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As the meal progressed she realised she was becoming increasingly aware of him—of his sheer physical presence, the way his hands moved, the strength of his fingers as they lifted a wineglass, or curved around the handle of his knife. The way his sable hair feathered very slightly over his forehead, the way the strong column of his throat moved as he talked. And the way he talked, whether in English or Greek, that low, resonant timbre doing strange things to her—things she would prefer not to happen. Such as raising her heart rate slightly, and making her stomach nip every now and then as her eyes, as they must during conversation, went to his face.
She watched covertly as he lifted his hand in the briefest gesture, to summon the maître d’. He came at once, instantly, and was immediately all attention. And Vicky realised, with a disturbing little frisson down her spine, that there was another reason other than his dark, planed looks that made him attractive.
It was the air of power that radiated from him. Not obvious, not ostentatious, not deliberate, but just—there.
This was a man who got what he wanted, and there would never, in his mind, be the slightest reason to think otherwise.
She gave an inward shiver. It wasn’t right, her rational mind told her, to find that idea of uncompromising power adding to his masculinity. It was wrong for a host of reasons, ethical and moral.
But it was so, all the same.
And she resented it. Resented the man who made her think that way. Respond to him that way.
No! This was ridiculous. She was getting all worked up over someone who was, in the great scheme of things, completely irrelevant to her. He had invited her uncle for lunch, presumably for that singular mix of business and sociality that those in these wealthy circles practised as a matter of course, and she had been included in the invitation for no other reason than common courtesy.
She forced herself to relax. Her uncle was turning to her, saying something, and she made herself pay attention with a smile.
‘You are fond of Mozart, are you not, pethi mou?’
She blinked. Where had that question come from? Nevertheless, she answered with a smile, ‘Yes—why do you ask?’
But it was their host who answered.
‘The Philharmonia are in Athens at the moment, and tomorrow night they are giving a Mozart concert. Perhaps you would like to attend?’
Vicky’s eyes went to her uncle. He was smiling at her benignly. She was confused. Did he want to go? If he did, she would be happy—more than happy—to go with him. Aristides liked showing her off, she knew, and as she did indeed like Mozart’s music, she’d be happy to go to a concert.
‘That sounds lovely,’ she answered politely.
Her uncle’s smile widened. ‘Good, good.’ He nodded. He glanced across at their host and said something in Greek that Vicky did not understand, and was answered briefly in the same language. He turned back to his niece.
‘You can be ready by seven, can you not?’ he asked.
‘Yes, of course,’ she answered. She frowned slightly. Why had her uncle spoken to their host about it?
She discovered, with a little stab of dismay, just why on her way back to Athens with Aristides.
‘He wants to take me to the concert? But I thought we were going?’
‘No, no,’ said Aristides airily. ‘Alas, I don’t have time to go to concerts.’
But he does, thought Vicky. A strange sensation had settled over her and she didn’t like it. She also didn’t like the feeling that she had been stitched up—set up…
With no room to manoeuvre.
Well, she thought grimly now, that was how it had started—and how it had gone on. And even now, after everything that had happened, all the storm and stress, the rage and frustration, she still did not know how it had ended up the way it had. How she had gone from being escorted to a Mozart concert by a man whose company disturbed her so profoundly, to becoming—her mouth pressed together in a thin, self-condemning line—his wife.
Theo Theakis.
CHAPTER THREE
HOW could I have done it?
The question still burned in her head, just as it always had. How could she have gone and married Theo Theakis? She’d done it, in the end, for the best of reasons—and it had been the worst mistake of her life.
She could still remember the moment when her uncle had dropped the thunderbolt at her feet. Informing her that Theo Theakis was requesting her hand in marriage, as if they were living in the middle of a Victorian novel.
Aristides had beamed at her. ‘Every woman in Athens wants to marry him!’
