From Dirt to Diamonds

by Julia James

  It had shaken her—and as she got back into the limo she knew her tension was sky-high again. Yet Angelos did not speak to her until, back in the suite, he turned to her. She was standing, not sure what to do, in the middle of the room.

  ‘It’s really quite remarkable,’ he said. His eyes rested on her. ‘If I didn’t know the truth about you I would be as fooled as anyone. You’re unrecognisable from five years ago.’

  He flicked his dark gaze up and down her, as she stood, immobile, making her face expressionless. Then he turned away, and she felt her muscles sag in reaction.

  ‘I’ve work to do,’ he said dismissively. ‘Tomorrow you can do what you wish, but we need to leave for the concert hall by seven. Dress code is black tie.’

  She took her dismissal, and escaped to the refuge of her bedroom.

  Against all her expectations, Thea slept well. Maybe she was just compensating for the previous sleepless night. When she woke it was already ten o’clock. Tentatively she ventured from her room. There was no sign of Angelos, and no sound from his room. After a while she relaxed, knowing he was not there. Nevertheless, she dressed swiftly and left the hotel. It was a dull morning, threatening rain, and she took coffee and a roll for breakfast in a café. Her mood was strange. She seemed remote, dissociated from herself and the rest of the world—dissociated, too, from memories of Giles, the man she had thought she was going to marry but who now seemed as unreal as if she had dreamt him.

  She spent the rest of the day exploring Geneva, walking along the lake’s edge. A slight wind was ruffling the surface of the dark water. Finding an unoccupied bench, she sat down, looking out over the lake, at the clouds scudding overhead.

  This is an interlude in my life. Nothing more. It’s a question of getting through the days, reaching the end. I don’t know when the end will be, but it will come. At some point he will let me go. Until then—I must wait. Just wait.

  For a moment longer she looked out, unblinking, out across the lake. Then, with an intake of breath, as if to mark a decision to think no more for now, she opened her bag and got out her book to read—a pocket history of the city.

  She got back to the hotel in good time, bathed and dressed herself. Then emerged from her room a few minutes before seven. Angelos was already there.

  Her eyes went to him immediately, as they always did. But now, as she looked at him, she felt her breath catch—hate herself though she did for it. She had never seen him in evening dress before. It made any man look good, she knew. But on a man like Angelos Petrakos it was—breathtaking. The stark formality of the tuxedo, the dazzling white of the shirt sheathing his powerful frame, contrasting with the black bow tie, was devastating in its impact. She felt it jolting through her, rendering her incapable of doing anything but staring at him, taking him in. Feeling his power …

  He’d been talking on his mobile, but he finished his call, turning to inspect her. She held herself rigidly steady, refusing to react to him.

  ‘Another elegant outfit,’ he murmured, eyes flickering over the black silk evening trousers topped with a long-waisted, long-sleeved silk jacket faintly threaded with silver. Tonight she was not wearing pearls, but a filigree silver necklace that fitted into the narrow vee between the revers of her jacket, and long, graceful silver earrings. Her hair, as ever, was in its customary chignon.

  ‘Models get discounts,’ she said carelessly, stepping into the elevator.

  He made no reply, and they travelled down in silence, but Thea was aware of his gaze on her. Aware, too, of his presence at her side, of the faint tang of aftershave and, deeper than that, of a shivering sense of his raw, ruthless masculinity.

  It persisted, to her growing discomfort, through the evening ahead. All through the concert as she sat beside him—too close, far, far too close!—she could feel his presence there. Feel the heat of his body, the long line of his leg so close to hers, feel his shoulder almost graze hers. She kept her hands doggedly in her lap, not using the armrest at all lest her arm brush against the smooth, svelte sleeve of his dinner jacket.

  But though she was not touching him he was there all the same. Far too close. Far too real. Doggedly, she determined to concentrate only on the music. To appreciate the opportunity to listen to a world-famous orchestra, see a world-famous conductor and soloist, in acoustically the best seats in the house.

  She wished, though, it had not been Rachmaninov. The lush, lavish tones of the second symphony poured over her, disturbing her senses, arousing her emotions. She felt its power dissolving her rigidly imposed control. The music seemed to strip it away, making her feel things she did not want to feel. Arousing emotions she did not want aroused. She sought to hold herself immobile in her seat, spine straight, hands still, but the music swayed through her, crescendo after crescendo. And always the perpetual consciousness of the dark, disturbing presence of Angelos Petrakos at her side.

  The second half of the concert was Shostakovich, and all the lushness of Rachmaninov was swept away in stormy discordance. She was glad of that, too. But when the concert finally ended it appeared their evening was not yet over. Angelos made his way with her up to a spacious private function VIP salon, where there was some kind of reception going on. Just as he had the night before, Angelos introduced her to whoever he talked to, and Thea found herself in the same kind of social situation. She performed her allotted role perforce, discussing the concert or any other subject that came up, sipping sparkling mineral water and orange juice, allowing herself a little of the delicious-looking buffet.

  But if the polyglot social-chitchat was easy enough, coping with Angelos’s constant presence at her side was not.

  It seemed to be getting worse, her consciousness of him.

  He was standing far too close to her. The space was crowded, with groups forming and breaking up, waiters circling with trays of drinks and canapés, and she felt his body always too close to hers, felt herself oppressed by his nearness whenever his sleeve brushed her arm or once—worst of all, and making her spine freeze—when his hand grazed the small of her back to draw her aside and let a waiter come by. She knew there was nothing she could do—they were in a social setting, and she could not react by pulling sharply away, biting out at him vehemently. Instead she had to continue smiling, conversing, being polite, courteous, civil, as the occasion warranted.

  And all the time beneath the surface she felt like a radio receiver set to maximum—and to a single frequency. Hyper awareness of Angelos—his presence, his voice, his occasional low laugh that seemed to vibrate somewhere very deep in her bones, a disturbing, debilitating frisson.

  It worsened on the way back to the hotel, in the confines of the limo, though she did her best to stare out of the window.

  ‘Did you really enjoy the concert, or were you merely mouthing politely?’

  The question made her head turn. In the shadowy light the strong planes of Angelos’s features seemed more overpowering than ever.

  ‘Why should you want to know?’ she countered.

  ‘I’m curious about you,’ he answered. His eyes rested on her in the dim light.

  His scrutiny disturbed her. ‘I can’t possibly like classical music?’ she riposted sarcastically.

  ‘The Kat Jones I knew would not.’

  She gave a half-shrug. ‘That’s why I became Thea. No one,’ she went on, and found her voice had tightened, ‘should be Kat Jones. No one should be that ignorant, that uneducated.’

  ‘So why were you? Ignorant and uneducated? Schooling is free in Britain.’

  She gave another shrug. ‘You can lead a horse to water … I was like far too many children from that background. I simply thought my teachers were trying to control me, and everything they tried to teach me seemed pointless, stupid and boring. I wouldn’t play their game, and I thought that made me smarter than those docile morons who did.’

  Why was she saying this? she thought. Why tell him anything? Why talk to him? Why acknowledge his existence? Yet she was, all the
same, though she did not know why.

  ‘What changed you?’

  She looked at him. ‘You did,’ she said.

  There was a moment’s silence. Then she spoke again.

  ‘You destroyed Kat Jones. So I stopped being her.’

  The dark, long-lashed eyes narrowed. ‘Did you, Kat?’

  ‘Yes. And if you destroy Thea Dauntry I’ll become someone else. Because you’ll never destroy me. I won’t let you. Whatever you do to me, I’ll survive it. I’ll survive everything. I’ll survive you.’

  Her eyes held his. Held them and would not back down. The car travelled on, turning a wide corner, and her gaze broke.

  Why on earth did I say that? What for?

  Her eyes looked out at the anonymous rain-wet streets. What was she doing here, in this city she did not know, with the man who was her persecutor? Why had the twists and turns of her life brought her here, to this moment, to this man? Her eyes flicked back to him. He was looking at her, and she broke the gaze again. But his image stayed imprinted, shadowy, disturbing, on her retina.

  Why this man?

  The words echoed in her head. Why this man?

  But she did not know the answer.

  Her dreams that night were confused, disturbing, filled with the lush, impassioned strains of Rachmaninov. She woke, music still echoing in her ears, to find sunshine pouring into the room and Angelos still in the suite, breakfasting. Stiffly, she took her place, shaking out a pristine white napkin over her lap and reaching for the freshly squeezed orange juice. As she poured her juice it registered on her that he was not wearing his customary business suit. Instead he was wearing a grey cashmere sweater, and it made him look, she realised, with yet another jangle to her stretched nerves, disturbingly different from his usual power-suited self.

  Before she could wonder why he wasn’t in a suit, he spoke. ‘Today,’ he announced, as he poured himself a refill of coffee, ‘we shall be leaving Geneva. I’d like to get going right after breakfast, so please ensure you are packed.’

  She only nodded, refusing to ask where their next destination was. High powered business types like him, she knew, travelled the world constantly, and presumably yet another private jet would be waiting for him this morning.

  But when they exited the hotel, waiting at the kerb was not the customary smoked-glass-windowed limo, but a sleek, low, powerful, luxury high-performance car. The doorman hurried to open the passenger door for her, and the parking valet to open the driver’s door for Angelos. Thea lowered herself in warily. What was going on? Where were they going? But she would not ask, and Angelos did not enlighten her even when they were clear of the city and its environs on a road that seemed to be heading decidedly towards the mountains.

  So she merely sat still as they climbed steadily up increasingly tortuous roads into the mountains. Snow still capped their peaks, glistening in the brilliant sun which turned the Alpine pastures to verdant green and the pine forests to a dark lustre, transformed the rushing streams that the road crossed in its climb to sparkling diamonds. Watching the dramatic scenery gave her something to do—something to distract her from Angelos’s presence. Yet from the corner of her eye she could still see the strong curve of his hands on the wheel, the glint of sun on the dark glasses he had slid over his eyes. The sense of his presence was, as ever, overpowering.

  How long the journey took she didn’t register, but it must have been a good couple of hours. They’d driven through several towns, the last one clearly a ski resort in winter, but now they were leaving it behind and climbing up a narrow road marked by snow poles, rising steeply into the mountains towards a col that was visible in the distance. Then, abruptly, the car turned off even this road and started to snake slowly, with its low suspension, up an unmetalled track towards a wide stand of pine trees about half a mile further ahead. Any sign of human habitation had been left far down in the valley.

  As the car rounded the base of the stand of pine trees the unmetalled track opened out and revealed, cantilevered out over the steep slope of the mountainside, a large wooden chalet with a sharply angled roof and wrap-around wooden balconies at several levels. It was spectacularly sited—as if hanging on to the edge of the mountain. Angelos slewed the car to a halt near the entrance, which was bedecked with flower baskets full of trailing geraniums. Several people were issuing out of the chalet—a middle-aged man, a younger one and a maid.

  Angelos cut the engine and got out of the car, greeting the older man in German and nodding at the younger members of staff. As Thea got out of the climate-controlled interior of the car she felt her lungs seize. The air was crystal, sharp and clear, the sunlight dazzling. She gazed about her, breathing deeply. The setting of the huge chalet was breathtaking, but she could only stare around her for the time it took for Angelos to ushered her forward, pausing briefly to introduce the staff to her. She smiled politely at them, glad that they seemed to speak fluent English. Indoors, as Thea looked around a large hall with a sweeping wooden staircase leading to the upper levels, was the kind of rustic luxury that only real wealth could afford. A huge fireplace with antlers on the wall above, everything wood-panelled, wood-floored, solid furniture gleaming with the patina of assiduous polishing, and warm rugs and carpets in abundance. Although the style was simple, it was clear a great deal of money had been spent on it. Yet nothing was ostentatious, and the overall effect was warm and appealing.

  The maid took her upstairs, showing her into a spacious, sunny bedroom in the same solid, wood-dominated style, and Thea’s eyes were drawn immediately to the doors leading out on to the balcony at this level. Thanking the maid, who had started to unpack for her, she wandered out.

  The view was incredible! She had realised it must be spectacular, but actually standing here, poised over the edge of the mountain, it was as if she was almost a bird in flight, soaring down from the high peak. The clarity of the air caught at her lungs again, and as she gazed about the snow-capped peaks were impossible to look at in the brilliant sunshine. She wrapped her hands around the sun-warmed wood of the balustrade and gave a sigh of pleasure.

  ‘Is that a vote in favour?’

  A deep, half-drawling voice sounded from along the balcony, and Thea’s head whipped round. Angelos had emerged from what she assumed must be the master bedroom, further along. He strolled towards her.

  He was still wearing his sunglasses, and for the first time Thea was looking at him straight on. She felt a jab of dismay. Why, oh why, did sunglasses do for him what they were so obviously doing? And not just to him—to her …

  ‘The view is amazing,’ she said, her voice stiff, but she felt it would be unfair to the unknown architect of the chalet to deny it.

  ‘You don’t suffer from vertigo, I take it?’ remarked Angelos.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ he warned, ‘do not lean over too far, and when you are outdoors be careful. The paths can be treacherous, with scree that’s unstable, and it is easy to lose your balance if you too near to any sheer drops. Don’t emulate the goats—they are bred to the mountains!’ A half-smile tugged at his mouth, and Thea realised with a strange twist inside that it made his features less severe.

  ‘You must be hungry after the drive. Lunch awaits us. Come.’

  He led the way past her and down a level—the lower level of the balcony was linked to the upper by a flight of open-tread wooden stairs. The lower balcony was wider yet, almost a terrace, and a table with a red-checked tablecloth had been set out, laid for a meal. The manservant helped her to her seat, and she murmured, ‘Danke,’ which was about all the German she knew, apart from bitte.

  The manservant answered something in German which sounded odd.

  ‘Switzerdeutsch,’ said Angelos to Thea. ‘Swiss-German. Don’t even try and understand it! Even I find it very hard still.’ He nodded a smile at the manservant, who said something in more normal-sounding German, to which Angelos responded, again with a smile.

  It was weird to
see him smile. Weird to see him without a business suit. Weird to see him with the sun glinting off his dark hair. The sun was still dazzling, and the manservant crossed to the wall and operated a mechanism which resulted in an awning extending to shield the sun from their eyes. Angelos kept his dark glasses on, all the same, and Thea realised it was making things slightly easier, not being able to see his eyes. The manservant was busy setting out drinks, opening a bottle of white wine, which, as usual, Thea refused with a polite smile.

  She wanted to ask if the chalet was Angelos’s, but why should she want to know? He probably owned properties all over the world. Rich people did. Instead, she found herself saying, ‘How many languages do you speak?’

  The moment she said it she wondered what had possessed her to ask a question—to show any sign of interest in him at all.

  He did not seem to find her question out of place.

  ‘Four,’ he answered. ‘Including Greek, of course. English is mandatory now, and I learnt both French and German while I was here in Switzerland at school.’

  Thea stared. It was impossible to think of Angelos Petrakos as a schoolboy. Just impossible.

  ‘You were brought up in Switzerland?’ she found herself asking—and again immediately wondered why she had asked. It was not an unreasonable question. As Thea, she had come to know that many wealthy people of many nationalities were based in the financial haven of Switzerland.

  ‘No, I was sent to boarding school here at thirteen. My father thought it a good idea to broaden my horizons. Switzerland is full of international schools offering an excellent education.’