‘You trust me to keep my word?’ Surprise at his instant acquiescence coloured her tone.
Leon looked steadily at her. ‘I have always trusted you, agape mou,’ he said softly. ‘I am the deceiver here, not you, remember?’
On a bleak self-mocking smile he let himself out of her room, leaving her to deal with the sudden rush of guilt she was troubled with. He trusted her. And she was already planning to break that trust.
CHAPTER TWELVE
JEMMA didn’t see Leon again that day—thankfully, she told herself firmly when she found her solitary meal that evening an interminable affair where a white-coated steward served small, tempting dishes to her in a concerned effort to inspire her lost appetite.
She had eaten little lunch, had found her usual ability to fall into an undisturbed sleep for a few hours in the afternoon had deserted her, and had in the end wandered restlessly around the yacht, not quite knowing what to do with herself.
You miss him, that little voice inside her head informed her bluntly. And if you can miss him now, when you’re riddled with hurt and anger at his deception, then how will you feel when all this hurt fades and you’re back in England, having completely cut yourself free of him?
The hurt will never fade, she told that voice when, by ten o’clock, Leon had still not appeared and she took herself off to bed, exhausted by the see-sawing stress of her ravaged emotions. How can it when I only have to feel our son move inside me to remember how cruelly he used us?
Our son. Every time she let herself think the words, her eyes filled with the aching tears of that cruel betrayal. No daughter with blue eyes and her mother’s soft mouth. No sweet little girl with golden hair or even her father’s dark exotic looks.
But a son, with Leon’s bottomless black eyes and charm enough to captivate anyone who came into contact with him. A boy with a sturdy build and an independent mind. Would he have any of her softer genes in him? Or would he be all Greek—all Stephanades—big and strong and heart-rendingly ruthless?
She shuddered, feeling sick but not really understanding why. It wasn’t as if she minded whether her baby was a boy or a girl so long as it was whole and healthy. But—
Rape, she realised. It felt like rape. As if someone had come along and coolly robbed her of the most precious part of motherhood.
And it was that which hurt her above everything else, and why she was determined to leave him. He had taken something else from her he could never give back, only this time she minded, minded so much that she could not forgive.
Sleep came suddenly, like the throwing of a switch, as if her brain had taken the decision to shut her off from the stresses of the last two days.
She slept long and deeply, waking in the morning feeling decidedly sluggish and with a banging head. Remembering she was to see the doctor this morning, she dragged herself out of bed and into the bathroom, grimacing when she caught sight of her pale, listless face. The last twenty-four hours had effectively wiped out two weeks’ convalescence.
Which only helped to confirm one thing—it was the man who was her weakness, not her health.
She took her time in the shower, letting the tepid water gush over her hair and down her body for ages in the hope that the refreshing spray would disperse her headache.
It was only as she walked back into her bedroom fifteen minutes later wrapped in a towel and with her hair slicked to her skull that something about the movement of the yacht caught at her attention, and she frowned, moving to the window to glance out.
Nothing. Her body jarred on shock. She should be looking across the clear waters of the bay of Argostólion towards the misted green hills above Lixoúrion. But there was nothing in front of her but a bright, glinting stretch of water for as far as she could see.
‘No,’ she murmured, beginning to tremble all over. ‘No!’ They couldn’t have moved during the night—she would have heard the engines! Been awoken by the movement! She had an appointment with the doctor! Leon could not have moved them!
Turning, she ran to her wardrobe and grabbed at the first thing that came to hand—a baggy white cotton T-shirt that finished halfway down her thighs—only belatedly remembering to add a pair of cotton briefs before she was rushing through the door.
She ran up on to the deck then stopped, her eyes gone slightly wild as she searched the far horizon for a glimpse of land. There was none. She turned, heart pumping, and ran back inside, only to skid to a halt at the open door to the main salon.
Leon was there, sitting on one of the elegant sofas, bent forward so that he could rest his elbows on his spread knees. He was wearing his grey shorts and nothing else, she noted pensively—as if the casualness of his attire was making a statement in itself.
‘W-where are we?’ she gasped out breathlessly.
He looked up, his eyes full of dark shadows in his grim face. ‘Nowhere,’ he said, looking away from her and back at his hands. ‘Anywhere.’ He shrugged as if he couldn’t care less.
It was then she saw them spread out on the low table beside him, and her heart leapt to her throat, eyes spiralling out of focus then back in again on the items lying there. Her passport. Her wallet containing her bit of English money. Her thin roll of drachmas and, most damning of all, the envelope containing her ticket away from him.
‘You went through my drawer!’ she accused him hoarsely.
‘I could not let you do it, Jemma. No matter how much you hate me, you need me right now. I could not let you do it,’ he repeated grimly.
Her legs lost their ability to support her, and she had to feel her way to the nearest chair and drop heavily into it.
‘How—how did you find out?’