Painted the Other Woman

by Julia James

  Now, as she lifted her wine glass to her lips, the golden sheen from her narrow gilt bangles catching the candlelight, she knew that she had got the look just right. Other couples were dining in the main restaurant as well, though each table was afforded privacy by potted palms and brilliant bougainvillaea, and the whole dining area formed almost a semicircle around the resort pool which glowed, unearthly, with underwater lights.

  All my life, she thought hazily, I’ll remember this. This wonderful, magical place, this wonderful, magical evening.

  This wonderful, magical man who had made it all come true for her …

  But she couldn’t just go on staring helplessly at him.

  ‘So, when did the island become English, then?’ she asked, infusing interest into her voice.

  ‘I believe it swapped hands several times—depending on the fortunes of war and various treaties between France and England during the eighteenth century. But it ended up being definitely English after the Napoleonic Wars. One of the perks of victory,’ Athan said dryly. ‘The French owners of the plantations kept their property, however, so they didn’t mind too much. As for the slaves—well, I guess they benefited in the end by being emancipated in 1834, which was earlier than in the remaining French colonies.’

  A troubled expression lit Marisa’s eyes. ‘It casts a long shadow, doesn’t it, slavery? Over such a beautiful place?’

  Athan reached for his wine glass, taking a reflective mouthful. ‘It’s long been one of the ironies of Greek civilisation,’ he observed, ‘that whilst the modern world pays tribute to ancient Greek democracy their economy relied entirely on slave labour.’

  She frowned. ‘It seems dreadful that slavery was able to flourish again after Europeans discovered the Americas. It was so obviously an evil thing.’

  ‘Oh, it’s easy enough to persuade yourself that your behaviour is justified when it benefits you materially,’ Athan replied.

  His eyes rested on her, and he saw a momentarily discomfited expression in her face. Was she thinking about how she herself was perfectly happy to let Ian Randall house and keep her?

  Yet even as he speculated he felt his own thoughts prick at him.

  And you—what about you? You say you are doing all this to help save your sister’s marriage—yet you are benefiting from it yourself, aren’t you? Having this beautiful, desirable woman for yourself!

  But he didn’t want to think about being back in England. Didn’t want to think about what he would have to say to Marisa then, and why. Didn’t want to think about his sister, let alone his pernicious brother-in-law. Didn’t want to do anything at all, except savour this moment to the full—enjoy the time he had here, the days and nights he would have with Marisa.

  All to himself, without the outside world to trouble him with its disquieting, uncomfortable imperatives.

  And that was just what he would do! Enjoy this time, relish it and experience it to the full.

  He set down his glass, resumed his meal. It was exquisitely cooked—a concoction of grilled fish, caught that day, flavoured with sweet spices. Marisa was eating breaded prawns, each on a separate skewer, with a rich coconut dipping sauce.

  She’d picked up another skewer a moment or two after he’d made his pointed observation, and now busied herself swirling it into the sauce.

  ‘Are they good?’ he enquired. The amused, lazy note was back in his voice. The mordant expression in his face gone completely. He would keep it that way. Why spoil what this evening would bring? What each golden day here would bring? Each velvet night …

  ‘Fabulous!’ she said. ‘Though I think each one’s about a million calories.’

  ‘You can atone by only having fruit for dessert,’ he said smilingly.

  She glanced at him again as she took a delicate mouthful of the sauce-swathed prawn. That sudden austerity in his face had gone, and she was relieved. She wondered what had caused it. But it was gone now, and that was good enough for her peace of mind. She didn’t want anything to spoil this idyll …

  Atoning for her rich main course by eating fruit for dessert certainly didn’t spoil things—the slices of luscious tropical fruit, served on crushed ice, were as delicious as the most calorific pudding. Athan dipped in and out of the heaped mound sporadically, lounging back in his chair, swirling a glass of brandy in his fingers. For herself, she wanted no more alcohol. The earlier champagne, together with wine over dinner, had made the world a sweet, hazy place.

  A sense of absolute well-being filled her. Absolute happiness … That was the thought coiling in and out of her synapses. Because how could she be happier than to be here, in this warm, balmy paradise, with a man like Athan Teodarkis? Who was looking at her now with such an expression in his incredibly gorgeous eyes …

  She gave a little inward shiver of excitement—anticipation, feelings that only mounted as, coffee consumed, Athan got to his feet.

  ‘Shall we?’ he said, and held his hand out to her.

  She took it, and he drew her up, not relinquishing her hand. They strolled around the pool, and it seemed, Marisa thought, so absolutely right to be doing so hand in hand. He made casual conversation and she answered in kind, keeping the note easy and relaxed, even though inside her she could feel her blood pulsing.

  Beyond the pool the landscaped gardens gave way to more sandy ground, with low green vegetation, and the tiled paved area dispersed into multiple little pathways, each one marked by shelled edges and lit at strategic intervals by lights set either low at the base of palm trees or hung high on ornamental stands. As they neared their cabana she could hear the gentle shooshing of the sea, the endless chitter of the cicadas in the bushes, and the insistent chirruping of the tree frogs.

  They strolled down on to the beach that fronted their cabana. A moon was hanging low over the sea, and there was a sheen of moonlight on the water. A mild breeze teased, but the night was warm. She could feel the humidity in it like an embracing net around her.

  She gazed upwards. Stars as brilliant as golden lamps blazed in the heavens. She felt dizzy just gazing upwards—dizzy on champagne, on the sweet tropical air, on the blood pulsing in her veins. She seemed to sway …

  Hands came around her waist, steadying her. Her gaze dropped down to mingle with his. Even in the moonlight she could see his expression. What he was telling her. She felt his hands at her waist, light and warm, fingers splayed. The pulse in her blood strengthened.

  He murmured her name, and then came what she had been waiting for, yearning for all evening. From the moment she’d first seen him and felt her heart flutter at the sight of him, at the impact he made on her. Slowly, exquisitely, agonisingly slowly, his mouth descended.

  His kiss was light, like a feather, teasing at her lips, playing with them, playing with her desire for him, with his for her. Only when it seemed to her she could bear it no longer did she feel the sudden impress of his splayed fingertips and the simultaneous deepening of his kiss—as if he, too, had been unable to resist longer.

  Sensation made her swoon, and she could feel her heart turning over and over as his mouth took hers richly, deeply, with a warm, insistent passion that dominated every sense in her body. There was only this moment, only this kiss, in all the world …

  It lasted an eternity—it lasted only the briefest moment of time. He drew back from her, his gaze pouring into hers. She felt liquid, boneless.

  ‘I want you so much …’ His voice was a low husk.

  She could only sway in his clasp, lifting her mouth to his again, aching and yearning for his touch.

  ‘I am yours,’ she whispered.

  Triumph glistened in his eyes and he gave a low rasp in his throat as he kissed her again, hungrily, voraciously, sweeping her up into his arms and carrying her off the beach, up on to the veranda and into their cabana.

  The air was warm inside, for they had not put the air-conditioning on, and in the bedroom, as he lowered her to the turned-down bed, the heat was a cocoon around them.

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nbsp; Her body seemed aflame—all her senses aflame. Swiftly, skilfully, he slid her dress from her body, baring her to his view in the dim light. She slipped her arms up above her head, so that her breasts lifted. His eyes were hungry for them, his lips hungrier. She could hear him murmur something in Greek, but her whole being was focussed only on the sensations he was arousing.

  Dear God, but it was blissful—blissful! Like softest velvet, finest silk, laving and teasing and arousing her, until her body was flickering with unseen fire, her head twisting, her stomach taut. Then his mouth closed over the crested coral peaks, suckling and caressing with his lips, his tongue. A sound came from her throat—primitive, powerful. His mouth slipped from her breasts, easing down over the smooth, taut line of her abdomen. His hands shaped her slender waist, splaying upwards so that the tips of his fingers could continue to tease her straining nipples, squeezing and nipping them so that eddy after eddy of sensation shimmered through her, each setting up a wave that was growing in power as he drew from her the response he sought.

  Restless hunger started to fill her. She wanted more—so much more! She wanted him. Her hands reached for him, clutching over his shoulders, tugging his shirt from him in movements that became increasingly hurried and impatient. He paused in his ministrations, shrugging the garment from him, and while he was at it shedding the rest of his clothes as well. With a gasp, she realised that he was completely naked now—completely hers!

  With a little moan she drew him down on her, feeling the warm, hard length of his body—feeling, too, with a thrill, the full power of his masculinity. Her reaction was instinctive. Her hips lifted to his as he responded, one iron hard thigh slipping between hers. His mouth was on hers now, and her hands were running along the sculpted lines of his back, eagerly tracing its moulded contours. His skin was like cool satin, and she gloried in the sensations she was clearly able to arouse in him as she trailed her fingertips delicately along his spine.

  Urgency filled him. Desire was peaking in him and he wanted … needed … to fulfil it. She was afire for him, and he for her. The sweet softness of her body, yielding to his, was all he craved. He sought her, shifting his weight until he found what he desired. He arched over her, his hands shaping her shoulders as her hips arched questingly to his. For one long, endless moment he gazed down into her face, transfixed by what he was arousing in her.

  Theos, but she was so, so beautiful! Her hair streaming across the pillows. Her face alight with an unearthly beauty. Her slender body aroused and yearning for his. It was a yearning that he matched, met … surpassed in every aching part of him.

  Now, now he needed fulfilment—needed to be fused with her, melded to her core, to become one with her.

  He heard her murmur his name, sounding urgent, so urgent in her need for him. Felt her hands press at his back to close him to her, to fuse herself against him.

  With a surge he was there, filling her deeply, fully, feeling her close around him, hearing her cry out, hearing his own voice soothing her even as every synapse in his brain started an insistent, driving firing that swept across his consciousness.

  His body started to move in an age-old, primeval rhythm, possessing him even as he now possessed her. She was threshing against him and it drove him wild, crazy for her, for what she was doing to him, for the way her incredible body was lifting to his, fusing to his, with a hunger, an insistence that he was answering. He was taking her with him on his urgent, storming journey to more and ever more peaks of sensation that heated every portion of his flesh to a white heat.

  Her eyes were fluttering, their pupils so distended they seemed to flood her eyes even as sensation flooded her body—sensation such as she had never felt before. A storm of quickening that was sweeping her higher, always higher, higher—

  Time stopped—it had no meaning. There was only this moment, this endless, incredible now of sensation, rippling through her body, melting her, fusing her. Her hands clung to him, her throat arched back, her hips pressed against his to take him within her, catching at him again and yet again. And with each stroke he was taking her further and higher and deeper. And the pleasure, the bliss, was so intense, so incredible, so absolute that when the storm broke within her she seemed to be consumed by it, as the storm drove through her, buckling and convulsing her.

  She cried out. She could hear it. And it was a cry that went on and on, just as the storm within her went on and on, and it was another world, another existence, another her … one she had never known, never dreamt existed.

  Then another voice joined hers—deep-throated, hoarse, as urgent as hers, as insistent. She felt his body fill her, felt the culmination of that endless driving rhythm, felt him soaring with her into that other world that was consuming her, so that her whole body had become a living, burning flame.

  For long moments she was bathed in the fire, as if its flickering heat enveloped them both, making them one, making them unified, melded together. Then, when their sated, exhausted bodies could take no more, she felt the burning begin to ebb, the throbbing of her core lessen, die slowly to stillness. Ease. Leaving in its wake not ashes, but a sweetness—a sense of wellbeing so absolute that it bathed her in a profound wonder.

  She could only let her fingers drift across his back, feeling the exhaustion of every limb as they lay wound about each other and the last lingering flickers of the consuming flames died gently away.

  How long she lay there, entwined with him, she did not know. Knew only that she had found a place to be that she never wanted to leave. Here in Athan’s arms, in his enveloping embrace, was world enough for her. Drifting in and out of sleep, she lay holding him close against her breast.

  Close against her heart …

  Marisa swam lazily towards the pool’s swim-up bar. As she neared it the pool shallowed, and she waded the rest of the way before perching herself on one of the little half submerged stone stools. The barman sauntered along to her from his side, and asked in the lilting island accent what she would like. Opting for a virgin strawberry margarita, Marisa sat sipping through the crushed scarlet-coloured ice and gazed peacefully out over the turquoise water of the pool and the azure sea beyond.

  Even after nearly two weeks here she still could not get enough of the vista before her. She gave a little sigh of happiness. Just as she could not get enough of Athan.

  Not that she had to do without him. She was with him just about twenty-four-seven. There was only a brief daily interval when, as he was doing now, he checked into the resort business centre and communicated, as briefly as he could get away with, his direct reports, and received any unavoidable updates. But he was seldom gone for more than half an hour. Other than that they were together all the time.

  A ripple of wonder went through her. She had known from the moment she’d yielded to his invitation to come here with him that this time with him would be unforgettable, but never had she realised just how much so.

  And it wasn’t just the sex—although even saying ‘just the sex’ was a universe away from describing the incredible, transforming experience it was every time. No, it wasn’t ‘just sex’ at all. How could it be when it seemed to her that her very being caught fire, was consumed like a phoenix, to be reborn in that moment of ecstasy, enveloped in his arms? Surely it wasn’t ‘just sex’ to be so consumed by passion for him—to want him and crave him not only in the fires of consummation but in the peaceful, languorous aftermath that wrapped them in its sweet, honeyed balm, when they simply lay together, softly caressing each other, all passion spent, their eyes entwining with each other, drowsy with satiation. To sleep in his arms, cradled by him, holding him close to her, only to wake later, in the long reaches of the tropical night, when he would start to make love to her again, as if he could not get enough of her.

  Yet even as her eyes softened with the memory of his ardent, transforming lovemaking a haunted look fleeted therein. This idyll here on St Cecile was nearly over. Soon, in a day or two, they would be headed for home—back
to London. Back to their normal lives.

  What would happen then?

  Disquiet plucked at her, disturbing her contentment. What would happen when they were back in England, away from here?

  Could the idyll continue?

  That was the question that coiled and uncoiled inside her head. She had shut it out, not let herself think about it, but over the last few days, as their second week had started to ebb away, day by precious day, she had felt it plucking at her consciousness, wanting to be answered.

  But she didn’t want to answer it. Didn’t want to think what the answer might be—what she feared it would be.

  This was an idyll—a blissful, unforgettable intermezzo—in a tropical paradise where reality seemed as distant as the British winter. But what would happen when the intermezzo was over?

  Oh, Athan was as passionate, as ardent as any woman could want—could dream of—but that was here. What would happen back in London?

  Doubts fed her disquiet. Yes, Athan was hers here, but even here, these last days, she had felt him withdraw from her sometimes—only briefly, but distinctly. It was not a physical withdrawal but much more disquieting than that. It was a kind of mental withdrawal, as though their casual intimacy was draining away. Sometimes there was a look in his eye, she was sure of it, when he seemed to be looking at her with a stranger’s gaze. Then, a moment later, it would be gone and he would be his normal self again—and she would wonder if she had merely imagined it.

  She could reason so well, she knew. He was a man of affairs who had a business empire to run—how could he possibly be confined only to focussing on her? She had to accept that his mind would go from time to time to matters of greater import.

  Greater import than herself.

  An ache started within her. A flickering of fear. A fear she didn’t want to face.

  Fear of a time she did not want to face.