by Sara Craven
She paused. ‘I realise it belongs to someone else now, and naturally I wouldn’t dream of intruding. I just want to tell Thia Theodosia that I’ve seen it—even at a distance.’
Ari Stanopoulos leaned forward as if to speak, but Alex halted him, his hand raised. He said quietly and coldly, ‘If that is what you wish, Natasha, then I will take you there. One day.’
He didn’t add ‘Before you leave’, but he didn’t have to. It was implicit in his tone, and the finality of those two chilling words.
Natasha lifted her chin as inner pain lanced her. ‘Then that will be something to look forward to,’ she returned brightly, and rose, cup and saucer in hand. ‘I’m sure you have things to discuss,’ she added. ‘so I’ll take my coffee to the saloni.’
But if she was expecting a denial or for them to conclude their business quickly and join her, she was due for serious disappointment. When the two men left the dining room, it was only to adjourn to Alex’s study and close the door behind them.
Left to herself once more, Natasha tried again to read, but couldn’t concentrate. Switched on some music, and found it irritating. Attempted to watch television, only to find the channels dominated by sport played by teams she’d never heard of.
Eventually, after more than an hour and a half had passed, and she’d been reduced to walking up and down the room, her arms wrapped defensively round her body, Zeno appeared.
‘Kyrios Mandrakis wishes more coffee, thespinis,’ he announced. ‘May I bring also for you?’
‘Thank you, no,’ she returned politely, even though her heart was sinking. She paused. ‘Actually, I’m rather tired, so I’m going to my room. Perhaps you would inform Kyrios Mandrakis.’
He inclined his head austerely, clearly disapproving of the intimate implications her message conveyed, but the damage to his sensibilities was nothing when compared to the aching emptiness of her own, she told herself rebelliously, caught between anger and wretchedness.
What a fool she’d been to think that anything Mac Whitaker had told her could possibly make any difference, she brooded as she walked to her bedroom. Alex was a law unto himself and always would be, so why should he care if her judgement of him had been so fundamentally revised?
In her room, the lamps had been lit on either side of the bed and her nightdress put ready for her as usual. She replaced it in the drawer, then slowly undressed and got into bed, adjusting the sheet to cover her naked body to her shoulders.
Willing, she thought, her mouth twisting, but not too blatantly so.
Then, extinguishing the lights, she lay back against the mounded pillows and waited. At her request, the sliding glass doors to the terrace were again slightly open, allowing the slight breeze to stir the filmy drapes, while in the distance she could hear the faint sound of the sea.
A beautiful night she thought, with a little yearning sigh. And a night when she would heal any breach between them. When she would do anything he wanted. Be everything he wanted. When somehow she would banish the coldness from his eyes, and return the husky passion to his voice. Telling him with her body all that she dared not put into words.
A night that would perhaps make him remember her when they were no longer together. And for all the right reasons too, she told herself wryly.
After a while, she found her mind beginning to drift and her eyelids getting heavy, and had to force herself back to wakefulness. This wasn’t the plan at all, she thought with faint bewilderment. Surely Alex’s discussions with Mr Stanopoulos couldn’t last much longer.
And, however deplorable he might find it, Zeno would remember to pass on her message—wouldn’t he?
She said Alex’s name under her breath, her need for him throbbing inside her like a harsh pulse, her body moving restlessly in the loneliness of the wide bed.
As the time passed, she shook off another light doze to discover that the darkness and stillness in her room had somehow spread to the entire house. That there wasn’t a sound anywhere or a movement, except in this bed, where she had turned onto her side at some point, her hand reaching across the empty space beside her, seeking him.
Only to realise that her quest was totally in vain, and that she was destined to spend another night in solitude. And that she’d woken to find her face wet with tears of loneliness.
The next time she opened her eyes, the room was bathed in sunlight.
Josefina had been in to wake her earlier, because she could remember returning her greeting in a voice still drowned in sleep. Besides, there was a tray of cold coffee on the bedside table as mute evidence of the girl’s visit.
And there was also the noise which had finally invaded her fleeting uncomfortable dreams, and brought her back to harsh reality. The busy sound of a helicopter departing.
She sat up abruptly, her heart thudding, a voice inside her whispering, Oh, no. Please—no.
Then she flung back the sheet and scrambled out of bed, going through drawers and cupboards, grabbing a handful of lingerie, together with a pair of white shorts and a turquoise top.
And as she walked to the main part of the house, a little while later, her hands were clenched into nervous fists at her sides.
She found Zeno on the terrace, clearing away used cups and plates from the table.
‘May I bring you breakfast, thespinis?’
His tone held its usual formality, but was she imagining a flash of pity in his eyes as he looked at her? Presumably the entire household knew by now that she’d not been favoured by Kyrios Alexandros last night. And that her days on Alyssos were already numbered.
‘I’m not very hungry, thank you.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘I heard the helicopter earlier. Has—has Kyrios Mandrakis gone back to Athens?’
He looked at her in open astonishment. ‘He goes nowhere, thespinis. He works. It is Kyrios Stanopoulos who leaves.’
‘Oh—I see.’ It took a supreme effort to keep her voice casual, disguising her sheer joy and relief at the news, and she had a shrewd suspicion that he wasn’t in the least deceived anyway.
Also, in view of the fact that Alex hadn’t come near her last night, that it was far too soon to feel relieved.
I have to see him, she told herself. I have to know—one way or the other.
She turned back into the house and went straight to the study before her courage failed her. Iorgos wasn’t on sentry duty for once, so she tapped on the door and entered on Alex’s quiet summons.
He was seated behind his desk, a sheaf of papers in front of him, and he glanced up, his brows lifting as he registered her presence.
‘Kalimera.’ He made a note on the margin of the document he was reading. ‘Did you wish to speak to Ari? If so I regret that he has already left.’
Caught on the wrong foot, Natasha stared at him. ‘Why should I want to do that?’
He shrugged. ‘I thought you might have other more private messages for him to convey to London in addition to your letter. Some—afterthought perhaps. But it seems not.’ He paused. ‘I hope you slept well.’
‘I suppose I did—eventually.’ Natasha swallowed. ‘Not at first, though.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You see, I—I stayed awake, waiting for you.’
‘I am flattered.’ He put a line through an entire paragraph. So easily done, she thought. So quickly removed from some equation by a stroke of the pen. Like a girl, perhaps, who no longer held his interest.
‘But now I’m wondering why I’m still here,’ she went on bravely. ‘Why you didn’t send me away with Mr Stanopoulos just now—if you no longer want me.’
‘I have not said so.’ His frowning attention remained on his paperwork.
‘Then what is it?’ She swallowed. ‘Are you still angry about my interruption of your meeting yesterday?’
‘No.’ Alex put down his pen and leaned back in his chair. ‘Maybe what I require, Natasha mou, is some evidence that you want me.’ He added drily, ‘There has been little enough in our dealings together so far.’
‘I
don’t understand…’
He shrugged. ‘It is not so difficult,’ he said. ‘You knew where I was last night. You admit you found it difficult to sleep, yet still you chose to remain by yourself.’
She stared at him. ‘You mean, you expected—you wanted me to come to you? To ask…?’ She shook her head. ‘But you can’t have done. Besides, I—couldn’t…’ she added, biting her lip.
He resumed his study of the papers in front of him. He said almost casually, ‘Then sleeping alone will become a habit for both of us.’
In spite of his tone, Natasha could recognise an ultimatum when she heard one. And it seemed that nothing but complete capitulation would do.
Her throat tightened. From some far distance, she heard herself say, ‘I—I’m here now.’
‘I am aware of that.’ He did not look up. ‘Sadly, I must soon leave for a lunch engagement on the other side of the island. You must forgive me.’
‘I see.’ She was very still for a moment, absorbing his rejection and wincing inwardly at the pain of it. She forced a smile. ‘I take it that, once again, I won’t be going with you?’
‘My host is a friend of my father’s, Natasha,’ Alex told her levelly. ‘A good man, but strictly conventional in his views, as is his wife. They would not approve of your presence on the island, let alone here at the Mandrakis house.’
‘I see.’ She bent her head. ‘I think Zeno shares his views.’
‘Probably.’ He sounded faintly amused. ‘He too is a traditionalist.’ He paused, suddenly frowning. ‘However, I will speak to him.’
‘No, please. I—I wasn’t complaining.’ She drew a breath. ‘But, knowing what people would think, I’m wondering why you had me brought here.’
‘For the sake of peace and privacy, Natasha mou,’ he drawled. ‘There are strict controls at the port. No prowling photographers or gossip writers are allowed on Alyssos. Whereas the Selene, regrettably, is a magnet for such vermin whenever she puts into harbour. Wherever we had gone, they would have been waiting for us.’
She said, ‘I can understand why you don’t like newspapers. Mac—Captain Whitaker—told me what really happened at your birthday party.’
His brows lifted. ‘That was…good of him.’
‘So I’m sorry for the things I thought—and said about it,’ she added in a little, desperate rush.
‘It is not important.’ He shrugged. ‘And at least there were no photographers there that night. The man who saw you in my arms on Mykonos must have made a fortune from the picture he snatched of us. It has appeared everywhere.’
She said tautly, ‘Yet—isn’t that what you wanted, as your revenge? For all the world to know that I belonged to you?’
‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But I have discovered since that revenge is not as sweet as I had hoped.’ He added quietly, ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I must finish what I am doing.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, of course.’ She paused. ‘Then, I’ll see you later.’
She stood for a moment outside his closed door, feeling the uneven race of her heart.
She didn’t have to do as he asked, of course. She could stay in her room, and he could remain in his, until he became bored with this stalemate between them and decided to send her back to England.
That would be the safe—the sensible course of action.
Except that she had no guarantee he would also see it that way. After all, he’d once told her that she was a challenge. Maybe his demand for her unequivocal surrender was simply the next move in this convoluted game of revenge he was playing. A game he would be determined to win, in spite of any belated regrets he might be having.
Unconditional surrender, after which, his victory achieved, he would be free to go on to his next conquest, business or personal, she thought, moving aimlessly away from his door, her arms wrapped defensively round her body.
However, there was another course of action she could choose instead of fighting him.
Because he’d also said on that first night together that he would keep her until she no longer wished to leave, and only she knew that particular stage in their relationship was already past and gone.
I wouldn’t even have to pretend, she told herself unhappily. Just—turn to him, cling to him day and night as if he was every hope of heaven I’d ever had. And wait for him to get bored, which shouldn’t take too long—once he realises what’s happened, and that I could become a serious nuisance.
But before that, she thought, at least I will have tonight.
It was a very long afternoon, which eventually, with mind-numbing slowness, turned into evening. But Alex still did not return.
By the time Zeno came to her to tell her with faint awkwardness that Kyrios Alexandros would be dining at the port with friends and sent his regrets, Natasha had already prepared herself for disappointment and heard the news with a smiling calm that amazed her.
It was not a defeat, but a test of her resolve, she told herself. Later was simply going to be—much later. That was all.
When she had eaten, she watched a film from the DVD collection in the saloni without absorbing one word of the dialogue or one twist of the plot, then went quietly to her room.
She took a long, warm scented bath, put on the silver robe that Alex had given her and lay on top of the bed to wait.
No sleep, she told herself. Not tonight. No second thoughts, either.
She allowed midnight to pass, before making her way barefoot down the long passage to the master bedroom, wondering if she would find it empty, and if so what her next course of action should be.
If she would ever be brave enough to do this again.
As she twisted the handle the door opened noiselessly, and she slipped inside. The room was lit by the moonlight streaming in through its open glass doors, where Alex was standing, staring out into the night, a dark figure in his dressing gown, his back turned towards her.
She said his name, then repeated shyly, ‘Alex—mou.’
He turned slowly and looked at her, his brows drawing together as if he did not really believe what he was seeing.
She said, ‘I’m here now,’ deliberately repeating the words she’d used in his study hours before, then reached for the sash of her robe, untied it and shrugged the garment from her shoulders. Praying that this time he would not turn away.
He strode to her across the marble floor, sweeping her up into his embrace, his mouth fastening on hers in almost savage yearning, and her arms went round his neck, her fingers twining in his hair, holding him to her.
He carried her to the bed, threw off his own robe and entered her in what seemed like one agonised movement.
She came at once, taken unawares by the force of her own necessity, her body convulsing round him in spasm after spasm of unbearable delight, her voice crying out in shaken ecstasy against his shoulder, and he remained still, lying with her—within her—murmuring huskily to her in his own language, a hand smoothing her tumbled hair as he waited for her to recover.
But, as reality returned, shame at her own greed came with it and she closed her eyes, shielding her embarrassed face in the warm muscularity of his chest. He’d wanted her to want him, she thought, her mind reeling. And she’d given him incontrovertible proof that she did. But what else had she betrayed by her helpless, desperate response to him?
He said huskily, ‘Matia mou, my sweet one. Don’t try to hide from me. Your joy is mine.’
He began to kiss her slowly, his mouth paying sensuous homage to her eyes, her burning cheekbones and her parted lips, before moving down to her breasts, his tongue circling the excited rosy peaks in a leisurely, devastating caress, making her moan softly—helplessly—her head thrown back on the pillow.
And, because there was no longer any cause to pretend indifference or hold back in any way, she began to touch him in her turn, running her fingers through his dishevelled hair, still damp from the shower, then stroking her hands along the hard, muscular shoulders and down the strong
back to the powerful male buttocks and long thighs, his skin like warm satin under her fingertips.
Exploring his body—enjoying him with a delight that went beyond any fantasy.
And finding herself aroused anew, not just by her roving touch of him, and the heaven of his hands and mouth on her own body, but also by the overwhelming sensation created by the heated strength of him sheathed, waiting inside her.
By the knowledge that her desire for him had only been temporarily assuaged by his initial possession, and certainly not sated.
Because she was already stirring, slowly, restlessly beneath him, every nerve-ending in her flesh a tiny, separate flame. Arching towards him as she offered herself mutely for his satisfaction. And once more, it seemed, for hers…
Alex muttered something hoarse in his throat and began to move in his turn, his body thrusting deeply into her moist and trembling heat, establishing the powerful, irresistible rhythm that she remembered so well from the last time they’d made love.
Except that it wasn’t love, she thought from the small, sane corner of her brain that still remained, even as her body lifted to him—joined him in a rapturous and all-too-willing response. Or not love in the way she wanted—that she longed for with her entire soul. However passionate and heart-stopping, it was just an exchange of physical pleasure.
And then his mouth closed hungrily on hers and his hands were caressing her everywhere, stroking her thighs, her belly, her breasts, his fingertips teasing her aching nipples, and, for Natasha, all coherent thought ceased.
They were straining together faster now and ever more intensely, blind and deaf to everything but the wild spiral of their approaching consummation.
Both taken utterly by storm as the savage, pulsating ecstasy had its way with them, flinging them out together into some matchless void, their voices breaking as they cried out.
Afterwards they lay, still joined, their bodies slick with sweat, in a profound and shaking silence.
She thought, Don’t leave me, and did not realise she had spoken the words aloud until he said on a breath of husky laughter, ‘I am going nowhere, my beautiful one.’