As did she. That was the strangest thing of all—the way she simply accepted what had happened, abandoned her fight. Let herself be taken over by him at last, to spend a lazy, easy day together on the beach, in the water, in the sun and the shade, letting the island work its strange, alluring magic on her, and then, as night fell, eating simple food, cooked by themselves in the low-tech kitchen, sitting at a rustic wooden table set out under the olive trees, drinking wine while the stars burned golden holes in the patches of the sky between the silvered olive leaves.
What they talked of she did not know, for another conversation was taking place, running silently between them, weaving their eyes together, until at last Theo rose to his feet, took her hand, and took her to his bed.
In the early morning, as he lay asleep beside her, she got up and dressed, and phoned from her mobile for the helicopter.
And fled.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MEMORY twisted inside her like a garrotte around her throat. She gazed now, down the length of the table, at the man who was going to wreak his revenge on her for what she had allegedly done to him.
Gone from his bed into another man’s arms.
She’d had no idea—none—that she had been photographed with Jem at the airport where she’d met him, or that she had been trailed leaving with him as she fled. No idea at all until, three days later, knowing she could put it off no longer, she had returned to the Theakis mansion.
To be eviscerated by Theo’s savage fury and thrown from her marriage in bloodied rags.
Never to be spoken to again, never to have her existence acknowledged—until now. When he had decided it was time for a little exercise in revenge…
Her eyes darkened. Revenge for her having committed the greatest crime of all, in his eyes—preferring another man to him.
That was all it was…
All it could possibly be. Their marriage had not been real, had been a sham, simply for show, so how could there even be a question of adultery?
No one even saw those photos! Only him!
So how could he have grounds for anger? Her mouth twisted. Was it just about the money it had cost him to buy them from the photographer who had, so Theo had hurled at her in that nightmare exchange, thought he could make more money by selling them to him rather than the newspapers? Well, so what? Theo Theakis had more money than he knew what to do with, and she wasn’t responsible for the ludicrous interest the press took in him and his affairs!
He shouldn’t have so damn many himself if he doesn’t want the press all over him!
Well, she thought balefully, no one was going to find out about the ‘affair’ he was having right now, that was for certain.
With his own ex-wife.
She gazed down the table again, reaching automatically for her glass of wine. She wished she could pass out cold. Wished she could simply shut her mind, completely and totally, to what was going to happen. But she couldn’t. She felt her stomach tighten. She had to do his. For Theo, it might be about revenge for his injured conceit about himself, but for her, oh, for her it was for a quite different reason.
Her eyes rested on him with tight deliberation, and she set down the glass again. She felt the wine wind into her bloodstream like a slow coil of satin, gliding over her nerve-ends subtly, so subtly, easing into the cells of her body. With the fringes of her mind she knew it was taking effect.
She looked about her, eyes drifting around the dining room. It was opulent, like the rest of the house, decorated in that same rich, uniform style—a setting, nothing more, for the true purpose of the house: to provide a discreet, luxurious place where sexual congress could take place with absolute privacy.
It was a house that had seen a great deal of such activity…
A pinched look haunted her eyes for a moment. Then she dispelled it. Her gaze went on drifting around, looking anywhere, everywhere, but at the man sitting at the head of the table.
Yet she could sense his presence as if it were solid. It was impossible not to. She was quiveringly, pulsingly aware of him with every beat of her blood. Finally, she lifted her eyes to do what she had refused to do all through the endless meal. Look down the long table to the man who wanted to take his revenge on her. A vengeance she had no choice but to let him take. No choice at all.
Starting right now.
In slow motion her gaze slid through the space between them and locked to his.
It was instant. Tangible. Physical. His eyes held hers as surely as if his hands had caught her. It was like being speared, caught and held, like a fish on a line. For a fraction of a second she wanted to pull away, but he would not relinquish her, and even as she tensed she felt the dissolution in her veins as she gave herself up to the leash on which she was being held. He had felt her moment of yielding. She could see it in the minutest relaxation of his face. He knew that she would not break the gaze between them, knew that he could go on holding her eyes with his, making her the recipient of the slow, probing exploration of his look. She saw the lines around his mouth begin to deepen into a smile—a smile of satisfaction.
Anticipation.
She got to her feet. Still without unlocking her gaze, she picked up her wineglass and took one last mouthful. Slowly she lowered the glass, but kept it between her fingers. Then, with the same slow movement, she turned away and walked towards the door.
Her hips were swaying, she could feel it through the line of her legs, her feet in their high heels. She could feel the fall of her hair rustle over her bare shoulder.