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It was almost an hour later when, dried and scented, she put on a new pair of peach satin pyjamas, and began slowly to brush her newly freed chestnut hair back from her face, enjoying the luxurious sensation of the soft fabric gliding against her skin as her arm moved slowly and rhythmically.
Relishing the perfect order of her environment, with her room tidied and the bed turned down. Looking forward to the peace of the evening ahead of her, and the chance to feel totally relaxed at last.
Except…
She paused, frowning a little, wondering if she’d acquired a new and noisy neighbour, because she was sure she’d heard a door opening and closing not too far away.
In fact, altogether too near for comfort.
For a moment Harriet stood motionless, hardly breathing, as she listened, telling herself it was pure imagination. That it couldn’t possibly be her own door, because she’d locked up securely, as always.
But for the first time Harriet regretted there was no phone extension in the bedroom. Wished she hadn’t left her mobile in her briefcase by the sofa.
Not, of course, that there was anything to worry about. One of this apartment block’s advantages was a concierge service, and no one ever got past George, an ex-Royal Marine. The events of the day had left her edgy, that was all.
Just the same …
Taking a deep breath, she put down her brush, and trod barefoot to the doorway which led into her living room.
Where she stopped abruptly, gasping as if a monstrous hand had descended on her ribcage, squeezing the breath from her lungs.
‘Kalispera, Harriet mou,’ Roan Zandros said softly, and smiled at her in the lamplight.
He was standing in the centre of the room, still dressed pretty much as he’d been at the wedding, except that his tie had gone, leaving his shirt open at the throat, and he had a small but serviceable rucksack slung across one shoulder.
‘What are you doing here?’ She was proud of her voice, cool, uncompromising and steady as a rock. Especially as every pulse in her body was going suddenly crazy—thudding out a tattoo—a call to arms. When her legs were shaking so badly she had to resist an impulse to lean against the doorframe for support.
‘Where else should I be?’ He dropped the rucksack on to the black kid sofa, following it with his jacket. The dark eyes challenged her. ‘We were married today, or had you forgotten?’
‘We went through a ceremony, certainly,’ she returned curtly. He must have got her address from the pre-nuptial agreement, which he was now flouting, of course, she thought frantically. And swallowed. ‘How did you get in here, anyway?’
‘The concierge loaned me the spare key.’ He paused. ‘I am to return it in the morning.’
The precise implications of that dried her throat to sand.
This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t be here, invading her privacy, intruding on her personal space, not when he’d promised—promised …
And seeing her off-guard, she realised, as no one was allowed to. And when—dear God—her only covering was a thin layer of satin.
Something that was not lost on him either, as she felt his eyes travelling slowly over her from the top of her head down to her bare toes. Saw his smile widen.
But she couldn’t waste time worrying about her clothing, or lack of it. The important thing was to keep her head, behave with dignity and decision—and get him out of there.
She rallied her wits and her voice. ‘That’s news to me.’
‘That there is a spare key?’
‘No, that George simply hands it out to passing strangers. He may well lose his job over this.’
‘Why—for bringing together a man and his bride on their wedding night?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’
Wedding night …
Harriet’s throat tightened. ‘All the same, I’d prefer you to return the key to him—and go.’
‘Except that tonight it will not be your preferences that matter, but mine,’ he retorted with equal incisiveness. ‘And I mean to stay.’
Breathing was becoming a problem—something she dared not let him know. She said with faint huskiness, ‘If this is some crude and tasteless attempt to be funny, then it’s failed. Now, for the last time, get out.’
‘But I am not joking.’ Roan began slowly to remove the cufflinks from his shirt. ‘Nor am I leaving.’
Their eyes met. His, cool and unswerving. Hers—appalled.
‘Because I am here to claim my marital rights, agapi mou,’ he went on softly. ‘One of the few options left to me by the draconian contract you insisted I sign.’
He paused. ‘And something of which I intend to take full advantage.’
His words dropped like fragments of ice into the taut, frightened silence that seemed to enfold her.
She made herself speak, her voice strained. ‘I—I think you must have gone mad. Our agreement specifies that we—live separately. You knew that—accepted it.’
He said, quite gently, ‘I agreed not to share your roof. But if you also meant to deny me your body, then you should have stated as much. Only, you did not, Harriet mou, so I am breaking no promise.’
That was why he’d spent so much time at Isobel’s office going over the damned thing, she thought. Because he’d been looking for a loophole—some way of getting back at her.
Fool, she castigated herself silently. Bloody imbecile. How could you have allowed such a basic omission to slip past?
Because, she thought, it had never occurred to her there was any possibility that he might—that he’d ever want …
And she wouldn’t believe it now, she told herself, rallying her defences. He had some other agenda. That had to be it.
She said stonily, ‘This is nonsense. I made it perfectly clear that I had no intention of being your wife—in that way.’
‘Yet you did not bother to consider what my own intentions might be.’ He paused, allowing her to digest that. ‘However, I have no plans to move in permanently, Harriet mou,’ he added silkily, glancing round him at the plain walls, pale wood and streamlined black furniture. ‘I find the ambience a little stark for my tastes, therefore I shall just be spending the night.’
He dropped his cufflinks on to the coffee table, and started to unbutton his shirt.
He smiled at her. ‘So, let us hope that your bed offers more in the way of comfort than your living room. I look forward to finding out.’
CHAPTER SIX
HARRIET felt as if she’d turned to stone. She stared at him—casually undressing in front of her—her mind in freefall. She could, of course, step backwards and shut her bedroom door against him, but that wouldn’t keep him out permanently, and the essential key to the lock was—elsewhere. In some cupboard, probably, or some drawer. My God, she didn’t even know. Couldn’t think. And because all the furniture was fitted, there wasn’t even a chair or a tallboy she could use as a barricade.
And, as he’d demonstrated on that first encounter in his studio, and since, he was infinitely stronger than she was. If she tried to fight him off physically, she would undoubtedly lose.
Although it couldn’t be allowed to get to that point. After all, she’d been the prime mover in this situation, and somehow she had to reassert her dominance. Mentally, emotionally—and fast.
She swallowed. ‘I think you must be—genuinely crazy,’ she said. ‘But please understand that I have absolutely no intention of sleeping with you.’
‘So there is no problem,’ he returned pleasantly. ‘Because sleep does not feature on my list of priorities either.’
There was another terrible silence as she watched him shrug off his shirt, and toss it after his jacket. As she saw his hands move to the buckle of his belt …
She drew a deep, unsteady breath. ‘That’s quite enough. You—you can stop right there.’
Roan paused. ‘Was there some clause in the agreement dictating what I wear in bed?’ he wondered aloud, then shook his head. ‘I don’t remember it.’
‘No clause,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Just—common decency, which you seem to lack. And if this is a ploy to get more money out of me, it won’t work, even if you strip a dozen times. It was obviously stupid of me to imagine I could trust you,’ she added bitingly. ‘But I’m wiser now, and the marriage ends here and now.’
‘Not yet, my unwilling wife,’ he said softly. ‘It is about to begin. I thought I had made that clear.’
Her stomach was churning wildly. ‘Then let me also make something clear,’ she rasped. ‘I’ll see you in court, Mr Zandros, before I give in to this kind of blackmail.’
‘It should make a fascinating case.’ He stood watching her, hands on hips. ‘I can see the tabloid headlines now.’ He paused. ‘And imagine your grandfather’s reaction to them, and the way you have tried to deceive him. I think you could say goodbye to your hopes of Gracemead, don’t you?’
With every moment, her wonderful spacious room—her sanctuary—seemed to be shrinking, while increasing her acute awareness of him at the same time.
Somehow she had to redress the balance, she told herself desperately. Stop this whole impossible situation right now before it went too far—if it hadn’t done so already.
It wasn’t easy to keep him at a safe distance without making it too obvious that she was skirting round him, because the last thing she wanted was to seem nervous, but she managed it somehow. Difficult, as well, to try to appear dignified in spite of her flimsy pyjamas and bare feet as she crossed the living room, although she was heart-thuddingly conscious that she was still marginally more covered than he was.
She reached the door and stood beside it, her head held high, grasping the handle tightly in an attempt to disguise that her fingers were shaking.
‘If you leave now,’ she said, lifting her chin, ‘and don’t come back, then we—we’ll forget this ever happened. If you don’t, I shall call the police.’
‘And say what?’ he enquired mockingly. ‘That you are a bride reluctant to lose your virginity to the husband you married this morning?’
She gasped. ‘That is—a disgustingly arrogant assumption.’
‘I assume nothing,’ he said softly. ‘I know I shall be the first. And I think the police would be fascinated by your complaint,’ he went on. ‘They might also charge you with wasting their valuable time. And don’t attempt to buy them too, because that might prove truly misguided.’
He paused, allowing her to assimilate that. ‘Also that door is locked, so stop making empty gestures, matia mou, and come here to me.’
‘No.’ Her fingers tightened convulsively on the door handle—the only solid object in a reeling world. ‘I—I take back what I said just now. Everything I’ve said. Because I will pay you—I’ll pay anything—if you’ll just—go away. And leave me in peace.’
‘Harriet,’ he said gently. ‘Today I took you as my wife. Tonight I take you as my woman, as I intended from the first. And, whatever you may think, it was never a question of money.’
‘Then what?’ Her voice was hoarse. ‘Is this your idea of revenge, for my having—insulted your manhood in some way? Because you don’t really want me, and you know it.’
He sighed. ‘If I did not want you, pedhi mou, then, believe me, I would not be here. And maybe I was angry at first,’ he went on grimly. ‘Angry over your assumption that I must be for sale and would meekly accept this sterile bargain of yours at its face value.
‘But I was not angry for long.’ He smiled at her. ‘Because the first time I touched you, I knew there was a body to be desired under those shapeless garments you favour, in public at least.’ His dark gaze lingered on the swell of her breasts, then travelled slowly down to the indentation of her waist and the supple outline of her hips and thighs.
‘And my instinct was correct,’ he added softly. ‘You look enchanting. That is a good colour for you, my sweet one. It adds warmth to your skin, even when you are not blushing.’
‘Kindly keep your dubious compliments to yourself,’ Harriet said raggedly. ‘And, as I’ve already told you, I’m neither sweet nor yours.’
‘Not yet, perhaps,’ Roan agreed. ‘But I am hoping your attitude may soften once we become more intimately acquainted.’
‘Then go on hoping,’ she said fiercely. ‘Because in reality you’re trying to force yourself on someone who doesn’t want you.’
‘Are you so sure that is how you feel?’ Roan questioned softly. ‘I would say the jury is still out.’
‘Then you’d be totally wrong.’ She conjured up the image of the blonde she’d encountered at his studio. ‘For God’s sake, how many women do you need to have?’
He tutted reprovingly, his eyes dancing. ‘What a question for a bride to put to her husband. But, since you ask, I find one at a time suits me perfectly.’ He grinned at her. ‘My tastes are not yet so jaded that they require—additional stimulation.’
He walked to her without hurry, detaching her clutching fingers from the door handle quietly and without force.
She stared up at him, her eyes dilating. ‘Roan.’ She was hardly aware she’d used his name. ‘Roan—please. Don’t do this—I—I beg you.’ Her voice was a whisper.
‘And what is—”this” that scares you so, Harriet mou?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think you even know.’
But you’re wrong, she thought. So very wrong. Because I know from my childhood—from my mother going from man to man, hoping, seeking the impossible. I remember all the soft words in each beginning—the promises ‘Trust me …’ ‘I’ll never leave you …’
The sounds in the night from the other side of the wall that I was too young to understand.
And then the other sounds—the shouting, the crashing, the slamming of doors. The silences that were somehow the loudest of all. And then the weeping, the quiet, terrible sobbing of failure and desolation. Before someone else came along with more sweet talk, more promises, and the whole cycle began again.
And I swore I would never let that happen to me. That I would not be like her—dependent on the sexual whim of some man.
That, instead, I would be my own woman, answering only to myself.
And my body would always be my own.
Thought it, but did not say it as Roan’s hands came down on her at last.
She was trembling openly now, her anger commingled with fear, as he drew her towards him, and she braced her hands against his chest, twisting wildly, striving to break free.
‘Let me go,’ she gasped. ‘Let me go, damn you. Oh, God, I’ll never forgive you for this. Never!’
‘Never is a very long time, agapi mou,’ he told her softly. ‘When all you have to endure is one night. Now, be still.’
Just as she’d feared, he controlled her frantic struggles with effortless ease, pinioning her slender wrists behind her with one hand, while with the other he cupped her chin, raising her face so that her tightly clamped, rebellious mouth was his for the taking.
And not just her mouth, she realised with agonised humiliation. Her vain attempts to release herself had resulted instead in freeing some of the silk buttons on her pyjama jacket, so that her rounded breasts were now bare to the smouldering heat of his dark gaze.
He said in a harsh whisper, ‘You are—so beautiful.’
The hand clamping her wrists in the small of her back propelled her forward, bringing her into sudden, intimate contact with the hard wall of his chest, so that the dark springing hair grazed the dusky rose of her nipples, making them lift and harden in a swift, shamed pleasure she was unable to control or deny.
And then he kissed her.
But if the last time had been punishment, this was entirely different. And, she realised, infinitely more dangerous.
Because Roan’s lips were warm and ineffably gentle as they caressed hers, his mission, this time, to persuade—and arouse. Which was the last thing she’d expected, or wanted.
She needed him to be rough—even brutal—she thought feverishly, so that she could feed her resistance to him—her loathing and contempt for this—unbelievable treachery.
