With a ragged inhalation she walked out of the bathroom, out of the bedroom, into her living room.
And stopped dead.
Angelos Petrakos was sitting on her sofa.
CHAPTER TEN
HE DIDN’T move.
Nor did she. Shock had paralysed her. Shock and something more—something even more paralysing that froze the breath in her lungs even as it made the beat of her heart jolt as if a lightning bolt had struck it.
He was sitting there just as he had before, a lifetime ago—invading her life again, taking it over, seeking to destroy it.
She swayed. I can’t, I can’t go through this again, I can’t, I haven’t the strength …
But she had to find that strength—had to. Had to find the strength to fight him. She waited for her anger to kick in, as it always did, giving her the strength to fight him, as it always did. But anger did not come. Only that other emotion that swept through her—terrifying her.
No! She couldn’t let herself feel that—she had to control it, subdue it. Crush it back down with steel, with ice, with cold, stinging words.
‘How the hell,’ she demanded, ‘did you get in?’
‘I had your keys copied while you were in Switzerland,’ he said.
His voice was clipped, impatient, as though her question was irrelevant and his answer nothing untoward. His jawline was taut, as though under tension. His whole body the same. She could see a muscle working in his cheek, his eyes like steel. Angelos Petrakos was angry.
But so what if he was? He was always angry with her …
For a moment so brief it might not have existed she felt her throat catch. Then the catch was gone, leaving only the emotion she had always felt about Angelos Petrakos.
Anger. Anger to match his.
He was speaking again, still in that same clipped, demanding voice.
‘I have to speak to you—and I need answers!’
With a lithe, fluid movement he got to his feet. The suddenness made her start, and she stepped back. Then hated herself for the gesture of retreat. She would not retreat from him—she would stand her ground.
Yet her heart was beating like a trapped bird, her newly showered skin was damp and clammy. Though her towelling robe was thick and fleecy, she was burningly conscious of her bare body beneath.
Memory stabbed again, coming between the defences she kept against it, driven through by the presence of the man standing there.
Madness possessed her just for a moment—an instant of madness, of wanting to hurl herself at him, to throw herself into his arms and feel them wrap around her, holding her, folding her close against him, cradling her face and lifting her mouth to his …
She felt faint with it—faint with the knowledge that it could never happen. Angelos Petrakos would never touch her again. Never in all her life.
She waited for the feeling of relief that thought must bring—but it did not come.
Why doesn’t it come? Why don’t I feel the relief I should feel—must feel!—knowing that Angelos will never touch me again?
‘Why did you go before I could speak to you?’
His words, harsh and grating, cut through her torment. Her eyes widened disbelievingly.
‘You expected me to stay?’ A rough, scornful laugh rasped in her throat, tearing past the vocal cords that had contracted painfully. ‘My God, you really thought that? You underestimate how good a teacher you are, Angelos! You taught me well—taught me everything I need to know about you! Taught me that when you want to destroy me you do it—whatever the method is.’ She had to force the words out now, her throat tighter than a drum. ‘Even the one you used this time.’ Her voice dropped and she swallowed, as if a stone were blocking her lungs. But she made herself say the words—the words he had said to her in his moment of triumph. ‘Showing me the truth about myself …’
Dark light flashed in his eyes. ‘Truth? Don’t use that word to me—’ Greek broke from him, vehement and harsh. A hand slashed through the air and she flinched. ‘You nearly died that morning! Refusing to take my hand even to save your own life!’
She stepped towards him, hands clenching, face contorted. ‘Take your hand? Take your hand? After what you’d done to me?’