Surreptitiously, under the table, she slowly rubbed at her thighs. The ache went right through to her bones. And beyond.
Andrea clenched the phone to her ear.
'You're sure? You're absolutely sure?'
'Yes, Miss Fraser, completely sure. The sum of five hundred thousand pounds has been credited to your account.'
'And it can't be removed without my permission?' Her question was sharp.
'Certainly not!' The voice of the bank official, a thousand miles away in London, sounded deeply shocked as he replied.
It was the morning of Andrea's wedding.
The happiest day of my life! The day I finally, finally wave a wand over Mum and start our new lives!
As she terminated the call, with repeated assurances from her bank that the money deposited in her account first thing that day was totally and irrevocably hers to dispose of as she would, deep, deep relief flooded through her. She had done it! She had got what she had come for—the promise of freedom from poverty, from ill-health, from the grind and drab penury her mother had put up with for twenty-five years.
Now all she had to do was endure the next twenty-four hours and she would be on her way home.
I can do it! I've done it so far and I can do this last thing!
'Kyria, may I start to dress you, please?' Zoe's voice sounded anxiously from the doorway. 'Kyrios Coustakis would like you to go downstairs as soon as possible.'
Andrea nodded, and the lengthy process of dressing Yiorgos Coustakis's illegitimate granddaughter for her wedding to the man who would run his company and give him the heir he craved got underway.
Andrea felt the relief drain out of her, replaced by a tightness that started to wind around her lungs like biting cord. As she sat in front of the looking glass, Zoe skilfully pinning up her hair, she stared at her reflection. Her eyes seemed too big, her skin too pale. She clenched her hands together in her lap. The reality of what she was about to do hit her, over and over again, like repeated blows.
For all that it was a small, private wedding, it seemed to go on for ever, Andrea thought bleakly. She stood beside her bridegroom, unsmiling, her throat so tight she could hardly say the words that bound her to the tall, straight figure at her side. Sickness churned in her stomach.
She was marrying him! She was actually marrying Nikos Vassilis. Here. Now. Right now. Faintness drummed at her. Her legs and spine ached with the tension wiring her whole body taut.
There was a ring on her finger. She could see it glinting in the sunlight.
It doesn't mean anything! This time tomorrow he'll have packed me off back to London and wished me good riddance. He'll have what he wanted—my grandfather's company. He'll be glad to see the back of me. He never wanted me in the first place.
And he doesn't even intend to be faithful...
Her lips compressed. Three nights ago her grandfather had summoned her again. Nikos had returned her from yet another night out, this time a concert, where the combination of Dvorak and Rachmaninov, plus the thrill of hearing one of the world's greatest soloists give the Dvorak cello concerto, had conspired to weaken her facade. As they left the concert hall she had turned impulsively to Nikos.
'That was wonderful! Thank you!'
Her eyes were shining, her face radiant.
Nikos paused and looked down at her. ‘I’m glad to have given you pleasure.'
For once there was no double meaning in his words, no sensual glint in his eyes. For a moment they just looked at each other. Andrea's ears rang with the echo of the tumultuous finale of the Rachmaninov symphony. Her heart was almost as tumultuous.
Her eyes entwined with his and something flowed between them. She could not tell what it was, but it was something that made her want the moment to last for ever.
She was almost regretful that in fact she neve
r was going to be his wife in anything but briefest name.
It was a regret that had been destroyed in the two-minute conversation with her grandfather on her return to his villa.
'There are things to make clear to you,' he began in his harsh, condemning voice, as she stood unspeaking in front of him to receive her lecture. 'From the moment you become Nikos Vassilis's wife you will behave as a Greek wife should. He will teach you the obedience you so sorely lack!' His soulless eyes rested on her like a basilisk, 'You will understand that you will gain no privileges from your connection with me. Nor should you imagine that you will gain any privileges from the fact that you are handsome enough for your husband to find you, for the moment, sexually desirable.'
He saw the expression on her face and gave a short laugh. 'I said "for the moment" and that is what I meant! Understand this, girl—' his eyes bored into hers '—in Greece a man who is a husband is still a man. And his wife must know her place. Which is to be silent! Nikos Vassilis has two mistresses currently—an American model, a tramp who sleeps with any man who passes, and a woman of Athens who is a professional whore. He will discard neither for your sake.' His voice dropped menacingly. 'If I hear any whining from you, any screeching tantrums because of this, you will regret it! Do you understand?'