Читать книгу Irresistible Greeks Collection - Кэрол Мортимер, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 24

‘WELL, what do you think? Should she stick to Hollywood?’

The curtain had fallen, and Marisa was making her slow way out of the stalls. Athan Teodarkis’s tall presence behind her was almost tangible as he followed her. But then it had been tangible the entire evening. Tangible even when he’d been on the far side of a taxi seat from her on the way to the theatre, let alone when he’d been sitting right next to her in the plush stalls seat, his sleeve almost brushing hers, even though she’d tried to make sure she kept her hands in her lap, not resting on the chair arm like he had.

A hundred times she’d told herself that she should never have accepted his invitation. That it was completely unacceptable to have done so, and a big, big mistake.

She didn’t know the man. Didn’t know him from Adam. However prestigious a business card he possessed, he was a stranger—a stranger who had quite blatantly picked her up. Not quite off the street, but even so—being some random guy in the flat next to hers was not exactly a formal introduction, was it? But the moment she thought about the total absence of any kind of formal introduction the memory of that hand-kiss was there, and the fleeting sensation of his lips scarcely brushing her knuckles …

No wonder Victorian maidens swooned when men kissed their hands!

How, she wondered for the millionth time, could such a formal gesture be so incredibly … intimate? For intimate was the only word for it. And swooning the only word for the sensation it had created … ?.

The sensation that permeated her still. Not quite as intense, but there all the same, like a very low-level fever that had been running in her veins constantly, all evening. She’d sought to ignore it, sought to make herself behave with this man as if he weren’t having that effect on her, as if it were perfectly normal to make polite, anodyne conversation about the play, the theatre, the state of London traffic, sounding composed and unaffected and sensible.

She’d deliberately dressed in a style that was demure—there was no better word for it. No way was she going to give him the slightest reason to think she was coming on to him! Either by her manner or her appearance. So the grey light wool dress she’d chosen was smart, no doubt about that, and had a mid-range designer tag, but the neckline was not low and the cut was quite loose, its hemline touching her knee. Matching grey tights and grey low-heeled shoes went with it, and the only jewellery she wore was a metallic haematite necklace. Her hair was dressed in a plaited coil at the back of her head, and her make up was as discreet as the rest of her.

Had he looked very slightly surprised at the overall demureness of her appearance? She wasn’t sure, but if he had the look had disappeared immediately, and his manner towards her had mirrored her own. He was courteous and conversational, but he was not coming on to her—to her relief.

It was to her relief, wasn’t it? She was glad he was simply talking to her as if she were, say, the wife of a friend or a colleague, or even a middle-aged woman. Because of course she wouldn’t want him to talk to her as if she were a female he found attractive or wanted to make up to, would she?

Of course not, she told herself firmly. So, keeping that clear in her mind, she answered now, as they made their way into the foyer, ‘I thought she was pretty good all round. At first I kept only seeing her as a “star,” but after a while I just saw her as her character, and I thought she did it better than one might have expected.’

‘Interesting,’ he commented, ‘that she took the role of the oldest and dowdiest sister—when her Hollywood parts are always so glamorous.’

‘I expect she thought it was the most challenging part,’ she answered lightly. ‘Playing against type.’

His response was ‘Yes, very probably,’ and then he made a comment about another of the cast. As they walked out onto the pavement, the chilly air hitting her, he guided her towards the left.

‘I do hope,’ she heard him say, ‘that you will agree to having a post-theatre dinner with me? I find that an evening performance is never best timed to eat either before or after.’

She felt her arm being taken. Not in a possessive way, let alone in any kind of intimate way, but simply lightly, cupping her elbow to guide her along the pavement. Guiding her where he wanted her to go.

For a moment she felt she ought to refuse, then she gave a mental shrug. She was hungry, and since she’d already gone to the theatre with him what harm would there be in going on to a restaurant? Besides, she wanted to talk about the play, and if she just went home there would be no one to talk to.

There never was, apart from Ian.

A pang went through her but she thrust it aside. She was lucky—beyond lucky!—to have Ian in her life now, and as for making friends in London—well, that was entirely up to her. She would volunteer for a charity, start up exercise classes, possibly evening classes as well—why not? And she’d soon have friends here—of course she could. She had a brand-new life, courtesy of Ian, and she would make the very most of it.

The restaurant Athan Teodarkis took her to was only a short walk from the theatre. It wasn’t, she was glad to see, either a very crowded, popular one, or a quiet, intimate one. There were a fair number of other diners there, but the lighting was not conducive to romantic dining à deux, and she felt reassured. Post-theatre seduction was evidently not, thank goodness, on her escort’s mind.

All that was on his mind, it seemed, was ordering from the menu, choosing wine, and then being perfectly prepared to discuss the production they’d just seen.

‘I have to admit,’ he opined, having nodded to the sommelier to fill their glasses and taken an appreciative mouthful of the wine, ‘that the play did irritate me in respect of the sisters’ endless preoccupation with wanting to go to Moscow but never going. I kept finding myself wanting to shout Just buy a train ticket!’

Marisa gave the requisite smile in response, but then said ruminatively, ‘But if you’re not used to travel, and you’ve always lived in one place, then going to a big city can be very daunting.’

Athan’s eyes rested on her a moment. ‘You sound like you speak from experience?’

‘Well, yes, I do. Up until recently I’d never left Devon. It sounds odd, in this day and age, but I’d never been to London.’ It was an admission she suddenly felt unsure about making, as if revealing it might put him off her. But it didn’t seem to.

‘What made you come here?’ His voice was neutral.

She gave a little shrug. ‘Oh, wanting to see the bright lights and so on. Usual reasons, really.’

The nonchalance in her voice did not deceive him. Yet he found himself unable to decide what was the cause of it. On the most cynical interpretation it could be, a blithe glossing over of an ambition to come up to London and catch the attention of a wealthy man … just as she had with his brother-in-law. But he had to acknowledge it might also be, simply because she felt that being seen as a country girl didn’t go with her sophisticated image.

Not that she was presenting a sophisticated image tonight, he also had to acknowledge. He’d been unable to suppress a flicker of slight surprise when he’d first set eyes on her and taken in her outfit for the evening. Demure had been the word that came to his mind, and it was an odd one for a female who was happy for a married man to lavish his money on her.

Once again he felt a flicker of emotion go through him. He was glad she hadn’t taken the opportunity to dress to kill this evening, to attempt openly to wow him. Instead, the fact that she was playing down her natural beauty was, he realised, really quite appealing …

He made another comment about the performance, drawing another response in kind from her, and by the time their first course arrived he was aware that he was, against his expectations, enjoying talking to her. Her views were intelligent and informed, and she revealed a sensitivity to the play’s characters’ various dilemmas that showed she understood the complexities of their situations—even that of the sisters’ feckless brother.

‘I suppose the brother is the least sympathetic character,’ she was saying, ‘though I suppose one has to allow that he made a disastrous marriage and make some excuses for him.’

Athan stilled. ‘Does an unhappy marriage excuse bad behaviour?’ He knew there was nothing audible in his voice other than dispassionate enquiry. His mouth, however, had tightened. However insightful she might be about Chekov, it didn’t blind him to the fact that she was still in the dock about the way she chose to live her private life.

‘Sometimes, perhaps,’ Marisa said slowly. ‘The second sister, Masha, wouldn’t have had an affair if she’d been happily married, would she?’

‘And that exonerates her, does it?’

Now the edge was audible in his voice, and Marisa looked across at him.

‘I think it depends on each individual situation,’ she said.

There was a shadow in her eyes as she spoke, and Athan did not miss it.

So, was that what she was telling herself? he thought. That Ian Randall was unhappily married, so that gave him—and her—carte blanche to have an affair?

‘Do you think Masha’s husband was right to forgive her?’ His question was blunt.

‘Well, divorce was probably impossible in those days, wasn’t it? He would just have to make the best of things, I guess.’

Athan reached for his wine. ‘Ah, yes, divorce—a very convenient option.’

Marisa looked at him. ‘But not one that’s always taken,’ she said.

She looked away again. This wasn’t a subject she wanted to discuss. It was too close, too painful, and the arrival of their main course was a welcome interruption.

As the waiters departed she picked up her knife and fork and said, deliberately seeking a new topic, ‘What brings you to London?’

Her voice was bright and enquiring. Glancing at her, realising she was deliberately steering him away from a subject that was obviously too close to the bone for her, Athan momentarily wondered how she would react if he told her the truth: I’m here to stop you having an adulterous affair with Ian Randall … my brother-in-law.

Instead, of course, he responded in a similar vein to her conversational opening.

‘Unlike the three sisters, I travel extensively for my work. I’m primarily based in Athens, but the company is international and travel goes with the ticket.’

A wistful look entered her eyes. ‘That must be wonderful,’ she said.

He gave a mordant smile. ‘It can get tedious,’ he answered. ‘One airport is very much like another in the end—and offices are very similar wherever in the world they are.’

‘Yes, I suppose it palls after a while.’

He looked at her speculatively. ‘Why don’t you try it some time—travel? If you’ll excuse me saying so, you have the means to do so, don’t you?’

Living in a Holland Park flat as she did, wearing the expensive closthes she did, it was a reasonable assumption for him to make—assuming, of course, he didn’t know that she was not a free agent and that her accommodation and wardrobe were provided by a lover who was London-based and would want to keep his mistress close by and not gadding about abroad.

Her response confirmed that assessment of her situation.

A hesitant expression flitted across her face. ‘Oh, it would be a bit difficult at the moment. But, yes, perhaps one day—it would be wonderful to see other countries.’

‘What would be your first choice?’ he asked. An idea was forming in his mind, but he needed more information first.

She glanced out of the window at the wintry rain that had started to descend through the streetlights.

‘Anywhere with a tropical beach!’ she said with a laugh.

He gave a light, answering laugh. ‘Yes, I can see the appeal.’

She looked at him. ‘You must be used to hot weather?’

‘Contrary to popular opinion, Athens can have very cold weather sometimes,’ he said wryly. ‘At this time of year you’d need to go a lot further south to find any warmth, let alone tropical beaches.’

Even as he spoke his mind was racing ahead. Would it be feasible, what he’d just thought of? It would take some reorganisation, but it could certainly be done. Best of all, a cold, cynical part of his brain told him, it would be something she could not lie about afterwards. If he had to he could demonstrably prove to Ian that the woman he wanted to make his mistress had preferred another man to him.

She was speaking again, saying something about dream holiday destinations, and he turned his attention back to her. Her expression was more animated now, as if she were losing the guard that she’d put up against him all evening.

Was it deliberate, this lightening up, or was she unconscious of it?

Whichever it is, animation only makes her yet more beautiful.

As she spoke his gaze rested on her. Sitting across a dining table from her like this, he could see exactly why Ian Randall was so smitten with her. She could have been wearing a sack, for all her appearance was seeking to mute her beauty. Hers was a beauty that shone like a star.

Can I really go through with this?

The unwelcome question uncoiled again in his mind, troubling him. It had seemed easy enough when he’d decided this was the best, fastest and most irreversible way of terminating her relationship with Ian. But now that he was only a few feet away from her, dining with her, talking with her … drinking in her blonde, perfect beauty … was it really such a good idea? Were there hidden dangers that he did not see ahead of him?

He pushed the thought aside ruthlessly. Of course there was no danger—not to him. He would do what he intended, achieve what he’d set out to do, and then walk away, his purpose accomplished. Unscathed. Of course unscathed.

Why would he even be thinking of anything else?

Not the way her cheekbones seem to be sculpted out of alabaster, or the blue of her eyes seems to catch the reflection of a tranquil sea, or her mouth seems as tender as a newly ripe peach …

He tore his mind away from cataloguing her physical attributes and back to what she was talking about. He realised he had no idea what she’d just said.

‘I’m sorry—you were saying …?’ he said.

She seemed to have faltered to a stop, and he wondered at it. Then he realised she was simply looking at him. A faint colour was staining her cheekbones—those cheekbones carved from alabaster, he thought, then pushed it aside. Her eyelashes swept down over her eyes, veiling their expression. But it was too late—he’d seen it, recognised it …

Knew it for what it was.

Marisa felt heat flare in her face, dipped her gaze swiftly. But she knew it was too late. Knew that she hadn’t been able to disguise her reaction to the way he’d just been looking at her. The power of his gaze, the message clear and unambiguous in his eyes. She felt hot, then shivery, as if one moment her blood was heating in her veins, and the next it had drained from her, pooling somewhere very deep inside her. She felt a breathlessness, a constriction in her throat, a hectic beating of her heart.

She fought for composure. It wasn’t supposed to happen! This wasn’t supposed to be anything like this. She was here with him only because he’d invited her to the theatre, then to dinner afterwards—it wasn’t a date, not in the romance sense. Of course it wasn’t!

He’s a stranger! I don’t know him!

But she knew enough.

Enough to tell her that when he looked at her he was looking at her not as someone to accompany him to a play or to talk to him about it afterwards.

All that stuff she’d told herself about how he was behaving like she was the wife of a friend, or a colleague, or a middle aged woman … it mocked her—made a fool of her self-pretence.

Jerkily, she got on with eating. That was what she must do—focus on the meal, on getting to the end of it. Making herself chit-chat about anything and nothing—it didn’t really matter what.

And don’t look at him—not like that. Ignore him—make myself ignore him—if he looks at me.

It took self-discipline and effort—a lot of effort—but she managed to stick to her resolve. For the rest of the meal she made light, bright conversation, doggedly not meeting his eyes, not gazing at him, not paying any attention at all to the way his eyes seemed to be flecked with gold, or the way lines formed around his mouth when he smiled, or the way his head turned, the way his strong, long-fingered hands curved around the stem of his wine glass, or the way his deep, accented voice played on her nerve-endings like the low bass notes of a song that pulsed slow and heavy in her veins …

But it was as if there were two of her. One that was doing the light, bright chit-chat and another, watching from inside, wanting to do what she was not allowing herself to do. To drink him in, feel the power of his physicality, his presence, his impact on her.

In the taxi back to Holland Park she was as jittery as a cat, sliding to the far side of the seat, deliberately putting her handbag down beside her, as if to form a barricade against him, and then leaping out of the cab as fast as she could when they alighted. She kept up the hectic, inconsequential chatter as they ascended in the lift, ignoring—doggedly ignoring!—the fact that they were enclosed in a small, six-by-six box with no one else, alone together, and the moment the lift doors opened she was out in the corridor and turning towards him.

‘Thank you so much for a lovely evening,’ she said, in the light, bright voice she had kept up so determinedly. ‘It was so kind of you—I really enjoyed myself.’ She put a bright social smile on her face. ‘Goodnight,’ she said airily.

Athan looked down at her. OK, so she was holding him off. Keeping him at bay. Well, he would go along with it—for now.

He gave her the faint half-smile he’d used before. ‘Goodnight, Marisa—I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. So did I.’

There was nothing in his voice or his expression to show her that he was playing along with her, but he was sure he saw her colour deepen fractionally before she turned away and got her key out of her bag to open her front door. Did she fumble slightly as she did so? And was that for the reason he wanted it to be? He watched her open the door and step inside, her hand lifting in a little half-wave of farewell as she shut the door on him.

For a moment or two he stood looking at her closed apartment door, his own face closed as well. Eyes masked. Thoughts went through his head. Conflicting, disturbing thoughts that were a waste of his time. That interfered with his purpose.

Then, with an abrupt turn on his heel, he strode down to his own apartment, and went inside.

He had made it to first base with her, just as he’d planned. Now it was a question of taking it to the next stage.

The idea he’d had during dinner flared again in his head. It was attractive, simple, decisive—and it would sever her, unquestionably from Ian Randall, in the shortest possible time.

He was quite some distance from it yet—there was more preparation to do. A lot more. But when it was complete Marisa Milburne would never be available to his brother-in-law again.

‘Aren’t you going to open it?’

Athan’s voice held its familiar note of faint amusement as she stared down at the envelope he’d placed in front of her at their table in the restaurant. Marisa knew that tone of voice by now. It made him sound as if he found her behaviour funny but he chose to indulge it. Chose to indulge the way she behaved with him.

As if what was happening wasn’t happening at all. As if she hadn’t for the past two weeks held him at arm’s length. Not that he’d tried to close the distance. She had to allow him that—and be appreciative of it. Of course if he had tried to close the distance she would have bolted instantly. Of course she would! If he’d made a move on her, flirted with her, come on to her, she’d have backed away—retreated out of reach.

But he hadn’t. For a start, for several days after their theatre date she hadn’t even set eyes on him. Well, that was understandable. It had been the weekend, and he’d probably gone back to Athens. Or spent his time with someone else.

Who else?

The moment she’d asked the question, she had supplied the answer. A woman, of course—someone svelte, glamorous and gorgeous. A supermodel, a high-powered career woman, a glittering socialite … her mind had run through the possibilities. Not someone like her—a quiet, provincial girl who didn’t move in the kind of circles a man like him would move in. She was someone he’d taken to the theatre on the spur of the moment because he’d had no one else to take to such a play, and that was all. Not that she was asking for more—of course she wasn’t. But it was as well to face the facts—a female who lived on her own, didn’t go out anywhere, and was new to London didn’t usually get to hang out with sinfully good-looking Greek tycoons.

The theatre date had been a one-off. That was the obvious conclusion. And the one she’d wanted. Hadn’t she? Of course she had—hadn’t she spent the whole evening reminding herself he was a complete stranger?

Except when she’d got back home in her flat again she’d realised she’d enjoyed the evening. Not just because it had been so nice to go to the theatre with someone else, but because his company had been so good. Oh, not only because he was so ludicrously good looking, but because it had been interesting to talk to him, to exchange views on the play with him. It had been mentally stimulating, and the discussion they’d had still buzzed in her head.

Spending that weekend on her own—she had accepted she could never see Ian at the weekends, for that was the time he spent with his wife—had brought home to her just how isolated she felt here in London, however easy and luxurious her life. Her resolve to get some sort of voluntary work, try and make friends, had strengthened, and on the Monday she’d headed for the nearest charity shop and enquired about volunteering. Then she’d investigated dance classes nearby, and signed up for those as well. But her good mood had been dashed later that day, when Ian had phoned. Yet again he wouldn’t be able to meet her. He hadn’t even known when he could be free to see her again—maybe later that week, maybe not.

He’d been apologetic, she’d been understanding. Of course she had. His job was demanding, especially at the moment, and there were a lot more demands on his time than work—including from his wife. That was understandable. It was all understandable.

But as he’d rung off, having cancelled yet another lunch-time with her, she’d felt depression pluck at her. When the phone had rung again, a little while later, and a deep accented voice had spoken, she’d felt her spirits lift in reaction.

‘This is completely on the off chance,’ Athan Teodarkis’s distinctively accented voice had said, ‘but would you have any interest in seeing Hamlet at the National? Or have you already been?’

‘I’d love to!’ she said immediately.

His voice warmed. ‘Excellent. Would Thursday suit?’

For a moment Marisa hesitated. Thursday was usually the evening that Ian was able to meet her without arousing his wife’s suspicions. Eva went to her book club that day and wouldn’t be aware he’d returned late, or would accept that he’d just been at the office. But his phone call earlier had already warned her that this week he really would be stuck at the office, burning the midnight oil on a complex deal he was closely involved with.

He’ll probably be relieved if I make another arrangement. He won’t feel bad about not being able to see me, she reasoned.

A second later she gave Athan Teodarkis his answer.

The answer he wanted, the answer he’d intended to extract from her. He’d deliberately let her cool her heels over the weekend, knowing that Ian Randall never saw her at that time. For once—Athan’s lip curled—he’d be playing the devoted husband.

But with the weekend over he’d known he needed to target Marisa Milburne again, and continue with his strategy to part her from her married swain.

As with the Chekov, Hamlet was followed by dinner, over which their discussion of the production predominated. Yet again Marisa made sure she was wearing the kind of outfit that wouldn’t scream Find me attractive! and yet again Athan Teodarkis behaved scrupulously towards her, bidding her a chaste goodnight at her door once again.

Expecting another solitary weekend, Marisa was surprised when her doorbell sounded just before midday the following Sunday

‘It’s a glorious sunny day—can I persuade you to lunch at the Belvedere in Holland Park?’ Athan Teodarkis invited.

Her face lit. ‘Oh, that sounds wonderful! I’ve never been there.’

He smiled—that increasingly familiar quirking of his well-shaped mouth. ‘Then I must definitely take you. It’s memorable.’

She took a breath. ‘This time it’s on me. I insist you must be my guest for a change.’

His expression stilled. For a moment Marisa thought she had offended him. Then, his eyes still veiled, he gave a distinct shake of his head.

‘That’s not in the least necessary,’ he said, and there was a clipped note to his voice.

Marisa looked at him uncertainly. There seemed to be a shadow in his eyes. She couldn’t quite see into them. A little chill went through her.

Then it was gone. ‘Cook me a meal one evening,’ he said. ‘Simple fare will do me fine. Oh, and I can show you how to work that coffee machine of yours!’

‘OK,’ she said slowly, not sure whether it was still that momentary chill that disturbed her, or the prospect of Athan Teodarkis coming into her apartment, eating dinner there …

Had she really felt that chill? she wondered later, as they set off for Holland Park.

Athan set a brisk pace and she kept up with it—walking was one thing, after her rural upbringing, where transport was sparse and the wilds of Dartmoor were close at hand, she had become inured her to. It was, as he had said, a glorious day—but very cold. She was glad of her pure wool jacket and warm leather boots as they walked through the park towards the restaurant, which was situated in the ballroom that was almost all that was left of the grand Holland House that had once stood there.

She wished she’d brought a pair of sunglasses, as Athan had. As she glanced sideways at him she could feel her insides do a little somersault. What was it about dark glasses that made him look so … so even more than he already looked in spades!

She snapped her head away. He was glancing down at her, she was sure of it, and being caught gazing at him was not what she wanted. Did his mouth give that familiar quirk? she wondered. To cover herself, she started talking. ‘I do love Holland Park, even at this time of year. It’s a real haven. I come here all the time. It’s such a shame that Holland House itself got bombed in the war—all that’s left is enough for a youth hostel. And the Orangery, where the Belvedere restaurant is, of course. Apparently there’s an opera season in the summer. All outdoors. It must be wonderful on a warm summer’s night!’

She was babbling, but she couldn’t help it. He didn’t seem to mind, though, and made an appropriate response to what she’d said, and they continued chatting as they made their way towards the restaurant.

The setting was indeed memorable—an eighteenth century summer ballroom, with beautiful long windows all around that let the winter sunshine pour in. And lunch was superb. Marisa wondered again whether to offer to pay, for she felt bad eating at his expense a third time, but found she dared not mention it again. He would take offence, she was sure. It was probably something he just wasn’t used to. Even so, she felt she ought to insist, and it made her feel very slightly uncomfortable.

Apart from that, however, Marisa found she was the most comfortable yet in his company. He was, she realised with a little start, no longer a stranger …

She didn’t know much about him personally—but then they weren’t really talking about personal things. She was glad. She obviously couldn’t discuss Ian, but she also didn’t want to talk about her life in Devon. It was behind her now—she would not be going back. She felt a little flush go through her. Besides, Athan Teodarkis clearly saw her as a young woman of independent means, who lived in a plush apartment and wore expensive clothes. What would he think of her if he knew she’d been brought up in a run down cottage by an impoverished single mother who’d struggled to keep their heads above water?

But all that was a universe away from the way she lived now. She looked about her at the beautiful, expensive restaurant serving the most exquisite food, looked at the man she was lunching with, who headed up his own personal international company and casually talked about going to places in private jets and chauffeur-driven cars, and having an army of minions at his disposal. His sunglasses had a famous logo on them and his gold wristwatch was, she knew, a priceless heirloom. Athan Teodarkis had rich written all over him …

Sleek, assured, cosmopolitan, sophisticated.

Devastating …

A little thrill went through her. A susurration of awareness that of all the women in the world he could be choosing to spend his Sunday with it was her.

This was no one-off, no convenient using up of a theatre ticket. This was, she knew with a flutter of butterflies in her stomach, a genuine invitation to her personally. Because he wanted her company.

It was the only conclusion she could come to—and she came to the same conclusion over the following week, when he took her to a concert at the Royal Festival Hall and a production of Twelfth Night.

And invited himself to dinner at her flat.

She could hardly refuse, since she’d tacitly agreed that it was to be the way she would return all the dining out she’d done with him—not to mention the theatre tickets. Even so, she was very nervous. And not just because she had no idea what to cook that a man like him could possibly want to eat. Her culinary skills were entirely basic.

She admitted as much to his face, and was relieved when he smiled.

‘Actually, I was hoping you might see your way to a traditional English roast,’ he said.

‘I think I can stretch to that,’ she said, adding hopefully, ‘How do you feel about apple crumble for pudding?’ Along with roast dinners, pies and pastries were the one thing her mother had taught her.

‘Crumble?’ he quizzed.

‘Pastry without water!’ she exclaimed. ‘Loads easier!’

So it proved—and so did the rest of the meal, including the company. She’d done her best to provide a traditional English roast, and he certainly seemed very appreciative of it. For herself, though, her stomach was full of butterflies—and not because she was worried the meal was not up to his standards.

It was because he was sitting at the dining table in her apartment and there was no one else around. Oh, she could tell herself all she liked that she was behaving with him no differently than if he hadn’t been a drop-dead gorgeous male who raised her heart-rate just by quirking his half-smile at her, but she knew it wasn’t true. Knew that for all her deliberately dressing in a cowl-necked jumper and jeans, with minimal make-up and her hair in a casual ponytail, she was all too aware that Athan Teodarkis was having a powerful impact on her.

Knew that she was having an increasingly hard time in keeping that awareness at bay, and was wondering just why she had to …

By strength of will she managed to get through to the end of the meal, keeping up a semblance of unresponsiveness to him, behaving outwardly as if he weren’t having the kind of impact on her that he was. She wasn’t sure just why she felt it was so vital to do so, only knew that it was.

I can’t lower my guard—I just can’t!

But it was getting harder—much, much harder.

Out in the kitchen after the apple crumble—which she’d served with custard and clotted cream and had had the satisfaction of seeing him polish off up, though just where it had gone on his lean, powerful frame she had no idea—he tackled the fearsome coffee machine, calling her over to explain the mechanism to her.

She was far too close to him. Far too close, his hand was pointing out the controls, his shoulders were almost brushing hers, his hip jutting against hers. His face was far too close as he turned to explain something to her. She jerked away, pulse leaping.

Had he noticed? Noticed the way she had drawn away and started to gabble something to cover her nerves? Something about how she loved cappuccino but hated espresso. She didn’t think he had—or at any rate, he didn’t show that he had, and that was what was important. That he didn’t think she was getting ideas about him.

Flustered, she busied herself retrieving coffee cups from one of the cupboards and setting the tray. She carried the tray through and set it down on the coffee table, sat herself squarely on the armchair, leaving the whole expanse of the sofa opposite for him. No way was she going to let him think she wanted him up close and personal beside her.

Did he smile faintly as he saw where she’d sat herself? She wasn’t sure and didn’t want to think about it. Wanted only, as they drank coffee accompanied by music of her choice—some brisk, scintillating Vivaldi, definitely nothing soft and romantic—to get to a point where she could smother a yawn, thank him for coming and wait for him to take his leave.

Because that was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Of course it was! Anything else was unthinkable—quite unthinkable. Unthinkable to covertly watch him drinking his coffee—rich and fragrant now that it was no longer instant—with one long leg crossed casually over another, his light blue cashmere sweater stretched across his chest so that she could almost discern the outline of his honed pecs and broad shoulders, his sable hair glinting in the lamplight, and the faintest dark shadow along his jawline that made her out of nowhere wonder what it would feel like to ease her fingertips along its chiselled line …

She blinked, horrified at herself.

This had to stop, right now! She mustn’t start getting ideas—ideas that involved her and Athan Teodarkis up close and personal. The trouble was, that was exactly what was happening as they sat there, chatting about this and that, with him so obviously relaxed, like a cat that had dined well, and her curled up on the wide armchair opposite, with good red Burgundy coursing slowly through her veins and the low light from the table lamps, and the Vivaldi now changing to something a lot slower, more meditative and soothing …

Seductive …

He was looking at her, his dark, opaque eyes resting on her, with a veiled expression in them. Conversation seemed to have died away, desultory as it was, and Marisa tried to make a show of listening to the music.

Not looking at Athan.

Not taking in the way the light and shadow played with the planes of his features, the way his broad shoulders were moulding to the deep cushions of the sofa, or the way his long, jeans-clad legs seemed lean and lithe, how his fingers were curled around the coffee cup, shaping it as if they were cupping her face …

There was a knot inside her. A knot of intense feeling like a physical sensation. As if she couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything except sit there, her hands splayed on the wide arms of the chair, her breathing shallow, her heart tumbling around inside her.

His eyes held hers, and her own eyes widened—dilated. Something changed in his. Flared with sudden light.

She jack-knifed to her feet.

‘Oh, my goodness!’ she exclaimed, her voice slightly too high-pitched. ‘I … I think I left the oven on. I can’t remember turning it off when I took out the apple crumble. What an idiot I am! I’d better go and check—’

She hurried out to the kitchen. She hadn’t left the oven on. She knew she hadn’t. But she’d had to break the moment. Had to stop what was starting to happen. Because …

Because—

Because if he stays …

But she mustn’t think about what would happen if he stayed. Must only head back into the sitting room, smile brightly and say how late it was.

Which she did. And she stayed standing, making it pointedly obvious that she expected Athan to stand likewise. Which he did. But she was all too aware he did so with a kind of suppressed amusement, as if he knew perfectly well why she’d suddenly become so animated and hyper. He strolled towards the door, pausing when he got there. She trotted after him, mouthing politenesses which he replied to with an appropriate murmur. But when he turned back to her she could see, quite disastrously, that glint in his eye.

‘Sleep well,’ he said.

His voice was low, and his accent more pronounced. Or maybe she was just more sensitive to it.

‘Yes. Thank you.’ Her reply was staccato. More high pitched than her normal voice. She felt wired, with adrenaline coursing through her. Why didn’t he go? Walk out the door?

Stop looking at her like that.

For one long, endless moment he seemed to be just letting his gaze rest on her. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking—knew only that if it was what she thought he was thinking he could just un-think it. Because—well, just because, that was all.

She’d think about why afterwards. But not now. Definitely not now when, as if in slow motion, she saw his hand reach out towards her, felt his fingers graze her cheek, so lightly, so incredibly and devastatingly lightly. It was a moment only—scarcely there, hardly enough time to register it. But it made her skin glow, and even after his hand had dropped away it was as if he was still touching her.

He smiled. A deep, amused smile. Still holding her helpless gaze.

Almost she went to him—almost she took that tiny fatal half-step towards him. She knew with absolute, searing certainty that he would draw her to him and lower his mouth to hers …

Almost—

But not quite.

Summoning all her failing strength, she stepped away. ‘Goodnight,’ she said.

Long lashes swept down over his eyes, veiling his regard. The glint was gone. Vanished. ‘Goodnight,’ he answered. His voice was nothing more than polite now—cool, even. Then, with a brief nod of his head, he was gone.

Outside in the corridor, with her apartment door firmly shut, he strode down towards his own flat. His face was closed. Troubled.

He wanted her. He knew that. Impossible to deny it. He desired the beautiful, demurely alluring woman who was Marisa Milburne. Desired her whether or not she was anything at all to do with his brother-in-law’s lamentable weakness of character.

Oh, he’d known from the first moment of seeing her photo that it would be no hardship to him to seduce her for his own purposes. But with every encounter with her, every date, he’d come to know more and more that he was wishing she had never got herself mixed up with Ian. And not just for his sister’s sake.

It was for his own.

I want her for myself—with no other complications, no strategy or plots or machinations or ulterior motives.

Heaviness filled him. It didn’t matter what he wanted for himself, he thought savagely. What he did he did for Eva. That was what he had to remember. That was all he had to remember.

And time was running out. He would have only a brief window while Ian and Eva were away together in the USA to achieve his aim of seducing Marisa Milburne and taking her away from his brother-in-law.

Which was why he was now, two days after the Sunday roast in her apartment, sitting here in a restaurant off Holland Park Avenue, waiting for her to open the white envelope he’d proffered.

Marisa was still gazing down at it. She’d accepted the dinner invitation only with reluctance. She had to stop this. She really did. She was getting in too deep.

She had managed the previous day, right after her dangerous dinner à deux with Athan Teodarkis in her apartment, finally to meet up with Ian for lunch. His face had told her what she’d dreaded hearing.

‘I have to go to San Francisco. I can’t get out of it. There’s no one else that can handle it, and I’ve had my marching orders from the top.’

Her face had fallen. ‘How long for, do you think?’

‘I’m not sure—at least a week, probably more,’ he’d said apologetically. ‘The thing is …’ He took a breath, looked even more apologetic. ‘Eva’s got the idea of turning it into a holiday—flying on from SF to Hawaii. So I could easily be away three weeks or more.’

Even as he’d said ‘Hawaii’ she’d felt a pang of envy dart through her.

Hawaii … tropical beaches … palm trees … silver sand …

But it would not be her there. She was stuck in London—where the weather had turned vicious. The bright but cold sunshine that had filled the Holland Park Orangery had given way to a miserable, dull and biting cold, with a low cloud base and an icy wind. Spring seemed a long way off. Even just getting out of the cab when she and Athan had arrived at the restaurant had set the wind whipping around her stockinged legs. Now she sat with her legs slanted against the radiator against which their table was situated.

‘Well?’ prompted Athan, indicating the envelope. There was an expression in his eyes she could not read.

It looked, she thought curiously, like anticipation.

She turned her attention back to the envelope he so wanted her to open. Carefully she slit it with a table knife and shook out the contents. As she did so, her eyes widened.

‘You said you wanted a tropical beach,’ she heard him murmur.

But she was gazing, rapt, at the leaflet that was lying there. A palm tree, an azure sea, a silvered beach, and in the background a low-rise, thatch-roofed resort, fronted by a vast swimming pool even more azure than the lapping sea.

Projecting from the leaflet were two airline tickets.

‘Come with me,’ said Athan.

His voice was soft. Intimate. Persuasive.

Marisa lifted her head to look at him—and drowned.

Drowned in what she saw in his eyes, unmasked, unveiled …

Her lips parted, the breath stilling in her throat.

Her hand was taken, folded into his. It was the first time he’d touched her so deliberately—only in that first, formal raising of her hand to his lips, that faint, brief grazing of his fingertips against her cheek, had he ever made contact with her. But this—this warm, strong hand-clasp—seemed to envelop her whole being, not just her hand lying there inert, helpless in his grasp.

‘Come with me,’ he said again. ‘Be with me.’

Emotion rushed through her like heady wine in her veins. Like a cloud of butterflies suddenly taking flight inside her. His clasp strengthened and his thumb stroked along the edge of her palm. Intimately. Possessively.

His eyes poured into hers. So dark, so deep, flecked with gold that glinted in the candlelight, that drowned her, sweeping her away.

His thumb indented into the soft flesh of her palm. She could feel its pressure, feel the power of his touch—its persuasion.

‘Say yes—it’s all I ask.’

Hadn’t she always known this must happen? Hadn’t she felt it from the moment she’d set eyes on him? Hadn’t her heart skipped and her blood pulsed, her breath caught? Hadn’t she known every time she’d been with him that this was what she wanted—dreamt of—desired?

He saw her yielding. Saw her features soften, her eyes fill with a lambent lustre that told him everything he wanted to know. Triumph filled him. He had got her—finally. She would not refuse him now. She would not continue to hold him at bay, to treat him as if he were forbidden fruit. Now she would yield to him—taste the fruit he offered her.

And he—oh, he would do likewise. He would take this time with her and make her his own. Put aside, even if only for a brief few weeks, all his worries about his sister and her troubled marriage, put aside all his fears for her, his doubts about her fickle husband.

For now—just for now—he would do what every moment with Marisa had confirmed to him. That what he wanted was her—all to himself.

Away from everything that cast a damning shadow over her.

Just the two of them—together.

Only that.