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He had succeeded in making her weak and vulnerable—and gullible.
So gullible.
It had come to a head when, returning to Athens after nearly a week in Zurich on business, he had informed her that there was a gala ball to which they had been invited. It had been bad enough just realising that her heart rate had quickened discernibly when she had returned to the mansion and heard Theo’s deep tones issuing instructions to one of the house staff. Worse when, hearing her arrival, he had emerged from his study, still wearing his business suit, and her lungs had squeezed out the air in them at the sight of him after a week. Had he seen her betraying reaction? With hindsight she knew he must have. He was far too experienced not to know. He had strolled forward, enquired after her health in a formal fashion, then reminded her of the hour at which they would have to leave that night.
The ball had been her worst ordeal yet. She had had to dance with Theo.
Of all things, a waltz.
She had been wearing a ballgown of red satin, strapless, with a high bodice that wrapped her torso tightly, gliding in to her waist then falling in a long, straight skirt to her ankles. A diamond and ruby necklace, one of the dozen items of similar jewellery that Theo had bestowed on her to wear for the duration of their marriage, had glittered at her throat, diamond and ruby drops at her earlobes. Her hair had been up, in a severe French pleat, and her make-up had been subtle and subdued.
Theo’s eyes had narrowed very slightly, she recalled, as she had descended the staircase in the Theakis mansion, to where he waited, tuxedo-clad, in the hall below. As she’d come up to him, her expression impassive, she’d seen and been sure of it, a glint in his dark veiled eyes.
‘Very English,’ he observed, and the glint came again, making nerves flutter in her chest.
‘Shall we go?’ was all she said, and started towards the door.
Only the sudden pressure of her fingers on her satin evening bag betrayed her agitation.
All through their arrival and the early part of the proceedings Vicky managed to maintain her composure. Aristides was there, and she was glad of it, making a beeline for him when the sultry divorcee, Christina Poussos, who was clearly determined to resume her affair with him, commandeered him, shamelessly taking his arm and pressing her black-sheathed body against his as she led him away because he ‘must meet’ a most influential Argentinean financier.
But she was less glad of her uncle’s presence when, after letting her chat to him for fifteen minutes, he said to her, with a mixture of indulgence and reproof, ‘Go and rescue your husband from Christina Poussos before she thinks she can steal him from you, pethi mou!’
Vicky stifled an urge to say that Christina Poussos and her entire sisterhood could whisk him away any time they fancied, knowing she must say no such thing to Aristides. So she made her way to the cluster of people where Theo stood, his arm still held by the woman who, Vicky idly assessed, probably fell into the category of females whom Theo had once enjoyed, and had since replaced, but who had ambitions to return to his bed. Certainly the Greek woman’s eyes glittered malevolently at Vicky as she arrived to join the group. But her reception by the middle-aged Argentinean was quite different. He broke off in mid-sentence to pay her a fulsome compliment, his eyes working hotly over her. Christina introduced her, and Vicky could almost hear her teeth gritting. Then, as the orchestra started to play, the other woman’s eyes lit.
‘Dancing at last! Theo, you know I love to dance!’ She smiled flirtatiously at him before switching her gaze to the Argentinean. ‘Enrique, take care of Victoria, won’t you? Theo—’ The flirtatious smile was back on her red-painted lips.
How it happened, Vicky did not know. Presumably with the same cool, ruthless skill and will that he brought to bear on everything. But the next moment Christina Poussos was disengaged from Theo, and her own hand taken. Then he was saying, in deceptively casual tones, ‘The first dance must be with my wife, I think,’ and she was being led out on to the huge dance floor as the orchestra swept into a waltz.
It had happened so fluidly she had no chance to realise his intention—and now it was too late.
She had been taken in his arms. His hand slid around her waist, resting lightly, firmly—immovably—in the small of her back, and his fingers laced through hers.
‘Your left hand goes on my shoulder,’ he murmured, glancing down at her.
Numbly, she did as she was bid, her feet starting to move as he impelled her forward. Her heart seemed to have gone from being frozen solid in her chest to lodging breathlessly in her throat.
They started to dance. And as they did Vicky understood for the first time in her life just why waltzing had once been considered scandalous.
She was so close to him! Closer than she had ever been! Held almost against him, her body posed and positioned by the subtle pressure of his hand splayed at her waist, his long, strong fingers laced through hers, and worst, worst of all, his lean, muscled thighs brushing against her skirts as he moved her backwards into the dance, turning her as he did so.
She gazed up at him—quite helpless. His face was so close to her, too—far, far too close. She could see the blade of his nose, the lines around his mouth, the firm outline of his lips, the smooth, freshly shaven jawline and more devastating yet, the dark glint of his eyes half veiled by thick black lashes.
And there was something more powerful still. Primitive, potent. The scent of his masculinity, the faint spice of aftershave, teasing at her. Her left hand rested as lightly as she dared on the smooth, expensive surface of his jacket, and through the fine material she could feel the sinewy muscles of his broad shoulders.
The music was haunting and rhythmic, old-fashioned but reaching deep, deep into her psyche, and they moved around and around, turning and turning on the dance floor, so that she could see nothing else, nothing at all except his lean, tanned face looking down at her, and her eyes locked to his—the only still point in a turning world. She was breathless, floating, caught and held, moving along the path that he set for her, guiding her, taking her where he wanted her to go…
Into a realm where only he existed for her.
And she gave herself to it as the music flowed in her limbs and her body. Helpless to do otherwise.
When, after an eternity, the music died, he stilled her, but her mind was whirling still, and all she could do was stand and gaze up at him, into his fathomless eyes.
And she recognised, deep, deep within her blood, what had happened to her. For one long endless moment she went on standing there, as all around couples were moving away, reforming, talking and laughing. She just stood there, trembling in every limb, and gazed at him, lips parted.
He looked down at her. Looked at her from his dark, dangerous eyes.
And smiled. The smile of a predator who had captured his prey at last…
