Читать книгу Pagan Adversary - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 6

HARRIET stood staring at him. Her lips moved almost helplessly, ‘But—I didn’t….’

‘Oh, I am quite sure you did not,’ he said sardonically. ‘Nevertheless, the boy is here, and I am here, which is what I wanted.’

Harriet looked down at the sleeping Nicky, and knew that Alex Marcos’ gaze had followed her own.

‘He is very much a Marcos,’ he said after a pause, his voice expressionless.

‘He has my sister’s eyes.’ Harriet’s grip tightened almost defeatedly on the handle of the pushchair. She swallowed. ‘Will you be taking him now—or do I have time to pack his things?’

‘You speak as if I planned to kidnap the child.’ He did not bother to disguise the note of irritation in his voice. ‘I do not, I promise you. However, this is hardly the place to discuss the matter. Shall we go indoors before we begin to attract unwelcome attention?’

Harriet hesitated, but really she had very little choice, she thought angrily as she began to manoeuvre the pushchair up the rather overgrown path to the front door.

In the hall, she bent to release Nicky. Alex Marcos was at her side.

‘Give him to me.’ His voice was authoritative, and he took Nicky from her, not waiting for any sign of assent on her part, leaving her to fold the buggy and lead the way up the stairs.

As she unlocked her own door, she was thankful that the room was tidy and clean. She hated coming home at the end of a long day to any kind of mess, and she was glad now that she had made the usual effort to clear up before leaving that morning. She was thankful too that the small clothes-horse only held a selection of Nicky’s garments, and none of her own.

‘He has not woken,’ Alex Marcos said from behind her. ‘What shall I do with him?’

Harriet indicated the cot in the corner, shielded from the rest of the room by a small screen which she had recovered herself in a collage of bright pictures cut from magazines.

‘He’ll sleep for a while,’ she said with something of an effort. ‘Until he realises it’s teatime.’

She watched him put Nicky down in the cot, his movements deft and gentle. Unusually so, she thought, because he could not be a man who was used to children.

He straightened, and turned unsmilingly, the brilliant dark gaze going over the room in candid assessment. Harriet felt an absurd desire to apologise for it. The square of carpet had come from a saleroom, as had much of the furniture. The rest had been picked up from junk shops and lovingly repaired where necessary, and polished, but few of the pieces were beautiful, and none of them were valuable. And besides, there was something in Alex Marcos’ sheer physical presence, she realised crossly, that made the surroundings seem far more cramped and shabby than they actually were.

No, she was damned if she would apologise that it was only a room and not a flat, or justify herself in any way. This was her home, and he could make whatever judgments he liked. At the same time, she was his hostess, however reluctant.

She said slowly, ‘Can I offer you some refreshment?’—some imp of perversity making her continue, ‘I’ve some sherry left over from Christmas, some instant coffee, or tea-bags.’

He inclined his head mockingly. ‘You are most gracious. Perhaps—the coffee.’

She had hoped he would stay where he was, but he followed her along the passage to the first-floor communal kitchen. She could just imagine what he thought of that too, from the elderly gas cooker to the enormous peeling fridge. She opened the cupboard where she kept her provisions and crockery and extracted the coffee and a couple of pottery mugs, while the kettle was boiling.

Alex Marcos was lounging in the doorway, very much at his ease, but not missing a thing, Harriet thought.

She said, ‘There’s no point in waiting here. The kettle takes rather a long time.’

‘I imagine that it might,’ he said, smiling faintly.

‘It must all be very different from what you’re used to,’ she said stiffly. ‘You should have stayed in the West End, where you belong.’

His brows lifted. ‘You have never visited Greece, it is clear, Miss Masters, or you would know that for many of our people such a kitchen would be the height of luxury.’

‘But you’re not among them.’

‘That is true. But my own good fortune does not lead me to feel contempt for the way others lead their lives.’

That wasn’t the picture Kostas had painted, Harriet thought, as they went back to the flat. He had spoken with feeling of unyielding pride and arrogance, of a total inability to make allowances for the weakness or feelings of others, or to forgive—and with good reason, considering the way he had been treated by his family. Not his marriage, not Nicky’s birth, had done anything to heal whatever breach was between them. Harriet was aware that the Marcos family had been notified when Kostas was killed, but she had frankly never expected to hear from them again. Certainly there had been no flowers, no message of condolence at the funeral. For months there had been silence—and then the bombshell about Nicky had exploded.

Nicky still hadn’t stirred when they got back, and Harriet moved round quietly taking his aired clothes from the clothes-horse and folding them, before putting them away in the small chest of drawers. She opened the window a little too, letting some of the later afternoon sunlight into the room, along with the distant noise of traffic, and the overhead throb of a passing jet.

This was the time of day she usually looked forward to—tea with Nicky, then playtime before she got him ready for his bath and bed. But for how many more times? she wondered desolately.

As she turned away from the window, she found Alex Marcos was watching her, and there must have been something about the droop of her shoulders which had betrayed her, because his voice had softened a little as he said, ‘You cannot pretend that you wish to spend the rest of your life in this way—looking after someone else’s child. You are young. You should be planning a life of your own—children of your own.’

‘I’m perfectly content as I am,’ Harriet said woodenly.

‘You do not wish to marry?’ His mouth curled slightly in satirical amusement. ‘That is hard to believe. Are you afraid of men?’

Harriet gasped. ‘Of course not! How dare you imply….’ Her voice tailed away rather helplessly.

He shrugged. ‘What else is one to think? You must be aware that you do not lack—attraction.’

His eyes went over her in one swift, sexual assessment which brought the colour roaring into her face.

She didn’t know whether to be angrier with him for looking at her like that, or herself for blushing so stupidly. After all, she was reasonably used to being looked over like that. You could hardly work in a large office and avoid it, and Harriet supposed it was part of the ‘sexual harassment’ that so many women complained of nowadays. But while it remained tacit, and at a distance, she had never felt it was worth complaining about.

But then, she thought furiously, she had never been so frankly or so completely mentally undressed by any man. He had a skin-tingling expertise which rocked her on her heels and made her feel tremblingly vulnerable.

The sound of the kettle’s piercing whistle rescued her, and she had to force herself to walk out of the room, not run, with at least a semblance of composure. In the kitchen, she fought for complete control, setting the mugs on a tray and pouring milk into a jug, and sugar into a basin, instead of serving them in their respective containers, as she felt inclined.

It was his constant, unnerving scrutiny which was getting to her, she told herself as she added boiling water to the coffee granules, and not just the sensual element which had intervened. She disliked the knowledge that every detail of her environment, every facet of her life, the way she dressed, moved, spoke and looked, was being continuously judged by a total stranger. If he was looking for faults, he wouldn’t have to look far, she thought crossly.

As she carried the tray into the room, he came and took it from her, placing it on a small table in front of the studio couch. He declined both sugar and milk, so her efforts had been a waste of time as she took it black too.

He remained standing, obviously waiting for her to sit down beside him on the studio couch, which made sense as it was the only really comfortable form of seating in the room. She had two high-backed wooden dining chairs tucked back against the wall with her small drop-leaf table, and she wished she had the nerve to go and fetch one of them to establish some kind of independence, but something warned her that he would not interpret her action in that way, and that she might simply be exposing herself to more mocking comments about feminine fears. But she made a point of seating herself as far from him as the width of the couch would permit, and ignored the slightly derisive twist of his lips.

He said silkily, ‘Let us return to the subject of Nicos. It is clear that this present situation cannot continue. As he becomes older and more active, these surroundings will become impossible.’

Harriet said coolly, ‘I’ve already been considering that.’ And panicking about it, she thought, but he didn’t have to know that.

‘And what conclusions have you come to?’

She hedged. ‘Well, clearly I’ll need a bigger flat—a ground floor one, preferably—with a garden.’ Or a castle in Spain, she added silently and hysterically.

Alex Marcos drank some of the coffee. ‘You have somewhere in mind, perhaps?’ He sounded politely interested, but Harriet was not deceived.

She said with a sigh, ‘You know I haven’t.’

He nodded. ‘And even if such a haven were to present itself, the rent would be beyond your means—is it not so?’—

‘Yes.’ Damn you, she thought. Damn you!

There was a silence. She had begun to shake again inside, and she gulped at the transient comfort the hot coffee gave her, although in terms of Dutch courage she might have done better to opt for the sherry, she thought.

He said at last, ‘Miss Masters—if this unhappy business between us were to become a legal battle—what do you imagine a judge would say about the circumstances in which you are trying to raise my nephew?’

Harriet did not meet his gaze. ‘I believe—I hope that he would say I was doing my best,’ she said wearily.

‘I do not doubt that for a moment. But is that what you truly want—a battle in the courts—to make Nicos the subject of gossip and speculation and lurid newspaper stories?’

‘I’d have thought you would be used to such things.’

‘But I am not the subject under discussion,’ he said too softly. ‘We are speaking of a two-year-old child, who may one day be embarrassed and emotionally torn by our past battles.’

She gave him an incredulous glance. ‘That’s blackmail!’

He shrugged. ‘I would prefer to describe it as a valid possibility. He is already old enough to sense conflict and be disturbed by it.’

‘And therefore I should just be prepared to hand him over,’ Harriet said bitterly. ‘I think not, Mr-Marcos. Doesn’t it occur to you that Nicky might one day wonder why I let him go so easily, and be hurt by it? You’re not denying that you intend to separate us permanently?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘That has always been my intention.’

‘At least we understand each other,’ she said huskily. ‘I refuse to let Nicky go under such circumstances.’

‘What are you hoping for?’ His voice was suddenly harsh. ‘A place under my roof for yourself? A more generous financial offer than the one already made? If so, you will be disappointed.’

‘I want nothing from you,’ Harriet said vehemently. ‘The fact that we’ve even met is your doing, not mine.’

He gave her a weary look. ‘Why are you being so stubborn? You are scarcely more than a child yourself. You cannot wish to bear such a burden unaided for perhaps twenty years longer.’

Put like that, it sounded daunting, but Harriet had always faced up to what her responsibilities to Nicky would entail.

‘I might ask you the same thing,’ she countered. ‘All this time you haven’t displayed the slightest interest in Nicky. We could both have starved or been homeless for all you knew. Yet now you want him—why?’

‘Because it is my duty to care for him,’ he said. ‘Kostas would have expected it, whatever the relations were between us. The child is of my blood.’

‘And mine.’

‘Nevertheless,’ he said, ‘if Kostas had wished you to have charge of the boy, he would have left a document—a will, even a letter saying so. Yet he did not—is it not so?’

Harriet finished her coffee and put the mug down. ‘No, there was nothing,’ she said after a pause. ‘They were so young—too young to be thinking about wills anything of that kind.’

Alex Marcos’ mouth twisted. ‘When one has responsibilities Thespinis Masters, one is never too young, and it is never too soon to make provision for the future. Kostas knew, in fact, that if the worst happened, I would take charge of Nicos. He was always happy to shelve his responsibilities.’

Harriet was uneasily aware that her own solicitor had deplored the absence of a will, but she had been too fond of her late brother-in-law to meekly hear him criticised.

‘Kostas was too busy being happy and making my sister happy to worry about the worst happening. He was a warm, loving man, so what does it matter if he wasn’t perhaps the greatest businessman in the world?’

‘If he had stayed with the Marcos Corporation, then it might have mattered a great deal,’ Alex Marcos said coldly. ‘But we stray towards matters that do not concern you. You will do well to reflect, Miss Masters. At the moment, you claim that Nicky has your whole heart. That is—commendable. But with the money I have offered you, you could buy a new wardrobe—go perhaps for a cruise round the world—meet someone who would make you glad that you are young—and without encumbrances.’

‘God, you’re insulting!’ Harriet muttered between her teeth.

The dark brows rose in exaggerated surprise. ‘Why? Because I imply that if you had more time to yourself, you would have little difficulty in attracting a man? I am paying you a compliment.’

‘Not as far as I’m concerned. Oddly enough, I quite like my life—and my present wardrobe. Marriage isn’t the be-all and end-all in my life.’

He smiled. ‘So I was right,’ he said lazily. ‘You are afraid of men.’

‘That’s ridiculous!’

‘What is more,’ he said slowly, his eyes never leaving her face, ‘you are afraid of me.’

‘Nonsense!’ said Harriet with a robust conviction she was far from feeling.

His smile widened. His eyes travelled slowly downwards, over the soft swell of her breasts, rising and falling more quickly than she could control under the crisp blouse, then on down to the smooth line of her thighs outlined by the cling of the trim navy skirt, then back, swiftly, to her face where spots of outraged colour were now burning in each cheek.

He said very softly, ‘And all this because I—look. What would you do if I touched?’

‘Nothing at all,’ said Harriet very quickly. ‘I’m not afraid, Mr Marcos, just not interested. I expect in your own circle, you find that women are pushovers. Probably a lot of very wealthy men find the same thing. But I don’t belong to your circle, I’m not bothered about your money—and frankly, Mr Marcos, you leave me cold.’ She paused, aware that her breathing was constricted, and that there was an odd tightening in her throat.

She saw the amusement fade from his eyes, to be replaced by something deeper and more dangerous, saw a muscle jerk in his cheek, and wished desperately that she’d kept quiet. But it was too late to retract or even apologise. He was already reaching for her, his hands not gentle as they pulled her across his hard body.

He said something quietly in his own language, and then he bent his head, putting his mouth on hers with an almost soulless precision.

At first she fought, her lips clamped tight against any deeper invasion, but even then she was aware of other factors subtly undermining her instinctive resistance. Her hands were imprisoned helplessly between their bodies, her palms flat against the wall of his chest, deepening her consciousness of his warm muscularity. The scent of his skin was in her nostrils, emphasised by the faint muskiness of some cologne. If she opened her eyes he would fill her vision, and they seemed enveloped in a cone of silence broken only by their own uneven breathing. Harriet had been kissed before, but she had never before known a domination overpowering her every sense. Ultimately, she had always known she was in control.

Yet now…. Her lips parted on a little sigh of capitulation that had nothing to do with coercion suddenly, because she was as eager as he was, as greedy for the deeper intimacy he was already seeking, his teeth grazing the softness of her inner lip, his tongue delicately and erotically exploring all the soft moist contours of her mouth.

Gently his hand freed the blouse from her waistband, and his warm fingers moved caressingly on her back, tracing the length of her spine with a featherlight touch that had her arching against him in unspoken delight.

For the first time in her life, Harriet knew need, knew the simple and unequivocal ache for fulfilment. And knew how easy it would be to release the last hold on sanity and let herself drift inevitably on this warm tide of pleasure.

And then from the corner, behind the sheltering screen she heard a small whimpering cry, ‘Harry!’

Nicky was awake, and suddenly so was she—jolted out of her dangerous dream and back in reality.

Alex Marcos had heard the child too. He was no longer holding her so tightly, and she was able to sit up and draw away from him, combing shaking fingers through her fair hair.

Her legs were trembling, but she made herself stand up, nervously ramming her disordered blouse back into the waist of her skirt. She stole a sidelong glance at him, biting her lip.

He was leaning back watching her. His tie was loosened, and the black hair was dishevelled. His dark eyes were brilliant, not with thwarted passion, but with stinging, cynical mockery.

He said softly, ‘You were saying something about your immunity, I think.’

Hot colour flooded her face, and she lifted her hands, pressing them almost helplessly to her burning cheeks. Then, as Nicky’s whimper threatened to develop into a wail, she walked across the room and lifted him out of his cot. Thumb in his mouth, still half asleep, he hitched a chubby arm round her neck as she carried him towards the centre of the room. Alex Marcos stood waiting, hands on hips. Nicky lifted his head and stared at him.

Harriet said gently, ‘This is your uncle Alex, Nicky. Say hello.’

He wasn’t good with strangers. He didn’t always oblige. Perhaps in her secret heart, Harriet hoped this would be one of those times, and that he would either become silent and clinging or—which was more likely—roar with temper.

But he did neither. He summoned a shy engaging smile and said, ‘ ’Lo,’ before burying his face in Harriet’s shoulder.

Alex spoke to him in Greek, and Harriet felt the little body in her arms stiffen as if the soft words had sparked off an association, an elusive memory he was trying to recapture. Eventually a small muffled voice said uncertainly, ‘Papa?’

Harriet felt tears prick at her eyes.

‘Did you have to do that?’ she demanded.

‘He is half Greek,’ Alex said flatly. ‘It is right he should remember and learn to speak his father’s tongue.’

‘You heard what he said. He thinks you’re his father.’ Harriet spoke fiercely.

‘As far as he is concerned, that is what I shall be. Explanations can wait until he is old enough to understand.’

‘And the succession of surrogate “mothers” in his life? How old will he be before you explain them?’

He said silkily, ‘Guard your tongue, my little English wasp, or you may have cause to regret it. Yes, I enjoy the company of women, in bed and out of it. Why should I deny it? Perhaps you have forgotten that if Nicos had not woken when he did I might well have persuaded you to share some of that—enjoyment.’

Harriet’s lips parted in impetuous denial—and closed again in silence.

Alex smiled faintly. ‘Very wise,’ he approved. ‘I hope you behave with equal wisdom during the rest of our dealings together.’

Harriet stared at the floor. She said, ‘I would prefer to deal with Mr Philippides.’

‘I’m sure you would,’ he said sardonically. ‘Now, I wish to get to know my nephew, and preferably without your sheltering arms around him. Would it be convenient for him to spend the weekend with me?’

She glanced up. ‘You have a house in London?’

‘I have a hotel suite.’

‘And you’re going to look after him?’ Harriet shook her head. ‘He—he still wears nappies a lot of the time….’

‘I’ve brought a nursemaid with me from Greece,’ he said impatiently. ‘She will deal with such matters, not I.’

‘I see.’ She did see too. She saw his power, and the certainty and arrogance which that power bestowed, and she hated it. So sure of his ultimate victory that he’d even brought a nanny, she thought. ‘And if I refuse?’

He lifted his brows. ‘Are you sure that you can? You may resist my claim to total rights, but as his uncle surely I can demand rights that are equal to yours at least.’ He paused. ‘I give you my word I will not attempt to take the boy out of the country. Will that satisfy you?’

Harriet moved her shoulders wearily. ‘I doubt if I could stop you, whatever you wanted to do,’ she said. ‘When would you want to collect him? Tomorrow afternoon? If you give me a time, I’ll have his things ready.’

‘Shall we say three o’clock? And I’ll return him to you on Sunday evening.’

‘Very well,’ she agreed dully. It was the beginning of the end, she knew. He wouldn’t snatch Nicky away as she’d first thought, but detach the child from her by degrees. And there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.

He said, ‘Until tomorrow, then.’ He put out a hand and ruffled Nicky’s curls, then ran a finger down his cheek. For a shocked moment, Harriet wondered if he was going to try the same caress on her, because she wasn’t at all confident that her reaction would have the necessary cool, but he made no attempt to touch her again.

He said, ‘Herete’, and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Harriet stood holding Nicky, her arms tightening round him until he wriggled in protest, demanding to be set down and given his tea. Toast, he wanted, and Marmite and ‘ronge’.

‘Yes, darling,’ she promised penitently, because usually he’d been fed by now at Manda’s. But she didn’t put him down at once. She carried him over to the window and pulled back the shrouding net curtain, looking into the street below.

Alex Marcos was just about to get into the car. As she watched, he turned and looked up at the window, lifting a hand in mocking acknowledgment of her presence. Furious with herself, Harriet let the curtain fall hurriedly into place, and moved away, wishing that she’d been strong-minded enough to ignore his departure—and wondering why she had failed….

Friday was a miserable day. Harriet had phoned the personnel officer at work first thing and received a sympathetic response when she gave family troubles as the reason for her hasty departure the previous day, and for her continued absence. Then she phoned Manda and told her what had happened, or at least an edited version.

She still found it hard to believe that she had behaved as she did. She had let a man who was almost a stranger, and certainly her enemy, kiss her and arouse feelings within her which had kept her awake and restless most of the night. The warm, airless atmosphere of the room hadn’t helped either, and more than once Harriet had found herself wishing wryly for the cliché comfort of a cold shower. But it was only people with money and private bathrooms who could afford such luxuries, she thought regretfully. The bathroom she shared had nothing so sophisticated as a shower in any temperature, and the old-fashioned plumbing made such an infernal din that except in cases of emergency the residents tried to use it as little as possible at night.

Manda heard her explanation of why Nicky would not be spending the day with her without much comment. When Harriet had finished she merely asked, ‘And what’s he like—Alex Marcos?’

Even in her own ears, Harriet’s laugh sounded artificial and she hoped fervently that Manda would assume it was some distortion on the line. ‘Oh—just as you’d imagine, I suppose. The answer to the maiden’s prayer.’

‘Depending, of course,’ Manda said gravely, ‘on what the maiden happened to be praying for. See you, love. Take care now.’

As she replaced the receiver, Harriet pondered on the real note of warning in Manda’s voice, and reflected rather despondently that it was no use trying to fool her, even at a distance.

She tidied and cleaned the flat again almost compulsively, then tucked Nicky into the buggy and took him to the nearby shops which he loved. The sun was shining, and the Italian greengrocer gave him an orange, and Harriet, in a moment of weakness, bought him some sweets. While she was in the newsagents’ she treated herself to a daily paper, and some magazines, because she had a whole weekend to fill for once.

Of course she didn’t have to stay in the flat, she told herself robustly. She had always promised herself that one day she would do the whole tourist bit—go to the British Museum, or the Zoo, or take a boat down to Greenwich—but she had always put the idea to the back of her mind, telling herself it could wait till Nicky was older and could enjoy it with her. Well, there seemed little point in delaying any longer, she thought, with a kind of unhappy resolution.

She cooked Nicky’s favourite food for lunch—fish fingers, baked beans and oven chips. Manda, who believed in wholefoods and a balanced diet, would have frowned a little, but Nicky was jubilant and ate every scrap, including the ice cream which followed.

Harriet tried to explain to him that he was going to have a little holiday with his uncle, but wasn’t sure how much she’d got through to him, because he seemed far more interested in his toy cars than in the fact that she was packing his night things and the best of his clothes in a small case.

He’s only a baby, she thought as she watched him play, quite oblivious to her own mental and emotional turmoil. He’s too little to be taken from all the security he knows, and be made to speak Greek, and all the other things he’ll have to learn.

Yet on the other hand there was the very real danger that out of love and inexperience she might keep him a baby too long, might try too hard to protect him from the world which he was as much a part of as she was herself. A man’s influence in his life was probably essential, Harriet thought—but what would be the effect of someone like Alex Marcos, wealthy, cynical and amoral, on the mind of an impressionable child?

It was inevitable that when she sat down with the newspaper and a cup of coffee while Nicky played on the carpet at her feet, Alex’s picture should be the first to leap out at her. And, again, inevitably, it was the gossip column, and he wasn’t alone. He was sitting at a table in a restaurant or a night club—Harriet didn’t recognise the name anyway—and the girl beside him, smiling radiantly at the camera had her arm through his and her head on his shoulder.

Her red head on his shoulder, Harriet discovered as she read through the piece that accompanied the photograph. Alex, it said, was in London on business and lovely model Vicky Hanlon was just the girl to help him unwind from his busy schedule.

After an unctuous dwelling on Vicky Hanlon’s physical attributes which would have had even the mildest Women’s Libber spitting carpet tacks and reaching for the telephone, the columnist quoted her as saying, ‘Poor Alex leads such a hectic life. I just want to help him relax as much as possible.’

‘Yuck!’ said Harriet violently, dropping the paper as if it had bitten her. She marched down the passage to the bathroom and washed her face and cleaned her teeth thoroughly which, while a relatively futile gesture, nevertheless made her feel better.

She was increasingly on edge as three o’clock approached. Nicky had grown tired of his toys and demanded a story, and she was just following The Little Gingerbread Man with the Three Billy Goats Gruff when she heard the sound of a car door slam in the street below.

Her voice hesitated and died away right in the middle of the troll’s threat, and her whole body tensed. Nicky bounced plaintively and said, ‘Troll.’

She hugged him fiercely. ‘Another time, darling. Your—your uncle’s come to fetch you, and you’re going to have a wonderful time.’

She remembered what Alex had said the previous day about her sheltering arms and was careful to let Nicky walk beside her to the door as the buzzer sounded imperatively.

Her palms were damp, and her mouth was dry. She had brushed her hair until it shone, and the dress she was wearing, although simple and sleeveless, was the most becoming in her wardrobe, its cool blues and greens accentuating her fairness, and the very fact that she had chosen to wear it was evidence enough that she was on the verge of making a complete and utter fool of herself.

She made herself reach out and release the Yale knob and turn the handle.

There was a man outside, stockily built and swarthy in a chauffeur’s uniform, his cap under one arm, and accompanied by a middle-aged woman with greying black hair who looked nervous.

It was the woman who spoke. ‘Thespinis Masters—I am Yannina. I have come from Kyrios Marcos to fetch his nephew, the little Nicos.’ Her anxious expression splintered into a broad smile as she spied Nicky, who had relapsed into instant shyness at the sight of strangers and who was peering at them from behind Harriet’s skirt.

She crouched down, holding out her arms and murmuring encouragingly in Greek, and slowly Nicky edged towards her.

Harriet picked up his case and handed it to the chauffeur, who nodded respectfully to her.

‘Kyrios Marcos wishes to assure you that the boy will be returned to you on Sunday evening, not later than six o’clock,’ he said in careful heavily accented English.

‘Thank you.’ Harriet hesitated. ‘I—I thought he would be coming to fetch Nicky himself.’

The chauffeur looked surprised. ‘He is waiting below in the car, thespinis. If you have a message for him, I would be glad to convey it.’

Not, Harriet thought, the sort of message I have in mind. She forced a smile and shook her head, and stepped backward as Yannina took Nicky’s hand and began to lead him away. He looked back once and grinned and waved, and Harriet felt a lump rise in her throat as she shut the door between them.

This time, wild horses weren’t going to drag her to the window to watch them go.

So he’d decided to stay downstairs in the car, which was a delicate way of telling her not to read too much into a kiss. Had he sensed something in her untutored, unguarded response to what he would regard as quite a casual caress that had warned him it might be kinder to keep his distance?

The thought shamed her to the core. She felt sick and empty, and although she tried to blame this on Nicky’s carefree departure, she knew she was fooling herself.

The unpalatable truth she had to face was that every nerve, every pulse beat in her body had been counting away the hours, the minutes, the seconds before she saw Alex Marcos again. She knew too that the ache beginning inside her now was deeper and more wounding than mere disappointment or injured pride, and she remembered Manda’s warning, and was frightened.