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‘I won’t do it.’ Her teeth were gritted, so tight it hurt.
He shrugged, the material of his jacket moving over broad shoulders.
‘Then there’s nothing more to be said, is there? So you’d better go, hadn’t you? But if you do—’ his voice hardened ‘—don’t trouble to get in touch again. You decide now—right now—what you intend to do.’
She stood transfixed, staring at him horror. And from behind the horror came memories, marching forward, one after another, like the frames of a movie, surging forward in vivid, punishing colour…memories she never, ever allowed herself…
I can’t do it! Dear God, I can’t!
‘Well?’
She could feel her stomach churning with acid.
‘No! God Almighty, of course I won’t do it! You must be insane to think I would!’
‘Very well. If that’s your decision.’ He started to move towards the door.
She spun round. ‘I want my money!’ Her voice was all but a shriek of anger and frustration—and horror.
‘Then comply with my conditions.’ His voice was cool, impersonal. He didn’t even look round, simply walked out into the hall and made to open the door of his apartment.
She strode after him, the acid still churning in her stomach.
‘Why? Why the hell do you even want to…to…?’
She couldn’t say it—it was impossible. As impossible as believing he’d actually said that to her!
He turned. For a moment he was still, very still. She stood, her insides churning. Then suddenly, before she had a chance to realise his intent, he reached out a hand to her.
Long fingers slid around her jaw, grazing into her hair. His eyes looked down at her. Their expression jellied her stomach.
With leisurely insolence his thumb grazed along her lower lip. The touch shot weakness through her body.
‘I like to finish what I start,’ he said.
His thumb smoothed again. She couldn’t move. She was transfixed, her heart slugging in her chest. Then he smiled. The smile of a predator. He dropped his hand away.
‘I’m flying to Athens tomorrow at noon in my private place. You have till then to make up your mind what you’re going to do.’
He pulled the door open and waited, expectantly, for her to go.
On shaking legs she left.
London flowed around her like an unseen river as she walked blindly along its darkened streets. At some point she must have walked down into the Underground system and taken a train, changed to a different line, kept going, emerged, and walked back to her tiny studio flat. When she got indoors she went into the kitchen, and with the same disconnected brain started to make herself a cup of tea. Then, on sudden desperate impulse, she poured herself a glass of white wine, took a large gulp as she headed to the living area, and collapsed on the sofa.
She stared blankly ahead. She could feel her heart thumping in her chest.
I’ve got to think about this. I can’t not think about it. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to do anything other than pretend that whole encounter tonight just didn’t happen. Deny it completely. Wash it from my brain, my memory, my consciousness.
But I can’t. I can’t do that because I know, though I desperately don’t want to. I know I’ve got to make a decision.
She took a second gulp of the alcohol. Another voice seemed to shoot through her brain.
What the hell do you mean, you’ve got to make a decision? There isn’t any decision to be made! You can’t possibly, possibly think otherwise! What he said is unthinkable—it’s disgusting and outrageous, and he can damn well go to hell for even saying it to you!
She stared ahead still. Her heart seemed to be thumping more heavily, and there was a sick feeling inside her, like nerve-ends pinching in her guts.
But he said it was the only way I can get my money…
