His brow furrowed frowningly. He had deliberately brought her here to these mountains, to this high, lonely place which exposed the truth about a person, giving them no place to hide, to disguise what they were. He knew that it was here that he became the person he most truly was—not the head of a huge multinational corporation, with thousands of employees and dozens to do his bidding at the nod of his head or his briefest word of instruction, but simply the man beneath that. The man he would have been had his father not worked his life away to build the company he’d bequeathed—too soon, far too soon—to his son. The burden along with the wealth and power. Here, in these mountains, he was himself.
And Kat—or Thea—or whatever name she called herself—was she the person she truly was here? Was that what he was seeing now? The truth exposed by the mountains that let no one hide their true selves here?
One thing he was certain of—his anger towards her had gone.
When it had happened he could not tell. But at some point the keening wind had whipped away the last shreds of it, like rags that had become tattered over the years and were now no more. It was strange not to feel angry with her any more. Stra
nge to feel that now he could simply lay that long-carried emotion aside and allow himself to focus only on the woman who had become in this place, sharing this strange, unexpected affinity, his companion …
His unblinking gaze rested on the crescent moon. He let the word resonate in his mind. Companion …
Had any woman ever been a companion to him? His experience of women was wide, but he could think of none who would have wanted to come here. None he would have wanted here.
But the woman he had brought here, to find out the truth about her—that woman, and that woman only, he did want here. Whoever she had once been, whatever she had once done, seemed very distant to him now. Now the only reality he saw was a woman whose company seemed to fit his in every way, whether it was in the companionship of the shared trail, the long silences of their treks, the mutual appreciation of the stark beauty of the alpine landscape, or in the easy, unstilted conversation of their evenings on any and every subject their discourse led them to, or the quiet enjoyment of music and the fireside.
His hands tightened over the wooden railing. There was one other reality that he knew about her. About himself.
His weight shifted restlessly.
With every day spent with her that reality became clearer, stronger. With every day her extraordinary beauty haunted him more powerfully, drew him more ineluctably. And now, as he stood here, beneath the heavens, high above the world below, he knew with absolute certainty what he wanted above all. It no longer mattered how she had offered him her body five years ago. If she was truly the woman she seemed now to be, whom he no longer had to be angry with, then surely there was no reason why he should not, finally, consummate his long desire for her?
And hers for him. Because, for all her vehement protestation that night in London, when she had shrilled at him that she could not bear him to touch her, he knew—oh, he knew!—that she was lying. With every day, with every evening spent with her, he could feel like an electric charge her shimmering awareness of him. She could deny it all she liked—but for how much longer?
Day by day it brought him closer to her acceptance of what was between them. Day by day it brought him closer to the consummation he sought. It could not be long now …
And after?
For a moment he felt his mind hover over the question, circling like an eagle, then wheel away, leaving it unanswered.
Unanswerable …
He turned away, relinquishing his hold on the railing, heading back indoors, downstairs. A new emotion filled him.
Anticipation.
Thea paused, knowing she had to step through the doorway into the dining room, just as she had every evening for the past week and more, but knowing that her reluctance now was quite, quite different from the reluctance she had felt that first evening here.
Completely different.
She was still shaken by the revelation that had swept over her that afternoon out on the mountainside. Still trying to reject the realisation that had forced itself upon her, yet knowing how hopeless it was to do so. Because, as she made herself go forward into the dining room, she could only feel the swirling, inchoate emotions circling within her. Could only feel the rushing in her lungs making her suddenly breathless as her eyes lighted on Angelos once again. His physical presence dominated her senses, made her feel shaky, overwhelmed her.
Did he see her reaction? For a brief instant she thought she saw his eyes flicker, but then it was gone, and he was—as he always was these days—his usual self, greeting her briefly, waiting to take his seat while Franz pulled out her chair for her.
To counter the emotions swirling within her she made a play of shaking out her napkin, settling herself, smiling at Franz as he said something to her which she didn’t quite catch. She nodded her head politely and poured herself a glass of water, trying to keep her hands steady, to breathe evenly despite the raggedness of her breath, the rapid pulse in her veins. Her eyes lifted to the figure at the head of the table.
And immediately she knew that what she had discovered about herself was true—hopelessly, helplessly true. That if, right now, she could walk out of here and never set eyes on Angelos Petrakos ever again—she would not go. She would stay here, her breath caught in her lungs, and go on gazing at him, just gazing, while emotions chased each other round her body—gazing at him, at the turn of his head as he talked to Franz, at his strong, tanned features, so familiar now, so—
‘Gnadige, fraulein—’
The voice at her side made her drag her hapless gaze away, and she blinked. As Franz was being detained by Angelos, it was Johann who was holding out a bottle for her view, with an enquiring expression on his face. She could see the word ‘apfel’ on the bottle, and nodded abstractedly. Then her eyes were sucked back to Angelos.
Her heart-rate quickened.
He nodded with finality to Franz, and the man moved away. As Angelos turned his attention back to her. Immediately, urgently, she dropped her gaze. For something to cover her shaken state, she reached for the newly filled glass at her side. She took a long draft, for her mouth was suddenly dry. Briefly it registered that the apple juice tasted different from the way it usually did, but she had no mental capacity to pay it any regard—all the focus of her mind was on controlling her reaction to Angelos Petrakos.
Because control it she must. That was essential. Essential not to let that fluttering deep inside her—as if a bird were beating its wings somewhere—take her over. Essential not to let her eyes hang on him, drinking in his face, his features, the very being of him. Essential to make it appear, at least, even if it were a hopeless lie, that all she felt about him was what she had always felt.
She dipped her gaze, though it was an effort, and smiled at Franz as he placed their first course in front of her. Absently she took another mouthful of apple juice to give herself something to do. The taste was less different this time, and it seemed to quench her thirst more—be slightly less sweet. She drank again, more deeply, feeling the juice warming through her, quickening her senses, it seemed to her. Then she picked up her knife and fork and made great concentration on the artfully folded arrangement of cold meats, furrowing her brow as she did so.