by Sara Craven
His hair was still too long, at least by Gregory Flint’s exacting standards, but it had been trimmed, and he was immaculately shaven. During those few unpleasant seconds when she’d been in his arms, she’d been aware of a faint, beguiling hint of expensive cologne.
In fact she had to admit that he scrubbed up quite well, she thought reluctantly, then realised that he was watching her in turn, his smile widening as if he’d guessed exactly what she was thinking.
Embarrassment prompted her into waspishness. ‘So where did you get the clothes—some upmarket charity shop?’
‘I thought you would be pleased,’ he said, ‘to find me correctly dressed for my part. As you are too, Harriet mou,’ he added dryly. ‘For once you have decided to abandon your usual camouflage and look like a woman.’
She managed to turn her instinctive gasp into a deep breath. She said stonily, ‘May I remind you that we have a strictly business arrangement, and therefore sexist remarks are neither required nor appreciated?’
His tone was silky. ‘But sometimes irresistible, nonetheless. And now shall we continue to explore the grounds? They are very beautiful.’
‘Is that what it’s all about—this unexpected visit?’ She swung to face him again. ‘To assess the estate, and see what extra pickings there might be? Because, if so, you’ll be disappointed, Mr Zandros. You get your exhibition and some money in your pocket, but nothing more. The pre-nuptial agreement I’ve had drawn up gives you no other claim.’
He remained annoyingly unfazed. ‘I cannot wait to read this fascinating document,’ he said softly. ‘However, I came here solely out of curiosity, Harriet mou. I wished to see for myself what there could be about this place that would make you to risk so much for its possession.’ He gestured around him. ‘Can this really be all that constitutes happiness for you?’
‘I don’t expect you to understand,’ she said defiantly. ‘Besides, it’s none of your business.’
‘I think you made it my business when you asked me to marry you.’
‘Well, we’re not likely to agree about that,’ Harriet said coldly. ‘As a matter of interest, just how long are you planning to stay?’
‘I leave in the morning. I have work to do for the exhibition.’ He paused. ‘Does that reassure you?’
‘Not particularly,’ she said. ‘So, let me make something clear. This will be your first and last visit to this house. When you go tomorrow, you do not come back—on any pretext.’
‘I think that is a decision for your grandfather to make,’ Roan said with equal iciness. ‘You do not rule here yet, Harriet mou. Maybe you should remember that.’ He paused, his dark gaze sweeping over her with something like contempt in its depths. ‘And now I find I would prefer to continue my tour of this garden alone. Your company does nothing for the beauty of the landscape.’
And he walked away, leaving her staring after him, openmouthed, as she searched for a riposte that would reduce him to a pile of smoking ash, and failed dismally to find one.
Harriet did not return to the house immediately. She told herself that she needed to regain some measure of composure before she faced her grandfather’s hawk gaze again, and responded to the inevitable inquisition.
Yet it wasn’t Gregory Flint, or his possible reaction to recent events, which occupied the forefront of her mind as she made a long slow circuit of the lawns. And for once the gardens she knew and loved were not having their usual soothing effect.
Because Roan Zandros was getting in the way. How dared he look at her—speak to her like that? she asked herself furiously, defensively, especially when he’d had the unmitigated gall to appear at Gracemead uninvited and unwanted—a blatant intruder in her private and beloved world.
Well, she would have to teach him, and pretty damn quick, that his interference was unwarranted and unappreciated. Maybe a clause in the contract was needed, actually forbidding his return to Gracemead under any pretext.
He had to learn his place in their arrangement, and cosy visits were not on the agenda. Not now, and definitely not in the future.
She found her grandfather in the drawing room pouring sherry. He turned and looked at her, brows raised enquiringly. ‘You’re alone?’
‘Why, yes.’ She smiled brightly. ‘I turned out to be not much of a guide, so Roan’s conducting his own tour.’
He handed her a glass of her favourite fino, and gestured her to take a seat on the sofa facing his armchair. ‘You and your fiancé haven’t quarrelled already, I hope.’
‘Of course not,’ she denied swiftly. Too swiftly?
‘Because it occurred to me that you were a little taken aback to find him here,’ Gregory Flint went on. ‘I hope it wasn’t the subject of a disagreement between you.’
Harriet shrugged, trying for rueful amusement. ‘You don’t miss a thing, do you, darling?’
‘I try not to, my dear.’
‘Well, to be honest, I was a little miffed when I realised he’d stolen my thunder.’ Harriet turned it into a faintly wistful confession. ‘And I so much wanted to be the one to break the news to you about our engagement.’
‘I’m quite sure you did.’ There was a dry note in his voice, which did not escape her.
‘Not that it really matters,’ she added hastily. ‘Just as long as you approve of my choice.’
‘Let’s say that I find him a most interesting young man,’ Mr Flint said after a pause. ‘He tells me you met through his work.’
The exact nature of the encounter still had the power to make her grind her teeth, and her smile was taut. ‘We did indeed,’ she said. ‘And it made an unforgettable impression on me.’
‘So I gather.’ He leaned back in his armchair. ‘You feel, then, that he has real talent?’
‘Yes.’ At least she could be totally honest about that. ‘Yes, I do. He has this amazing use of colour—and emotion.’
‘And will that earn him sufficient money to support a wife—and a family?’
Well, he’d slipped that in under the wire, Harriet thought, her heartbeat quickening. ‘I believe so,’ she said. ‘And anyway, I shan’t be giving up my career.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘But has it occurred to you that your future husband might have his own ideas?’
Why—what’s he been saying? That was the question she was burning to ask. Instead she said lightly, ‘Even so, we still have to be practical.’
‘And you’ve always been that, Harriet.’ Pensively, Gregory Flint studied the colour of his sherry. ‘Finding solutions to any problems that presented themselves—fighting to stay ahead of the game. Quite admirable in a great many ways.
‘So, I find it all the more surprising that it should be the emotion in Roan’s work that has appealed to you, instead of its strictly commercial aspect. Heart instead of head for once. I congratulate you.’
He raised his glass. ‘And I drink to your future happiness, dear child. But at the same time I find myself wondering if you know—if you really know—exactly what you’re taking on.’
Harriet was still digesting that when Roan rejoined them, smiling pleasantly, his voice unruffled as he praised the gardens with obvious sincerity. And in a way that revealed he knew what he was talking about, she registered sourly.
But gardening couldn’t occupy the entire conversation, and throughout dinner she felt as if she was treading barefoot through broken glass, waiting for her grandfather to ask something—some question about their relationship—some small personal detail that she’d flounder over in humiliating self-betrayal. And what a wide range that offered, she thought.
But she eventually become aware that Roan was manipulating the conversation, quietly and skilfully, moving it away from topics about which she was woefully and dangerously ignorant to more general subjects.
And that under this guise he was actually imparting information—telling her stuff that, by rights, she should already know about the man she was to marry.
For one thing, he mentioned that his father was
still alive, and living in Greece, adding casually that his parents had separated while he was a small child, but not elaborating any further.
But when he said that his late mother had been Vanessa Abbot, the celebrated miniaturist, Harriet had to struggle not to let her jaw drop.
Gregory Flint was clearly equally astonished, but all he said was, ‘That explains the artistic talent my granddaughter so admires. Once again, as the saying goes, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’
But was it true? Harriet wondered grimly, observing from under lowered lashes the sardonic twist of Roan’s lips as he raised his glass and drank. Because she wouldn’t put it past her grandfather to check. And would his other claim to have attended a famous English public school stand up to scrutiny either?
Oh, God, she thought, seething, there would have been no need for any of this nonsense if Roan Zandros had simply—stayed away and minded his own business.
As dinner ended, Harriet heard with relief Roan accepting her grandfather’s surprisingly genial challenge to a game of chess. Wonderful game, she thought, played mainly in silence, which suited her just fine, because she wasn’t sure that her nervous system could stand any more questionable revelations.
She waited until they were well settled with their brandy over the ivory and ebony board, then smothered a manufactured yawn.
‘Oh dear,’ she said sweetly. ‘I’m afraid my hectic week is catching up with me. If you’ll both excuse me, I think I’ll have an early night.’
She blew a smiling kiss aimed somewhere between the pair of them, and headed out of the drawing room, longing only to reach the safety of her room.
But as she reached the foot of the stairs she heard Roan say her name, and looked round, alarmed, to see him closing the drawing room door behind him before walking towards her across the hall.
‘What do you want?’ she demanded defensively.
‘I am merely obeying instructions, matia mou.’ He shrugged, his eyes glinting in amusement. ‘Your grandfather has sent me to bid you a romantic goodnight in private, while he considers his next move.’
‘Well, consider it done,’ she said curtly. ‘And I only hope you can remember the details of the rubbish you’ve been talking over dinner, because he has the memory of an elephant. Whatever possessed you to come out with all that stuff?’
‘Because I thought it was what he wanted to hear, Harriet mou,’ he drawled. ‘A reassurance that you were not throwing yourself away on—nobody.’
‘Just a liar and a conman, instead,’ Harriet said scornfully. ‘But maybe that’s all to the good. At least he won’t be able to oppose the divorce when I confess tearfully how you betrayed and deceived me. In essence, made utter fools of us both.’
He gave her a meditative look. ‘You don’t think that is a little harsh—on someone who wants only your happiness?’
‘Except that Grandfather and I don’t agree on what that involves.’ She paused. ‘And let me remind you that I’ve paid for your acquiescence, Mr Zandros, not your opinion.’
‘Perhaps you are the one who needs a reminder, Harriet mou,’ he said softly. Without warning his hands descended on her shoulders, jerking her towards him, and before she could utter any kind of protest his mouth took hers in a long, hard, and arrogantly deliberate kiss.
She tried to struggle—to free herself—but the arms holding her were far too strong, and determined. She could hardly breathe—let alone speak—or think.
She began to feel giddy, tiny coloured sparks dancing behind her closed eyelids, as the relentless pressure of his lips went on—and on—carrying her into some dark and swirling eternity.
And then—as suddenly as it had begun—it was over, and Roan was stepping back, putting her at arm’s length, his dark eyes watching her unsmilingly.
Harriet stood, swaying slightly, lifting shaking fingers to touch the ravaged contours of her mouth, her mind blurred—incredulous. She tried to say something, but no words would come.
‘Is that acquiescent enough for you, kyria?’ His voice seemed to reach her across some vast wasteland. ‘I would not wish you to feel you were wasting your money.’ He added harshly, ‘Now, go to bed, and I hope you enjoy your dreams.’
And he turned and went back across the wide hall into the drawing room, leaving her dazed and trembling. Aware only that, in some strange way, she was suddenly more utterly alone than she’d ever been in her life before.
CHAPTER FIVE
I T HAD not been passion. Even someone as woefully inexperienced as Harriet could appreciate that. On the contrary, it had been, she thought, more of a calculated insult. She’d provoked him. He’d responded. And that was it.
Her mouth still felt faintly swollen from his unwanted attentions, she realised with disgust, and there was a strange ache in her breasts—the result of them being crushed against the hardness of his chest, no doubt.
A sensation she would give a great deal to forget, she thought, drawing a quick sharp breath. No one had ever—handled her like that before. She’d made deadly sure of that. It was the stuff her worst nightmares were made of.
But on this occasion she hadn’t seen it coming, and therefore she hadn’t been able to take the evasive action she’d brought to a fine art.
But matters couldn’t rest there. That was obvious. So, in the morning she would have to do—something. But what?
Because, technically, it was already morning, and, even though she’d been lying there for hours, staring sleeplessly into the darkness, she still hadn’t the least idea how to deal with the situation.
The obvious answer, of course, was to abandon the whole idea. Tell him she’d changed her mind and the deal was off. That there would be no wedding.
And therefore no Gracemead either, she thought, pain twisting inside her, because then she’d have to confess to her grandfather and reap the inevitable consequences. He would naturally demand an explanation for the collapse of her ‘engagement’, and there was no way she’d be able to hide the truth from him for long, even if Roan kept his mouth shut, which was by no means certain.
And that meant she’d also have to bear with Gramps’s anger and disappointment over her attempt to deceive him. And, quite rightly, he’d never trust her again.
She could feel the sting of tears in her eyes—taste their acridity in her throat.
I should never have started this, she told herself in desolation. Because nothing—nothing is worth this kind of pain, and that bastard was quite right about that, damn him.
What was more, that same bastard would still be around to be dealt with, she reminded herself grimly. She’d have to fulfil her commitments to him. The deal with the gallery was already set up, so there was nothing she could do about that. But she guessed she’d have to pay him the agreed lump sum too, if only to make him go away.
But perhaps that was exactly what he wanted her to do, she thought, sitting up suddenly as if she’d been jabbed by a cattle prod. Maybe he’d figured out exactly how to push her to the limit, and that—travesty of a kiss had simply been a deliberate ploy to get her to cry off.
In that way he could avoid keeping his part of the bargain, and walk away with everything he wanted. Leaving her plans in ruins yet again.
Just a conman after all, completing his ‘sting’, she thought, aware of an odd stir of disappointment.
But only if she let him, she rallied herself. And maybe he hadn’t taken that into his calculations while he was—mauling her.
Well, now it was time to demonstrate that she was made of stronger stuff.
Because she wouldn’t let him win. There was too much at stake for her to draw back now, however compelling the reason might seem.
So, she would treat the entire episode as some—temporary aberration, she planned, her heart racing. Dismiss it lightly as an irrelevance. Make it clear that all she wanted was his name on a marriage certificate, following which he could—paint himself into a corner for all she cared.
At the same time
, she had to admit that he’d forced her to become altogether too aware of him as a man, rather than a signature on the dotted line she required. In fact, if she was honest, he’d been an irritation—an all-singing, all-dancing thorn in her side—from the moment they’d met.
And now flesh and blood instead of the obedient, malleable figment of her imagination—and her will. And she found the reality—disturbing. She’d needed a stranger who would remain strictly a stranger, and suddenly it had become—up close and personal. Dear God, he was here—sleeping in one of the guest rooms. Or awake and thinking—what?
But I can’t let it matter, she thought, staring round the moonlit room. This is my home. It’s my own place—the only security I’ve ever known, and I won’t let him take it away from me.
So, I’ll just have to be more careful in future.
When she arrived, heavy-eyed and faintly jittery, in the breakfast room next morning, it was to find Roan in sole occupancy, finishing off what appeared to be a substantial plate of bacon, mushrooms and scrambled egg.
‘Kalimera.’ He got politely to his feet. ‘Your grandfather asked me to say that he will be breakfasting in his room today.’
‘Oh.’ Harriet poured cereal into a bowl and added milk. She frowned. ‘He’s not ill, is he?’
‘Not at all.’ As she sat down, Roan resumed his own seat, then poured her a cup of freshly brewed coffee, and handed it to her. A civility which she accepted with gritted teeth. ‘I believe he thinks we might appreciate some time alone together.’
‘How very misguided of him,’ she returned coolly. ‘How did the chess go?’
‘It ended in stalemate.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Neither of us seemed able to find the other’s weak point.’
‘Grandfather doesn’t have one,’ she said. ‘I suggest you play your games elsewhere in future.’