He was standing far too close to her. The space was crowded, with groups forming and breaking up, waiters circling with trays of drinks and canapés, and she felt his body always too close to hers, felt herself oppressed by his nearness whenever his sleeve brushed her arm or once—worst of all, and making her spine freeze—when his hand grazed the small of her back to draw her aside and let a waiter come by. She knew there was nothing she could do—they were in a social setting, and she could not react by pulling sharply away, biting out at him vehemently. Instead she had to continue smiling, conversing, being polite, courteous, civil, as the occasion warranted.
And all the time beneath the surface she felt like a radio receiver set to maximum—and to a single frequency. Hyper awareness of Angelos—his presence, his voice, his occasional low laugh that seemed to vibrate somewhere very deep in her bones, a disturbing, debilitating frisson.
It worsened on the way back to the hotel, in the confines of the limo, though she did her best to stare out of the window.
‘Did you really enjoy the concert, or were you merely mouthing politely?’
The question made her head turn. In the shadowy light the strong planes of Angelos’s features seemed more overpowering than ever.
‘Why should you want to know?’ she countered.
‘I’m curious about you,’ he answered. His eyes rested on her in the dim light.
His scrutiny disturbed her. ‘I can’t possibly like classical music?’ she riposted sarcastically.
‘The Kat Jones I knew would not.’
She gave a half-shrug. ‘That’s why I became Thea. No one,’ she went on, and found her voice had tightened, ‘should be Kat Jones. No one should be that ignorant, that uneducated.’
‘So why were you? Ignorant and uneducated? Schooling is free in Britain.’
She gave another shrug. ‘You can lead a horse to water … I was like far too many children from that background. I simply thought my teachers were trying to control me, and everything they tried to teach me seemed pointless, stupid and boring. I wouldn’t play their game, and I thought that made me smarter than those docile morons who did.’
Why was she saying this? she thought. Why tell him anything? Why talk to him? Why acknowledge his existence? Yet she was, all the
same, though she did not know why.
‘What changed you?’
She looked at him. ‘You did,’ she said.
There was a moment’s silence. Then she spoke again.
‘You destroyed Kat Jones. So I stopped being her.’
The dark, long-lashed eyes narrowed. ‘Did you, Kat?’
‘Yes. And if you destroy Thea Dauntry I’ll become someone else. Because you’ll never destroy me. I won’t let you. Whatever you do to me, I’ll survive it. I’ll survive everything. I’ll survive you.’
Her eyes held his. Held them and would not back down. The car travelled on, turning a wide corner, and her gaze broke.
Why on earth did I say that? What for?
Her eyes looked out at the anonymous rain-wet streets. What was she doing here, in this city she did not know, with the man who was her persecutor? Why had the twists and turns of her life brought her here, to this moment, to this man? Her eyes flicked back to him. He was looking at her, and she broke the gaze again. But his image stayed imprinted, shadowy, disturbing, on her retina.
Why this man?
The words echoed in her head. Why this man?
But she did not know the answer.
Her dreams that night were confused, disturbing, filled with the lush, impassioned strains of Rachmaninov. She woke, music still echoing in her ears, to find sunshine pouring into the room and Angelos still in the suite, breakfasting. Stiffly, she took her place, shaking out a pristine white napkin over her lap and reaching for the freshly squeezed orange juice. As she poured her juice it registered on her that he was not wearing his customary business suit. Instead he was wearing a grey cashmere sweater, and it made him look, she realised, with yet another jangle to her stretched nerves, disturbingly different from his usual power-suited self.
Before she could wonder why he wasn’t in a suit, he spoke. ‘Today,’ he announced, as he poured himself a refill of coffee, ‘we shall be leaving Geneva. I’d like to get going right after breakfast, so please ensure you are packed.’
She only nodded, refusing to ask where their next destination was. High powered business types like him, she knew, travelled the world constantly, and presumably yet another private jet would be waiting for him this morning.
But when they exited the hotel, waiting at the kerb was not the customary smoked-glass-windowed limo, but a sleek, low, powerful, luxury high-performance car. The doorman hurried to open the passenger door for her, and the parking valet to open the driver’s door for Angelos. Thea lowered herself in warily. What was going on? Where were they going? But she would not ask, and Angelos did not enlighten her even when they were clear of the city and its environs on a road that seemed to be heading decidedly towards the mountains.