The Virgin s Wedding Night

by Sara Craven

  Harriet was aware of her grandfather stiffening, his brows drawing together, and moved restively. Roan’s hand tightened warningly on her shoulder.

  He said softly, ‘Papa, I saw her and wanted her. There was no more to it than that. And, naturally, I wished to claim her as my bride—mine and mine alone, before you think of asking,’ he added with a significance that brought sudden colour into Harriet’s white face. ‘And just as soon as it could be arranged.’

  His tone took on a note of challenge. ‘You, of all people, must remember how that is.’

  ‘Yes,’ his father said shortly. ‘Also how it can end.’ He sighed angrily. ‘I had my own plans for your future—a good Greek wedding to a suitable Greek wife. Someone to manage your home, behave with discretion, and give you strong children.’ He gave Harriet’s slender body a disparaging look. ‘Can she even cook the food you like, this bride of yours?’

  ‘No,’ Roan said calmly. ‘But as I have a chef, the need will not arise, so stop trying to frighten her. She is already struggling to accept that I am not the penniless artist she believed.’

  ‘You tell me she never suspected that you were wealthy?’ The older man snorted. ‘Impossible.’

  ‘On the contrary, she offered me financial support,’ Roan retorted. ‘I found it a refreshing change.’

  ‘But you, kyrie, you must have known.’ Constantine Zandros turned his frowning gaze on Gregory Flint.

  ‘I knew Roan was not what he seemed,’ Mr Flint agreed quietly.

  ‘Yet you still encouraged this match?’

  ‘I neither encouraged nor discouraged. They are grown-up people able to decide their own fates.’

  There was a heavy silence, then Constantine Zandros sighed. ‘Well, what is done cannot be undone without trouble and expense. Therefore I too must—accept.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Harriet spoke for the first time, her voice shaking. ‘And now if you’ve all finished—dissecting me, I’d like to go home, please.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Her father-in-law inclined his head. ‘Roan, take your wife to the hotel, if you please, then send the car back for me. I think Kyrios Flint and I should talk a little.’

  ‘Hotel?’ Harriet repeated blankly. ‘What hotel? You don’t understand—I want to go back to my flat.’ Her voice rose a little. ‘My own place.’ And felt once again Roan’s hand tightening on her shoulder.

  There was a pause, then her grandfather spoke, his voice chilly with disapproval. ‘My dear Harriet, what is this nonsense? You seem to have forgotten that your place is with your husband. Quite naturally, he and his father will have things they wish to discuss later, so the hotel is the obvious choice. Now, away with you, and no more arguments,’ he added briskly. ‘And I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  She got to her feet. She said desperately, grabbing at any excuse, ‘But I can’t stay at a hotel—not like this.’ She gestured helplessly at the ivory dress. ‘Not without a change of clothes for the morning, or a toothbrush. And my pyjamas.’

  A reluctant smile touched the corners of Constantine’s mouth. ‘Your wife seems unduly modest, my dear Roan.’ He looked at Harriet. ‘But the Titan Palace should be able to supply most of your requirements, my child, or I shall wish to know why. And your husband can deal with—’ he waved a hand ‘—the other details.’

  The Titan Palace. She said hoarsely, ‘My God, it belongs to you, doesn’t it? The whole Titan Group.’ She turned on Roan. ‘And that’s why they were falling over themselves to serve us that afternoon. Because someone recognised you.’

  ‘You have visited my hotel?’ Constantine asked, brows raised.

  ‘By coincidence, some of our courtship took place there,’ Roan said silkily. ‘But only in the lounge. Harriet has yet to see the bedrooms.’

  His father gave a boom of laughter, and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Then show them to her, my son, without delay. I will allow you sufficient time for the pair of you to make a prolonged discovery of their comforts.’

  She walked beside Roan out of the office, and out of the gallery, her head high, but her face scarlet with anger and embarrassment.

  A car, large, dark and luxurious, was waiting at the kerb for them, with a uniformed driver holding open the rear passenger door.

  Harriet took her seat in icy silence, and sat rigidly waiting for Roan to join her.

  As the car moved off, she said hoarsely, ‘You stood there, and you let this happen. Without a bloody word. How could you? My God, are you that afraid of your father?’

  ‘My father?’ he bit back. ‘How does this concern him? Tonight, I thought, was about your grandfather, and this on-going deception that you so cleverly devised. You asked me to help—to continue to play a part that already wearies me—and I did so.

  ‘But what do I hear from you? “My flat—my pyjamas”.’ His mimicry was scornful. ‘Your performance, Harriet mou, would not fool a small child. Both he and Papa must already be wondering what kind of marriage this really is.’

  He shook his head. ‘My father, of course, will not care. I tell you now he is simply waiting for it to end in divorce. No doubt he already has a suitable heiress in prospect for me.’

  He paused for a moment, then continued grimly, ‘But your grandfather’s case is different. So, for the time being, just remember that becoming my wife was your own idea, and grit your teeth for the remainder of our time together.

  ‘Unless this house of yours is no longer important to you,’ he added. ‘If so, confess the entire scheme to your grandfather, and end this farce now.’

  She found herself wanting to shrink back into her corner of the car. To cover her ears against the relentless barrage of words, and the force behind them of anger, coldly controlled.

  ‘No,’ she said in a stifled voice. ‘Gracemead still means—everything.’

  He shrugged. ‘Then we will go on with our pretence. Here—and in Greece.’

  He heard her sharp, indrawn breath, and nodded. ‘Yes, you are coming with me. What other choice do you have? Or are you crazy enough to think that your grandfather would accept a marriage conducted in different countries? Because I know he would not.’

  ‘But I can’t leave England.’ She was trembling all over, her voice husky, pleading. ‘I have a career—a life.’

  He said softly, ‘I thought you were prepared to sacrifice anything for that—heap of stone in the countryside.’

  She didn’t look at him. ‘And I thought I’d already done so.’

  ‘Well, you will not be called on to pay that particular price a second time.’ There was a note in his voice she did not recognise. ‘You have at last managed to convince me, matia mou, that I can expect nothing from you as my wife, and I shall not ask again.’

  She bit her lip. ‘What about my job?’

  ‘You leave. I am sure your grandfather will clear the way for you.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed bitterly. ‘Almost certainly. And my—the flat?’

  ‘I imagine a tenant can be found until your return. I regret that we must share a house while you remain in Greece,’ he added, after a pause. ‘But it contains enough rooms to ensure your privacy. And when the time comes for us to divorce, I will supply all the necessary evidence, so that no blame can be attached to you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I believed until this evening that you were already doing so.’

  He shrugged. ‘You were so ready to think the worst of me that I decided to indulge you.’

  ‘At your cousin’s expense?’ she queried tautly.

  ‘You underestimate Lucy’s sense of humour,’ Roan retorted.

  ‘And you overestimate mine,’ Harriet said harshly. ‘I can’t believe that sane people would do this. My life turned upside down—wrecked—and all for a bloody bet. Show me the fun side of that.’

  ‘You have your own agenda, Harriet mou, which I too find less than amusing. Besides, this thing with my father was more than just a bet.’ His voice was weary. ‘It was the resolution of a series of disa
greements, which had become steadily more serious. I needed to establish my independence. Prove that I was my mother’s son as well. That I loved and valued her memory, and her heritage, and would not allow it to be—airbrushed out of existence.’

  ‘And what happens to that heritage now?’ she demanded hotly. ‘I—I thought you were a painter. You made me believe in you—Desmond Slevin too. He backed you, and you’re leaving him in the lurch.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘He has done well tonight, and that will not be the end of it. I made it clear to him at the beginning that painting could not be my full-time career. I am too much a Zandros for that. I want to run the corporation when my father decides to stand down. There are people all over the world who will be relying on me to make sure that we prosper, and that they continue to have work. I wish to take on those responsibilities, even—to make a difference. Believe that it is no way a hardship for me.’ For a moment, his voice deepened passionately.

  There was a pause, then he went on, more slowly, ‘But I shall continue to paint in whatever leisure I have, and show my work through the Parsifal. Kyrios Slevin accepts that. And so must you, while you remain my wife.’

  She said stonily, ‘Which hopefully will not be for very long.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ he threw back harshly, and they sat in silence, side by side but miles apart, until they reached the Titan Palace.

  Where the reality of being Roan Zandros’ wife was brought home to Harriet with telling emphasis, by the awed greeting from the manager, the reverence with which he bowed over Harriet’s startled hand, and how he himself ushered them into a high-speed lift to be whisked upwards.

  ‘My father and his staff have commandeered the penthouse,’ Roan told her, his face and tone expressionless. ‘So we have been assigned the bridal suite. I hope that pleases you, my darling.’

  Harriet made a sound that might have been interpreted as a gasp of approval, or even someone choking on her own fury.

  They were shown into a luxurious sitting room, ablaze with flowers, its lights discreetly lowered. A side table held a basket of fruit, and an ice bucket, containing a bottle of champagne.

  As Harriet gazed round her, there was a knock at the door, and the manager darted over to admit a waiter with a trolley, bearing pots of tea, coffee and hot chocolate, plus, under a domed glass cover, an array of the delicious sandwiches she remembered from her previous visit.

  ‘My God,’ she said when the manager eventually bowed himself out. ‘They don’t leave much to chance.’

  ‘Perhaps they feel that honeymoon couples need to keep up their strength,’ Roan returned, helping himself to smoked salmon sprinkled with caviare. ‘May I get you something?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You express your gratitude in a manner all your own, Harriet mou.’ He poured a cup of coffee. ‘As if you were consigning me to be burned in hell.’

  ‘If you want me to be grateful,’ she said stormily, ‘find us some way out of this appalling mess.’

  ‘The situation is entirely of your own making.’ He sounded bored. ‘You seem to forget that. But it is not permanent. Be content with that.’

  ‘You should have warned me,’ she said. ‘Told me that your father was coming.’

  ‘I did not know it myself until this afternoon.’ Roan grimaced. ‘He was sent an invitation, but I never thought he would accept. I should have remembered that Papa enjoys the unexpected,’ he added dryly.

  ‘Not always.’ She swallowed. ‘Judging by his reaction to me.’

  He put down his cup, and walked across to her, his fingers tipping up her chin so that he could look into her face. ‘That hurt you?’

  For a moment, the breath caught in her throat. ‘No, why should it?’

  ‘I cannot think of a single reason.’ He let his hand drop, and turned away. ‘And now I must go and meet with him. Try to convince him, among other things, that you and I adore each other. It will be an uphill struggle.’ He pointed at a door on the other side of the room. ‘The bedroom is there. I hope you find everything you need—apart, I fear, from pyjamas. The hotel’s boutique does not stock them, and all the stores are closed now.’

  She stared at him. ‘The bedroom? You mean there’s just one?’

  ‘With one bed.’ He shrugged. ‘I told you, agapi mou. It’s the bridal suite, so we must make the best of it.’ His brief smile held no humour. ‘Comfort yourself that we are no longer bride and groom,’ he added, and left.

  One bed, Harriet thought, surveying it a few minutes later. But quite the largest she’d ever seen—and probably double the size of her own at the flat. And, quite simply, a wide, yielding, sexy playground. Or, perhaps, a space to be lost in and never found. Although she didn’t derive much comfort from either notion.

  However, in the beautifully fitted bathroom she found identical robes made of thick towelling, hanging behind the door. She showered quickly, uneasily aware that Roan might return at any moment, then wrapped herself securely in one of them, knotting the sash round her waist.

  There were no books to be seen, she thought, as she got into bed. Presumably the suite’s usual occupants were expected to have better things to do than read.

  She moved her pillows as near to the edge of the bed as they would go without falling off, and pulled the covers discreetly up to her chin.

  And the wisest policy now was to go to sleep, she thought, closing her eyes determinedly. But how could she relax when the truth was that she was waiting on tenterhooks for Roan’s return?

  Eventually, a long time later, she heard the door of the suite open and close, and then the sound of him quietly entering the bedroom. Walking over, she knew, to the bed, and looking down at her.

  Keeping her eyes tightly closed, she attempted to breathe slowly and evenly.

  ‘You are no actress, Harriet mou,’ he commented mockingly. He took the edge of the sheet, and pulled it down a little, then gasped. ‘You intend to wear that tonight?’ His voice was incredulous. ‘You will suffocate.’

  She grabbed back the sheet, glaring at him. ‘Even so, it’s marginally better than the alternative.’

  His mouth twisted. ‘I hope you do not expect me to follow your example.’ He walked towards the bathroom, pulling off his clothes as he went, and dropping them on the floor behind him.

  Harriet turned hurriedly on to her stomach, and buried her face in the pillow, ashamed of the swift nervous surge the sight of him had engendered, bordering, she recognised, on—excitement.

  He said he wouldn’t ask again, she remembered, swallowing. But how much trust could she place in his assurances after that—that other time?

  That first time…

  Suddenly memories were stirring, unbidden and full force, and in their wake, at their prompting, came something more potent, and infinitely more dangerous.

  Because her skin was tingling as if responding to the stroke of his hands, her lips softening and parting. Against the restriction of the towelling, her nipples were awakening to aching life.

  She seemed to feel again the graze of his mouth touching every part of her body in sensual exploration. To know the sweet, searing flame of his tongue between her slackened thighs lifting her powerfully, irresistibly once more to the agonised tumult of climax.

  She gasped convulsively, pressing her fist against her teeth, as she fought for control.

  I don’t want to feel like this, she told herself feverishly. I dare not.

  And yet I want him so much I could die, and I can’t go on fighting it, not while there’s even a chance…

  She sat up, wriggling out of the bathrobe, and tossing it away from her, so that it landed, quite deliberately, in the middle of the floor where he’d be bound to see it. Then she slid back under the sheet, turning on her side and adjusting her pillows to a more inviting distance.

  He might not want to ask, she thought, but maybe—just maybe—he could be tempted…

  It seemed for ever before she heard him emerg
e from the bathroom. Became aware that he was pausing briefly, then moving again, crossing towards the bed. Halting to switch off the lights, so that the room was plunged into semi-darkness, illumined only by the lights of the city penetrating the window drapes.

  She felt the bed dip under his weight, and, hardly breathing, waited for him to reach for her. And waited…

  When at long last she risked a fleeting glance over her shoulder, she could see him quite clearly, lying quietly, his hair black against the pillow, and the long, naked line of his back turned indifferently towards her.

  In a silent rejection that brooked no appeal.

  Making her realise she should have stayed, alone and lonely, in her self-imposed exile at the edge of the mattress. Forcing her to discover the hard way how difficult it was to cry, to feel the tears burning your face without moving, or making a sound, because the man you wanted was lying just an arm’s length away, and might hear you.

  Knowing that, if he did, you would never recover from the shame of it.

  And wondering how you would ever be able to bear all the nights that were to come, until this mockery of marriage ended?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  T HE light, Harriet thought, was amazing, with a clarity and intensity she’d never experienced before. But then, she reminded herself ironically, she’d never been to Greece before. Never even contemplated a holiday there, because all her vacation time was spent at Gracemead.

  And certainly never imagined she’d be arriving anywhere by executive jet.

  Leaving the airport for the chauffeur-driven car which was to take them down to the Militos peninsula, she felt as if she’d walked headlong into a wall of heat, and was thankful that the waiting vehicle had air-conditioning.

  Roan, she’d gathered, usually made the transfer by helicopter, but this time he’d decided that Harriet should enjoy a more leisurely approach to her new home. If ‘enjoy’ was really the word, she thought, biting her lip.

  She knew a little of what to expect. Two headlands jutting into the Aegean, Roan had told her, like long arms enclosing a small but beautiful bay. And on each arm—a house, facing each other, but separate.