by Sara Craven
This is not me, she thought. He’s turned me into someone I don’t know, and never wanted to be. And crazily, impossibly, I—let it happen. But how—and why? He called this our wedding night, but it could never be that. Because he’s the last person wanting to be a husband, and I have no intention of being a wife.
So, it’s just a one-night stand. Payback time because I made him look foolish in front of witnesses. After all, he pretty much admitted it.
And, if not for revenge, why else would he want—this? Me?
She dropped the damp towel, and studied her nude reflection dispassionately. It couldn’t be for her looks—or her figure. She was moderately attractive, no more, and reed-slender. And it certainly wasn’t for the sweetness of her disposition, she told herself wryly.
She supposed a virgin in her mid-twenties had a certain novelty value in twenty-first-century London, but why would he bother when there were so many more exciting—and willing—women around?
Except she had been—willing. Eventually. And that was the open wound she would take with her from this encounter. The bitter knowledge that she hadn’t fought tooth and nail against the ultimate surrender. That the marks she’d inflicted on his body were the result of passion, not self-defence.
She hadn’t even managed the frozen submission she’d planned as her last line of retreat. And now it was much too late.
She took a last glance at herself, and turned away, knowing that she couldn’t simply walk back naked into the bedroom. Without mental or emotional connection between them, his dark scrutiny would be a stinging embarrassment, she thought, as she trod over to the fitted unit beside the basin, and opened the bottom drawer.
The neatly folded cotton housecoat that lay there was quite the oldest garment she possessed. High-necked and demure, it had been at school with her, and its pattern of tiny rosebuds had almost faded away with repeated launderings over the years. Hanging on to it was sheer sentiment, but it had the virtue of being opaque—a veil for her to hide behind as she went to him.
He was lying on his back, arms folded behind his head, staring up at the ceiling as she walked towards the bed, and she noticed that he’d tidied the pillows, and drawn the sheet up to waist level. He turned to look at her, and she saw his eyes widen, and braced herself for some numbing piece of sarcasm.
But when he spoke his voice was almost reflective. ‘So now I know how you looked when you were a little girl, Harriet mou.’
She gave him a quick, startled glance, then turned her back while she removed the soft folds, then slid under the covering sheet. And waited, nerves jangling, for him to reach for her.
‘Expecting another seduction, matia mou?’ He broke the silence at last, just as her inner tension was nearing screaming point. ‘Because it is not going to happen.’ And as she twisted round to stare at him he added, ‘This time, I wish you to make love to me.’
‘Oh, God, no—no…’
She only realised she’d spoken the thought aloud when she saw his mouth twist in a wry smile.
He shook his head. ‘Why, Harriet?’ He made her name sound like a caress. ‘Don’t you like being in bed with me—just a little?’
There was no need to answer. And no point in trying to lie either. The sudden blaze of colour warming her face was betrayal enough. And the helpless clench of desire deep inside her.
‘I enjoyed having you touch me,’ he went on softly. ‘It’s a pleasure I wish to be repeated. And you seemed to like it too, my shy bride, so why don’t you come much—much closer, and kiss me?’
She obeyed slowly, helplessly, moving across the space that divided them, until she felt the warmth of him against her, and the tingling thrill of response in her own skin.
She swallowed, her heart thudding, then leaned over him, her hair spilling around him in a fragrant cloud, as she let the rosy peaks of her breasts brush his chest, deliberately tantalising the flat male nipples. She heard him catch his breath.
He said huskily, ‘Harriet, my sweet one—agapi mou.’
And she paused, her mouth a fraction from his.
‘But I don’t love you,’ she whispered fiercely back to him. ‘And I never will.’
Harriet awoke slowly, pushing herself up through the layers of sleep like a swimmer surfacing from the dark depths of a timeless sea, and finding sunlight. She waited for the usual stress to kick in, but it was strangely absent. Instead, she felt totally relaxed, her whole body toned—suffused with unaccustomed well-being.
Realising, as she forced open her weighted eyelids, that she was actually smiling.
And then she remembered…
She shot upright, gasping, clutching the sheet to her breasts, staring dazedly down at the empty bed beside her, heart hammering. Wondering for an instant if her imagination had been playing tricks on her—if she’d simply dreamt it—all of it.
But the voluptuous tenderness between her thighs soon disabused her of that notion. She had to face the fact that she’d spent most of the previous night having sex, with an increasing hunger and lack of inhibition that made her quail as she recalled it now in daylight.
Unable, it seemed, to get enough of him, she thought, turning over to bury her burning face in her pillow. Or to give enough either…
I wish you to make love to me.
And she’d done so, following instincts she barely understood, hesitant, even gauche at first, but learning quickly, guided by Roan’s glance, his whispered word, even an indrawn breath. Discovering intimacies she could never have imagined she’d permit, let alone enjoy.
Until, at the last, she’d found herself astride him, absorbing him with exquisite totality, her body bent in an arc of pleasure as she pursued, with him, yet another release that was as savage as it was mutual.
They’d finally fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion, still entwined. Harriet could remember waking around dawn, and finding she was sprawled across him, imprisoned by his arm, her cheek pressed against the heavy beat of his heart. And when she’d tried gingerly to move to a more decorous distance, Roan had muttered something sleepily in his own language, his grasp tightening around her. So she’d stayed, and slept again.
Yet he’d had no problem extricating himself, it seemed. And she’d been too dead to the world to notice. Had expected to find him there, holding her, when she woke. Had wanted him to be there…
Now, there was an admission.
She sat up again, pushing back her tumble of hair, listening for the sound of the shower, trying to detect a hint of coffee in the air—any indication that he was still around. Somewhere. But there was only silence, and the sunlight pressing against the blinds far more brightly than it should have done.
Biting her lip, Harriet glanced at the bedside clock and stifled a yelp. He’d gone, and so had half the morning, which meant that for the first time she was going to be horrifyingly late for work.
She stood under the shower, letting the water stream over her body, touching every part of her that his hands—his mouth—had caressed. Rinsing away the carnation-scented lather, remembering its fragrance on his skin, and now she’d breathed it—licked at it. Remembering altogether too much, she thought breathlessly, bracing a hand against the tiled wall for support because her legs were shaking under her again. And these memories had to be dealt with—barred—if she was ever to know any peace again.
As she went to discard her used towel in the linen basket, she saw a glimmer of peach satin, and realised he’d collected her pyjamas from the floor, as if he knew she only wore things once before laundering. Although, in this case, she’d hardly had the chance to wear them at all.
She hunted discontentedly along the rail in her wardrobe, wishing there was something else to choose apart from black, black and yet more black. ‘Those shapeless garments,’ he’d called them, and much good they’d done her.
Now there seemed little point in persevering with her camouflage, and it would have been nice to wear something light and bright—something that floated—on th
is glorious sunlit morning.
Then paused, her lips twisting in self-derision. ‘And what does that make you, my dear?’ she wondered aloud. ‘A butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, or the same dreary moth with delusions? Get back to square one where you belong.’
It occurred to her, as she scraped her hair back into its usual style, that she was ravenous. No point in being late on an empty stomach, she thought, as she dashed into her smart galley kitchen, slipping bread into the toaster, and switching on the kettle.
There was no sign of Roan having breakfasted. Not so much as a cup of coffee, she noticed, but perhaps he felt he’d helped himself to quite enough already. And if that was intended as a joke, it hadn’t worked, she told herself with a pang.
She ladled honey on to her toast, eating and drinking standing up, before grabbing her bag and racing to the door.
At first sight, the living room was in its usual pristine condition, with no trace of him there either. And then she saw the piece of paper lying on her ash table, a sheet torn at random, it seemed, from a sketch block, the edges ragged. And in the middle of it, a small circle of gold.
The wedding ring, she thought, that she’d handed back to him yesterday with such insouciance. And scrawled across the paper in thick black letters the single word, ‘Souvenir.’
So it had been revenge, she thought, feeling suddenly numb. Amongst all the disastrous mistakes she’d made last night, she’d been right about that, at least.
I couldn’t have made it easier for him if I’d tried, she thought. Or sweeter.
And somehow I have to learn to live with that.
By the time Harriet reached the office, the weekly round-up meeting had already begun.
‘Nice of you to join us, Miss Flint,’ Tony commented acidly.
‘I’m sorry.’ Harriet sat down, needled by the sight of Jon Audley exchanging complicit grins with Anthea. ‘My alarm didn’t go off.’ Largely because I forgot to set it, having so many other things to think about at the time. Most of which I don’t want to contemplate.
And her inner turmoil had been further compounded by an encounter with George, the concierge, as he sorted the mail in the foyer. His beaming smile, and the faint archness of his, ‘Good morning, Mrs Zandros,’ had totally stymied any rebuke she’d been considering over the matter of the key, and she’d simply mumbled a flushed response and fled.
‘How brave of it,’ said Tony, recalling her sharply to the here and now. ‘How did things go yesterday, by the way?’
For a moment she stared at him, totally thrown once again. ‘What do you mean?’ Her voice was a croak.
‘At Hayford House.’ He held out his hand. ‘I presume you’ve already written up your report with your usual blazing efficiency.’
She took a deep steadying breath. Think! ‘Actually, no,’ she returned calmly. ‘As nothing has changed diametrically since the last report was produced, I thought it would be simpler to work from that.’ She looked at Jonathan. ‘I presume you still have a copy on file.’
There was a silence, then he said curtly, ‘I didn’t write one. I simply got on to our maintenance people and—requested a visit.’
‘And made a follow-up call to ensure it had been carried out?’
‘I didn’t suppose it was necessary.’ Jon’s look spoke daggers. ‘They’re pretty reliable, and God knows there weren’t any major issues.’
‘No,’ Harriet said reflectively. ‘And the tenants appreciated how busy you are.’ She allowed another awkward silence to establish itself, then glanced back at Tony’s annoyed face. ‘I’ll get on to it as soon as the meeting is over.’ But will that be before or after I call Isobel…?
At any other time she’d have been jubilant having scored a minor triumph over the obnoxious Audley, but, set against everything else going on in her life, it barely registered, and she was aware she was frankly sleep-walking her way through the rest of the meeting.
And the remainder of the morning wasn’t much better. Her concentration was shot to pieces, her thinking dominated by the memory of last night, and her need to make sense of what had happened. And, of course, deal with it.
Three times she reached for the phone and began to dial Isobel’s number. Three times she got halfway, only to abandon the call.
I can’t talk to her yet, she thought. I’m too confused. Besides, what on earth can I say? Tell her I want an injunction against him, followed by the quickest divorce in the history of the world? How many awkward explanations will that throw up?
‘What’s the matter? Have a bad night?’
She jumped almost convulsively as she looked up to see Tony watching her from the doorway.
Colour stormed into her face. ‘No,’ she returned defensively. ‘Why do you ask?’
He frowned. ‘Because you’ve been looking white as a ghost—totally wiped out. Just as if…’ He paused, looking faintly embarrassed. ‘Well, that doesn’t matter.’
He strolled forward, hands in pockets. ‘Yet now you could be running a temperature,’ he commented critically. ‘Sure you’re all right? Not sickening for something?’
She stared at the screen in front of her. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Good.’ He hesitated again, then said almost gently, ‘You know, Harriet, you don’t have to drive yourself so hard all the time. Maybe you should take some time off—chill out a little. No one would think less of you.’
Her voice was quiet. ‘I might.’ Because the job I do is—me. I can’t let go of that. I dare not.
‘That’s what I’m trying to get at.’ Tony sighed. ‘Being Gregory Flint’s granddaughter does not require you to be one hundred per cent perfect. You’re allowed to make mistakes.’
She didn’t look at him. ‘Even though mistakes can be dangerous?’ And when I’ve just made one—a terrible one—bordering on total disaster. A mistake which is making me wonder about myself—ask questions I don’t want to answer?
‘Even then,’ he said. ‘It could perhaps ease things round here as well. Improve office relationships.’
She drew a swift breath. ‘To do a sloppy job?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘To be human. Maybe that missed alarm was a signal.’ He paused. ‘Look—take the rest of the day off. Shop—take a walk in the park—go home and catch up on your sleep. Anything that will relax you. And it’s not a suggestion, Harriet,’ he added briskly, seeing she was about to protest. ‘I’m telling you to do it.’
At the doorway, he paused. ‘Oh, and leave the laptop. That’s another order.’
Harriet stared after him. Wasn’t there one department of her life where she was still allowed a choice? she asked herself in a kind of desperation.
She had a curious feeling that the foundations on which she’d constructed her existence were being eroded, and the entire structure was beginning to totter.
And it was humiliating being sent home like this—like an unruly pupil being made to stand in a school corridor, she thought stormily, as she grabbed her bag and made for the lift, glad there was no one around to witness her departure.
But once outside the building, she stood irresolute, a little lost without the usual pattern of the day to rely on. Shopping had no attraction whatsoever, a solitary walk would only start her thinking all over again, and the prospect of an early return to the flat was even more unappealing.
Because, thanks to Roan, it was no longer her refuge—her private sanctuary. And last night’s memories were still too potent.
Mrs Zandros, she thought, sinking her teeth into the tenderness of her lower lip. Mrs Zandros.
She straightened her shoulders, telling herself that the hollow feeling inside her was probably due to hunger. She’d made use of the lunchtime sandwich service, but only eaten half of her ham and salad order, and knew there was still nothing waiting in the refrigerator.
And planning her evening meal would be an occupation of sorts.
There was a good delicatessen not far away and, after some deliberation, she pi
cked a cheese and spinach tart, with a selection of salads, and some ciabatta bread, then added a carton of strawberries and one of nectarines to her haul. In a neighbouring off-licence, she selected a bottle of her favourite Chablis, and found herself pausing at the flower stall on her way to the Tube to buy a mass of freesias.
I must be mad, she thought blankly, as she sat on the train inhaling their scent. I don’t even have a vase.
Back at the flat, she unpacked the food, and put it in the fridge with the wine. The freesias she divided between three of the tall, elegant, designer goblets she normally used for mineral water, and placed them round the room.
Then she rolled up her sleeves and set to work, starting in the bedroom. She stripped the bed completely, and remade it with fresh linen, then turned her attention to the bathroom. Freeing herself of the taint of last night, she thought, wishing she could scrub him from her mind as easily. And that she could rid herself of the ache of him in her newly awakened flesh.
I despise myself.
But it was no use to think like that. She had to pull herself together, and put the memory of him away with her wedding ring, which she placed in the box containing the pearls Gramps had given her when she was eighteen, and pushed to the back of a drawer.
When she had showered and changed into a pair of aquamarine pyjamas—the peach ones and her robe she’d bundled into a plastic sack to bury in her rubbish bin—she sat down to eat. She found she was glancing round, looking at the flat as if through a stranger’s eyes. She supposed it was—a little sparse, as if she was just passing through rather than making her home there. But then Gracemead was her real home, and always would be, so why would she need another?
She’d never thought of asking Gramps if she could bring anything from the house to London. There was a pretty desk in the morning room, she thought, and a rocking chair in what had been the nursery. Perhaps she’d mention them next time she went down.
Elsewhere, she might replace the blinds with curtains. Look for a rug. Some cushions, possibly.