Deceptive Passion

by Sophie Weston

  He made an abrupt, dismissive gesture. 'Will you stay with me, Di?' His voice was low.

  Her defences were pretty flimsy things after all. `Yes,' she said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SLIGHTLY to Diana's surprise, Miles wasn't triumphant at his easy victory. Nor did he attempt to take immediate advantage of it.

  Instead he touched her cheek very lightly with the back of his hand.

  `Sleep,' he said. 'You need it. You look like a ghost. We'll talk later.'

  He went noiselessly from the room without waiting for an answer. Which was just as well, Diana thought wryly, because she hadn't the faintest idea what she would have said to him. He seemed to have her in the palm of his hand again.

  She sank back among the pillows, disturbed. Oh, she knew it all, the faint tremors that radiated out from the spine through her whole body, the hunger for his touch, the fear... She screwed her eyes tight shut. That was the awful thing: the fear that he would turn away again, with his remote, polite smile, and remove himself into the far distance.

  `I couldn't take that again,' Diana said aloud.

  She turned her head into the pillow, shaken. Take it again? What was she thinking of? Dropping her independence like an old pair of jeans she had no further use for, and going back to Miles? Even if he wanted her—and he hadn't said he wanted her—that would be foolhardy in the extreme. Surely she wasn't going to let her heart run away with her again?

  She fell asleep telling herself she would not be such a fool.

  She didn't know what it was that brought her awake. She had been dreaming, some sad, familiar stuff where she huddled, shivering in a darkened doorway, waiting and afraid. When she awoke, she was still entangled in the webs of the dream, bewildered and desolate.

  At first she didn't know where she was. She lifted her head and looked round, rubbing the back of her hand across her eyes like a child. Her face, she found, was damp with tears from the dream. The strange shapes of unknown furniture startled her. She sat up.

  `Did I disturb you?' said a soft voice from the window.

  Diana gave a small silent scream, her heart jumping. She swung over to look in the direction of the voice.

  Out of the grey and lilac shadows, Miles strolled. He was like a shadow himself. She could not see his face, only the lithe, beautiful shape of his body and the characteristic tilt of his head. Her blood seemed to stop, then suddenly to start thundering at a new and audible rate.

  She said his name. It was a voiceless whisper. `Yes.'

  She could tell from his voice that he was smiling. She shut her eyes, reaching for her common sense, her resolve, her sense of self-preservation.

  `You shouldn't be here,' she said.

  `An interesting proposition.' The husky voice was amused. Amused and determined. 'Why not?'

  There, was a soft rustle of cloth. Diana's eyes flew open. But she already knew what she would see. He was shrugging himself out of the pale shirt. It dropped unheeded. Oh, the times she had watched him do that! The times she had picked up the misused shirt the next day, holding it against her face, remembering their laughter and the crazy passion they incited in each other.

  Diana scrambled up among the bedclothes with a small moan of panic.

  `No,' she said, pushing the pillows away in an attempt to get off the bed and on to her feet.

  But Miles turned neatly and took her by the shoulders, hauling her across the bed to where he stood at its head. In the cool shadows, his hands were like fire. She shuddered with a feeling she would infinitely have preferred not to recognise. There was no doubt that Miles recognised it. He laughed softly as she put her hands against his chest, trying to lever herself away from him.

  He kissed her. Her protest shuddered into silence.

  The terrifying thing, Diana thought muzzily, was that it was all so familiar. It was nothing like those crazy, calculated minutes on the beach. This was what she knew, what she had grown used to—the absolute physical rapport, a refinement of sensation so exquisite that it was almost a pain.

  In all the bleak days of her independence she had never once looked for another lover. And here he was, proving again, unequivocally and unforgettably, exactly why. It would have been pointless. Only Miles had ever made her feel like this, Diana thought. Only Miles ever could.

  If he leaves me again, I'll die, she thought. She had just enough presence of mind not to say it aloud.

  Their clothes fell in their accustomed tangle. Their bodies moulded into the accustomed attitudes. There was, perhaps, a new intensity. He did, perhaps, hold her more fiercely as she ran her lips over his skin. Diana heard him catch his breath. His throat arched. She was trembling wildly, out of control. She gave herself up to the feelings that swept them both into the whirlwind.

  The next time she awoke, she was smiling. She turned lazily, filled with a sense of sunshine and well-being that she had not had for months.

  The shutters were open. The Attic sun streamed in like wine, blasting colour out of the elaborate hangings. Diana stretched like a cat, looking at the room through half-closed eyes. It was a ridiculous room for a climate like this, she thought. She must make Miles get rid of these tapestries and weighty furniture.

  She turned towards him, reaching out a hand for the support of his shoulder. But she was alone.

  It disconcerted her. She sat up, her eyes flying open. Perhaps he was in the bathroom?

  But no. The bathroom door was open and no sounds came from it. A chill touched her. She pulled the coverlet up to cover her breasts, scanning the room for clues that he had been there, that it had not all been a dream.

  There was nothing. The tangle of masculine clothes had gone from the rug beside the bed. Her own cotton nightdress had been draped modestly over the end of the bed. Apart from that, you wouldn't think Miles had been there at all.

  All Diana's doubts surged back like an unwelcome revelation. Had he said he loved her last night? Had he said anything at all last night? He had said her name on that shaken little note of laughter and passion which had delivered up her soul to him. But of his thoughts, his own feelings, he had said nothing. He had kept his own counsel. Just, Diana reminded herself, growing colder by the minute, as he used to.

  She scrambled off the bed, pulling the coverlet self-consciously round her. But there was no one else in the suite. She put her head out of the door: no one else in the corridor. There was no one on the terrace either. And nothing that could be construed as a message.

  Diana dressed swiftly and went looking.

  She found Christos Galatas on the battlements. There was no sign of anyone else, though the sun was so high

  that it had to be mid-morning. Christos was looking preoccupied and not very pleased.

  `Miles has gone,' he said tersely.

  Diana stopped as if he had hit her.

  `Gone?'

  He looked at her narrowly. 'I was going to ask you if you knew. But obviously you didn't.'

  She put out a hand and lowered herself into a seat blindly. She felt numb.

  Again. He had left her again. Without a word, or a kiss or so much as a note to say where he was going. I don't believe it, she thought. But then, at a deeper, harder level, Yes, I do.

  And yet, after last night, how could he? She would have sworn that he was as moved as she was. Even though he hadn't put it into words, she knew how he had trembled under her hands. Surely that meant something? Surely?

  Nothing, Diana thought, was ever going to hurt her again as much as this second desertion.

  Chris was speaking. ' ... taken my damn fool sister with him.'

  She drew a sharp little breath. Wrong again; something could hurt worse. She gave a sudden, harsh laugh. She'd thought if Miles left her again she would die. Well, this was where she found out how you went on living with a second mortal wound.

  Chris looked at her for a narrow-eyed moment. 'Has he gone to write his Russian paper?' he asked.

  Diana winced. But she said coolly enough,
'I have no idea why he's gone. Or where.'

  `He didn't tell you?'

  She shook her head. 'Miles never told me much when I was married to him. Now...' She shrugged.

  `He seems to think you're still married to him.'

  The pain round her heart was so bad that she felt as if the life blood was being squeezed out of it.

  `Not,' she said grimly, 'for long.'

  To his evident consternation, she insisted on leaving that day. He wanted Dimitri to fly her back to London but the other guest was nowhere to be found, so Chris abandoned that. He would not, however, hear of her driving the hired car back to Athens.

  `You're upset,' he said flatly. 'You'll have an accident.' `I am not upset,' Diana said.

  She had packed with murderous speed. She was now holding on to her temper with the greatest of difficulty. She had to keep reminding herself that Chris was not responsible for his cousin's careless seductions.

  `I've had a wonderful holiday,' she said with vicious politeness, 'and now I need to go back and get on with my life.'

  `Miles will kill me,' he said gloomily.

  But he ordered the chauffeured limousine to take her to the airport. He even accompanied her.

  `What are you going to do when you get back?' he asked as they came into the Athenian suburbs.

  `Work,' she said. Put my affairs in order. Get a divorce.'

  He bit his lip and said nothing for a moment. Then, `Why did you marry Miles, Diana?'

  She drew a careful breath. She had asked herself that too in the last few hours. She knew the answer and there was no point in dissembling, furious though it undoubtedly made her.

  `Because I was in love,' she said crisply. 'And Miles was so sure it was the right thing.' She shrugged. 'We seemed to fit. Then.'

  Christos nodded. 'And Miles was in love,' he supplied.

  Diana swallowed and set her jaw, looking out into the dusty streets.

  `No,' she said. 'I very much doubt it.'

  Chris sighed. 'Then you're wrong,' he said at last. `Miles was so in love that it showed. Frankly, I envied him.'

  He paused. She said nothing. He sighed again. He did not mention the subject again.

  Diana hardly noticed the flight home. It was late and crowded and not all the Count's influence had succeeded in locating a first-class seat on a tourist-class flight. She was wedged into the window seat that his influence did manage to procure, flanked by a worried mother and a restless nine-year-old whose interest in herself didn't diminish until she was climbing into a taxi outside Heathrow.

  Her little house was cold and dusty. Diana went round putting on lights and radiators. After the brightness of Greece it seemed cramped and dark.

  Stop it, she told herself. This is the home you made for yourself when Miles left you. It's what you want. You're comfortable here. You're safe.

  Ah, but am I happy? Will I ever be happy again?

  Self-pity, she told herself grimly, will get you nowhere.

  She went through her post like a whirlwind. When she had answered everything, she ran through the messages on the answering machine. Nothing from Miles, of course. Everything else was easily dealt with. Too easily. It was early afternoon and she had nothing to do to take her mind off the confused and painful thoughts that were churning away at the back of her mind.

  She walked round the house with an undrunk mug of coffee in her hand, formulating plans and discarding them as soon as she thought of them. She went to put music on the stereo and her hand fell on the Bach English

  Suites. Miles's favourites. She stuffed them back into

  the rack and played Charlie Parker loudly and defiantly.

  When her thinking took her nowhere, she went looking for something stronger than coffee. There were the eight-week-old remains of a bottle of Sancerre in the fridge. She threw it away with a grimace and investigated the drinks cupboard. She drank so rarely that she couldn't remember what was there. She looked at the array of bottles with distaste: gin too sweet, brandy too dry, whisky was only for cold weather, ouzo...

  She stopped dead. She had no idea how it had come there. She wouldn't have bought it and she couldn't have brought Miles's bottle from the marital home when she moved her things. Surely she couldn't.

  `It's a conspiracy,' Diana said, shaking with fury.

  With shaking fingers she took the bottle out of the cupboard and marched it into the kitchen like a prisoner under guard. There she twisted the top off viciously and flung the stuff down the sink. The warm smell of aniseed rebounded on her. She set her teeth, flinging the empty bottle into the swing-bin so hard that she heard it shatter.

  `I will get him out of my life,' she vowed. 'I will be free. I will.'

  Without thinking further she picked up the phone and dialled her lawyer. Joan was an old friend who had helped her set up her consultancy.

  `Joan,' she said as soon as she'd identified herself, `I'm divorcing Miles.' For some stupid reason the tears began to seep out of her eyes. She stuffed the back of her hand in her mouth to stop herself whimpering. She mastered her voice. 'Will you act for me?'

  `Are you sure that's what you want?' Joan Dryden asked cautiously after a startled pause. 'Do you want to talk about this?'

  `No,' Diana said curtly. 'I just want it over with as soon as possible.'

  There was another pause. 'Er—well, that will depend on Miles as well, of course,' Joan ventured.

  Diana gave a laugh that didn't—quite—break.

  `I've seen Miles. He's got no grounds to contest a divorce.' She swallowed something huge and jagged in her throat. 'He's left me twice now.'

  `Well, he's off lecturing, that's his job. You have to be reasonable,' Joan said with infuriating calm.

  `He's off with Susanna Galatas,' Diana said coldly.

  `Oh, lord,' said Joan, suddenly less the lawyer than the concerned friend. 'Oh, Diana, I'm so sorry. What a bastard.'

  I will not cry, Diana told herself. She swallowed again.

  `He was always close to her,' she said, her voice a model of indifference. 'He may even marry her. I don't care. I just want shot of him, Joan.'

  `I don't blame you. I'll start drafting,' her friend said. `Are you all right? I mean do you want me to come over or anything?'

  `No. I'm going to see my parents,' Diana said on another of her instantaneous decisions. Her voice suddenly thickened. 'But thanks, Joan.'

  She prepared more carefully for her visit to her parents the next day. If Miles was serious about his threat to stop her allowance, she would have to see if there was any way that between them they could carry on paying the mortgage. And she didn't want them to detect her own devastation. Not least because she didn't want to admit it herself.

  They were delighted to see her. Her father was cooking in his skilfully adapted kitchen. He sent her out to talk to her mother, who was gardening.

  Constance Silk hugged her, then held her a little away from her.

  `Did you have a good holiday?' she said, searching her face. 'You don't look very brown.'

  `Mum, I saw Miles,' Diana blurted, breaching all her prepared resolutions.

  Mrs Silk sat down on a wooden bench that circled a pear tree and placed her trug under it. She was heartbreakingly unalarmed.

  `Did you, now? I'm glad.'

  Diana subsided beside her and took hold of herself rapidly. 'Don't be.'

  Her mother looked faintly amused. 'Did you have another fight?'

  One of the most difficult things to deal with since Miles had walked out had been, in Diana's experience, her mother's bland determination that it was a temporary interlude, resulting from Diana's losing her temper with a busy man she didn't appreciate.

  Diana closed her eyes briefly. 'Mother, Miles and I fought all the time.'

  Mrs Silk shook her head at her. 'You're the most contrary girl. You and Miles head over heels as you are, I'd have thought you could find something better to do than quarrelling.' And, having delivered her considered view, which Diana kne
w would not be repeated, she sat back and said comfortably, 'Now tell me how Miles is.'

  Diana straightened her shoulders. She shielded her father a good deal but experience had taught her there was not much point in trying to hide things from her mother.

  `Miles is getting tired of paying my allowance,' she

  said. 'We're going to have to look at the mortgage again.

  I'm not sure I can keep it up. Or not for long. I'm sorry.'

  She waited for an outbreak of emotion. None came.

  `You must have made him very angry this time,' Constance Silk said thoughtfully.

  Diana decided to tell her everything. Or at least all the facts. The emotions she couldn't handle herself yet. She certainly wasn't going to try and explain them to someone else.

  `I told him I didn't want to have anything more to do with him,' she said with a hint of defiance.

  `Ah. I see now,' her mother said at length.

  Diana stared. This was superhuman self-control. `See what, Mum?'

  `The solicitors in Oxford sent someone over last week. Wednesday, was it? Thursday? He said Miles thought the present arrangement was unsatisfactory. So he was going to pay off the mortgage entirely. Dad and I had to sign some papers. I thought,' said Constance Silk with the confidence of a woman who never bothered her head with such things, 'it was probably something to do with tax.'

  `Pay off...?' A terrible fear took hold of Diana. 'You mean the house is in his name now?'

  Mrs Silk looked shocked. 'Oh, I don't think so, dear. You'll have to ask your father. The solicitor brought the deeds back. Dad and I went into town and put them in the bank. It made a nice trip for him.'

  Diana felt as if she had taken a step into quicksand. `I don't understand.'

  Mrs Silk sent her a shrewd look. 'I suppose Miles didn't want Dad and me to be mixed up in whatever fight you're having now,' she said comfortably. 'Very sensible of him.'

  There was a shriek of triumph from the kitchen. Constance Silk stood up, looking pleased.