by Sara Craven
He gave her an enigmatic look. ‘Some of your recipes are a little too ingenious, matia mou. Who knows? You might have gone wandering in the hills today and found some hemlock.’
‘With the Hound of the Baskervilles to keep me company?’ she asked sweetly. ‘Even I’m not that ingenious, kyrie. And where is Cerberus, by the way?’
‘He has gone back to his master,’ he said, ‘who lives in the village, not the Underworld. You miss the dog perhaps? You would like to have him as a pet while you are here?’
‘I can think of only a few things I would like less,’ Gemma said, still sweetly.
‘And I’m sure I don’t even have to ask what they are.’ He transferred the steaks deftly to plates and handed her one. ‘I hope you don’t intend to refuse this too.’
She would have loved to have had the moral strength to fling the steak off the terrace into the bushes, but she was so hungry she could have eaten the plate as well, so she merely smiled noncommittally as she watched him pour wine into her glass.
‘You don’t have a dog of your own?’
He shook his head. ‘I am here so little, it would not be fair.’
‘But then what is?’ Gemma said blandly. ‘I’ve seen a cat.’
‘Did you feed it?’
She hesitated. ‘Not really. I put down a few scraps this morning.’
‘Then I am only surprised you have not seen a hundred cats,’ he said. ‘They are not the sleek pampered pets you have in England. Here, they breed, and they beg.’ He gave her a sardonic smile. ‘And now we have finished with the animal kingdom, Gemma mou, what safe topic do you suggest for discussion next?’
She shrugged. ‘As far as I’m concerned, we don’t have to talk at all.’ She cut into her steak as if it were someone’s throat.
‘You have a gift for silence?’ His brows lifted. ‘An amazing quality in a woman.’
‘My speciality.’ She sipped her wine. ‘As chauvinist remarks seem to be yours.’
‘I specialise in other things as well,’ he said gently.
She glared at him mutely over the rim of her wine glass. There was a long pause, then Gemma said abruptly, ‘Did Michael have a special friend in the village? A man friend, I mean.’
‘Not that I am aware of. He knew Stavros, of course, and Maria’s brothers.’ He took more salad. ‘You have some reason for asking?’
‘Not really.’ She speared a piece of tomato. ‘It was just something Maria said to me. She told me Mike had gone to meet a friend, and I got the impression this friend could be Greek.’
‘It would be no one from this village.’ He frowned a little. ‘He no longer has friends here. But I believe he stayed in other places before he came to Loussenas.’
She sighed. ‘I suppose he must have done.’ And she had little chance of tracing any of these places, she thought despondently. Crete was a big island, and although she thought Mike in one of his infrequent letters had mentioned some place in the White Mountains, she couldn’t be sure.
She said, ‘I wouldn’t be too sure that it’s no one from this village. Perhaps not everyone thinks Maria’s the wronged maiden her family like to make out. I think she knows this friend of Michael’s because she got very angry when I pressed the point.’
‘Perhaps Maria does not think it necessary to keep her temper with the sister of her seducer,’ he said grimly. ‘Anyway, she had no right to be here. I shall speak to Stavros tomorrow.’
Go and speak to him now, Gemma prompted silently, and the last you’ll see of me will be the jeep’s tail lights disappearing down the mountainside.
But, of course, he did nothing of the sort. When she had finished her steak, he asked if she would like some fruit. She was on the point of refusing when she remembered that even if she was no longer hungry, fruit would be a way of prolonging the meal. But when he made to refill her glass, she hastily put her hand over it. It was heady stuff, she’d discovered already, and she needed to keep her wits about her.
He cleared the. plates and came back with a bowl of fruit, and two small cups of coffee, thick and rather bitter.
She said, ‘Is this what we call Turkish coffee?’ ‘You may, Gemma mou, but we do not. Relations between our countries have been strained and worse for generations.’
‘It’s sad,’ she said, half to herself. ‘Turkey’s such a near neighbour to Greece to be an enemy.’ ‘Everywhere in the world there are such problems.’ He shrugged slightly. ‘In the case of your own country, there is Ireland, I think.’
She took some grapes from the bowl, and began to eat them. They were the size of small plums, purple and thick with juice. There was silence between them, but the night was full of sounds— the chirping of cicadas in the undergrowth, the cry of a bird, far off, mournful and piercing, and closer at hand, music.
Gemma pushed back her chair, and went over to the balustrade. ‘What’s that?’
There was a moon, she noticed, a great golden ball swinging in the heavens on a chain of stars.
She heard him get up too. Was suddenly aware he was standing behind her, very close to her.
He said, ‘The music? They are having a celebration in the village.’
‘Don’t tell me.’ She kept her tone light, but she was acutely conscious of him, of his breath stirring her hair, the warmth of his body subtly penetrating her thin layer of clothing. ‘They’re having a public stoning.’
‘They are good people,’ he said quietly. ‘Under other circumstances, Gemma mou, you would think so too.’
His hand closed on her hip, swaying her backwards so that she was actually leaning against him. She felt his lips touch her ear, his teeth gently grazing the lobe, and she tensed. His mouth moved downwards, teasing a sensitive path down to the curve of her shoulder. The music in the distance was playing an insistent, insidious rhythm, and her pulses echoed it, while the moonlight swam behind her closed lids.
His other hand cupped her breast, caressing its rounded softness, before his fingers sought the hardening thrust of her nipple through the fabric of the shirt. The barrier of the material between his seeking and her urgency was a delicately erotic torment. She was suddenly scorched by the memory of his hands brushing against her bare breasts, and the knowledge of how desperately she needed to feel his hands on her body again shook her to the soul.
If she moved, even slightly, turned fully into his arms, offered him her mouth, then there would be no going back—and no escape either.
She whispered, ‘No’ frantically, and pulled away from him. She’d made her plans and no shock of desire, no fever of the blood, was going to stop her now. But was the choice even hers anymore, she wondered as his hands came down on her shoulders, turning her to face him.
His voice was deep, urgent. It made her shiver. ‘Forget, matia mou. Forget everything except that we are here together and we want each other.’
‘I can’t,’ she said hoarsely. ‘I can’t forget. You—you must give me more time—please. If you’ll wait, I’ll do anything you want, be anything you want—I swear it. Only not now, not yet, I beg you.’
She swallowed, waiting in a kind of agony for his reply.
She heard him murmur something which could have been an obscenity or a prayer, then his hand took her chin, turning her face up to his.
‘What are you trying to do to me, Gemma?’ he asked huskily. ‘Is this how you’ve treated your other men—putting them into hell while you offer them heaven?’
She shook her head, avoiding the intensity of his dark eyes. ‘That—that was a lie. There’s never been ... I’ve never .. .’ She stumbled to a halt. ‘Oh, I don’t expect you to believe me.’
‘No, I think that is the truth—at last,’ he said grimly. ‘Does it also explain your reluctance, I wonder?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘That—I cannot believe. You are not a child, but a beautiful woman.’
She flicked the tip of her tongue along her dry lips. ‘You said you’d be patient,’ she reminded him.
He smiled wryl
y. ‘And you catch me in my own trap, Gemma mou. If you remember too, I said my patience was not endless.’
She stared, as if mesmerised, at the open neck of his shirt and the black hair which shadowed the golden skin it revealed. ‘I remember.’ Her voice shook a little. ‘But it won’t be for much longer.’
‘Is that a promise?’ He was frowning slightly.
‘A promise.’
‘Then we have a bargain.’ He paused. ‘You are a creature of moods, Gemma. One moment a virago, screaming abuse at me—the next, a cooing dove. Which, I wonder, is nearest the truth— nearest the woman who lives behind your eyes?’ He brushed a gentle finger across her lids. ‘The woman who wishes to spend yet another night alone.’
He released her, and she stepped back, trying to stem the flood of relief rising inside her in case it showed, and made him suspicious. But he turned away, pouring himself more wine, and she seized the opportunity to slip away. She washed the dishes and put them away, then went up to her room. She glanced into his room, and saw the keys still there on the chest. She gave them a longing glance, and hoped Andreas wasn’t planning on spending half the night on the terrace drinking wine and listening to the music.
She didn’t undress, but slipped as she was under the covering sheet. She was nervous and excited, but made herself relax, because she might have to wait quite a while. In the end, she dozed a little, and eventually woke with a start, convinced it was morning and her chance to escape missed completely.
But the room was still bright with moonlight, and the house was filled with a deep quietness.
She slid out of bed and padded to the door, opening it cautiously and listening. Still no sound.
She crept back into the bathroom and collected her toilet bag. It was all she possessed in the world, and she had no intention of leaving it behind, although it seemed she was forced to abandon the rest of her belongings for the time being. Including her passport and her travellers cheques, she thought, biting her lip. But she’d be back for them, bringing the authorities with her.
She tiptoed across the passage. His door was closed, but the handle turned easily and quietly under her fingers, and she slid into the room like a little ghost.
All she had to do was pick up the keys and go, but something impelled her to take one last look at him. He was asleep, half-turned on to his side, his skin very dark against the stark whiteness of the bedlinen. The rumpled sheet draped across his hips in no way disguised the fact that he was naked.
He looked younger, she thought with an odd little catch of the breath, with some of that proud arrogance muted by slumber.
For a long moment, she stood, staring down at him, her mind playing tricks, her imagination taking her down paths she had never before wanted to tread. Then, her lower lip caught in her teeth to bite back what might have been a sigh, she tiptoed to the chest and picked up the keys with infinite care.
She seemed to be saying goodbye with every step of the stairs as she descended. Her captivity had lasted hours rather than days, but already in some strange way the house seemed as familiar to her as—as her own home in England. She gave herself an angry mental shake. She should be thanking her stars she was escaping, relatively unscathed, not indulging in stupid and unnecessary nostalgia.
The jeep was parked off the track just under the wall. She approached it with a certain amount of trepidation. But—she could drive, therefore it followed that she could drive this, and the fact that her licence was in England, and she was not insured were details she hoped she would never have to discuss with anyone.
She slid in behind the wheel, and felt for the ignition. She tried each key in turn, and because it was dark and she was nervous, she missed the right one, and had to start again. This time, she counted them off in her head as she used them. And again, by some mischance, she missed.
Get a grip, she adjured herself silently, taking a deep breath. Third time has to be lucky.
He said, ‘Those are the keys to my sports car, Gemma. Do you think I am quite a fool?’
She almost screamed, and the keys fell clattering to the floor of the jeep. She bent to retrieve them, but he was there before her, picking them up with one hand, clasping her wrist with the other.
His voice went on mockingly, ‘You were almost convincing, my cooing dove, with your virginal fears. But at the same time, I was sure you could not resist the bait, if it was offered.’ Insolently he dangled the keys in front of her. ‘And I was right.’
Her voice shook. ‘Damn you to hell.’
He grinned. ‘The return of the virago. I am not sure I do not welcome it. I wonder how many other facets of your personality I shall discover before the night is over?’ His grip tightened on her wrist. ‘Now come with me.’
She had no choice. She realised now there had never really been one. She had been playing a game, but he’d been dictating the rules, every step of the way. And, when he wished, changing them.
In the living room, he had lit a lamp. He had dragged on a pair of jeans, but he was barefoot, bare-chested, and she looked at the lithe body which would soon possess her own, and knew that he had the power to possess her soul too. And she knew she could not let that happen. She remembered Maria’s words, ‘Andreas wearies quickly of his women’ with a pang. That was what she had to guard against—the moment when he sent her away, because he had no further use for her as an instrument of vengeance, or more damagingly, as a woman.
He said, ‘You are shivering, matia mou.’ He held out a hand to her. The gesture and the smile which went with it teased and beckoned. ‘Let me warm you.’
She took a quick breath. ‘No.’ She turned away, turning her back quite deliberately on the outstretched hand, and the lure it offered of warmth, of laughter, of passion—and, ultimately, of a heartbreak which could destroy her.
He sighed sharply. ‘Gemma, don’t be a fool. You knew from the first...’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You made the position perfectly clear. I know why I’m here, and I know what you intend to do.’
The smile was back in his voice. ‘My sweet one, I intend to make love to you.’
She shook her head, staring blindly at the wall. ‘No—not love. Earlier today, you spelled out exactly what it would be—“a brief sordid association”. Those were your words.’
‘Yes.’ His tone roughened. ‘But I spoke of Maria and your brother, not of ourselves. You misunderstood ...’
‘I’ve never misunderstood.’ Her throat felt tight. ‘I know why I’m here, in this situation. And I know that you’ll never let me go until I’ve paid this—this unspeakable debt for Michael. So I will—pay. I accept that’s the way it has to be.’ She took another long breath. ‘And I won’t fight. I—I won’t try and stop you. You can have me. But that’s all you’ll have.’ She bent her head and stared down at the floor. ‘So—so don’t try and dress it up with talk of making love, or—or wanting because that’s not part of it.’
‘You think I don’t want you?’ There was an odd note in his voice.
‘I don’t think about it at all, because I don’t care.’ Her throat felt constricted. ‘If going to bed with you is my passport out of here, then I’ll go. But—please—no more cat-and-mouse games, and no more talk about making love. Just—do what you want and get it over with.’
There was a long and terrible silence, then he said very quietly, ‘You do not know what you are saying.’
She nodded. ‘But I do. There’s no way you can make this easy for me, so I’d be grateful if you could at least be quick. If you wouldn’t mind,’ she added, like a polite child.
‘But I do mind.’ His voice was like molten steel. ‘And you will mind too, Gemma. You are not made of wood, so why pretend that you have no feelings?’
‘Because it’s better to have none,’ she said. ‘If I allowed myself to feel something, it would be hate—hate for you for bringing me here, hate for myself, for being a woman.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t want to feel those things—they’r
e damaging, destructive.’
‘And indifference is not?’ he challenged.
She said wearily, ‘I don’t know. But it’s all I have.’
There was another silence, then he said with cold courtesy, ‘Then let it be as you wish.’
They went to his room. She watched him straighten the bed, shake up the pillows, then turned away hastily as he began to unzip his jeans. If she’d secretly hoped that her defiant speech would kill any desire he had for her stone-dead, then she’d miscalculated, she thought wearily.
He said, ‘I am waiting.’
She risked a quick glance. He was in bed, propped on one elbow, watching her, his eyes as black as onyx, and as hard.
Gemma cleared her throat. ‘Would you put out the lamp please?’
‘No.’
As she unwound the sash, she tried to comfort herself with the reminder that he’d seen her in the shower only that afternoon. That, outwardly at least, her body no longer held any secrets for him. But it did not prevent her from fumbling every button.
The walk across the room to the bed seemed the longest she had ever taken. She slid under the sheet and lay next to him, not touching. Her pulses sounded like thunder in her ears. She wondered if he could hear them top.
He put out a hand, and gently stroked a tress of hair back from her forehead.
He said, ‘My Gemma, it does not have to be like this between us, and you know it. Turn to me, sweet one. I promise I will make you happy.’
And afterwards unhappy, she thought. When it’s over.
She didn’t look at him. ‘No—this is how it must be.’
He said harshly, ‘So be it then. Am I permitted to kiss you—caress you—or would that simply prolong your agony?’ He paused, and when she didn’t reply gave a short laugh. ‘I see. Then, if nothing else, my dove, relax for me, otherwise you will feel pain.’
She felt pain already. It filled her heart and mind. It swamped the universe, but she welcomed it because it helped her to remain detached as his hand swept a slow, remorseless path down her body.