Pagan Adversary

‘A very moving story,’ he said cynically. ‘Kostas would seem to have chosen a rare gem for his wife. Unfortunately my knowledge of him and his judgment makes that doubtful. However, I give you credit for believing what you say, and for having affection for your sister. But let us not forget that the real issue is Nicos.’

‘Nicky isn’t an—issue! He’s a child, a little human being. He’s my nephew as much as yours, and whatever you may think I’m quite capable of bringing him up. And that’s what I intend to do,’ she added in a little rush.

As she fumbled with the door handle she was afraid that he might come after her and stop her leaving, but he didn’t move, and at last she got the door open and shot through it into the outer room under Miss Greystoke’s startled gaze.

As she reached the corridor she was crying, and she made straight for the staff cloakroom on the ground floor. Fortunately it was unoccupied, and she sank down on the bench against the wall and let her emotions have their way with her. She was sick and trembling when the tears finally stopped, and the face which stared back at her from the mirror looked pale and ravaged. She bathed her eyes with cool water, and let the tap run over her wrists in an attempt to steady her racing pulses. Then she snatched her blazer from its peg and slung it round her shoulders.

Her thoughts weren’t particularly coherent, but the necessity to get Nicky out of London predominated. She had no idea where to go, or how to find a hiding place which Alex Marcos’ money would not disclose, but speed was of the essence.

She had a little money in her bag, and more at the flat, and some savings in a building society. If she went to one of the big stations in the rush hour, she thought feverishly, it was unlikely anyone would remember a girl with a young child. She would travel as far as she could afford, and pretend Nicky was hers—that she was an unmarried mother. She could disguise herself, she thought wildly, dye her hair, or buy a wig. If she could lie low for long enough, surely Alex Marcos would get tired of looking for them and return to Greece.

She bit her lip. There was no way she could make that sound convincing to herself. I said I’d fight him, so I’m damned if I’ll just give in without a struggle, she thought.

She felt guilty about leaving the company without a word of explanation, or handing in her notice but she had no alternative. She didn’t think anyone had seen her leaving the building, but she kept glancing behind her as she anxiously waited for a bus.

Manda looked surprised as she opened the door. ‘You’re early,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve just put him down for a nap.’

‘Yes,’ Harriet forced a smile. ‘I’m sorry, Manda, but I must take him with me. And he won’t be coming tomorrow—or until further notice. In fact I don’t know if—or when….’

Manda gave her a searching look. ‘The kettle’s just boiled,’ she said. ‘Go and make yourself a cup of something while I get Nicky up and put his coat on. On your own head be it too,’ she added as Harriet moved obediently towards the kitchen. ‘He’s hell if he’s woken before he’s ready.’

Nicky was plainly disgruntled when he appeared in Manda’s arms, but still too sleepy to be real hell. He held his arms out imperatively to Harriet, who took him, her welcoming smile wavering as she felt his warm little body curling trustingly into her lap.

‘Don’t squeeze him to death,’ advised Manda, refilling her own cup. ‘What’s the matter? Has the Wicked Uncle appeared and started putting pressure on?’

Harriet nodded, and Manda sighed. ‘Well, I suppose it was inevitable.’ She put out a hand and affectionately ruffled Nicky’s thick dark hair. ‘Goodbye, love. Our yard today—a millionaires’ playground tomorrow. Can’t be bad.’

‘He’s not having him!’ Harriet’s voice was fierce.

‘I admire your spirit, but I don’t think you’re being very realistic.’ Manda sounded almost matter-of-fact. ‘Greeks are very patriarchal, you know, and Nicky has Marcos blood in his veins. And just suppose you did persuade his uncle to let you keep him—do you think Nicky would always be grateful? Unless he was superhuman, he might start reckoning up on some of the things he’d missed out on.’

‘That’s—horrible,’ Harriet said slowly.

‘Yes, isn’t it?’ Manda agreed. ‘But being an orphan doesn’t automatically confer sanctity as well, you know.’

‘So you think I should just—give him up?’ Harriet was astounded.

‘No.’ Manda frowned. ‘Of course not. But surely you should be able to do some kind of deal with the Marcos man—agree that Nicky should spend a certain amount of time with you each year.’

Harriet groaned. ‘After what’s happened today, I don’t think he’d agree to Nicky even sending me a Christmas card!’ She gave Manda a succinct account of the day’s events, and her intentions, and Manda looked startled.

‘For God’s sake, Harriet, don’t do anything hasty. If you grab Nicky and start dashing all over the country with him, you’ll be giving Alex Marcos the gun to shoot you down with. He may be an arrogant swine, but you won’t beat him by acting like a madwoman. You run away and you’ll just be playing into his hands.’

‘Whose side are you on?’ Harriet joked weakly.

‘Nicky’s.’ Manda gave her a gentle smile. ‘Take him home if you want, but do some good, hard thinking once you get there. If you don’t you could end by losing out completely, and that would be a bad thing for you both.’

Harriet’s thoughts were sober as she walked along, pushing the baby buggy. Nicky was fast asleep, his dark lashes making half-moons on his pink cheeks. She looked down at him with tenderness. The thought of losing him was frankly intolerable, but Manda’s words had hit home.

At first, as she turned into her road, she was barely aware of the car, and when she did notice it, it was with a kind of detached curiosity. There were plenty of cars in the road, especially at weekends, all the popular models and mostly with elderly registrations, but this was very different.

A Rolls-Royce, she thought incredulously, and her steps began to slow instinctively, her white-knuckled hands gripping the handle of the buggy.

There was a uniformed driver in the front seat, and his passenger was already getting out, tossing his half-smoked cigar into the gutter as he waited for her.

Alex Marcos said with a glittering smile, ‘Welcome home, Miss Masters. So this is Nicos. Thank you for bringing him to me.’

CHAPTER TWO

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.