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And then she was there, in front of him again, and Andreas was falling into eyes so blue it hurt to look at them. And then the hurt became a real pain, and he looked down stupidly, to see a knife sticking out of his belly and blood everywhere.
He looked up and she was smiling cruelly. ‘No, I did not ask you to touch me. I would never let someone like you touch me.’
His friend who had died, Spiro, was behind Siena, laughing at him. ‘You thought you could remain immune?’
And then Andreas was falling down and down and down…
Andreas woke with a start, clammy with sweat, his heart pounding. He looked down and put a hand to his belly, fully anticipating seeing a knife and blood. But of course there was none. It was a dream. A nightmare.
He’d had that dream for months after he’d left France but not for a long time. He remembered. Siena. She was here, in his apartment. His heart speeded up again and he got out of bed, pulling on a pair of boxers. He assured himself that it was just her presence that had precipitated the dream again.
But it had left its cold hand across the back of his neck. He went into the darkened drawing room and poured himself some whisky, downing it in one. He slowly felt himself come back to centre, but was unable to shake the memory of that evening.
Andreas had been duty manager, overseeing the exclusive annual debutante ball, making sure it went without a hitch. He’d viewed all those beautiful spoilt young women with a very jaundiced eye, having heard all sorts of stories about their debauched ways.
Still, he’d barely believed them. They’d all looked so innocent. And none more so than the most beautiful of them all: Siena DePiero. He’d noticed that she was always slightly apart from the others, as if not part of their club. And the way her father kept her close at all times. He’d read her aloofness as haughtiness. And then he’d seen the moment when her dinner partner had accidentally spilled red wine all over her pristine white dress. Andreas had clicked into damage limitation mode and smoothly offered to take her to the boutique for a fresh dress.
Her father had been clearly reluctant to let her out of his sight but had had no choice. He wouldn’t let his daughter be presented at the ball in a stained gown. And so Andreas had
found himself escorting the cool beauty to the boutique, and had been very surprised when she’d confided huskily, ‘Please excuse my father’s rudeness. He hates any sort of adverse attention.’
Andreas had looked at her, taken aback by this politeness when he’d expected her to ignore him. Shock had cut through his cynicism because she’d looked nervous and blushed under his regard. To his complete embarrassment he’d found his body reacting to her…this very young woman, even though he’d known she wasn’t that young. Her eighteenth birthday was the following day, and her father had already organised a brunch party with some of the other debutantes to celebrate.
He’d said something to put her at ease and she’d smiled. He’d almost tripped over his feet. By the time they’d reached the boutique his body had been an inferno of need. Siena had been chattering—albeit hesitantly and charmingly.
In the empty shop the sexual tension between them had mounted, instantaneous and strong enough to make Andreas reel. He’d had lovers by then—quite a few—and thought he knew women. But he’d never felt like that before. As if a thunderbolt had connected directly with his insides.
Her artless sensuality and apparent shyness had been at such odds with her cool and haughty beauty. With the reputation that had preceded her. That preceded all the debs every year.
She’d grimaced after a few minutes and looked around the shop, before glancing at a dress on a mannequin in the window. It was fussy-looking, but not far removed from what she wore.
‘That’s the one my father will approve of.’
She’d sounded so resigned and disappointed that Andreas had inexplicably wanted to see her smile again. He’d hammed it up, extricating the dummy from the dress. And he’d made her laugh.
Then she’d disappeared into the dressing room and Andreas had found every muscle in his body locked tight as he thought of her in a state of undress, fantasising about hauling back the curtain, pulling down his trousers, wrapping her legs around his hips and taking her there and then, against the wall…
And then she’d emerged and his blood had left his brain completely. She’d turned around and showed him a bare back, asking with a shy look over her shoulder, ‘Can you do me up?’
To this day Andreas wasn’t sure how he’d done it without pulling that dress down and off completely. But he hadn’t. She’d turned round and some of her hair had been coming loose. He’d reached out and tucked one golden strand behind her ear and she’d blurted out, ‘What’s your name?’
Andreas had looked at her and said, ‘Andreas Xenakis.’
She’d repeated his name and it had sounded impossibly sexy with her slight Italian accent. ‘Andreas.’
And then all Andreas could remember was heat and need. His mouth had been on hers and she’d been clinging to him, moaning softly, sighing into his mouth, her tongue making a shy foray against his, making him so hard…
Andreas’s mind snapped back to the present. He was holding his glass so tightly in his hand he had to relax for fear of shattering it. He grimaced at his body’s rampant response just at the memory of what had happened and willed himself to cool down.
He looked out at the millionaire’s view of London he could afford now. A far cry from his roots and from painful memories of lives wasted. His mouth twisted. Wasted because of love. But, strangely, his usual sense of satisfaction deserted him. Because a new desire for satisfaction had superseded it. For a satisfaction that would only come from taking Siena into his bed and sating himself with her.
He’d never forgotten the way she’d changed in an instant that night—from a she-witch, writhing underneath him, begging him to touch her and kiss her all over, to pushing him off as if his touch burnt her. The way she’d sprung up, holding her dress against her, looking at him accusingly. He’d only realised then that there was someone else in the room. Her father. Looking at him with those cold eyes, as if he were a piece of scum.
The dream and the memory made Andreas shiver. Because it reminded him of how duped he’d been that night. How, despite his better instincts, he’d let himself believe that Siena had really been that giggling, shy, artlessly sexy girl. And, worst of all, how she’d made him want to believe that girl existed.
He should have known better. He of all people. As soon as he’d started working in the city of Athens his looks had attracted a certain kind of sexually mature and confident woman. Inevitably wealthy. They’d offered him money, or promotion, and had laughed at his proud refusal to get help via their beds. One had mocked him. ‘Oh, Andreas, one day that hubris will get you into trouble. You’ll fall for a pretty girl who pretends not to be as cold and hard as the rest of us.’
And he had. He’d fallen hard. In front of Siena and her father that night. In all honesty Andreas hadn’t truly become so cynical yet that he’d believed someone as young as Siena could be so malicious and calculating. But he’d watched her transform from shy sex kitten to a cold bitch. Colder than any of those other women he’d known. And just like that he’d grown his cynical outer skin and his heart had hardened in his chest.
