by Julia James
Day by day it brought him closer to her acceptance of what was between them. Day by day it brought him closer to the consummation he sought. It could not be long now …
And after?
For a moment he felt his mind hover over the question, circling like an eagle, then wheel away, leaving it unanswered.
Unanswerable …
He turned away, relinquishing his hold on the railing, heading back indoors, downstairs. A new emotion filled him.
Anticipation.
Thea paused, knowing she had to step through the doorway into the dining room, just as she had every evening for the past week and more, but knowing that her reluctance now was quite, quite different from the reluctance she had felt that first evening here.
Completely different.
She was still shaken by the revelation that had swept over her that afternoon out on the mountainside. Still trying to reject the realisation that had forced itself upon her, yet knowing how hopeless it was to do so. Because, as she made herself go forward into the dining room, she could only feel the swirling, inchoate emotions circling within her. Could only feel the rushing in her lungs making her suddenly breathless as her eyes lighted on Angelos once again. His physical presence dominated her senses, made her feel shaky, overwhelmed her.
Did he see her reaction? For a brief instant she thought she saw his eyes flicker, but then it was gone, and he was—as he always was these days—his usual self, greeting her briefly, waiting to take his seat while Franz pulled out her chair for her.
To counter the emotions swirling within her she made a play of shaking out her napkin, settling herself, smiling at Franz as he said something to her which she didn’t quite catch. She nodded her head politely and poured herself a glass of water, trying to keep her hands steady, to breathe evenly despite the raggedness of her breath, the rapid pulse in her veins. Her eyes lifted to the figure at the head of the table.
And immediately she knew that what she had discovered about herself was true—hopelessly, helplessly true. That if, right now, she could walk out of here and never set eyes on Angelos Petrakos ever again—she would not go. She would stay here, her breath caught in her lungs, and go on gazing at him, just gazing, while emotions chased each other round her body—gazing at him, at the turn of his head as he talked to Franz, at his strong, tanned features, so familiar now, so—
‘Gnadige, fraulein—’
The voice at her side made her drag her hapless gaze away, and she blinked. As Franz was being detained by Angelos, it was Johann who was holding out a bottle for her view, with an enquiring expression on his face. She could see the word ‘apfel’ on the bottle, and nodded abstractedly. Then her eyes were sucked back to Angelos.
Her heart-rate quickened.
He nodded with finality to Franz, and the man moved away. As Angelos turned his attention back to her. Immediately, urgently, she dropped her gaze. For something to cover her shaken state, she reached for the newly filled glass at her side. She took a long draft, for her mouth was suddenly dry. Briefly it registered that the apple juice tasted different from the way it usually did, but she had no mental capacity to pay it any regard—all the focus of her mind was on controlling her reaction to Angelos Petrakos.
Because control it she must. That was essential. Essential not to let that fluttering deep inside her—as if a bird were beating its wings somewhere—take her over. Essential not to let her eyes hang on him, drinking in his face, his features, the very being of him. Essential to make it appear, at least, even if it were a hopeless lie, that all she felt about him was what she had always felt.
She dipped her gaze, though it was an effort, and smiled at Franz as he placed their first course in front of her. Absently she took another mouthful of apple juice to give herself something to do. The taste was less different this time, and it seemed to quench her thirst more—be slightly less sweet. She drank again, more deeply, feeling the juice warming through her, quickening her senses, it seemed to her. Then she picked up her knife and fork and made great concentration on the artfully folded arrangement of cold meats, furrowing her brow as she did so.
All the time she was burningly conscious, more than ever before, of Angelos Petrakos at the far end of the table.
She had always been aware of him—always! The impact he made on her senses had always been overpowering. But it had always been countered by the long, bitter resentment of him that had filled her for so many years with fierce, implacable hatred.
But now—
I don’t hate him any more.
The words formed in her head and hung there, suspended, as she felt her mind enfold them.
No more hatred …
How it had happened, she did not know. It had been in the days spent here, the time spent with him, seeing him anew, as if the harsh, punishing, pitiless being she had once known was no longer there and she no longer had to hate him.
It was as if a burden were slipping from her. A burden she had carried so long, so unrelentingly. And as it slipped from her shoulders she felt a sense of release go through her. A lightening of her whole being. As if she were finally, finally free.
Free to feel, finally, what she was filled with now. Free to do, finally, what she was doing now—letting her eyes gaze upon him freely, openly, taking in everything about him, wanting to do nothing else but hold this moment …
How she got through the meal, Thea did not know. Time seemed to be doing something strange, for it seemed to take both a huge length of time and be over in a flash. What they talked about she had no idea. Her mind seemed to be losing focus, and yet everything about him seemed to be in super-focus, dominating her consciousness. She seemed to be feeling strangely relaxed, which was odd, because she knew that her awareness of Angelos’s intense physical presence had never been greater. She could see him, it seemed, in absolute detail.
She kept noticing things impinge on her consciousness—tiny, inconsequential things, but they caught her attention, made her see them, become aware of them, permeating her mind like a running commentary …
He’s shaved. His jawline’s quite smooth. His hair is still slightly damp, feathering at his nape. His brow, his eyes are flecked, his lashes thick. The lines around his mouth were incised. His wrists are lean, his hands square, powerful. But the fingers are long, and the way they hold his fork, his wineglass, makes me want to watch, to look …
So she did—just looked. Gazed.
He didn’t seem to mind that she was not responding very intelligently to his conversation, even though she was aware that her comments seemed disjointed, abstracted. Every now and then she saw a flicker of his eyes, and it intrigued her. She wanted to watch for it. It came again, and she felt, deep in her body, an answering flicker.
‘Shall we go next door?’
She blinked, his dark, deep voice catching her unawares. She glanced at the table and realised that dinner was over. She got to her feet and for the briefest moment felt very dizzy. Then the feeling passed and she shook her head slightly. She saw there was still some apple juice left in her glass—Johann had refilled it, she recalled, during dinner—and drained it to clear her head. There would be coffee next door, set out, as always, by the staff, who then went off duty for the remainder of the evening, retiring to their quarters in the spacious chalet.
In the lounge she curled up, as she always did, at one end of the deep sofa, Angelos at the far end. But this night the cushions seemed softer, it seemed, her limbs more relaxed, the warmth of the fire more embracing. Everything seemed softer, slower, with a kind of glow about it all. A sense of well-being pervaded her, of being enclosed and safe, the outer world so far away, nothing more than a dream. Only here was real, only now was real, and everything was at once both bathed in a strange soft focus, and incredibly, wondrously vivid. It was a feeling she had never had before.
She reached forward to pour the coffee. The pot seemed heavier than usual, the flow of liquid slower, and her wrist dipped slightly as she hande
d his cup to him. He set it down on his end of the coffee table with a murmur of thanks, then poured himself his customary cognac, leaning back to swirl it slowly, contemplatively, in its balloon glass. She found herself watching it, eyes drawn to its slow swirl as he lifted the glass to his nose, but did not drink. She found herself wondering why.
The fire was burning low, and he got to his feet, kneeling down beside the hearth to add more logs. Thea’s eyes followed him. He was wearing one of his cashmere sweaters, and she had a sudden yearning to feel the extreme softness of the wool under her hand. She watched him cross to the alcove which contained the ferociously high-tech music equipment, and while she watched, thinking again how tall and lithe his powerful frame was, her eyes caught the cognac glass perched on the table. Strangely curious, she reached to pick it up, holding it as he did, swirling the contents slowly. Then she dipped her nose to catch the fragrance.
It was heady stuff! She inhaled again, feeling a strange light-headedness, and inhaled once more, even more deeply. It was an extraordinary scent—complex and evocative. She inhaled again, face over the glass, experiencing again that buoyant light-headedness that seemed so very pleasant. Then, as Angelos returned to his seat, she hastily put the glass back, her attention diverted by the music now filling the room.
Her eyes lit, pleasure filling her—Rachmaninov, his variations on a theme of Paganini, lush and poignant, pouring out over her, making her heart lift with emotion. The music swelled in its ecstatic melody, sweepingly beautiful. As the crescendo came, and the main theme soared, her breath caught, lips parted. She was filled with emotion—powerful and uplifting. Her eyes went instinctively, irresistibly, to Angelos.
He met her gaze full-on, dark eyes holding hers, and she was completely incapable—of breaking away from his. She saw them flare, a sudden blaze in them, and emotion seized her, overwhelming her. She could not break her gaze, could only let him hold it as effortlessly as the orchestra held the sweeping melody. She listened, rapt, enraptured. Filled with an emotion that swelled within her even as the music swelled.
At length the music ended—but not the emotion filling her … That wonderful, heady, swirling emotion was still possessing her …
What was happening to her? To feel so intensely, so vividly as she did now! So incredibly moved …
She did not know, could not tell—knew only that the whole of her being was focused here, now, on this moment. This time. This space.
This man.
The music changed. Slow violins, delicate—quite different from the impassioned strains of Rachmaninov. But they were just as evocative in their own unearthly way, weaving, so it seemed to her, a net of sound, diffusing into the air. She felt alive, vivid, as she had never felt before.
A sound made her turn her head. A log had fallen in the fire, opening up its glowing heart. She watched as Angelos set down his cognac once more and crossed to hunker down on the pale soft rug, reaching for more wood to rebuild the fire.
On impulse—she did not know why, only that she wanted to, right now, while in this strange, breathless mood—she slid on to the floor, kneeling by the table, stretching her hand out not for her undrunk coffee but for his cognac glass. She wanted to inhale its bouquet again, wanted to feel that pleasurable light-headedness that had come last time. She lifted it to her mouth, letting her lip curve over the glass edge to sample the fragrance within. It was less powerful now, and she tilted the glass more. The cognac touched her lips, and without her volition she realised she was opening her mouth to it. It filled her mouth with liquid fire, and for a moment she almost gasped. Then it had slipped down her throat, leaving a burning wake. Her eyes widened, and she felt the fire snake down. Blinking, she set the glass back and picked up her coffee cup, draining it rapidly to quench the fire.
She’d been foolish, she knew, to do what she just had—and yet, amazingly, right now she didn’t care. Didn’t care because inside her a warmth was spreading—a warmth that seemed to wash through her, through every cell of her body. Taking her over. Her vision seemed to blur for a moment, then cleared—with a clarity she had never known before. Behind her, very close, Angelos was tending the fire, hunched down on the soft, large sheepskin rug that stretched between the sofa and the hearth, brushing his hands free of wood dust. His cashmere sweater stretched over the sculpted musculature of his back. She could see the softness of the fabric, moulding his lean, hard body. Could see, with a strange, luminous clarity, her hand reaching out, the tips of her fingers brushing, scarcely touching, the fine, soft wool.
He stilled, hands pausing in their movement, then hunkered back, twisting as he did so. She drew back her hand. He didn’t speak, only shifted so that he was, she vaguely recognised, now sitting on the rug, one knee drawn up, the other splayed. He crooked his arm around his knee and reached for his cognac. Vaguely, she felt she should get back on to the sofa, but it was comfortable here, leaning back against it. She watched him take a mouthful of his cognac, his eyes holding hers.
They were so dark—a deep, drowning dark—and she gazed into them. Everything was very clear, like crystal, and yet only he was in focus. It was strange … so strange. She went on gazing at him. In the background the music crept, slow and somnolent, weaving its net about her senses. Behind him, the fire crackled softly, its warm light glowing. The lights in the room, too, seemed softer, shadows pooling.
He sat, arm crooked, the slow, rhythmic swirling of his glass flickering in her vision, but she could not look away from him. She could feel, somewhere, that her heart had started to beat—as if till now it had never done so. But now the pulse was tangible, like a low, aching throb.
She wanted to reach out—wanted to let the tips of her fingers brush down again lightly, so lightly, on the soft, luxurious surface of the cashmere. She could feel her hand lift, and as it did, his voice stayed her.
‘Wait.’
His voice came low and deep, with an imperative note in it. Her eyes gazed into his questioningly, confused. He spoke again, in that same low, intense voice.
‘I must know—is this truly what you want?’
His eyes were playing over her face, searching. Searching for the answer he sought—wanted so much. Had waited for so long, it seemed. All evening he had felt the power of his response to her released, accepted finally, and now, in this intimate setting, he was on the point of achieving what he knew he wanted with every part of his being. Her beauty was intoxicating, haunting—his desire for her was consuming. But after all that had been between them, all the anger and strife and bitterness, it had to be right—right for her. He had made his peace with her—was this now, finally, her making peace with him?
His eyes searched hers, needing an answer.
For one long moment she simply gazed with limpid clarity, revealing everything she felt about him at that moment, everything she wanted. Then she spoke one word only. A breath, a sigh …
‘Yes …’
She could see the sudden blaze in his eyes, hear the catch of breath in his throat. Feel in her veins her own pulse beat. The air was thick. Thick, the blood in her veins. The emotion she could not name, could only feel with a shimmering intensity all through her body, was creaming through her. All she wanted was here, now … this moment.
This man …
And slowly, very slowly, her eyes still clinging to his, she did what she wanted. Reached out with the tips of her fingers to brush the rich softness of his cashmere sleeve. He sat completely still, not even swirling his depleted cognac, just holding her eyes as her fingers brushed the soft fabric. Then her fingers reached further, rounding over the contours so that her palm was curved around his sleeve. Beneath the fabric she could feel the muscled sinew of his arm. Hard against the softness of the wool. Her hand curled over it, feeling the warmth of his body seeping through into her palm.
Then slowly, very slowly, she lifted her hand away.
For a long, long moment she could only sit, legs slanted away from him, meeting his gaze. Around her
the music wove its web and the soft firelight played on the strong features of his face, flickering in the shadows of the room.
She heard him murmur something honeyed and mellifluous. Then his hand was reaching forward. The other still cupped his cognac glass, but the outstretched one was turning, so that the back of his hand was brushing slowly, so slowly, down the sleeve of her top.
She could not move, could not breathe, could only twine her eyes with his while the back of his hand stroked down her arm. Lightly. Then it lifted again. This time to her cheek.
It was light, so light, his touch. Almost not there. And yet her breath stilled in her lungs. His long, strong fingers were cupping her chin, tilting it upwards, and then his long lashes swept down over his eyes and his head was lowering.
The brush of his lips on hers was like snow drifting, as light as snowflakes melting on her lips.
He brushed them softly, so softly, and her eyelids fluttered closed, to feel the bliss of it. Because bliss it was. Bliss to have that soft, sensuous touch of his mouth on hers. He murmured something, but she did not know what it was. Then both hands were cupping her face, lifting it to him, and his mouth was opening hers …
Soft and warm and blissful—so, so blissful.
He was drawing her down, his arms coming around her to ease her across his body, cradling her as his mouth moved on hers. Pleasure filled her. Sweet, sensuous pleasure. Firing through every nerve ending, drawing her down, down, down into its seductive depths.
She was lying beside him on the warm, soft, fleecy rug, the fire hot on her back. He was kissing her still, murmuring to her, and his arms were cradling her, his hand running softly, so softly, along her spine. She was wordless and speechless and could only lie there being kissed so softly, so sensuously, so blissfully.
Whatever else existed in the world was no longer there. There was only this—this warm, velvet sensation at her mouth, his hand at her nape, sliding the restraining fastening from her hair so that it fell in a long, pale wave across the rug. He murmured again—words she could not hear but only feel, like a fine vibration through her whole body. His fingers, long, and sensitive, threaded through her hair, and the sensation on her scalp was a soft, evocative tingling. The wonderful headiness in her mind consumed her. She felt the sensual delight of his mouth moving against hers, his body strong and lean, and her hands curled over his shoulders, kneading into the aching softness of the cashmere to meet the sinewed resistance of his flesh. She wanted to feel that smoothness, that muscle and sinew, and she moved restlessly in his arms. Her hands slid down his torso to his waist, and her questing fingers found the space beneath the soft wool. Oh, it was bliss—bliss to run her hands along the hard, smooth contours, warm to her touch, to let her arms wind around him, palms splaying out across his spine, the sculpted perfection of his back.