by Anne Mather
‘The child?’ he muttered huskily, holding her eyes with his. ‘Is she like you? Does she have your colouring? Your slenderness? Your determination?’
Martha trembled, pressing her hands against her chest, keeping them away from him with a supreme effort of will power. ‘Y-yes,’ she admitted at last, ‘she is like me. She’s quite tall for her age, and slender, and she does have a very definite will of her own.’
He nodded, slowly, his mouth taking on a downward curve, as remorse twisted his expression. ‘I knew she would,’ he averred hoarsely, as the hostility faded from his eyes to be replaced by a tormented bitterness. ‘Your daughter was bound to be like you. Just as wilful, just as independent, and just as beautiful…’
Martha’s breath caught in her throat. There was no mistaking the violent emotion that dragged that word from his lips, and she was scarcely surprised when their mutual awareness became too much for him, and with a moan of self-disgust, he brought her body close to his. She could not avoid touching him now. Her hands were crushed against the hardness of his chest, only lightly disguised beneath the maroon silk of his shirt, and as his hands slid down her spine, she could feel the stirring muscles of his thighs.
It was his mouth that truly possessed her, parting her lips beneath its moist invasion, exploring and searching and inspiring a response that she had no will to resist. Maybe if she had had more time, she thought, hanging on to coherence with only a shred of control, if she had been prepared for the effect he would have on her. But she would never have believed that he could do this to her, and all the old magnetism came flooding back, to envelop her in a drowning web of sensual feeling. The pressure increased, became passionate, enfolding them both for a spell in hungry, mindless abandon. His hands were on her thighs, arching her body, moulding her to his maleness with an ease born of their knowledge of one another. And she wanted him, she realised. Wanted him so badly there was a physical ache inside her, as there had been in those awful weeks after she left him.
‘Martha,’ he groaned, releasing her mouth to seek the scented hollows behind her ear. ‘Who is the father of your child? Don’t I have the right to know?’ and in the emotive tenor of the moment, she betrayed herself completely and whispered huskily:
‘You are!’
* * *
His withdrawal was so abrupt, it left her bemused and speechless, staring at his contorted face without really understanding why he looked so balefully furious.
‘Theos!’ he grated disbelievingly. ‘Mou theos! Say it is not so?’
Martha blinked, and put a dazed hand to her head. It was difficult to bring her mind to normal things, when every nerve and tissue in her being was still crying out for a satisfaction it had not received. Her hair felt reasonably tidy, she thought unsteadily, and her fingers fumbled to fasten the button of her shirt which had come loose in their ardent exchange. Her face was probably bare of all make-up, but that didn’t really matter, although her lips felt bruised from the hungry pressure of his. What did matter was that somehow he had tricked her once again, and this whole fiasco had been staged to discover the truth behind Josy’s conception. It was cold and ruthless, but typical of the man he had become, and she felt soiled and abused, and totally abased.
‘Martha!’ He was speaking to her again, but she refused to answer him, turning away, picking up her handbag which had fallen to the floor, extracting her handkerchief to scrub the taste of his lips from her mouth.
‘Martha!’ His response to her ignoring of him was to snatch the bag and the handkerchief out of her hands, throwing them to the floor with a cold disregard for their well-being. ‘Martha, I demand an answer!’
She backed away from him, too stunned to say anything. He had seduced her into betraying herself, and her thoughts ran wildly in all directions, seeking escape from the awful implications of the situation. Did he believe her? How could he not, when she had confessed so emotionally? She had sworn he would never get that information from her, not unless she had chosen to tell him, and now he had cajoled it from her, in the most degrading circumstances ever.
The study door opened suddenly and Aristotle reappeared. His shrewd dark eyes took in the scene he had interrupted—his son’s grim countenance, Martha’s pale desperation, and the handbag and square of linen lying like a gauntlet on the floor between them. Then, with the discretion born of years of boardroom diplomacy, he said calmly:
‘A cold buffet has been prepared. Martha…’ he addressed the young woman holding weakly to the back of a chair, ‘if you would like to come with me…’
Martha wanted to refuse him. She did not want to take anything from the Myconos family. But it was an escape from Dion, from the suffocating menace of his presence, and with a little helpless shrug of her shoulders she turned towards the door.
The corridor stretched ahead of her, endlessly, and as if sensing her uncertainty, Aristotle offered his arm. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘My son will follow. We will walk together, and you can tell me about your life in England, and about that sister of yours of whom you were so fond.’
It was a polite way of gaining her compliance and Martha, much against her better judgment, took his arm, and they walked slowly down the cool, arched passageway. When Helene’s boys were here, or Nikos, with his family, these halls rang with the excited laughter of children, but today they were cloistered, quiet, echoing the brooding violence of Dion’s anger.
It was a relief to get outside, beneath the perspex awning, whose slatted leaves shaded the noonday sun. The scent of mimosa mingled with the perfume of the flowering vines that overhung the trellises, and the blue-green tiles of the swimming pool, were visible between their blossoming stems. A circular, glass-topped table was set with dishes of meats and salads, savoury eggs and stuffed tomatoes, lobster and anchovies, and various other Greek dishes, that Martha had once found much to her taste. There was a jug of freshly-squeezed orange juice, and another of grapefruit juice, and tall frosted glasses beside a bucket of ice containing a bottle of champagne. She had forgotten Aristotle’s love for champagne, she realised, trying to concentrate on the moment, and dreading the inevitable dénouement that Dion was sure to make.
‘Kathiste, parakalo,’ Andros invited politely, moving from his stance beside the table to offer Martha a chair, and she sank into it gratefully.
‘Thank you,’ she said, giving him the benefit of a wavering smile, and his eyes warmed her after the cold brilliance of Dion’s.
Aristotle seated himself opposite her, and while Andros offered the various dishes for Martha’s selection, he opened the champagne. The cork burst from the neck of the bottle, but he caught the Dom Perignon expertly in his glass, raising the frothy wine to his lips, and toasting her in its potency.
Martha accepted only a slice of ham flavoured with honey from the slopes below Parnassus, and a little of the Greek salad, that mainly comprised huge slices of tomato and cucumber, tossed in a little light oil. She was not hungry, but she was feeling a little faint, and she hoped the food might restore her equilibrium. Right now, she felt confused and unbalanced, and completely incapable of anticipating what might happen next.
Dion appeared as she was sipping a glass of orange juice. She had refused Aristotle’s offer of champagne, realising anything alcoholic might aggravate the sense of unreality that was gripping her, but her husband’s appearance had an intoxicating mesmerism all its own. She felt like a rabbit, hypnotised by a snake, her limbs frozen into attitudes of helplessness and supplication.
‘Ah, Dionysus! We were beginning to wonder if you intended to join us,’ his father observed, with mild acerbity. ‘As you can see, we have started without you. Will you have some champagne? Or would you prefer a less stimulating substitute, like Martha?’
Dion’s glance flickered over his wife’s bent head, and then he walked to where a low stone wall provided a manmade barrier between the patio area and the terraces that fell away gently below them. He leant against the low wall, resting his hips on its wea
ther-worn stones, and ignoring his father’s offer of refreshment, he said:
‘Where is Alex? I wanted to speak with him.’
Martha’s nerves stretched as she heard Aristotle explaining that his youngest son was waiting for a telephone connection to Athens. ‘There has been some difficulty in getting through,’ he remarked, moving his shoulders in an offhand gesture. ‘And I wanted those figures from Stavros for you to work on this evening.’
‘Mum.’ Dion’s response was less enthusiastic, and listening to him, Martha waited in agonised expectation for him to tell his father what he had just learned. But he didn’t. Instead, he left the wall to take a seat at the table, near enough to Martha for her to be constantly aware of him, but not near enough to intimidate her.
‘Endaksi.’ His father handed him a glass of champagne, and dismissed Andros with a flick of his fingers. ‘Now, you can tell me what you have decided.’
Martha looked down at her plate, pushing the ham round with her fork, but Dion did not immediately reply. He leant across the table and helped himself to a circle of toast, liberally spread with the dark brown roe his father found so palatable, and then, with his mouth full, he queried in a muffled voice: ‘About what, in particular?’
Aristotle’s greying brows descended, and for the first time since Martha had joined them he displayed a little of the Myconos temper he normally controlled so well. ‘You know the subject to which I am referring, my son,’ he essayed brusquely. ‘What arrangements have you made? Did you explain to Martha that the settlement need not be ungenerous, in spite of all the circumstances, providing she does not defend the suit, ne?’
Dion took a taste of his champagne, emptied his mouth, and then rubbed his lips on the back of his hand. ‘I think I need more time to consider the matter,’ he said finally, leaning back in his chair, and studying the sparkling liquid in his glass with thoughtful deliberation. ‘You understand, Papa?’
‘Yon are saying that Martha has refused to give you a divorce?’ Aristotle demanded, in ominous tones, and Martha, bewildered by this unexpected turn of events, hastened to deny it.
‘We didn’t discuss—divorce,’ she said tightly, unwilling to suffer the suspense any longer. ‘We spoke about—’
‘—many things,’ broke in Dion, sharply, cutting her off before she could commit herself. ‘Enough to know there is more to the destruction of a marriage than a few words written on a sheet of paper!’
‘Dionysus!’ His father rose to his feet with quivering dignity. ‘What are you saying? What foolishness is this? What hold does this woman have over you, that you cannot be in her presence for more than fifteen minutes without you change the decision of weeks—months! Have done with it! Do not allow her to bewitch you once again. Make the incision! Break loose from those chains that have bound you to the past for five long years!’
Martha was trembling as he spoke. She had guessed Dion’s father had only tolerated her for his sake, and she had known of the initial opposition both his parents had raised to their marriage. Yet their love had seemed so strong then, so worthy of any strains which might be put upon it. That was before she learned of the demands the Myconos corporation put upon its executives, before she had found herself alone for days—weeks—on end, with Dion at one side of the world and herself at the other. Of course, even that would not have been so bad if she had been free to do as she wanted. But she was not. She was expected to conform, like all the other Myconos wives, and her prevailing streak of stubborness and independence had eventually been her downfall…
She came back to the present with a start to find Dion was on his feet too now, and although the exchange he was having with his father had reverted to their own language, Martha was able to understand most of what was being said.
‘You overreach yourself, Papa,’ her husband was stating bleakly, subjecting his father to the same piercing scrutiny she had suffered earlier. ‘I take care of my own affairs, and you would do well to remember it. You are not my counsel, nor are you my keeper. You are my father, and as such, I offer you my respect. I appreciate that your opinions may differ from mine, but do not make the mistake of thinking that because I listen to you, I think as you do. I am no longer a child, Papa. I am a man. I heed advice—but I make the decisions, you understand?’
The lines on Aristotle’s face had become more deeply drawn as Dion spoke, and although he drew himself up to his full height, he was still several inches shorter than his son. Martha, tense and nervous as she was, could still find it in her heart to feel sorry for him, and she realised with a pang that her husband had changed more than she had ever imagined. Once he would not have contradicted his father, would not have argued with him, or denied him the right to state his opinions, would not have used his superior wit and intelligence to make the old man appear frailer than he actually was. This man was harder, shrewder, more ruthless, every inch the arbiter of his fate, and that of the Myconos corporation, and Martha realised that while his father might still nominally hold the reins, Dion had inherited in everything but name.
‘So,’ his father said now, resting his palms upon the table. ‘Does not your wife—does not Martha have any choice in this?’ He turned to his daughter-in-law, and spread his hands. ‘Dare I say that I cannot believe she wants to prolong this situation?’
‘Martha and I will have plenty of time to talk of this,’ declared Dion abruptly, without even glancing at his wife. ‘I intend to have her belongings collected from her hotel in Rhodes, and—’
‘No!’ It was Martha who interrupted now, struggling to her feet and facing him defensively. ‘There is nothing to discuss, Dion. The situation was—was decided for us. Five years ago! I came here to speak to your father, and I’ve done so. That’s all. I’ll leave as soon as the helicopter is ready to take me.’
‘If you insist.’ Dion’s indifference was disturbing. ‘But we are going to talk, Martha. Whether you wish it or not.’ His eyes held hers. ‘Either here or at your hotel, it makes no difference to me. But remember, you came here of your own free will. And I should consider your proverb about fools and angels, before you say any more.’
CHAPTER THREE
MARTHA’S lips quivered. ‘I think you’re trying to frighten me, Dion,’ she said unevenly.
‘Do you think that?’
‘Yes.’
He shrugged, and while she watched, he slipped his hand into his inside pocket. For one awful moment she thought he was about to pull a gun on her. He had carried one occasionally in the old days, for protection only, when circumstances demanded it, and she had always been repelled by its cold, metallic accuracy. But, as her palms moistened in opposition to the dryness of her mouth, he drew out a narrow cigar case, and flicking it open, took out one of the slim panatellas he favoured. He put it between his teeth and then said calmly:
‘My sister is getting married on Friday. My father and I must return to Athens for the wedding. But I shall be back here on Saturday night, and we will continue this discussion then. It is up to you whether you choose to bear the cost of an hotel room, or make use of the villa in my absence. Either way, we will talk further on Saturday.’
‘But I can’t stay here until Saturday!’ protested Martha. ‘I—why—I have to get back. I have a job, and—and there are things I have to see to.’
‘You mean—the child?’ enquired Dion sombrely.
Martha licked her lips. ‘Among other things, yes.’
‘Cannot your sister—cannot Sarah cope?’
Martha hesitated. ‘No. No, she can’t.’
‘Why not? Is one child so hard to handle?’
Martha sighed. ‘I have my reasons.’
‘So.’ Dion drew an impatient breath, pulling out a lighter and applying it to the tip of his cigar. Then he glanced at his father. ‘It seems I must offer my regrets to Andreas and Minerva.’
‘No!’
Martha’s instinctive denial was only narrowly forestalled by his father’s, as Aristotle gazed disbelievi
ngly at his son.
‘You cannot mean to deny your sister the happiness of your company on her most special day!’ he declared. ‘She would never forgive you. You know how much she depends on you—of all her brothers! I will not—I cannot beg you too strongly to reconsider, Dionysus.’
Martha felt an intense weariness overtaking her. This had all been too much for her. First Dion’s appearance, then his talk of divorce; the scene in his father’s study was almost too painful to consider, but it had happened, and now he was playing this cat-and-mouse game of secrets. Just what did he intend to do? How could she interfere in family matters? Aristotle was looking at her as if she was the only person capable of changing his son’s mind, but how could she stay in Rhodes when Sarah was depending on her to return?
‘I have to get back,’ she insisted unsteadily, avoiding her father-in-law’s reproachful gaze. ‘I’m sorry, but I must.’ Dion absorbed this for a few moments, drawing deeply on his cigar, then he seemed to come to a decision. ‘Poli kala,’ he essayed firmly. ‘You will fly back to London tomorrow, ne, and return here on Saturday, bringing the child with you.’
Aristotle was looking at his son now as if he had suddenly taken leave of his senses, but Martha was shaken by the realisation that in a way she had played right into his hands. Panic soured the orange juice inside her, and bile rose in a nauseating surge to the back of her throat.
‘I—I can’t do that,’ she stammered, wondering desperately what the laws of paternity were in Greece, and whether, if she brought Josy here, she would be allowed to take her home again, but Dion was adamant.
‘Why not?’ he demanded, and only she understood the challenge in his words. ‘You said yourself that your sister could not cope with the child. I am offering you a solution, that is all.’
Martha shook her head. ‘I—I couldn’t possibly afford—’ she began, grasping at the expense like a drowning swimmer clutches at a blade of grass, but Dion had all the answers.