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All the time she was burningly conscious, more than ever before, of Angelos Petrakos at the far end of the table.
She had always been aware of him—always! The impact he made on her senses had always been overpowering. But it had always been countered by the long, bitter resentment of him that had filled her for so many years with fierce, implacable hatred.
But now—
I don’t hate him any more.
The words formed in her head and hung there, suspended, as she felt her mind enfold them.
No more hatred …
How it had happened, she did not know. It had been in the days spent here, the time spent with him, seeing him anew, as if the harsh, punishing, pitiless being she had once known was no longer there and she no longer had to hate him.
It was as if a burden were slipping from her. A burden she had carried so long, so unrelentingly. And as it slipped from her shoulders she felt a sense of release go through her. A lightening of her whole being. As if she were finally, finally free.
Free to feel, finally, what she was filled with now. Free to do, finally, what she was doing now—letting her eyes gaze upon him freely, openly, taking in everything about him, wanting to do nothing else but hold this moment …
How she got through the meal, Thea did not know. Time seemed to be doing something strange, for it seemed to take both a huge length of time and be over in a flash. What they talked about she had no idea. Her mind seemed to be losing focus, and yet everything about him seemed to be in super-focus, dominating her consciousness. She seemed to be feeling strangely relaxed, which was odd, because she knew that her awareness of Angelos’s intense physical presence had never been greater. She could see him, it seemed, in absolute detail.
She kept noticing things impinge on her consciousness—tiny, inconsequential things, but they caught her attention, made her see them, become aware of them, permeating her mind like a running commentary …
He’s shaved. His jawline’s quite smooth. His hair is still slightly damp, feathering at his nape. His brow, his eyes are flecked, his lashes thick. The lines around his mouth were incised. His wrists are lean, his hands square, powerful. But the fingers are long, and the way they hold his fork, his wineglass, makes me want to watch, to look …
So she did—just looked. Gazed.
He didn’t seem to mind that she was not responding very intelligently to his conversation, even though she was aware that her comments seemed disjointed, abstracted. Every now and then she saw a flicker of his eyes, and it intrigued her. She wanted to watch for it. It came again, and she felt, deep in her body, an answering flicker.
‘Shall we go next door?’
She blinked, his dark, deep voice catching her unawares. She glanced at the table and realised that dinner was over. She got to her feet and for the briefest moment felt very dizzy. Then the feeling passed and she shook her head slightly. She saw there was still some apple juice left in her glass—Johann had refilled it, she recalled, during dinner—and drained it to clear her head. There would be coffee next door, set out, as always, by the staff, who then went off duty for the remainder of the evening, retiring to their quarters in the spacious chalet.
In the lounge she curled up, as she always did, at one end of the deep sofa, Angelos at the far end. But this night the cushions seemed softer, it seemed, her limbs more relaxed, the warmth of the fire more embracing. Everything seemed softer, slower, with a kind of glow about it all. A sense of well-being pervaded her, of being enclosed and safe, the outer world so far away, nothing more than a dream. Only here was real, only now was real, and everything was at once both bathed in a strange soft focus, and incredibly, wondrously vivid. It was a feeling she had never had before.
She reached forward to pour the coffee. The pot seemed heavier than usual, the flow of liquid slower, and her wrist dipped slightly as she hande
d his cup to him. He set it down on his end of the coffee table with a murmur of thanks, then poured himself his customary cognac, leaning back to swirl it slowly, contemplatively, in its balloon glass. She found herself watching it, eyes drawn to its slow swirl as he lifted the glass to his nose, but did not drink. She found herself wondering why.
The fire was burning low, and he got to his feet, kneeling down beside the hearth to add more logs. Thea’s eyes followed him. He was wearing one of his cashmere sweaters, and she had a sudden yearning to feel the extreme softness of the wool under her hand. She watched him cross to the alcove which contained the ferociously high-tech music equipment, and while she watched, thinking again how tall and lithe his powerful frame was, her eyes caught the cognac glass perched on the table. Strangely curious, she reached to pick it up, holding it as he did, swirling the contents slowly. Then she dipped her nose to catch the fragrance.
It was heady stuff! She inhaled again, feeling a strange light-headedness, and inhaled once more, even more deeply. It was an extraordinary scent—complex and evocative. She inhaled again, face over the glass, experiencing again that buoyant light-headedness that seemed so very pleasant. Then, as Angelos returned to his seat, she hastily put the glass back, her attention diverted by the music now filling the room.
Her eyes lit, pleasure filling her—Rachmaninov, his variations on a theme of Paganini, lush and poignant, pouring out over her, making her heart lift with emotion. The music swelled in its ecstatic melody, sweepingly beautiful. As the crescendo came, and the main theme soared, her breath caught, lips parted. She was filled with emotion—powerful and uplifting. Her eyes went instinctively, irresistibly, to Angelos.
He met her gaze full-on, dark eyes holding hers, and she was completely incapable—of breaking away from his. She saw them flare, a sudden blaze in them, and emotion seized her, overwhelming her. She could not break her gaze, could only let him hold it as effortlessly as the orchestra held the sweeping melody. She listened, rapt, enraptured. Filled with an emotion that swelled within her even as the music swelled.
At length the music ended—but not the emotion filling her … That wonderful, heady, swirling emotion was still possessing her …
What was happening to her? To feel so intensely, so vividly as she did now! So incredibly moved …
She did not know, could not tell—knew only that the whole of her being was focused here, now, on this moment. This time. This space.
This man.
The music changed. Slow violins, delicate—quite different from the impassioned strains of Rachmaninov. But they were just as evocative in their own unearthly way, weaving, so it seemed to her, a net of sound, diffusing into the air. She felt alive, vivid, as she had never felt before.
A sound made her turn her head. A log had fallen in the fire, opening up its glowing heart. She watched as Angelos set down his cognac once more and crossed to hunker down on the pale soft rug, reaching for more wood to rebuild the fire.
On impulse—she did not know why, only that she wanted to, right now, while in this strange, breathless mood—she slid on to the floor, kneeling by the table, stretching her hand out not for her undrunk coffee but for his cognac glass. She wanted to inhale its bouquet again, wanted to feel that pleasurable light-headedness that had come last time. She lifted it to her mouth, letting her lip curve over the glass edge to sample the fragrance within. It was less powerful now, and she tilted the glass more. The cognac touched her lips, and without her volition she realised she was opening her mouth to it. It filled her mouth with liquid fire, and for a moment she almost gasped. Then it had slipped down her throat, leaving a burning wake. Her eyes widened, and she felt the fire snake down. Blinking, she set the glass back and picked up her coffee cup, draining it rapidly to quench the fire.
