Читать книгу Irresistible Greeks Collection - Кэрол Мортимер, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 28

MARISA dug carefully with the trowel. The garden her mother had loved so much had become overgrown, and she was trying to clear away the weeds from the new shoots sprouting up all over the flowerbeds. Spring had finally arrived, and as she knelt she could feel the sun warm on her back. It seemed like a blessing.

She was in need of blessings. Working hard to count them. To keep them in the forefront of her mind. Keep buried in the depths of her mind all remembrances of Athan Teodarkis—buried deep, buried safe.

She was humming to herself intermittently—some tune she’d heard on the radio. She listened to the radio a lot these days. It was companionship. Comforting. The cottage was so isolated she could play the radio out here in the garden knowing no one would be disturbed by it.

A robin was hopping around at the back of the flowerbed, tilting its head sideways and eyeing her hopefully. A small worm coiled itself under a clod of earth and she kept it buried. Fond as she was of the robin, who was a cheery visitor to the garden, she didn’t feel up to deliberately feeding it a worm who was only trying to have a quiet life.

The way she was.

A quiet life. That was all she wanted right now. One that, like the tiny earthworm could be spent buried deeply and safely. Sheltered and out of the way.

Where she belonged.

It had been weeks since Athan had been and gone. Weeks and weeks. How many, precisely, she hadn’t counted. Hadn’t wanted to. The days drifted by, one after another, marked only by the burgeoning spring. That followed a calendar that had its own schedule. One day it was a clump of primroses, unfurling their pale blossoms, another day the catkins showering her with golden pollen. Another the first flush of green on the once bare branches of the trees.

It was all she wanted right now.

She kept herself almost entirely to herself. She had set up a grocery delivery service with a supermarket in a large market town, and it suited her not to have to go there in person. The weekly delivery was good enough. Sometimes the local farmer’s tractor rumbled past the cottage, but when she heard it coming she made sure she was not visible. She wasn’t being deliberately stand-offish. She just didn’t want to see anyone. Anyone at all. Whether local or stranger.

It was as if she was hibernating. Tucking herself away. Shutting down. Trying not to think. Trying not to feel. Trying to keep busy in the garden. While she worked she could feel her mother’s presence, approving of her for what she was doing. Glad her daughter was back here again, safe in the haven she had found for herself—her refuge from a world that had rejected her, a man who had not wanted her.

Marisa’s face twisted. Athan had wanted her.

That was the bitter, poisoned irony of it. After what he’d done to her, he wanted her.

Did he really think I would just totally ignore what he’d done? Why he’d done it? Just act like it had never happened?

But he had—obviously. That was what he’d assumed—that he could just pick her up again, carry on with her again. Take her back to his bed again …

No! She mustn’t think like that—they were dangerous thoughts. Bringing in their wake memories that were even more dangerous. Lethal.

She dug deeper with the trowel, wrestling with a long, tenacious dandelion tap root to extract the last fragment. It wasn’t the kind of root you could leave in the soil—a new weed would sprout even from the tiniest portion, seeking the air and the sun, thrusting up to grow and flourish.

Thoughts about Athan were like that. So were memories. She must get every last fragment of them out lest they seek to flourish once again.

She paused in her work, lifting her eyes to the hedge that bordered the garden, to the slope behind that led up onto open moorland. She would go for a walk later—blow away the cobwebs. Blow away the dangerous thoughts and memories that tried to get out.

Questions went through her mind and she wished she could have an answer to them, but knew she could not. Questions she had never asked but wished now she had. Questions of her mother.

How long did it take you to get over my father? To get him out of your head, your mind, your heart? To be free of him—free of what he’d done to you?

And the question that was most fearful of all: Did you ever get over him?

That was what she feared the most. That the wound was too deep, the scarring too brutal.

Because the problem was that despite all she was doing not to think about him, absorbing herself in this world, so familiar and so utterly different from the places she had been with Athan, it wasn’t working. That was what she was scared of.

How long will it take to get over him?

That was the question that fretted at her, tormented her. She wanted not to think about not thinking about him. She wanted not to have to make this continual effort to turn her mind to other things. To immerse herself in this place she knew so well, surrounded by nature, by the wild landscape of the moors, the quiet fields and hedgerows.

But it didn’t seem to be working—that was the problem. Surely by now she should at the very least be starting to forget him, to get over him. Not wanting to think about him, remember him. Surely she ought to be able to use her head to control her heart?

She froze. With one part of her brain she watched the robin hop closer to her. Bright-eyed. Red-breasted.

Predatory.

But the rest of her brain didn’t see him. Didn’t see the garden or the sunshine on the bushes, or the hedge behind the flowerbed.

The words that had sounded unconsciously in her mind came again.

Surely she ought to be able to use her head to control her heart?

No! She hadn’t meant that—she hadn’t. Panic filled her, choking in her throat.

It’s not my heart—it’s nothing to do with my heart.

Because if it was …

Before her eyes, the robin pounced. His sharp, deadly beak indented into the damp earth and in a flash, triumphantly, he tugged out the worm she’d tried to hide from him. With a flurry of wings he was gone, his prey consumed.

It’s not my heart. I don’t love him. I don’t love him!

‘Global economy … fiscal policy … employment levels … infra-structure investment … ‘

Athan let the words drone over his head. He wasn’t listening. He gave the appearance of it, though—anything else would have been rude. But the speaker at the conference—a top economist at a major bank—had been going on for what seemed like for ever. And Athan had heard it all before—

several times now. This was the third day of the conference, and he had been here right from the start.

It mopped up time, this conference, and that was the most important aspect of it.

Time that he would otherwise have spent brooding.

Obsessing.

Because that was what it was, he knew. He could look it in the face and know it for what it was. Know why it was what it was.

He’d lost her. Plain and simple.

Devastating.

How had it happened? How had he screwed it up so badly? But he knew why—just didn’t like accepting it. He’d high-tailed it down to the back of beyond where she’d holed up in that rundown hovel, seething with a raw, angry jealousy that he’d disguised to himself as outrage because Ian was daring to try and hook up with her again, and he’d hit a stone wall. Her point-blank refusal to have anything more to do with him.

Frustration warred with self-castigation. Frustration usually won—frustration that what he wanted so badly he wasn’t going to get—but every now and then self-castigation managed to force itself through.

Did you really imagine that, having been manipulated and deceived, she was going to open her arms to you again? Take up with you again just where you left off—or rather, just before where you left off, at the bit where you hadn’t yet denounced her as your brother-in-law’s marriage-wrecker?

Of course she wasn’t going to tamely come right back to him. Of course she was going to throw him out on his ear …

His eyes flashed darkly as he berated himself yet again.

You never stood a chance of getting her back. Not after what you did to her.

Then his expression hardened. Yes, well, she had no call to feel herself ill-used. She was the one who’d welcomed the attentions of a man she knew was married. That was what he had to remember. Then another thought flickered uncomfortably across his consciousness—that cramped, dilapidated cottage she lived in, stark evidence of a penurious background that would have meant Ian’s lavish attentions being so very tempting to her. No wonder a practised, suave philanderer like his brother-in-law had been able to impress her, lead her astray. She’d fallen head first for his superficial charms and turned a conveniently blind eye to the wedding ring he wore.

That was what he had to remember. That was what justified what he’d done to her.

But another emotion slashed across his consciousness, obliterating any others. What did it matter now whether he was or was not justified in what he’d done? The fact that he’d done it had destroyed his chances of getting her back—that was all. Marisa had sent him packing and that was that. She was gone. He’d lost her.

All that was left was frustration.

One more emotion. One he was trying hard not to admit to. Because in comparison even the most obsessive frustration was easier to endure.

We were good together—it worked. I don’t know precisely why, or how, but it did. It was easy being with her—natural.

His mind went back to that idyllic fortnight in the Caribbean, remembering how his mind had plucked so troublingly at what he was doing, what he was going to have to do when they went back to London, when he could no longer shut his eyes to the purpose he’d set out with, when he’d have to set aside what they were enjoying now and destroy it all …

Well, I did destroy it—and I can hardly sit here and complain that I can’t get her back, can I? I did what I did for my sister’s sake, and now I have to accept the consequences.

It was stern talk, and he knew he had to hand it out to himself. But even as he did so, he could hear another voice, deep inside.

Saving your sister’s marriage has lost you something you will never recover … never …

His eyes gazed out unseeing over the conference hall.

His face as bleak as a winter wind.

Marisa turned down the radio and cocked her ears. It was a car approaching, she could tell. She frowned. It wasn’t the day for her grocery delivery, and very little traffic other than heavy farm vehicles ventured this far along the dead-end lane. Setting down her paint roller and clambering off the chair she’d been standing on to reach the parlour ceiling she was busy painting, she made her way to the front door. As she got there an envelope came through the letterbox. Opening the door, she saw the postman getting back into his van and reversing. She gave him a half wave of acknowledgement and picked up the envelope. Her frown deepened. She got very little post, but the handwriting was familiar. She felt a knot start in her stomach.

It was from Ian.

Slowly, she took the envelope into the kitchen and slit it open, drawing out a handwritten letter.

My dearest Marisa—I have something I simply must say to you …

The knot tightened in her stomach, but she made herself read on. When she reached the end she stared for a moment, blinking.

Should she really do what Ian was asking?

It took her all day and all of a sleepless night to find the answer, but in the morning she dug out her mobile and texted him. It was the first time she’d contacted him since she’d sent him away—over a month ago now. He texted back almost instantly, cock-a-hoop, telling her he’d made the arrangements and all she had to do was get herself to Plymouth railway station. He would meet her at Paddington that afternoon.

His buoyancy did not elicit a similar response in her. Foreboding filled her. Should she really go ahead with this? She looked about her. The little cottage looked a lot better now than it had when she’d first fled back here. She’d subjected the whole place to a spring clean, and was now working her way round the rooms, brightening them with fresh paint. Outside, the garden was in full spring glory—daffodils thronging the beds, primroses nestling near the sun-warmed earth, the foliage in verdant green leaf. There was birdsong in the air, which was sweet and mild with the eventual promise of summer to come.

Could she really face leaving this remote, tranquil haven, where she had finally started to find some peace after all the torment she had been through? Could she really face going back up to London, doing what Ian wanted of her?

Becoming part of his life again …

Deep reluctance warred with longing.

But he was so adamant that now was the time. That he was finally brave enough to do what he knew with every fibre of his being he had to do. Tell the truth about them.

He said as much to her when he sat down with her over a drink in a pub close to Paddington station, where he had taken her after meeting the train.

‘I’ve got to do it, Marisa,’ he said, his expression full. ‘I’ve got to tell Eva. And you have to be there when I tell her, so that she will believe how much you mean to me.’

Anxiety and doubt filled her eyes. ‘Ian, I’m just not sure … ‘

‘Well, I am sure,’ he told her. He took her hand, squeezing it fondly. ‘I won’t live this lie any longer. I’ve tried to—God knows I’ve tried. I tried while you were here in London and I hated it—keeping you a secret the way I did. And I tried when you went back to Devon and buried yourself there. But I hated it still—and I will go on hating it, Marisa, until we stop keeping this a secret.’

He took a breath and went on. ‘Things are different now. It’s not just that I’ve missed you like the devil since you went away, but things have changed for me, too. You know I chucked in the job at Eva’s brother’s company? Well, I’m glad I did. I’ve got another job, and it’s one I really want to make something of.’

His expression changed, and Marisa could see the enthusiasm in it, hear the vigour in his voice.

‘I’ve been taken on as marketing director of a third world fairtrade company that wants to tackle the supermarkets. I’m really fired up by it—it’s a great cause, and I feel I can use my talents to do something important.’ He made a rueful face. ‘It also frees me from any sense of obligation or gratitude towards Eva’s brother. In the circumstances—’ he eyed Marisa meaningfully ‘—that’s pretty much essential.’

He squeezed her hand again.

‘Finally I feel I’m in a position to open up about you—to come clean. And that’s what I want to do tonight.’ He took one last decisive breath. ‘We’ve got to do it, Marisa. You and me—telling the world about us.’ He got to his feet, drawing her with him. Smiling down at her. ‘Let’s go and do it,’ he said.

Still filled with anxiety, Marisa went with him.

Absently, Athan fingered a wine glass set out on the table in one of the hotel’s private dining rooms. Eva was talking to the butler, telling him she’d changed her mind about what desserts to have.

For himself, Athan couldn’t have cared less what she’d chosen for that evening. He had no appetite—none at all. Certainly not for this travesty of a ‘family celebration’ that Eva had said she was organising at her favourite Park Lane hotel.

‘It was Ian’s idea,’ she’d said happily. ‘He wants to tell you all about his new job. He’s so excited by it—and so am I. It’s as if there’s a huge weight off his shoulders.’

Glancing at the vintage champagne on ice, the perfect damask napery, the silver service and the huge display of hothouse flowers, and knowing just what dinner in a private dining room cost at a place like this, it was just as well, Athan thought sourly, Ian had private means of his own—and that his wife was backed by the Teodarkis coffers. His new salary would not be nearly as generous as his old one had been.

Well, it was all to the good, he supposed. Not only did Eva seem very happy about it, but a demanding new job—even if poorly paid—had the notable benefit that it would keep his wayward brother’s nose to the grindstone, with no time for dalliance. Athan’s face hardened. At least there had been no sign of Ian trying to take up with Marisa again—nor was there any sign of him attempting to line up a replacement for her either. With luck, his sister’s marriage might really be on the level again—at least for the time being.

His eyes shadowed. Something good had come out of the unholy mess that was Marisa Milburne’s impact on his life. He’d better hang on to that. Find cold comfort in it.

He glanced out of the window over the rain-wet street beyond. He hadn’t been to England since his fruitless pursuit of Marisa to the derelict dump she lived in. Hadn’t been able to face it. Work, conferences—anything at all had kept him away—and he’d been glad of it. Coming here to London, now, for this dinner party his sister had organised, had not been on his itinerary, but Eva had pressed him so he’d reluctantly given in.

He was trying to be happy for her. Hell, it was to ensure her happiness that he’d gone and got himself into the mess he was now in with Marisa—so of course he had to be glad for his sister. Whether her happiness would last, of course, was a completely different thing.

He gave a heavy sigh. Well, at least he’d achieved his original purpose. He’d have to be content with that. Now he just had to get through this evening’s dinner party, say whatever was appropriate in the circumstances by way of congratulating Ian on getting a new job, standing on his own feet, not cheating on his wife any more—not that he could mention that last, of course. At least not in front of Eva.

‘Athan?’ Eva had finished with the butler. ‘I’m just going to go and check my make up in the powder room. Ian should be here any moment.’

She wafted by and Athan nodded at the butler, dismissing him for the moment. He wanted to be alone, even for a brief while. To steel himself for the ordeal ahead. Could he really get through an entire meal with Ian, knowing that he knew about the infidelity he’d planned, with both of them putting on a good front for Eva?

Well, he’d have to try—damn hard!—that was all.

The doors to the private dining room opened, and Athan turned back from gazing bleakly out of the window.

As he turned, he froze.

Ian had just walked in.

In his wake, stepping with obvious trepidation, was Marisa.

Athan’s reaction was instant. ‘You dare to bring her here!’ he hurled at his brother-in-law.

Marisa could feel the breath congeal in her lungs. How could this be happening? She felt faint, clinging automatically to Ian’s arm as if to keep herself upright. Oh, dear God, if she’d had the faintest idea Athan would be here …

Ian had stiffened. ‘Where’s Eva?’ he demanded.

Athan ignored the question. His expression was a mask of fury. ‘You have one second to get that woman out of here before—’

‘Before what?’ A light, feminine voice sounded from the doorway.

Athan whirled round. His sister stood poised in the doorway, looking at the tableau frozen in front of her. Her expression changed when her gaze took in the presence of a completely strange woman on her husband’s arm.

‘Ian?’ she said enquiringly, a bemused but unsuspicious look on her face.

Marisa swallowed. So, finally, this was Ian’s wife. She could feel her thoughts racing in her head, tried to get control of her emotions. Emotions that had been erratic enough ever since she’d read Ian’s letter that morning. But when she’d felt the full force of her dismay at Athan’s presence here she’d reeled.

Oh, God, she couldn’t do this! She had to get out of here—now. Jerkily, she stumbled forward, heading for the door, and Eva automatically stepped aside. Her expression was changing from bemusement to astonishment. Marisa threw her an agonised look.

‘I’m sorry. So sorry—I can’t do this! I—’

Suddenly her arm was taken. A deep, harsh voice spoke—but not to her.

‘Eva—I’ll deal with this.’

Athan’s hand around her forearm was like a steel clamp, hustling her out. Out of his sister’s presence—before her worthless snake of a husband could inflict the blow he was so obviously, outrageously intending to. Rage consumed him.

What the hell is he thinking of—to bring Marisa here? To confront Eva with her?

It could mean only one thing—the very worst. Ian was going to tell Eva he was leaving her …

But not for Marisa Milburne—not for her!

Emotions seared within him—utterly disparate, but inextricably entwined. To protect his sister from her cheating rat of a husband—to stop Marisa going off with anyone, anyone at all.

Except himself.

Possessiveness scalded within him. Just seeing her there, despite his anger at realising what Ian was intending, had been like a shockwave through his senses.

He thrust her out into the wide, deserted corridor beyond, yanking the dining room door shut behind him and dragging her down towards the elevator. His only thought was to get her out of the hotel—away from Eva. But was Ian already spilling his treacherous guts to her? Hell and damnation—he could slug him to kingdom come for this!

He jabbed furiously at the elevator button and rounded on Marisa.

‘You despicable little bitch! How dare you? How dare you walk in, bold as brass, with Ian?’

Marisa paled, trying to drag herself away from him, but it was impossible. His hand was like steel around her arm.

‘I’m sorry! I knew I shouldn’t have gone along with Ian.’

Athan shook her like a rag, his face black. ‘Then why the hell did you?’

‘Because we’ve had enough of this endless secrecy!’ she cried. ‘He convinced me we couldn’t hide it any longer. He refuses to hide me away any more. I won’t be his sordid little secret.’

He dropped her arm. It fell to her side limply. She swallowed, just looking at him. His face was like granite. Emotion scythed through her.

‘But whether Eva knows about you or not, you are the “sordid little secret”, aren’t you?’ he said, his voice low and knifing. ‘And telling her won’t make you any less sordid.’

She shut her eyes. ‘I know,’ she said heavily. ‘And I know that walking out now isn’t going to mend anything. She’ll be wondering who I am, why Ian brought me here tonight. So even if I walk out now it’s too late—’

He swore in his own language, the Greek words harsh. ‘Then there is only one thing to be done—only one way to hide it from her.’

She looked at him. He took her arm again. His mind was working frantically, trying to work out how to salvage something from this unholy mess. This was a denouement he hadn’t foreseen.

I thought Ian had let her go—and all along he was planning this.

Rage consumed him. Rage at Ian—and rage at himself for not realising what a treacherous little rat the man truly was.

He took a heavy breath, marshalled his thoughts.

‘I’ll tell Eva you’re here on my account. That Ian was escorting you to the hotel for me as I’ve only just arrived from Athens. That I wanted to introduce you to her.’ He finished heavily, his words biting and accusing, ‘That way I might just manage to protect her from the sordid truth of your existence. After all—’ his lip curled ‘—better that you are my mistress than her husband’s.’

He made to steer her back towards the dining room..

But she wouldn’t move.

She was looking at him. Staring at him. Just staring.

There was no emotion in her face. None whatsoever. Then slowly, very slowly, she peeled his fingers off her arm, and stepped away. He looked down at her, frowning. What the hell was she playing at now?

‘Athan! Come back in!’

He slewed round sharply. Eva was in the dining room doorway, beckoning to him. Ian was standing beside her. Athan’s head whipped back. Marisa had started to walk forward, towards the couple. There was purpose in her steps.

As they all went back inside the dining room and he closed the door on the four of them a sense of doom came over Athan. It was going to happen. The ugly, painful disclosure of the ‘sordid little secret’ that he’d gone to so much trouble to keep hidden from his sister. And all for nothing. For this—for his sister to be humiliated and her heart broken. Well, at least he would be there for her. Ready to let her sob on his shoulder after her husband had walked out on her with his mistress on his arm.

His mouth twisted, but there was no humour in it.

The mistress I want for myself …

But that wasn’t going to happen. All that was going to happen was the destruction of his sister’s fragile marriage. Well, better it ended now than later. Better never to love than to have love smashed to pieces …

He should know …

A blade like a vicious shard of ice slid into his side. He watched Marisa walk up to his sister. Watched Ian smile at her reassuringly.

Intimately.

Watched his sister frown wonderingly.

He went to stand beside her, opposite her husband. Opposite the woman who was never going to be anything more to do with him—who was going to take his sister’s husband from her.

He should have felt rage. Fury. Black murderous anger for his sister’s sake. For his own. But all there was inside him was an empty, bleak hollow. His eyes went to Marisa. She was looking so pale. So pale and so incredibly beautiful. She was standing beside Ian. They made a startlingly handsome couple—both so blond and blue-eyed, with their English complexions. A matched pair—a foil for his and his sister’s dark, Mediterranean looks.

The blade slid into his guts, twisting its sharp, serrated edge as he gazed at Marisa.

Not mine. Never mine. Never—

‘Eva—’

Ian’s voice jolted him. It was thin, but resolute. Athan stood beside his sister, waiting for the axe to fall so he could pick up the pieces when it did. His face was still, like granite. Marisa’s had no expression in it at all.

She would not meet his eyes. Well, that was understandable …

‘Eva—’ Ian said his wife’s name again—stronger this time. He squared his shoulders. ‘I’ve got something I have to say to you,’ he said.

The puzzled look on Eva’s face deepened.

‘I’ve got to tell you something you will not like, that will be upsetting, but it has to be said. I asked Marisa here tonight for a particular reason. To tell you about her.’

Athan could keep silent no longer. He started forward, placing his hand on his sister’s wrist, intending to speak Greek to her. He had to tell her himself—he could not let her bastard of a husband proclaim it.

‘No!’

Marisa’s sudden interjection silenced him before he had even started. His head swivelled to her. For a moment he reeled. The expression blazing from her eyes was like a hundred lasers.

‘Ian will tell her,’ she bit out. Her face snapped round to the man at her side. ‘Go on! Tell her. Tell him.’

There was something wrong with her voice, Athan registered. She had never spoken like that before. Even when she’d been ordering him from that tumbledown cottage of hers. This was like ice—ice made from the coldest water.

Ian’s expression flickered, as if he was taken aback by her tone. Then he looked straight at his wife again.

‘There is no easy way to tell you this,’ he said. ‘So I’m just going to say it straight out. Marisa—’ he said, and as he spoke he reached for her hand.

She let him take it, curled her fingers around it, warm and familiar, stepping forward slightly, aligning herself with him. A couple. Together.

Like a guillotine cutting down, Athan spoke. Contempt was in his voice, harsh and killing.

‘Marisa is his mis—’

‘—is my sister.’

The words fell like stones from a great height, crushing Athan dead.

Marisa looked at Athan, her face still completely, totally expressionless.

‘I’m Ian’s sister,’ she said.