelessly reminded of the day she had arrived in Athens, the day Andreas had taken her to his apartment. They had travelled together in a lift then, and if she had not been quite so nervous of him she had at least been aware of his sensual attraction.

  ‘How are you?’ he enquired now, as she shifted from one foot to the other. ‘I was informed you were at Oxford. Your first term is almost over, is it not? Are you enjoying it?’

  Sylvie was still seeking some way to answer this without betraying the way she felt, when the lift stopped at the eighth floor and the doors slid open. Andreas stood back to allow her to precede him, and she stepped out apprehensively on to the carpeted corridor, waiting with some uncertainty for him to lead the way.

  Andreas, eventually, unlocked the door of a luxurious sitting room. Sylvie trod on to a pale rose carpet, patterned in blue and white, and admired half-panelled walls and long curtained windows. There were soft, expensive sofas and armchairs, tall vases of flowers, and lots of subtle lighting, to add to the room’s warmth and attractiveness. Two further doors opened from the sitting room, one, she imagined, to the bathroom, and the other to his bedroom.

  To her astonishment, there was a bottle of champagne resting in a bucket of ice on a trolley set with glasses, and Andreas, following her into the suite, noticed her surprise.

  ‘I hoped you might prefer to eat here,’ he remarked, without expression. ‘Shall I order dinner immediately, or would you rather wait until later?’

  Sylvie unbuttoned her coat, warm in the centrally-heated apartment. ‘Oh, I’m in no hurry,’ she admitted, unable to think of food right now, and with an inclination of his head Andreas crossed to the trolley.

  ‘Some champagne, then,’ he suggested crisply, expertly handling the cork. It popped with satisfactory effervescence, and he filled one of the tall-stemmed glasses.

  Sylvie faltered over whether to take the glass or remove her coat, and setting the glass down again, Andreas courteously lifted the sheepskin from her shoulders. His dark eyes betrayed no emotion as he glimpsed her narrow shoulders, without the concealing fur, and he handed her her glass silently, after folding the coat over a chair.

  He poured himself some champagne, then came back to where she was standing, raising his glass towards her. ‘To education,’ he declared, with sudden harshness, and she touched her glass to his and drank without saying a word.

  ‘So—–’ He looked down at her without compassion, touching her shoulder with a scornful finger. ‘Is this the result of some ridiculous slimming diet you have been following?’ He shook his head impatiently. ‘What is this foolish desire you have to look all bones?’

  Sylvie caught her breath. ‘I—I haven’t been slimming,’ she denied unsteadily. ‘I—I haven’t done anything. I’ve just lost weight, that’s all.’

  Andreas’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ Sylvie was confused.

  ‘Yes, why?’ he insisted roughly. ‘Do they not feed you at this university?’

  ‘Of course they feed me.’ Sylvie moved her shoulders. ‘The meals are very good really—–’

  ‘Then why are you so thin?’ he demanded. ‘Theé mou! Mitera, you are not ill?’

  ‘No!’ Sylvie swallowed convulsively. If she had imagined their conversation at all, she had imagined nothing like this, and his reasons for interrogating her in this way could not be encouraging. ‘People do—lose weight from time to time, you know. I’m sorry if you think I look a mess—–’

  ‘I did not say that,’ he retorted, finishing his champagne and putting down his glass with suppressed violence. ‘I was merely—concerned about you, that is all. Forget it!’

  Sylvie put down her glass, too, feeling hopelessly out of her depth, and Andreas unbuttoned his jacket and ran a hand round the back of his neck. Feeling obliged to say something, Sylvie chose the only subject she could think of that might ease the situation.

  ‘How—how is Leon?’ she asked nervously. ‘And—and Nikos? Does—does he still remember me?’

  ‘Who? Leon or Nikos?’ asked Andreas brusquely, and Sylvie realised he had not forgiven her for her friendship with his brother.

  ‘Nikos, of course,’ she answered now, refusing to allow him to disconcert her again. ‘I—we heard from Margot that they’d returned to Alasyia, and I just wondered if he’d settled down again.’

  ‘Nikos is fine,’ replied Andreas shortly, inhaling deeply. ‘And Leon, as Margot probably told you, is almost ready to return to work. The operation was a complete success.’

  ‘I’m so glad.’ Sylvie was fervent. ‘He’s a nice man.’

  ‘And I am not?’ suggested Andreas tautly, expelling his breath heavily, and Sylvie sighed.

  ‘Now you’re putting words into my mouth,’ she declared, striving for lightness, but the dark anger in his eyes doused her attempt at levity.

  ‘You left without telling me that you were doing so,’ he said suddenly, harsh and aggressive. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ Sylvie gasped. ‘Why, you left before I did. And you didn’t tell me.’

  Andreas’s mouth compressed. ‘That was different. You must have known I would return.’

  Sylvie could hardly speak. ‘I—I didn’t know any such thing. How could I? The night before you left, you didn’t even speak to me.’

  Andreas’s breathing was shallow. ‘Eleni was with me,’ he declared, as if that was explanation enough, and Sylvie stared at him, shaken by his arrogance.

  ‘Yes,’ she said tremulously. ‘Yes, she was. Perhaps you should remember that.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sylvie stumbled on. ‘You were going to marry her, remember? You may have done so for all I know. Margot never mentions you in her letters.’

  ‘I am not married,’ he retorted heavily. ‘Not yet.’ He paused. ‘Would it have meant anything to you if I had been?’

  Sylvie’s lips fell apart. ‘I—well, I—of course it would have meant something to me. I mean—–’ she shifted uneasily, ‘I should have congratulated you—–’

  ‘Would you? Would you really?’ Andreas took a step nearer to her, and to add to the
sense of panic that had gripped her at his sudden nearness, he put out his hand and ran his fingers lightly down her neck and over the prickling skin of her shoulder.

  When he withdrew his hand again he did not step away, but remained where he was, only inches away from her, the palpitating rise and fall of her breasts almost brushing against his velvet waistcoat.

  ‘Tell me about Oxford,’ he said, with an abrupt change of mood. ‘Are you happy there? Are you working hard?’

  Sylvie’s nerves were almost at screaming pitch, and she pressed her palms to her sides as she endeavoured to reply. She so much wanted to touch him, to slide her arms around his waist and press her face against his chest. But instead she had to answer him, and her voice shook ignominiously as she struggled for control.

  ‘Ox—Oxford is very nice,’ she stammered in a low tone. ‘The—the people are kind and—and I’ve made some friends.’

  ‘Male?’ he demanded, and she gave a little shrug.

  ‘Both sexes,’ she admitted. ‘No one in particular. Just fellow students—first years, like me.’

  ‘And you are happy,’ he declared flatly. ‘This is what you want to do?’

  Sylvie gulped. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes.’ Andreas’s voice had deepened. ‘Yes, it matters.’

  Sylvie shook her head. ‘Oh, Andreas—–’ She could keep up the pretence no longer. ‘I’m so miserable! I wish I was dead!’

  ‘Sylvie!’ Hard fingers turned her face up to his, and she blinked in the sudden violence of his gaze. ‘What are you saying? That I am making you unhappy?’

  ‘No!’ With a little cry she abandoned all attempts to remain calm and controlled. Almost convulsively she wrapped her arms around him, pressing herself against him with a total lack of decorum. ‘Oh, Andreas, I’ve missed you so,’ she breathed huskily, and then was silenced by the satisfying possession of his mouth on hers.

  It was months since he had kissed her, months since that afternoon on the yacht, when he had so nearly taken her innocence, and there was a desperate hunger in his embrace. One hand was behind her head holding her mouth to his as if he would never let her go, while the other moved restlessly against her spine, arching her hips against him, moulding her softness to the swollen muscle between his legs. If she had had any lingering doubts that he might not find her pale fragility disturbing, they were quickly eased. The eager passion in his kiss revealed his urgent need of her, and she abandoned herself to his lovemaking with all the fervent ardour of her nature.

  ‘Sylvie, Sylvie,’ he groaned at last, releasing her mouth to press his face into the hollow of her neck. ‘I am never—never going to let you leave me again. I could not stand it!’

  Sylvie drew back to look into his dark ravaged face. ‘Do you mean that?’ she whispered, and he nodded his head.

  ‘I mean it,’ he declared thickly, pulling out the pins so that her hair tumbled silkily about her shoulders. ‘I do not care what anyone says. I do not care what I promised Leon. I have to have you, Sylvie. You are mine. And no one can deny that I have been very patient.’

  Sylvie trembled, but something he had said troubled her. ‘Leon—Leon told you that I—that I cared about you?’

  ‘Ti?’ He looked confused. ‘Told me? Told me what? I told him. Have I not just said so?’

  Sylvie blinked. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It is very simple,’ he said huskily, taking her face between his hands. ‘I went to see Leon, no? Perhaps three weeks ago. I needed to talk to someone, and he seemed the only person I could trust to be absolutely honest with me.’ He paused. ‘He does care about you, you know.’

  ‘I know.’ Sylvie moistened her lips. ‘But what did you want to talk to him about?’

  Andreas’s mouth curled sensuously. ‘You know, of course. You! The way I felt about you. What else?’

  Sylvie stared at him. ‘You spoke to Leon about me?’

  Andreas bent his head to touch the corner of her mouth with his tongue. ‘Do not pretend you are surprised, kardhia mou. Not now.’

  Sylvie shook her head. ‘You told him—you cared about me?’

  ‘I told him I loved you,’ replied Andreas huskily. ‘I do, very much.’

  ‘Oh, Andreas—–’ With a little sob, she wound her arms around his neck, covering his face with kisses, and by the time he had returned the compliment she was flushed and breathless.

  ‘You believe me now?’ he demanded unsteadily, and she nodded her head half incredulously.

  ‘But what else did you say to Leon?’

  Andreas sighed. ‘You are so young—–’

  ‘I am not so young. Actually,’ Sylvie took a quick breath, ‘I feel as if I’ve aged considerably these last months.’

  Andreas frowned. ‘The weight you have lost—you cannot mean—–’

  ‘Can’t I?’ Sylvie looked up at him tremulously. ‘I thought I was never going to see you again.’

  ‘Oh, Sylvie!’ With a sound of anguish, he slid both arms right round her, holding her in a suffocating embrace. ‘And I was convinced you would forget all about me once you were back with people of your own age.’

  When he finally drew back, his eyes were disturbingly caressing, enveloping her in their warm possession. ‘Leon warned me not to try and persuade you,’ he said with rough emotion. ‘But at least this time he did not try to stop me from coming here.’

  ‘No. No, he wouldn’t.’ Sylvie made a sound of husky amusement, and Andreas frowned.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh—–’ Sylvie shook her head, ‘I—I suppose because he already knew how I felt.’

  ‘He knew!’

  Sylvie nodded. ‘He guessed.’ She paused. ‘After you left the island, I—well, I suppose I was pretty miserable. Leon found out why.’

  Andreas uttered an oath. ‘And he did not tell me!’

  ‘I asked him not to,’ explained Sylvie hastily. ‘Darling, I never dreamed—–’

  ‘Say that again,’ Andreas interrupted her hoarsely, and she broke off obediently.

  ‘What?’ Her lips curved. ‘Darling?’ She gazed at him adoringly. ‘Oh, darling Andreas, I do love you!’

  He was not proof against such endearments, and his mouth sought hers again, warm and persuasive. His fingers were tangled in her hair, holding her a willing prisoner, and she opened the buttons of his waistcoat to press herself nearer the heat of his body. With a muffled exclamation he thrust off his jacket and the waistcoat, and the clean masculine scent of his body assailed her, warm and male and disturbing. With consummate ease he disposed of the straps of her dress, but before propelling the zip downwards he looked into her eyes.

  ‘You know what I want, do you not?’ he demanded, half roughly, his control balanced on a knife edge. ‘I want you, Sylvie. I want us to be together. Is it a very terrifying proposition?’

  Sylvie wound her arms around his neck. ‘Would you think I was terribly forward if I told you it was what I wanted, too?’ she breathed, and he swung her off her feet and into his arms.

  ‘I would think it sounded like heaven,’ he retorted emotively, and her lips parted to accommodate his. ‘Perhaps I am selfish, Sylvie. Perhaps I should respect your youth. But God knows, I need you, and I am going to teach you to need me.’

  His bed was very soft and luxurious, the sheets silky smooth against Sylvie’s bare skin. She knew a momentary panic after Andreas removed the rest of his clothes and came down on the bed beside her, but he was the man she loved, the man she would willingly spend the rest of her life with, if that was what he wanted, and she only wanted to make him happy.

  Her ideas of the act of love were hazy, compounded of things she had heard and read, the sometimes sordid interpretations of a writer’s imagination. Making love was not like that. It was a ritual act of giving and receiving, and although she was apprehensive that she would make a fool of herself, Andreas was too experienced to allow that to happen.

  He did not join her on the bed and immediately demand entrance
to her body as she had half expected. Instead, he started to kiss her, her eyelids, her nose, her ears and her throat, finding all the little pulses she had not known she possessed, and bringing them insistently to alert and palpitating life. Then his lips moved down, over her throat and the upturned curve of her breasts to the smooth flatness of her stomach, and the unexpectedly sensitive skin of her navel.

  While he kissed her, Sylvie was becoming increasingly aware of other sensations, a kind of aching pain inside her, and a drenching sweetness that began and for which there seemed no assuagement. On the contrary, his caressing mouth and tongue seemed to be bringing that aching sweetness to an unbearable pitch, and when his head moved still lower, she cried out in protest.

  ‘No—Andreas—don’t!’ she choked, but his dark eyes were hotly persuasive, and she found herself yielding to his demands.

  Then, just as her breathing was quickening, and she was beginning to twist restlessly on the sheet, he moved over her again, and took possession of her mouth—and her body.

  The pain was agonising, and she panicked instinctively, fighting him desperately when he didn’t seem to care. But after a few moments she realised she was relaxing, and with the relaxation came the returning need for something she hardly understood.

  When finally he took her to the heights, her nails dug into his shoulders, and she realised with amazement that the moaning sounds she could hear were her own. It was a devastating experience, even that first time.

  It was some time before Andreas lifted his head from her shoulder, but his eyes were lazily indulgent as he surveyed her flushed face. ‘Well?’ he murmured, turning his lips against her skin. ‘Do you forgive me for taking your virginity?’

  Sylvie’s lips parted. ‘There’s nothing to forgive. Oh, Andreas, am I terribly wanton? Did I behave badly?’

  ‘You were sensational,’ he told her huskily, amusement lurking at the corners of his mouth, and she gave him a worried look.