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A glass of water appeared in front of her and she went to wave it away, but a soft female voice urged, ‘Drink; it will help.’ And she looked up to find herself staring into the kindest face she had seen here tonight. Older than herself, the woman was smilin
g encouragingly. Jemma took the glass, but her fingers were shaking so badly that she couldn’t drink from it, and the woman closed her own warmer fingers around Jemma’s and gently helped the glass to her lips. She was glad she was there, glad because her elegant figure effectively blocked Jemma off from the rest of the room, and glad because it meant she did not have to concentrate on the man squatting in front of her.
A few tentative sips at the cool water, and Jemma felt her rocked senses begin to settle. She smiled her thanks at the woman and let her take the glass from her.
‘Jemma—’
‘Don’t speak to me!’ she flashed.
The woman looked surprised as though she couldn’t believe anyone would dare speak to Leon Stephanades in that tone. ‘You have found your ideal match, I see,’ she drawled mockingly to Leon.
‘More than my match,’ he said with a tight forced smile. ‘She beats me with her broomstick twice a week.’
‘Be careful I don’t decide to turn you into a snake!’ Jemma snapped.
The woman laughed, and so did Leon, but there was a moment’s angry flash in his eyes that said he had more than understood her acid meaning. Then he sighed heavily and lowered his gaze to where he had his hands clenched between his bent knees.
‘You bastard,’ she whispered threadily.
‘I know,’ he acknowledged quietly.
The doctor arrived just then, slicing through the tension in the room by briskly ordering everyone out—except for Leon, who straightened to shake his hand then moved stiffly to stand behind the long sofa Jemma was sitting on. He was a short, stocky man, Greek to the marrow in his bones, but his grasp of English was superb, and it was only as he flashed a series of comprehensive questions at her that Jemma realised hardly anyone present tonight had spoken in Greek.
Maybe it would have been kinder for her if they had, she concluded as she suffered the usual physical examination with Leon’s sharp eyes on her looking for the smallest sign of discomfort. Understanding nothing would have left her sublimely ignorant to what was going on.
Instead, she had heard all, and now knew all. Leon had married her for one reason only. She conveniently suited his urgent requirements.
And it hurt, hurt so much that she couldn’t even look at him without feeling ravaged.
‘Right,’ the doctor said firmly, removing his stethoscope and shoving it into his little black bag. ‘You will be pleased to know that there is nothing drastically wrong with either of you!’ He smiled briefly at his own joke.
For the life of her, Jemma couldn’t smile with him, so she took diversionary tactics, by straightening her dress and levering herself back into a sitting position. She saw Leon’s hand snake out to help her, but ignored it. She didn’t want him touching her. She didn’t want to look at him ever again.
‘But,’ the doctor continued, ‘we are in the middle of a heatwave—even by Greek standards—and partying in your condition, Mrs Stephanades, is perhaps asking for trouble. I suggest you take it easy for a few days. Enjoy making your husband dance attendance on you.’ Another joke and another smile he expected to be returned. Leon might have done, but Jemma just lowered her head. ‘Then come to my surgery—perhaps Friday?—and we will check you over more thoroughly then.’
Leon saw him out, leaving her alone in the elegant room of his father’s house where the beautiful cream and grey décor looked as vapid as she felt. Then her baby kicked, and Jemma smiled sadly to herself. Perhaps not quite that vapid, she allowed, stroking a tender hand over the shifting mound.
The door opened, and she looked up sharply, a fizz of defensive rebelliousness stiffening her spine—only to sag again when she saw not Leon coming back into the room, but the woman who had brought her the glass of water.
‘The party goes on, and Leon is grilling the doctor,’ she said ruefully. ‘So I thought I would come and keep you company.’ As gentle in movement as her manner was, she walked across the soft grey-carpeted floor and sat herself down next to Jemma. ‘How do you feel?’ she asked.
‘As well as can be expected, I suppose,’ Jemma mocked, not even trying to paper over what had really caused her faint tonight. It would be a waste of time anyway, since this woman had been a party to the row which had followed it in here.
‘This is a strong family,’ the other woman remarked, ‘with each and every one of them a force to be reckoned with. They fight each other as ruthlessly as they fight any battle in business.’
‘English,’ Jemma murmured irrelevantly. ‘They all speak in English.’
‘Oh, did you not know? Dimitri is English! Or at least,’ she amended, ‘he was born in England to Greek parents. They emigrated there after a—series of misfortunes left them with little else to do but start afresh somewhere new.’ She was choosing her words carefully. ‘He thinks in English—though his Greek is good. But around him, whatever nationality you are, people tend to speak English. He expects it.’
‘You seem to know an awful lot about them,’ Jemma observed guardedly. ‘Does that make you one of them?’
‘Ah!’ For some reason, she was thoroughly amused. ‘No, I am not,’ she assured Jemma, ‘but I think perhaps it is time we formally introduced ourselves, since manners this evening seem to have been sadly lacking.’ She held out her hand. ‘I am Melva Markopoulou, a—very old friend of Leon’s.’
There was a look in the woman’s smiling eyes that Jemma could not interpret—a hint of mockery spiced with something else too intricate to catch. Jemma took the hand and returned shyly, ‘Jemma Dav—’
‘Stephanades,’ a cool voice from the doorway corrected.
‘Ah.’ Melva’s eyes lifted to their intruder. ‘Leon, your wife and I were getting to know each other.’
