by Anne Mather
Martha avoided his eyes. ‘Don’t bait me, Dion,’ she begged, tightly, and with a muffled profanity he released her.
In the event, they did leave before the others. Martha’s headache had become a throbbing reality, and when Dion discovered that some friends of his were leaving at eleven, he suggested they accept the lift they offered. If their departure was looked on with disapproval by his parents, Dion did not seem to care, and Martha relaxed in the back of the Stephanoses’ saloon with some relief. Paul Stephanos was the editor of a newspaper here in Athens, and his wife was heavily pregnant. She seemed drowsy, and consequently Martha was not obliged to make conversation on the journey back to the city.
The villa seemed strangely empty without the presence of Aristotle and Ariadne, and crossing the marble-tiled entrance hall, Martha felt a sense of relief that they had returned alone. The usual post-mortem on the proceedings that her mother-in-law liked to conduct would not now take place, and she was free to go to bed without offering any excuse. Even her headache was receding in the coolness of the air-conditioning, though her sigh of satisfaction was misinterpreted by her husband.
‘Go to bed,’ he said wearily, walking into the ornate beauty of the main salon. ‘I need a drink, then I too intend to retire. We will be returning to Mycos tomorrow, but do not put away your suitcases. I will be leaving for New York in a matter of ten days or so.’
‘New York!’ Martha halted, with one hand on the marble balustrade. ‘But I—’
‘You will be accompanying me,’ he stated, his expression guarded. ‘Did I not make myself clear? That is why I have hired a suitable nursemaid. I should not like Josy to suffer for my actions.’
Martha licked her lips bewilderedly, and with a shrug he left her, disappearing into the salon and leaving her to ponder this entirely unexpected development. He was taking her with him to New York, she acknowledged incredulously. He intended to extend their unnatural relationship into areas previously barred to her. Was this his revenge, his method of punishing her—or had he motives even she could not identify?
In the bedroom the lamp was lit beside the bed, its copper shade casting a mellow radiance over dark wood and rich silk draperies. The predominating colour in the room was cinnamon, shading from palest beige to deepest amber, with shades of gold and topaz in between. The bed was huge and opulent, the damask coverlet turned back to display sheets of rich brown silk, and pillows edged with coffee-coloured lace, while the carpet underfoot was honey-gold, and softly luxurious.
Shedding her wrap, Martha kicked off her high-heeled sandals, removed her jewellery and walked disconsolately across the floor. Now that she was alone at last she did not care for the situation, and the turmoil of her thoughts left little room for relaxation. What was Dion trying to do to her? she asked herself perplexedly, her brow furrowing in her confusion. What possible use could he have for her in New York, except as a target on which to vent his spleen? Hadn’t he proved his point by taking her to the party tonight, without forcing her to repeat the humiliation in every other capital of the world?
She sat down on the bed and peeled off her pantyhose, anxiety dilating the pupils of her eyes. This couldn’t go on, she told herself fiercely; no matter what was at stake, the break would have to come. It wasn’t just his present attitude towards her, which was hard enough to bear, goodness knows. It was the way he was making her feel about him, and the realisation that his behaviour towards her at the time of Josy’s birth was gradually becoming less important than the desperate need he inspired inside her.
Getting up from the bed again, she unfastened the straps at the shoulders of her gown and allowed it to fall unheeded to the floor at her feet. She had given Irene the night off, half embarrassed on those occasions when the girl had waited up to attend to her toilette, and stepping out of the folds she walked into the bathroom.
The bathroom matched the bedroom, its porcelain tiles shading from cream to gold, the huge sunken bath capable of accommodating half a dozen people. Martha found it rather intimidating, but she could not deny a certain admiration for its magnificence.
Hesitating now, she looked at the bath again, and on impulse bent to turn on the taps. Since her arrival seven days ago she had invariably used the shower, but the temptation to submerge herself in scented water was heightened at the realisation that it might possibly help her to sleep.
She added some of the contents of a jar of bath salts she found in the cabinet to the water, and felt a reluctant smile tugging at her lips as the water foamed and bubbled around the rim. It was tantalising stepping into its soapy depths, and she sank down luxuriously, uncaring that the ends of her hair were getting wet.
The warmth was narcotic, and her eyelids drooped after a time, and she drowsed. It was so pleasant, relaxing in the steamy atmosphere, and she forgot all about the party, and Julia’s unpleasantness, and remembered only the feel of Dion’s body as he had moved with her around the tiny dance floor.
‘Martha! Martha, what are you doing in there?’
Her husband’s voice seemed to reach her from a far distance, and she opened her eyes reluctantly to the realisation that he was knocking on the bathroom door.
‘Martha! Answer me!’ There was concern in his voice now, as he repeated his command. ‘What is the matter?’
Martha wriggled into a more comfortable position, and then called back: ‘I’m all right. I’m taking a bath. I—you—you can come in, if you want to. The door’s not locked.’
Dion needed no second bidding, and he entered the room abruptly, his expression dark with irritation. She saw at once why he had been so impatient, her eyes acknowledging his bare feet and carelessly tied robe, and guessed that he, too, had intended to take advantage of the bath.
‘Do you realise you have been in here over half an hour?’ he demanded, standing over her impatiently. ‘I thought something must have happened to you, taking so long. I did not realise you had been taking a nap!’
Martha shifted lazily. ‘Does it matter? I’m sorry if you’ve been waiting to use the bathroom—’
‘I have not been waiting to use the bathroom,’ he snapped, shortly. ‘There are plenty of other bathrooms, without using this one. But I must admit, I have not used them, simply because I was concerned about you!’
‘Well, I’m sorry.’ Martha shuffled into a sitting position, aware as she did so that the upper half of her body was now revealed to his angry gaze, rose-tipped and deliciously soapy. ‘You should have knocked sooner. I didn’t think you would notice. You said you were going to have a drink.’
‘A drink!’ he agreed. ‘Not a whole bottle.’ His hands balled at his sides. ‘At first I thought you must be elsewhere, but when I discovered you were not, I thought of the bathroom.’ He gestured towards her impatiently. ‘Cover yourself up, can you not?’
‘Is that what you want me to do?’ she asked, still bemused from her sudden awakening, and tantalised by his nearness. ‘Were you going to take a bath, Dion? Is that why you are wearing this?’ Her fingers reached out and touched his bathrobe.
‘What I was about to do is not important,’ he retorted harshly, his expression revealing his irritation. ‘I suggest you get out before the water cools completely.’
‘Oh, but it’s quite refreshing,’ Martha taunted, enjoying his discomposure. ‘I had a shower before I went out, but I thought a bath might relax me—and it has.’
‘Martha!’ The word was anguished. ‘In the name of all the saints, what are you trying to do to me?’
‘What am I trying to do to you?’ she echoed, as if not understanding him. ‘Why, nothing. I’m only taking a bath. I’m sorry if the sight of my body offends you.’
He turned away at that, his shoulders stiff with some emotion he was desperately trying to suppress, and she could not bear it any longer. ‘Dion!’ she breathed, stretching out a hand towards him. ‘Dion, don’t go. Please…’
He halted, but he did not turn to look at her, and with a sound of impatience sh
e scrambled on to her knees and reached for his ankle. ‘Dion,’ she repeated huskily, ‘do you remember how we used to take baths together? Do you remember how we used to share—everything?’
‘Hristo, Martha, do you want me to despise myself even more than I do already?’ he groaned, looking down at her now, but when she silently shook her head, he was unable to resist the alluring temptation of her. ‘This is madness!’ he protested, but his fingers were already unloosening the cord of his bathrobe, and dropping it carelessly on to the tiles, he stepped down into the water.
Martha’s mouth was warm and moist from the steamy atmosphere, her body slippery with soap, but infinitely sensuous, coiling against him, with all the unconscious sexuality of her nature. Dion would not have been human if he had not responded to it, and with an urgency born of his own needs he drew her down with him into the scented depths.
‘Love me,’ she whispered against his lips, the intimacy of their embrace heightening her already stimulated senses, inspiring a mindless abandon in which constraint had no part. She wanted him, she wanted to please him, and she wanted the closeness that only total possession could give.
‘I want to,’ he muttered in return, his half closed eyes devouring her. ‘I do not think you could stop me now…’
‘Not here,’ she objected, half in panic, when his mouth ported hers once again, but he only held her closer.
‘Why not?’ he countered, with devastating frankness, and she could think of no significant reason to deny him.
It was like drowning, she thought imaginatively, only that awful fate offered nothing to compare with the sensations Dion was inspiring. Yet the release of all conscious control on one’s actions was like the drifting, dreaming, yielding, of a leaf on the tide, and there was only the warmth and the water and Dion, and sensuous, sensual feeling…
Afterwards, he lifted her out of the water and carried her into their bedroom, laying her on the bed and making love to her all over again. When she protested about the dampness of the sheets, he only smiled and said that they only needed half the bed to sleep in anyway, and she was too satiated and drowsy with emotion to care about anything but that he should remain with her. She had never felt such ecstasy, such soaring rapture, and she responded without volition, pleasing him as he was pleasing her, until exhaustion drove them to seek a shared oblivion…
CHAPTER TEN
MARTHA awakened the next morning with a feeling of relief so intense, she felt almost weak with reaction. Nothing could ever be the same again, not after last night, and however Dion had behaved in the past, she believed he loved her now, and that was the most important thing of all. His lovemaking had been so much more than just a simple gratification of the senses. It had been a declaration of their need for one another. A union of minds as well as bodies, as satisfying as it had been beautiful.
Turning over, she was slightly disconcerted to find the bed beside her empty, and a puzzled little frown furrowed the wide smoothness of her forehead. A probing hand produced the knowledge that the sheet beside her was still faintly warm, a sure indication that it had not been long since Dion’s departure.
Rolling over, she focussed on the clock standing on the table beside the bed, experiencing a sense of astonishment when she discovered it was already after eleven. After eleven! she echoed silently, blinking in amazement. No wonder she was alone!
Pushing one slender leg out of bed, she was delightfully shocked to discover her own nakedness, and she stood for a few moments before the vanity mirror, giving in to a little vanity of her own. Dion’s lovemaking had left more than merely physical marks upon her, and the languorous darkness of her eyes held a secret all their own. Her tongue appeared in teasing provocation, and then, with a half smile of satisfaction, she sought the satin wrapper she had discarded before the previous evening’s party.
She was brushing the tangled disorder of her hair when there was a tentative tap at the bedroom door, and her heart leapt alarmingly at the prospect of seeing her husband again. But it was only Irene, her maid, who entered the apartment, her smile appearing shyly when she discovered Martha was awake.
‘Kirios Dionysus asked me not to disturb you this morning, madame,’ she murmured, in half apology for her absence, but Martha made an expansive gesture, dismissing her excuses.
‘That’s all right, Irene,’ she assured her, in her own language. ‘But I’d love some coffee, if there’s some available, and do you know where Kirios Dionysus is?’
‘I think he went out, madame. With Kirios Myconos,’ replied Irene doubtfully. ‘I will get the coffee. Five minutes, madame.’
After she had gone, Martha’s spirits sank a little. So Dion had gone out. Why should it matter to her? They were supposedly leaving for Mycos this afternoon. She would have his undivided attention soon enough, and tonight…
Refusing to allow such disturbing thoughts to disrupt her composure, Martha went into the bathroom to wash, and clean her teeth. Its cream and gold luxury brought back memories of their closeness the night before, and she brushed her teeth more vigorously than she might have done, trying to divert the inclination of her thoughts.
She had dressed, in slim-fitting cotton pants and a matching smock of apricot lace, when Irene returned with her tray, and the Greek girl’s eyes widened in admiration as she took in the charming picture Martha presented.
‘You look so young to have already a five-year-old daughter,’ she exclaimed, half enviously, and Martha felt a twinge of remorse at the awareness of how little thought she had given to her daughter since Dion had taken her in his arms.
‘Thank you,’ she said now, pouring herself a cup of the steaming black liquid and sipping it appreciatively. ‘Hmm, this is delicious. Will you thank Kiria Marcos for me?’
‘I made it myself,’ confessed Irene shyly, and Martha felt a surge of affection towards her. ‘Kiria Myconos is asking to see you, and I knew you would not wish to keep her waiting.’
‘Kiria Myconos?’ Martha felt a faint touch of disquiet ‘Ariadne? She wants to see me? Oh, lord! Why? Do you know?’
Irene bent her head. ‘I am sorry, I only know that Kiria Myconos asks you to speak with her as soon as you are dressed, madame. She is waiting for you in the library.’
Martha sighed, but she nodded understandingly at Irene, thanking her for the coffee and for delivering the message. ‘I expect she wants to ask why Dion and I left the party so early last night,’ she murmured, half to herself, though she doubted Ariadne would be as unsubtle as that. ‘Will you tell Kirios Dionysus where I am, if he comes back in the meantime,’ she added, and Irene agreed that she would.
Her mother-in-law surveyed her appearance without enthusiasm when Martha announced herself in the doorway to the library. Ariadne did not approve of trousers on women and never wore them herself, and her other daughters-in-law were too plump to want to oppose her in this way.
‘So,’ she said, speaking in English for a change, ‘you have chosen to awaken at last. After the early night you had, I would have expected you to be—how do you say it?—up with the birds this morning.’
‘Lark,’ said Martha automatically. ‘Up with the lark,’ she added, by way of an explanation, though her lips twitched a little in amused recollection. If Ariadne only knew, she thought humorously, how little sleep she had actually had! ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were waiting to speak to me.’
‘No. No, I do not suppose you did,’ agreed Ariadne dryly, indicating a leather banquette beneath the windows. ‘Will you sit down? There are things which I think you and I must discuss.’
Martha remembered another occasion when one of Dion’s parents had offered her a seat and politely declined. Whatever Ariadne had to say, she would hear standing up, and her mother-in-law made a dismissing gesture with her hands as she sought the comfort of a tapestry-covered sofa.
‘Very well,’ she said, arranging the folds of her morning gown around her. ‘As you may have guessed, it is about my son that I wish to speak,
and I should like you to tell me exactly what the situation is between you two.’
‘The situation?’ Martha played for time, moving her shoulders in an unknowingly sensuous gesture. ‘But you know the situation, madame.’
‘Do I?’ Ariadne shrugged. ‘When you persistently call me madame, and not Mama, as you know I would wish?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No matter.’ Ariadne shook her head. ‘I am persuaded that will come in time. After Dionysus’ behaviour last evening, it is no longer in any doubt that he intends we should accept you.’ She paused, and Martha shifted a little uncomfortably under her gaze. ‘You know to what I am referring, of course.’
Martha nodded. ‘Miss Kuriakin.’
‘Miss Kuriakin, as you say.’ The older woman shook her head. ‘My son is not normally so discourteous. However, that is not what I wish to discuss with you.’
‘No, mad—Mama.’
Ariadne acknowledged this attempt to placate her with a faint smile, and then said, more seriously: ‘It is my wish that Dionysus should have no more unhappiness in his life.’
‘That is my wish, too,’ agreed Martha eagerly, and her mother-in-law frowned.
‘Yet you cannot deny that you have made my son’s life a torment for him in the past,’ she asserted. ‘I would not want that to happen again.’
‘It won’t,’ declared Martha, without hesitation. ‘I love Dion—Mama. I always have. I guess I always will.’
‘But can you deny he had virtually to—to blackmail you to persuade you to come out to the islands?’
Martha sighed. ‘He told you?’
‘No.’ Ariadne’s nostrils flared. ‘No, he told me nothing—he seldom does. Alex told me. Alex was concerned about him. We all were. And these past few days have been no reassurance to us. Oh, you have been together, I cannot deny that. You have shared the same suite of rooms. Yet I am told Dionysus occupies a bed in his dressing room, and you are only polite to one another when you join the family for meals.’