Painted the Other Woman

by Julia James

  But it would come, for all that. The hours were ticking inexorably towards that time. The sun’s passage in the sky was arcing towards that time. It would come, fear it as she might—dread it as she did.

  He says words of passion to me—but only passion. He smiles at me, and holds my hand, and walks at my side, and takes me in his arms—but what does he feel for me? Is it only passion? Only desire?

  She could not answer—dared not answer. And dared not answer an even more fearful question.

  What do I feel for him? Only passion? Only desire?

  Yes! It had to be. It had to be only that and nothing more. She must allow it to be nothing else. Because when this idyll here was over, when the island was only a faint invisible sliver of land half a world away, and their reality was once more the busy wintry streets of London, then she would discover a truth she dared not know yet—a truth she feared.

  What if he is done with me?

  She took a heavy breath, staring sightlessly out over the blindingly bright water.

  I have to prepare for that. I have to prepare for when he turns to me and tells me what I fear to hear.

  That he was done with her.

  No! She would not think ahead to that moment. She would not spoil these last precious days with Athan by dwelling on what might come. She would not cast the shadow of such fear over what she had now.

  Resolute, she finished her fruit juice and got out of the pool. Athan would have finished at the business centre soon and be heading back to the cabana. Marisa wanted to be there waiting for him. As hungry for him as he always was for her. Mid-morning passion was so very, very enjoyable …

  Putting her dark thoughts firmly aside, she set off, her steps eager.

  Athan smoothed the silken hair, holding Marisa’s slender body against his. They were both drowsy in the aftermath of lovemaking. The low swirl of the overhead fan was the only noise. Soon they would rouse themselves and shower, and then dress for lunch. Not that lunch was in the slightest bit formal. Everyone wore beach clothes, possibly with the lightest cover-up and nothing more.

  Lunch was a leisurely, relaxed affair, mostly salads and fruits, served from a huge buffet in the open air dining room shaded by wide awnings from the heat of the noonday sun. The constant gentle breeze gave a welcome cooling, and the lap of the pool water added to the lazy, easy atmosphere.

  But then the whole resort exuded a lazy, easy atmosphere. Relaxation was inevitable.

  Except that right now Athan was not feeling relaxed in the slightest. It was not because of their recent passionate consummation—it had another cause. An unwelcome one.

  There were only two more days left of the holiday, and then they would be flying back to London.

  He could feel his muscles tense momentarily. And in London he would have to confront Marisa—tell her just why he had taken her on holiday here, and what that reason meant for her. And for his brother-in-law. It would mean the impossibility of any relationship between her and Ian.

  But even as he reminded himself of the reason he’d brought her here he could feel his mind rebelling. Maybe there was no need to spell it out to her. After all, surely if she’d just spent two weeks with another man she couldn’t possibly think of going back to Ian? Surely she would take it for granted that her time with Ian was over, and that was that.

  So maybe I don’t have to confront her.

  One thing was for sure: he didn’t want to. Right from the start he’d known it wasn’t going to be easy—that it was going to be unpleasant and uncomfortable. But now, after all that they had here, together, it was going to be a whole lot more than just ‘unpleasant’ … ?.

  I can’t do it.

  Revulsion filled him. How could he? How could he go from holding her in his arms to denouncing her as a marriage breaker? How could he make love to her and then accuse her?

  He’d known, of course—he’d known all along—that that was what he was going to have to do, but it was one thing to plan cold-bloodedly to seduce the woman who was threatening his sister’s marriage and quite another, he thought hollowly, to spend two weeks with her and then have to face the ugly denouement that he’d envisaged delivering.

  I must have been mad to think of such a scheme!

  Mad to think that he could carry it out.

  Madness to think that I could hold her in my arms like this and still be planning such a denunciation of her.

  His eyes stared up at the rotating fan. Its movement echoed his thoughts, going round and endlessly round in his head. He knew what he had set out to do—what was coming closer and closer with every passing hour—knew that the very thought of it was building to a mountain of impossibility inside him.

  An impossibility because of Marisa herself.

  Even as he said her name silently in his head he could feel his response to it. Felt his arm tighten around her waist as she slept against him. Felt the rightness of her being there, in his arms …

  I didn’t know it was going to be like this. I knew I wanted her, desired her—but I never dreamt that the possession would be so … incredible!

  Everything had seemed to come together. The passion flaring between them, their hunger for each other, the perfection of their union—and not just that, he thought wonderingly, if ‘just’ could ever be a word applied to what they’d experienced in their intimate exploration of each other. No, ‘more’ was what he’d never foreseen.

  The little things—the time we spend together when we are not making love. The ease of being with her. The laughter. The silences that are a tranquillity, not a strain. The companionship.

  Whatever they were doing—whether it was eating under the stars or lazily lounging on the beach, or by the pool, or taking a boat out on the water, watching the sun set in a blaze of glory, or watching the moon rise through the palm trees—it was all just so … so easy …

  And as for the sex—

  His eyes flared and he felt his body tauten despite its satiation.

  How could he want her so much? How could he feel what he did—such incredible intensity every time, reaching such an incredible peak? Feel afterwards as he did now, every time, as if there was nothing more in life that he could want except to lie here with Marisa in his arms?

  And he was going to have to end it. Ruin it. Destroy it.

  Denounce her as the woman threatening his sister’s happiness. That would end it, he knew with biting certainty. Once he had told her what his intentions for her had been all along there would be nothing left of what they had here—now.

  His eyes stared at the chopping fan blades, slicing through time, slicing up his thoughts, his emotions.

  I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to tell her, confront her, denounce her, accuse her.

  But if he didn’t …

  He hardened his heart against himself. How could he bottle out of it? How could he put himself in front of his own sister? Put his own desires, his own longings first?

  I have to do it. I don’t want to but I have to. If I don’t I’m just a selfish, self-indulgent coward, who cares more about myself and what I want than about my sister.

  That was the brutal truth of it. The truth he couldn’t deny. Couldn’t hide from. He had to do it—finish what he’d started.

  In his arms Marisa stirred, waking from the drowsy sleep that came after physical fulfilment. He felt her body move against him, felt himself respond. Her eyes fluttered open, met his, entwined with his. She smiled slowly, sensuously at him.

  Lifted her mouth to his …

  He answered her invitation, and in the velvet pleasure of her mouth he banished the disquieting thoughts that beset him.

  London was far away—an ocean away.

  Here, now, was all his universe.

  All he wanted …

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MARISA sat in the taxi heading from Heathrow into central London. She looked out of the window at the bleak view beyond of the outskirts of London encased in winter’s drear grip. A million
miles away from the caressing warmth of the Caribbean. The grim landscape echoed the feeling inside her. In her lap, her fingers clutched each other tightly. At her side Athan had got out his laptop and was frowning at the screen, his face closed. He was only a foot or two away from her—and yet much, much further.

  Tightness gripped her. She knew what was coming. Knew it with a deep, stricken sense of dread—of impending loss. Knew exactly what was going to happen. It was what she had feared would happen. He was going to escort her back to her apartment and then, in whatever way he deemed appropriate, he was going to tell her that he wouldn’t be seeing her again.

  The knot in her stomach tightened and her heart slugged heavily in her chest. She tried to blot out her thoughts, tried only to stare out of the window, not thinking, not feeling.

  But thoughts came all the same. Of course Athan had been all over her while they were on holiday! Of course she had been the entire focus of his attention, the intensity of his desire for her would be his whole purpose. But it was only a holiday—that was what she had to remember. Nothing more than a holiday. He’d seen her, wanted her—got her. Not in any kind of exploitative way—she could never accuse him of that—but his interest in her was temporary. Inherently so. They had had a fabulous time together—but now it was over.

  Time to move on.

  The knot in her stomach clenched. That was the thing—he wanted to move on. She … she only longed for him not to. Longed for him to want to keep her in his life.

  I don’t want to lose him, I don’t want to never see him again. I don’t want it to be over!

  But her wants were not going to come into it.

  That was what she had to face. What she dreaded facing.

  The taxi came off the flyover, threading down into the streets of London, making its way towards Shepherd’s Bush, Holland Park, the street she lived on. It drew up at the apartment block. The moment it stopped she got out, shivering in the sunless cold air, acrid with the scent of the city. Athan was paying the driver, picking up their suitcases. Politely he ushered her inside and they made for the lifts. She gave another little shiver.

  ‘It’s so cold after the Caribbean,’ she said, as if attempting a light remark.

  Athan only smiled briefly but said nothing, not looking at her.

  He would be steeling himself for his speech, she knew. How many times had he given it before? How many other women had he whisked away to paradise and then returned to earth, bidding them farewell and walking away? She felt her emotions clench, her insides hollow.

  Well, what did it matter how many times before he’d done it? This would be one more time. One more It’s been good but now it’s over declamation. She hoped against hope that he wouldn’t try and give her some kind of parting gift. She hoped she wouldn’t cry. Hoped she would find the strength, the courage, to simply smile agreement at him and thank him for such a fabulous time together.

  Part as friends.

  Or just passing acquaintances.

  Not that she would see him again. With his own apartment ready to move back into now, the rented one next door to hers would not be necessary. He’d probably already had his things moved out. Easier that way—easier to make a clean break with her.

  The lift doors opened and she got out her key, opening her door while he followed with her suitcase. He set his own down in the hallway.

  ‘Could you just leave mine in my bedroom?’ she asked. Her voice was steady. Light. Deliberately so.

  She went into the living room. The air in the flat was stale and chill, and she moved to the wall to turn up the thermostat. She gave another shiver, but not from the cold. Temperature reset, she turned round.

  Athan was standing in the centre of the room. His expression said it all. She waited tensely for him to speak. She would take it on the chin, and if nothing else behave with dignity.

  I won’t plead, I won’t cry, I won’t question. I’ll just accept and move on—the way he will.

  He still wasn’t saying anything. He just stood there, tall, with a forbidding air about him. His face was like a mask—completely closed.

  Then, abruptly, he spoke.

  ‘I have something to say to you.’

  A faint, puzzled look shadowed her eyes. His voice was so hard—so harsh. Surely he didn’t have to be so hard? Wasn’t there a … civilised … way of doing this? Of parting after a brief, incandescent affair that could not possibly last?

  Did he see it in her eyes, her puzzlement, as if she were flinching a little from the severity of his tone? If he did, it only made his expression harden. The knot in Marisa’s stomach suddenly tightened and adrenaline prickled in her veins. It was as if something bad … worse … were about to happen, and her body was steeling itself. For the first time she started to feel not just dread of him telling her it was over, but dread at something quite different …

  Because what she could see in his closed, hard expression was something she had never seen there before.

  It was anger.

  Leashed, tightly gripped, but there. Like a force field emanating from him. She felt the dread change inside her—change into something else.

  He was looking at her with eyes she’d never seen before. No flecks of gold—only bladed steel.

  What is it? What’s happening? Why is he being like this?

  The questions flurried through her head. Bewildered apprehension showed in her eyes and her body tensed, flooded with adrenaline.

  Then he struck.

  ‘You will not be seeing Ian Randall again. You’re out of his life for good.’

  Shock detonated through her. He saw it in her face. Felt a savage pleasure in it. As savage as the anger that had been leashed tight within him. Now it was unleashed. He’d had to unleash it, to let it serve its purpose. An anger whose cause he would not name. Refused to name.

  Because to name it would be to give it power. Power over him. Power he would not allow.

  Could not allow ….

  She clutched at the curved arm of the sofa, as if without its support she would crumple and fall. Shock was still etched across her face.

  ‘You won’t be seeing him again,’ he told her. ‘He’s going to be working out of Athens from now on. I’m transferring him to my headquarters there.’

  He’d finalised the transfer while they’d been on St Cecile—it had been the obvious thing to do, he’d realised. Get Ian out of London, keep him in Athens under his watchful and suspicious eyes. Ian Randall wouldn’t be lining up any adulterous affairs under the nose of his wife’s husband. Athan knew that for a certainty.

  He watched how the news was going down with Marisa. His own face was still a mask. It had to be. He must not crack now—not when he’d achieved his goal. His purpose.

  He had to focus on standing there, his muscles tensed. It was as if he had suddenly put on a suit of steel, banded tightly around him, keeping him motionless, immobile.

  Because if he didn’t—if he didn’t keep his body leashed in steel—then he would surge forward, clip his arms around her, draw her to him, hold her close against him tightly, so tightly—

  Marisa’s expression worked—as if she were trying to cling to something, anything, that might make sense. Sense in a tidal wave of unreality …

  ‘You have? But Ian doesn’t work for you … ‘

  It was a pointless thing to say—the least relevant—but the words fell from her lips all the same. Shock was ricocheting around inside her.

  How does he know about Ian?

  She heard him give a brief, hard laugh. There was no humour in it. Then it cut out abruptly.

  ‘Of course he works for me.’

  ‘No! He’s marketing director of a company—’

  ‘One of my subsidiaries.’

  Her mouth opened, then closed. She had to make sense of this—somehow she had to make sense of this. She seized on the biggest thing she could not understand—out of all that she could not understand. Her mind was reeling.

  ‘
But why do you care about Ian and me? What does it matter to you, even if you do employ him indirectly? What harm is it to you?’

  The questions tumbled from her—bewildered—accusatory. He felt his anger lash out again.

  Anger at so much. Anger at Ian for what he was doing to Eva. Anger that he’d been landed in this mess to try and sort it out. Anger that sorting it out meant doing what he was doing now to Marisa.

  I don’t want to do this to her!

  The thought burned across his brain. But there was no point to it. None. He had to do what he must—say what he had to. He lurched forward, his hands going around her elbows, his grip like steel.

  ‘Because Eva Randall—’ his voice was like steel wire ‘—Eva Randall is my sister!’

  He watched her face whiten. Felt the steel bite into him, tighter yet.

  ‘I didn’t know.’ Her voice was a whisper. Her eyes were distended.

  He gave another harsh, humourless laugh. Because the universe was mocking him—mocking the scene he had to play out to the bitter, painful end. Because ending it was all he could do now.

  ‘Why would he tell you?’ he countered, forcing himself to speak. ‘Why would he tell you what was no concern of yours? I knew he hadn’t told you from the moment I introduced myself to you—the moment you saw my name on my business card. I’d gambled that he hadn’t and it paid off.’

  His voice changed suddenly, and as it did Marisa felt a new emotion slither through the disbelieving shock that was shaking her like an earthquake.

  ‘Which left the field entirely clear for me. For my purpose.’

  His eyes rested on her. Eyes that had once burned into her with a desire so intense she’d thought she must melt in the scorching heat of it …

  Eyes that now were black like empty space. Desolate and devoid of all things.

  ‘I sought you out,’ he said, and his voice was as empty as his eyes. Saying the words he had to say. The words it would take to end it. Destroy it utterly. ‘I took the apartment next door—timed my meeting with you. You’d been under my surveillance ever since I first suspected that Eva’s husband was harbouring a secret. A sordid little secret. Once I’d met you I could simply put in place what had to be done. Put an end to things between you and Ian.’ His voice twisted. ‘After all, how could you possibly be part of his life after what you have been to me …?’