Athan unfolded his tall frame from the confines of the car he’d been sitting in since his arrival half an hour ago, and watched Marisa walk towards him. His emotions were tamped down—under strict control. They had been ever since he’d got the phone call from his security agency—the call he’d been steeling himself against, hoping he would never get it. But, as predictable as a greedy child stealing from the candy jar, Ian Randall had done exactly what Athan had feared he would do.
Icily he’d heard out the phone call, taking in the bare, bald details provided. Time, route, venue. It was all he’d needed to know. Now, though, he needed to know a hell of a lot more …
She walked up to him. She had nerve, he gave her that. Or perhaps it was her lover’s presence that was giving her confidence. Not that there was any sign of Ian, or his car.
His voice, harsh and rough, cut through the chilly air.
‘Where is he?’ It was a curt demand, and he wanted an answer.
She stopped dead. Absently, Athan wondered at her appearance. She looked totally different from the way he was used to seeing her. She had a baggy pair of trousers on, mud-spattered boots, and a voluminous anorak that was as unflattering as it was obscuring of her figure. Her hair was sopping wet, and dragged back off her head with a clip. She looked a sodden mess.
But her face—her face was as breathtaking as ever. Her eyes, flashing with anger, were luminous, her mouth kissed by the rain …
‘He’s gone.’ Her voice was as curt as his. She knew exactly who Athan meant. Knew exactly why he was here. Anger spiked in her, because it was obvious that the only way Athan Teodarkis could have known where his brother-in-law had gone was if he’d had him tailed.
‘Didn’t your spies spot him heading back to London?’ she threw at him caustically.
Athan’s face tightened. No, they hadn’t—or at least he hadn’t had a report to that effect. He’d told them to keep a discreet distance—presumably it had been too discreet. But even so the point was clear. Despite everything he’d said to Ian, the man had still come chasing after his mistress like a dog on heat …
He strode towards her.
She flinched, but held her ground. Shock waves were detonating through her, but she had to ignore them. Had to ignore more than just the shock of seeing Athan Teodarkis, tall, forbidding and grim-visaged, here outside her home. The juxtaposition was jarring. Athan Teodarkis didn’t belong here in this rural backwater, in this bleak, stark landscape dripping with the dregs of winter. But, however jarring, it was not that which was consuming her self-control.
Emotions were hurtl
ing through her—tumbling and overwhelming her.
Athan! Athan here—now! Right in front of her! So close … his presence overpowering her senses.
She almost reeled from the impact of it.
I didn’t think I would ever see him again!
But he was here, and she could feel her treacherous blood leaping in her veins, emotion pouring through her …
She had to subdue it—had to make herself realise that he was here for one reason and one reason only. Because Ian had come to her. That was all. That was why he was here—angry. Accusing.
But this time her conscience was clear. His accusations could reach no target—none.
‘So whatever you think you’re doing here—you can clear off!’ she said. ‘He isn’t here.’
His eyes narrowed—eyes that had once looked at her with hot, melting desire … now filled only with cold anger.
‘But he came here all the same.’
Her chin lifted. ‘And now he’s gone—for good.’
Athan stilled. ‘Did you tell him about us?’
Marisa’s lip curled in scorn. ‘Of course I didn’t.’
No, thought Athan, of course you didn’t. You wouldn’t want him to know how easily I seduced you … took you away from him.
He smiled in grim satisfaction. His anger was ebbing now. Anger fuelled by much more than fury at his philandering brother in law. Fuelled by a far more powerful impulse. The impulse that had brought him here, powering down the motorway relentlessly, as driven as the car bringing him here. Driven by a force he could no longer suppress—no longer wanted to suppress.
He nodded at the cottage. ‘I need to talk to you—and not out here.’ He stamped his feet. His Italian leather handmade shoes were fine for the city. Not fine for a cold evening in the wilds.
‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’ Marisa’s voice was still curt. Shock was still detonating through her.