by Julia James
Nikos and me—living here—in my dream of bliss and happy ever after…
For brief, piercing moments she had been able to see it, so real, so real!
What if my dream had come true? What if now, four years later, we were here, together?
She had felt the ache in her heart. Four years had not diminished one iota Nikos’s impact on her! He must be thirty-two now, and his blazing masculinity had only matured. In her mind’s eye she saw his imprint—the familiar twist of his beautiful mouth, the achingly lush sweep of his eyelashes, the drowning darkness of his eyes. Nothing had been lost from all that she had been so fascinated by! He was still the most devastating man she had ever set eyes on—could ever set eyes on—setting her pulse beating like a bird in flight…
Danger had flickered like a hot flame.
Making her start back.
No! To think of Nikos again was madness—and to let herself imagine herself here with him nothing less than insanity!
Furiously, she had roused herself from her memory and opened at random another pair of double doors, hating herself for having allowed such thoughts entrance to her head. But the moment she’d stepped into the next room she had wished she had not. Her eyes had gone instantly to the grand piano in the centre of the room. Without conscious volition, she had found herself walking towards it, lifting up the heavy, dusty folds of the cover. The dark, gleaming wood beneath had brought a stab to her chest. How long had it been since she had last played? Abruptly she had dropped the cover, stepped back and turned on her heel out of the room, refusing to look back at the instrument.
She didn’t like to see pianos any more. They only rammed home to her the total ruination of her life—a life she had once taken utterly for granted.
That was now gone for ever.
Angrily, she had marched back through the padded baize door into the servants’ quarters, which led, meanderingly, to the housekeeper’s wing. Her anger had been directed at herself, for having even for the briefest moment entertained such pointless, fatuous fantasy.
Her and Nikos, living happily ever after…
The sharpened blade had slid into her all over again, and she’d wrenched it out viciously. Oh, God, why, why had he walked back into her life? Hadn’t she enough to cope with without this fresh torment?
Blindly, she had plunged out into the little walled garden, and now, after four days, she had made it her sole focus.
Her refuge.
It had drawn her from the moment she’d arrived. An old-fashioned walled kitchen garden, long smothered by weeds.
What had made her so determined to clear away what she could she didn’t know—only that the mindless, repetitive work gave her occupation and brought her solace. Armed with some rusting tools she’d found in an outhouse, she’d set to, ripping out weeds and digging through the packed earth. Already she had found hidden treasures—a bed of ripening strawberries which, once cleared of choking weeks, was yielding ruby fruits day on day.
The hours passed soothingly. Hot and sunny in the sheltered domain, with the scents of summer all around her, the vegetation verdant and lush. The quietness was interrupted only by birdsong, the somnolent buzz of bees and insects, and the air wafted by the breeze soughing in the trees beyond the walls. Sophie considered that an aching back and broken fingernails were a small price to pay for what she was getting in return—a blessed break from the grinding, bleak drudgery of her existence. A blessed break, too, even if only short-lived, from the constant anxiety and dread that now consumed her life.
Only one thing flawed her peace—an image she could not expunge from her mind. An image that burned with fresh pain, fresh bitterness, and that was as vivid, as indelible as it had ever been throughout the last four punishing, nightmare years: Nikos Kazandros, who had once been her foolish, puerile fantasy of happy ever after, and who was now only her torment.
Vehemently, she attacked the obdurate, deep-rooted weeds running riot in the soil as if she were digging out a far, far more invasive intruder into her memory, her thoughts…her very being.
All the way down the motorway, as the low-slung, powerful car cruised through the miles at a constant high speed, over-taking everything else on the road, Nikos knew he was in two minds. Two minds that weren’t going to come together. Could never come together.
One mind told him very, very clearly that he really, adamantly, definitely shouldn’t be doing this.
The other mind told him that there was nothing untoward whatsoever in doing it. It was a simple, rational, ordinary decision. Nothing to have doubts about.
After all, why should it be? His secretary had informed him that the particular historical architectural consultant he wanted, one of the country’s leading experts on the period in question, would at short notice, owing to a cancellation, be able to meet him and go over the property with him. There was no absolute necessity for him to meet the man—he could, if he wished, simply hand the project over to one of his managers. But still, the architect in question was prestigious—knighted by the Queen, no less—and a recognised expert whose priority was restoration, not profit. Nikos did not want to come across as nothing more than a foreign businessman to whom the commercial aspects of the acquisition took precedence over the imperative of cultural preservation. Besides, no commercial gain could be realised if the restoration was not carried out perfectly, and by using this particular expert it would lend considerable cachet to the enterprise as a whole.
So Nikos’s foot pressed down on the accelerator, and the powerful car scythed forward. It made sound, hard-headed business sense to meet the man today and expedite the restoration project thereby. And hard-headed business decisions were what Nikos always made. Unswayed by any other considerations.
His mouth tightened. There had been one time and one time only when he had nearly broken that rule.
He never had since.
Which was why he could right now afford to ignore the nagging that was going on in the other half of his mind. The one that said that he should have postponed this trip for a fortnight, that the last thing he should be doing was going within a hundred miles of the place.
Another thought flickered in his mind. He should have brought one of his managers with him. That would have been sensible. He’d need to appoint someone to oversee the project and report progress to him, so he really should have made a selection from his London team and driven down with him now.
A shrug moved his powerful shoulders. Well, he hadn’t. That was all. He was meeting the architect on his own, and that was that. The project manager he appointed could make his own contact with the architect’s consultancy office and take over from there. There was no need for him to be at this initial meeting.
Silencing the nagging, he went on driving.
Sophie leaned back on her heels and surveyed her handiwork. It really was encouraging how much better the garden looked now, after four solid days of clearing and digging. Pointless it might be, if no one continued her work and it went to weeds again, but at least it was within the scope of a single person to tackle it.
The place had become her haven. She welcomed the solitude, the absence of anyone else, and if it had been a little unnerving the first night to be so alone she had swiftly got used to it, welcoming the nocturnal silence punctuated only by the hooting of owls and the occasional bark of a fox. During the days no one came, and she relished the uninterrupted peace and quiet.
Stretching her muscles, she picked up the trowel again.
And stilled.
A car engine. A low, throaty note. Clearly approaching the house along the front drive. For a second she froze, then made herself stand up, ear cocked. She heard the car come to a halt and the engine cut out. There was a pause, then the slam of a door. Then nothing again.
She went on standing motionless, trowel in one hand, listening for any more evidence of who had just driven up.
A bad feeling started to go through her. She knew the kind of car that made that kind of
She wondered what to do. Retreat inside? Shut the doors and windows? Pretend she wasn’t in? Almost she gave a nervous laugh, then stifled it. Oh, what the hell did she care if Nikos turned up here? What was it to her? Nothing—nothing at all! Just as she was nothing to him. Nothing. Ever again.
She dropped down to her heels and started attacking the nettles again, viciously jabbing at the soil around them so she could root them out. Root them out without them stinging her. Just as she had had to root out Nikos from her life—her heart. Her memory.
But digging him out had stung her mortally.
Nikos stared tight-lipped around him. There was no sign whatsoever of the damn architect! Irritably he glanced at his watch. It was dead on the hour of the appointment. He was never late for appointments—his time was too valuable for that. His mouth tightened even more. But that was apparently not a view shared by this prestigious historic house expert! Well, he would give the man five minutes, no more, then phone his PA and get her to find out what the hell was going on. In the meantime he might as well take another look at the place.
He had authorised its acquisition in the new year, and had visited it once, in February. Nikos had got the impression then of a house on the edge of serious ruin—one that had not, by any means, looked its best on that damp, bleak winter’s day. But now…
He gazed around, an approving expression forming on his face. Yes, it had been a shrewd acquisition. The place needed massive restoration, but once completed its value would be beyond debate—a prestigious addition to his portfolio.
He started to walk along the frontage of the façade, glancing up and around, seeing in his mind’s eye the perfected restoration of its classical proportions. But even as he did so he was conscious of a mental distraction.
Nothing to do with the tardy architect.
Everything to do with the temporary house guest inhabiting the former housekeeper’s quarters.
His expression morphed. No longer approving, it became harder, harsher, with a cynical twist to his mouth now.
So how was the pampered profligate faring? She must be climbing the walls with boredom by now, repulsed by the humble surroundings she was being forced to live in. She who had always stepped so daintily through life, cushioned by her father’s wealth and his pampering devotion, taking it all for granted, never worrying her beautiful blond head about the necessities of life. Drifting through it gracefully, artistically, carefree and lovely.
Memory, sliding like a stiletto into the soft, vulnerable tissues of his mind, came to him. Her face uplifted, so beautiful, her expression so tender, her pale long hair like a waterfall down her slender back.
He forced it aside. Conjured instead the memory of how she’d looked that evening in the hotel bar, in her tawdry glamour, designed to allure in the cheapest way. Yes, that was what he must remember. All that he must remember. That and the ugly truth that had lain beneath the surface of the girl he had once known, who had once meant so much to him. The truth that she had so recklessly revealed to him just in the very nick of time, before he had done something fatally stupid…
Restlessly, he turned the corner of the house and strode along the crunching, weed-infested terrace, bathed in sunshine that highlighted the broken flags and lichened balustrade. A long, stone wall, two metres high and more, curved away at the far end of the terrace, shielding the rear portions of the house where functional quarters had once been inhabited by the several dozen staff it would have taken to keep a property like this in pristine condition. Inset along the wall was a studded gate. He headed towards it, half curious as to what lay beyond, half glancing at his watch to see whether he should phone his PA yet.
The door was heavy, and grating, and did not open easily. But he shouldered it with a forcible push and it yielded. Beyond was what must once have been a kitchen garden, now completely run to weeds. A further wall bounded it on the far side, and he headed towards that too. Another studded door to shoulder open. Again he stepped through.
And stopped dead.
It was Sophie. He saw her instantly. Sophie kneeling on a brick pathway, her back to him. Even as he recognised her she twisted round jerkingly, having heard the doorway forced open.
She froze. For a second Nikos neither moved nor spoke.
Then, abruptly, she scrambled to her feet.
Emotion shot through Nikos. A jumble, a tangle. Inconsistent and confused.
Sophie. Sophie so utterly, totally and completely not the way his last image of her was. Sophie a million miles away from the tawdry vamp in her cheap, tarty finery, face plastered in make-up, eyes like black holes, lashes clotted with mascara, mouth a scarlet slash. This Sophie could not have been more different. She was wearing some kind of faded cotton trousers, he dimly registered, with an equally faded T-shirt, and her hair was pulled up high on her head in a ponytail, then twisted round loosely into a straggling knot. Her face was completely bare of make-up—unless the streak of what looked like dried earth across one cheekbone could class as such. Another smear of dried earth was on the thigh of her right trouser leg, and there was a snaggle of goosegrass caught on her shoulder. Her right hand was clutching a trowel as if for dear life.
He stepped towards her, a frown creasing his brow at the total change in her. Automatically she took a step backwards. The movement irritated him—annoyed him. Made him speak more sharply than he’d meant.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
She flinched. He could see it. But her chin went up. Two flags of colour flared across her cheeks, as though some emotion were running in her.
‘Gardening,’ she answered shortly. Then, even more shortly, ‘I’m sorry if I’m not supposed to—’
He frowned, but not at the tone of her voice. ‘Why are you doing it?’ This was not what he had in a million years thought he would find her doing.
‘It’s something to do,’ she said. Her voice was still abrupt, her mind still desperately trying to get some degree of control back. She felt as if she’d just been knocked for six, looking up to see Nikos striding up to her out of nowhere. ‘And it obviously needs doing,’ she heard herself going on. ‘This place is going to rack and ruin.’
Her words jogged Nikos’s recollection that he was waiting for the damn architect to show up. Impatiently, he yanked out his mobile and phoned his PA.
Taking hasty advantage of his preoccupation, Sophie bolted indoors, cheeks still burning, heart pounding suddenly. Oh, God, why had Nikos turned up? How could she cope with him being here? She plunged into the kitchen and started vigorously washing her soil-smeared hands, as if she could wash Nikos down the plughole at he same time. Her heart was still hammering away, and she could feel panic rising in her. With harsh, deep breaths, she fought for control.
Outside, Nikos registered that she’d raced away even as his PA picked up the phone. A moment later and his annoyance had deepened. The architect had been delayed, and wanted the appointment rearranged for the following day. Angrily agreeing, he hung up and slipped the phone back into his jacket pocket. The gesture suddenly made him aware of how hot he was.
He strode indoors, finding himself in a poky living room, giving way to an equally poky kitchen beyond, where he could hear the sound of a tap running. He ducked his head beneath the low lintel and went in. The coolness of the interior was a relief, the thick walls keeping the heat out. At the kitchen sink Sophie was scrubbing her hands.
‘Is that drinking water?’ he asked, his voice still abrupt, both from his annoyance with the architect and from seeing Sophie again. Why the latter should be disturbing him only annoyed him more.
She snapped her head round, as if she had not expected him to be there.
‘Yes,’ she answered. She didn’t want him coming near her, so she seized an up ended glass from the draining board, filled it up, and placed it on the kitchen table, averting her gaze deliberately.
Murmuring a brief thanks, Nikos drank the contents down in one. The water was chill, and tasted good. Reviving. He glanced about him. Sophie was scrubbing her nails with a nailbrush, vigorously and busily. He watched her go on doing it for some moments. Finally, as if she could occupy herself no longer, she turned off the tap, seized a dishtowel, and dried her hands—just as vigorously and busily. Then she turned and faced Nikos. She couldn’t go on staring at the kitchen wall for ever.
Instead, she found herself staring at something much more disastrous.
Nikos. Nikos a few feet from her. Nikos looking a million dollars in one of his hand-made suits, moulding his tall, lean body, tailored to perfection, just as the body beneath was honed to perfection. Just as his incredible face was. Perfection.
Unlike her. She was cruelly, humiliatingly aware of what she looked like—dirty and sweaty and caught totally unawares. Well, she wouldn’t feel that way—why should she? Why should she care what Nikos thought of her ever again?
And yet there was something she did have to say to him. She was burningly conscious of it. She didn’t want to, but she knew she had to. Even so, it came out gratingly.
‘Thank you for lending me the money. I’ll pay it back as soon as I can, but I can’t do it quickly—I’m sorry.’
Did surprise flicker in those night-dark eyes? She didn’t know. Didn’t want to look. Nor did it matter, after all—just as nothing about his reaction to her mattered.
He gave a shrug of his broad, elegantly clothed shoulders.
‘It’s not important. Getting you away from London, away from the gutter’s edge, was important.’
Sophie felt her jaw tighten. ‘I’ll pay it back,’ she persisted. How she had no idea. Nor when. But pay it back she would—if it took her years! She would not be beholden to Nikos Kazandros!
He gave another dismissive shrug and she felt anger bite in her. He couldn’t have made it clearer that he couldn’t care less about losing five thousand pounds! It was chickenfeed to him. To her it was—salvation.
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