Baby of Shame (15 page)

Enticingly.

A long, slow pulse began to beat in his veins.

Rhianna
had to steel herself to keep still. She wanted to leap to her feet and run. Bolt.

His intense look was excruciating. She didn’t know where to look, what to do.

Damn Nurse Thompson and Karen! What on earth have they done?

But she knew exactly what they’d done. They’d turned her back into a woman. She hadn’t been that for a long, long time.

Not for five years.

Not since Alexis Petrakis had peeled the clothes from her body and laid her down upon his bed…

Memory leapt in her, like a flame from a dead fire that someone had just thrown petrol on.

She couldn’t stop it.
Couldn’t douse it.

Her eyes met the dark obsidian eyes across the table. Met and leapt.

Memory drenched her. Memory of those eyes looking down at her, drowning her in their depths, their desire…

It was alive again—that overpowering, devastating,
shameful
desire. The way it had leapt between them that evening five long, long years ago. She tried to force it back, thrust it away, hammer it back down deep, deep, where it could not escape.

But it came all the same, and she could not stop it—was helpless, formless,
shapeless
. She was liquid, rich, slow-pouring honey that creamed like velvet through her veins.

I don’t want to feel this. I don’t want to! I don’t want to want him!

Words seared in her mind—poisonous, powerful.

But you do want him. You want him as much now as you wanted him then…

The terrible damning truth hollowed through her.

You will never be able to resist him…

Never.

Despair flooded through her.
Despair and a churning dismay.
She had to fight what she was feeling—she had to! She must not succumb to something that had damaged her so badly, so irretrievably. Summoning all her strength, she banished by sheer force of will the debilitating weakness that flooded through her.

Her chin lifted, her chest rising and falling as she fought to regain her composure, fought to be the person she knew she
must
be.

Nicky’s mother.
Nothing more.

Just as she was nothing more to Alexis Petrakis.

Gratefully she seized the glass of white wine
Stavros
had poured for her. She took a sip, feeling its reviving strength. Tonight she needed it.

She wanted to run, fly. But even to do that would be to acknowledge what was happening, to give credence to the reason why Alexis Petrakis was sitting opposite her, his eyes fixed on her.

She wouldn’t—she wouldn’t do it.

So she had to say something—anything that sounded normal.

She said the first thing that came into her head.

‘Thank you for taking Nicky for the boat trip. He absolutely adored it.’

For a second Alexis made no response. Then, with a visible effort, he replied. ‘But it was too rough for you. Tomorrow I’ll take you out sailing. See how much you remember from your dinghy course.’

‘Almost nothing,’ she said hurriedly.

‘Well, we shall see. And with a light wind it will be much gentler for you,’ Alexis returned.

Stavros
arrived with the first course—an
assiette
of seafood. It was a welcome diversion. By the time she had helped herself to what she wanted, and Alexis had done similarly, her composure was recovering.

So, it seemed, was Alexis’s. Yet even as the pair of them determinedly made civil conversation across the dinner table—first about sailing in general, and then, with Alexis taking the lead, about the particular maritime conditions of the Aegean: the prevailing northerly
meltemi
of the summer, the sudden squalls, the complicated shifting local currents of this
tideless
sea—she felt, beneath her skin, that he was only half concentrating on what he was saying. There was a subtle but discernible air of abstraction about him.

It disturbed her, but she did not know why.

She had no spare energy to wonder about it. She needed all she had simply to keep going, having what on the outside seemed a normal conversation with Alexis Petrakis. Doggedly, she
laboured
away—asking questions, responding when appropriate—as if he were simply a social acquaintance. They didn’t even talk about Nicky

Yet if Nicky did not exist they would not be sitting here, opposite each other, trying to talk politely to each other. And it was for his sake that she had to make an effort, she knew. Force
herself
to be ‘normal’ with him—as if he really were just a social acquaintance. The more she did it, the easier it would get, she told herself.

And at least, she registered
gratefully,
he had stopped staring at her.

It was just the shock. That’s all.
Seeing me look so different.
That’s why he stared.

And she must be glad that it was so—very glad.

Very glad indeed.
Relieved.

Grateful, in fact.

She took a breath and asked another question about sailing.

When the meal finally reached the coffee stage she was even more grateful. The strain had begun to tell. Emotions were running in her, beneath the surface. She did not know what they were, but they were swelling, growing. She’d kept the promise that she had given Alexis that
afternoon, that
she would try to make this rapprochement work.

But though she knew now that Nicky was safe with Alexis, that he was bound to his son by the strongest of emotional ties, there was one thing she must remember—one question she could not answer.

This civility from him was not for her sake, but for Nicky’s. And though she could trust him with Nicky, after all the foulness that had passed between them, could
she
ever be safe with Alexis? Could she trust him to trust
her
?

She did not have long to wait to find out.

They took coffee on the terrace.

It was a lovely evening—the mildest yet, she thought. From the bushes came the constant, invisible soft chirruping of the cicadas. A soft zephyr winnowed the water, which shushed on the sand in a gentle murmur.
Stavros
had placed a candle on the table, along with the coffee tray, and beyond its little pool of light the darkness draped itself across the terrace in a velvet fall, softened only by the dim moonlight playing on the silvery sand and the night-lit sea.

‘Are you cold?’ Alexis asked her.

She shook her head.

‘No. Thank you. I’m fine. This is lovely.’

She relapsed into silence, letting her eyes become dark-adjusted. Across the table Alexis’s dark bulk took shape, his long-sleeved, open-necked white shirt reflecting the pale moonlight, though his face was in shadow.

She took a slow sip of coffee, inhaling the distinctive fragrance. From the corner of her eye, as she looked out over the night-dark sand and sea, she could see Alexis lean back, stretching out his long legs under the table and cupping his glass of ouzo in his hands, his tiny cup of Greek coffee as yet untouched. Like her, he seemed content to sit in silence. She went on looking at how the moonlight caught the white caps of the tiny waves as they crested in miniature surf on the beach.

No sound came from the rest of the villa. The staff quarters were on the side away from the beach, she knew, and Nicky was fast asleep.

It was a peaceful scene. Yet beneath the tranquil surface deep currents ran.

Her thoughts ran on down twisting paths, uncertain ways.

The future stretched before her like the night over the sea.
An impenetrable veil.

What was going to happen? Not now, here on this peaceful island, but when she was well again. What was going to happen to her and Nicky? Alexis had threatened so much—yet now he wanted a kind of peace between them.

So did he trust her now? Trust her to be a fit mother for his son?

She felt the currents shift and stir within her. Uncertainty hemmed her in.

She let her eyes go back to him. Her expression was troubled.
Guarded.

His was—unreadable.

But as she studied his face he said quietly, ‘What is it?’

‘What’s going to happen?’ she asked. Her voice was troubled. ‘You said you wanted rapprochement—enough peace between us for Nicky not to be damaged by the lack of it. But what happens next?’

She searched his face, as if trying to see behind the veil of his eyes.

For one long moment he looked at her. She could not read his expression. Perhaps, she
realised
, it was because there was no expression to read. And yet somewhere deep she could sense tension running through him.

Then he spoke.

‘What happens next?’ he echoed, his deep voice low. ‘I think there is only one answer to that.’

He let his eyes rest on her.

‘We get married,’ he said.

F
OR
a moment
Rhianna
just went on staring. It was as if her brain were moving in slow motion, unable to catch up with what she had just heard. Had she heard it?
Had
she really just heard Alexis Petrakis say that?

Her mouth opened.

‘Get married?’ she echoed dumbly.

He inclined his head. ‘It is,’ he said, ‘the obvious thing to do. Nicky needs two parents.
Normal parents.
Stability.
A family.
So we get married.’

She stared at him.

‘You’re mad,’ she said.

Something moved in his eyes, but it was not anger.

‘Think about it,’ he said, and took a mouthful of ouzo.

‘
Think
about it? I don’t need to think about it!’ Her voice had risen in pitch. She could feel adrenaline starting to pump round her body. ‘This is some kind of joke, right? Some kind of tasteless, ludicrous
joke that…
that…’

Words failed her.

‘I repeat—it’s the obvious thing to do.’ He seemed supremely untroubled by her vehement reaction. But deep in his eyes his expression was hidden. ‘We both want Nicky and Nicky needs both of us—full-time parents, who live in the same place, who make a family for him, a home. Wherever we are in the world he is with both of us, and we both have him.’

Rhianna
placed her hands flat on the table. ‘Stop it,’ she said. ‘Stop it! This is just stupid and tasteless and absurd and…and…Good God, I’ve never heard anything so
insane
in my life!’

That flicker, deep in his eyes, came again.

‘Would you care to tell me why?’

There was an edge in his voice now, she heard. Not much, for him, but it was there.

She just stared at him still.

‘Why? You ask
why?
After everything you’ve called me? Everything you’ve done to me? You’ve tried to take Nicky from me.
Again and again.
First you tried to bully me into it, threatening me and reviling me, and then you tried to
buy
him from me with your filthy money!’

‘I told you—I had to check what kind of woman you were.’ His tone was dismissive. ‘Whether you were after my money and were using my son to get it. When you turned down twenty million pounds for him then I knew—knew that Nicky was safe with you.
Rhianna
—’ His voice had changed abruptly. ‘This is not necessary. I have accepted that you are not the kind of woman I thought you were when I discovered Nicky’s existence. We have moved on from there. You do not have to prove to me that you are not a gold-digger.’

Her eyes flashed.

‘Just someone who thought she could sweeten you up for a company takeover by going to bed with you?’

Venom bit in her words.

She saw his face tense for a moment, then, deliberately, he said, ‘We have moved on from there as well.’

Rhianna
leant forward in her chair. ‘Have we? Have we really?’

‘Yes. Confirmation from the UK of both your qualifications as an accountant and your position as your father’s company accountant five years ago were waiting for me when we came back from our boat trip today.’

‘You went and checked that out?’ she asked slowly.

‘Yes. And understanding, as I now do, the pressure you were under—your father being dangerously ill, your difficult relationship with him, the urgent need to get the go-ahead on the takeover—I can appreciate how you thought it necessary to approach me in the way you did at that dinner.
Striking up a—rapport—with me, coming back up to my room so promptly.
Even though—’ his voice changed minutely ‘—such an approach was open to misinterpretation by me.’

‘Misinterpretation.’
Her voice was hollow.

She could feel hysteria beading in her.
Misinterpretation.
That was all it was, was it?

He was speaking again, cutting through the emotion welling up in her inexorably.

‘So, yes, we can now—both of us—move on. Think about the future. Nicky’s future. We both accept that that is the only important thing.
For him to be happy.
That is why it would be best for him if we married. To give him security, stability, a home, a family—that is what he needs.’

Emotions churned in her. Swirled like a dark tide. His face was impassive, unreadable, but there was something—something about it she could almost read in his opaque night-dark eyes.

And then suddenly she knew what it was. Out of nowhere, like a sharp gust of wind biting through her, she knew what this was all about.

‘My, God,’ she breathed. ‘I know what you’re doing. You gave yourself away when you said you had to check what sort of woman I was. This is another one of your tests—isn’t it?
Isn’t it?
You’re dangling the prospect of marriage to you in front of my nose. And if I snap it up then you’ll know you were right all along—that I really
am
a gold-digger! That I just
love
the idea of being a millionaire’s wife! Absolutely
adore
it!
Swanning
around in designer clothes and diamonds for the rest of my life!
A real, live gold-digger who’s not fit to look after her son!’

The breath hissed in her throat.

‘Well, you can just go to hell!’

She started to push her chair back, stumbling to her feet.

‘
Rhianna
—that is
not
why I said we should get married!’

‘It’s
exactly
why you said it! It’s another of your bloody tests. Well, I’m not having it—do you hear me?’

She lifted up her arm and brought it in a jerking, slashing, slanting movement downwards.

‘No more,’ she said. ‘No. More.’

Something rolled through her like a huge, unstoppable wave.

It should have been anger.

But it was not.

It was hurt.

She shut her eyes. Why should she be feeling hurt? Hadn’t she faced up to the question of whether Alexis trusted her with Nicky? Hadn’t she been filled with doubt?
With caution?

So why, now that she had her answer—had it clear and loud—did it
hurt
?

She had made the worst mistake of all. She had lowered her guard.
Believed him.
Trusted him.
Trusted him when he’d talked of rapprochement, trusted him when he’d talked of making peace between them for their son’s sake. Trusted him when he’d told her why she could be sure that he would always love his son as his father had never loved him. That he was fit to be Nicky’s father.

But he hadn’t trusted
her
. He hadn’t trusted her to be fit to be Nicky’s mother.

She turned away, opening her eyes, stumbling along the terrace. Her eyes were blurring, stinging, and she hated herself for it.

‘
Rhianna
—’

She heard his chair scrape, and rapid footsteps.

Her arm was taken.

‘Let me go! I don’t want you touching me. I don’t want your hands on me!’ She spoke with dull vehemence.
‘Never again.
Never, ever again.’

She shook him loose, still not looking at him, making her way slowly around the corner of the terrace to where it passed by the front of her bedroom.

He didn’t come after her. The French windows were unlocked, and she went inside.

Shutting out Alexis Petrakis.

Hell and damnation. Alexis’s mouth tightened.

How in God’s name had he mishandled that so badly?

Sending her bolting into hiding from him again.

Grimly he strode back to the table and threw himself in his chair, reaching for the ouzo bottle and pouring himself a generous second measure.

The strong
liquorice
-scented liquor burned down his throat as he swallowed it.

How had he made such a crass mistake? Blurting out an offer of marriage like that.

The moment the words had come out of his mouth he’d known he’d made a major error. But then he’d hardly been thinking straight all through the meal.

When have I ever thought straight around
Rhianna
Davies?

He hadn’t the first night he’d met her, when her beauty had totally knocked him
him
out, and he hadn’t tonight.

He’d got through the meal somehow, but it had been hard. All he’d wanted to do was sit and look at her. Drink her in.

Thee
mou
,
but she was so beautiful!

He stared out into the darkness. The moon had scudded behind clouds. The night was thick, impenetrable. All he could hear was the soft sound of the waves and the cicadas.

And the slow beat of his pulse.

I want her again.

I wanted her from the first moment I laid eyes on her.

And I want her again.

He felt his body stir.

He reached for his ouzo, taking a slow mouthful. The fiery spirit burned in his throat.
Just as his body was starting to burn.

Burn for the woman he desired.

But who did not desire him.

Who flinched away from
him.
Who yelled at him never to touch her
again.

His eyes narrowed as he set back his glass.

Well, he would not be deterred by her revulsion to his touch. He had made
Rhianna
Davies quicken with desire for him before.
Made her melt for him in his arms.

He would do so again.

But it would be a delicate operation.
A very delicate operation.
He would have to proceed very, very carefully. He could afford to make no more errors such as he’d made tonight.

But he would succeed.

Too much was at stake for him not to.