‘To going our separate ways,’ Harriet said curtly. ‘That’s the only aspect of the future that appeals to me.’
‘In spite of all that we have just been to each other?’ Roan asked mockingly. ‘You grieve me. But let it be as you wish.’ He touched his glass to hers, and drank, and she unwillingly followed suit, feeling the wine burst like sunlight in her dry mouth. A good vintage, she thought, surprised, and deserving of a better occasion.
‘Thank you.’ With a defiant flourish, she tipped the rest of the wine into the water, and handed him the empty glass. ‘I presume you have no other toasts to propose.’
‘I can think of none that would be appropriate.’ His voice was quiet.
‘So, perhaps now this—ritual humiliation is complete, you’ll go, and leave me in peace.’
‘I came here to spend the night, Harriet mou. And it is not over yet.’
‘But you—got what you wanted.’ She stumbled over the words. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘And why are you so ashamed of being a woman?’
It wasn’t the reply Harriet had expected, and she lifted her chin. ‘I’m not. It’s the shame of letting myself become involved with you that I can’t handle. I should have realised that, with you, poor doesn’t necessarily mean honest. That you’re just a manipulative, womanising swine, and I don’t know how I’m going to live with myself after—after what you’ve done to me.’
There was a brief tingling silence, then he said quietly, ‘Then I have nothing to lose.’ He drank the rest of his wine, set both glasses down, and stood up.
Before she knew what was happening, his hands were under her armpits, lifting her bodily out of the water. He reached for one of the bath sheets on the warm rail, and enveloped her in it, muffling her indignant protest.
‘Dry yourself,’ he instructed curtly. ‘Then come back to bed. It is time your sexual education was resumed.’
Her heart was pounding unevenly. She said chokingly, ‘You mean you’re determined to find other ways to degrade me.’
His smile was jeering. ‘Why, yes, my innocent. Believe me, the possibilities are endless, and I look forward to exploring them with you.’ He unfastened the towel he was wearing and casually dropped it into the linen basket. ‘So, do not keep me waiting too long,’ he added, as he left her.
Slowly, Harriet blotted the moisture from her skin, staring at herself in the mirror, trying to recognise the girl who’d swung out of the flat that morning on her way to finalise a simple business arrangement. Who’d believed the situation was under her control, and that she’d emerge a winner. And that she was—untouchable.
Well, she knew better now. The image looking back at her had eyes the colour of smoke, and the outline of her mouth was blurred from kissing.
This is not me, she thought. He’s turned me into someone I don’t know, and never wanted to be. And crazily, impossibly, I—let it happen. But how—and why? He called this our wedding night, but it could never be that. Because he’s the last person wanting to be a husband, and I have no intention of being a wife.
So, it’s just a one-night stand. Payback time because I made him look foolish in front of witnesses. After all, he pretty much admitted it.
And, if not for revenge, why else would he want—this? Me?
She dropped the damp towel, and studied her nude reflection dispassionately. It couldn’t be for her looks—or her figure. She was moderately attractive, no more, and reed-slender. And it certainly wasn’t for the sweetness of her disposition, she told herself wryly.
She supposed a virgin in her mid-twenties had a certain novelty value in twenty-first-century London, but why would he bother when there were so many more exciting—and willing—women around?
Except she had been—willing. Eventually. And that was the open wound she would take with her from this encounter. The bitter knowledge that she hadn’t fought tooth and nail against the ultimate surrender. That the marks she’d inflicted on his body were the result of passion, not self-defence.
She hadn’t even managed the frozen submission she’d planned as her last line of retreat. And now it was much too late.
She took a last glance at herself, and turned away, knowing that she couldn’t simply walk back naked into the bedroom. Without mental or emotional connection between them, his dark scrutiny would be a stinging embarrassment, she thought, as she trod over to the fitted unit beside the basin, and opened the bottom drawer.
The neatly folded cotton housecoat that lay there was quite the oldest garment she possessed. High-necked and demure, it had been at school with her, and its pattern of tiny rosebuds had almost faded away with repeated launderings over the years. Hanging on to it was sheer sentiment, but it had the virtue of being opaque—a veil for her to hide behind as she went to him.
He was lying on his back, arms folded behind his head, staring up at the ceiling as she walked towards the bed, and she noticed that he’d tidied the pillows, and drawn the sheet up to waist level. He turned to look at her, and she saw his eyes widen, and braced herself for some numbing piece of sarcasm.
But when he spoke his voice was almost reflective. ‘So now I know how you looked when you were a little girl, Harriet mou.’
She gave him a quick, startled glance, then turned her back while she removed the soft folds, then slid under the covering sheet. And waited, nerves jangling, for him to reach for her.
‘Expecting another seduction, matia mou?’ He broke the silence at last, just as her inner tension was nearing screaming point. ‘Because it is not going to happen.’ And as she twisted round to stare at him he added, ‘This time, I wish you to make love to me.’
‘Oh, God, no—no …’
She only realised she’d spoken the thought aloud when she saw his mouth twist in a wry smile.
He shook his head. ‘Why, Harriet?’ He made her name sound like a caress. ‘Don’t you like being in bed with me—just a little?’
There was no need to answer. And no point in trying to lie either. The sudden blaze of colour warming her face was betrayal enough. And the helpless clench of desire deep inside her.
‘I enjoyed having you touch me,’ he went on softly. ‘It’s a pleasure I wish to be repeated. And you seemed to like it too, my shy bride, so why don’t you come much—much closer, and kiss me?’
She obeyed slowly, helplessly, moving across the space that divided them, until she felt the warmth of him against her, and the tingling thrill of response in her own skin.
She swallowed, her heart thudding, then leaned over him, her hair spilling around him in a fragrant cloud, as she let the rosy peaks of her breasts brush his chest, deliberately tantalising the flat male nipples. She heard him catch his breath.
He said huskily, ‘Harriet, my sweet one—agapi mou.’
And she paused, her mouth a fraction from his.
‘But I don’t love you,’ she whispered fiercely back to him. ‘And I never will.’
Harriet awoke slowly, pushing herself up through the layers of sleep like a swimmer surfacing from the dark depths of a timeless sea, and finding sunlight. She waited for the usual stress to kick in, but it was strangely absent. Instead, she felt totally relaxed, her whole body toned—suffused with unaccustomed well-being.
Realising, as she forced open her weighted eyelids, that she was actually smiling.
And then she remembered …
She shot upright, gasping, clutching the sheet to her breasts,