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‘I don’t.Alex, please!’She pressed her hands against his chest, the clipboard falling between them. ‘You have to let me go!’
‘I don’t have to do anything,’ he retorted, moving in closer and pinning her back against an oil painting of the last tsar of Russia. It was one of Olga’s favourites, and wasn’t for sale, and the heavy gilt-edged frame dug painfully into Jane’s spine. ‘I can do what I like. Who’s going to stop me?’
‘Alex, for God’s sake…’
Jane was losing hope. With the frame digging into her back and the clipboard digging into her ankle, she had never felt more helpless. And then she had an idea. She lifted her foot and kicked the clipboard hard into Alex’s leg.
He swore, but for a moment his hold slackened and Jane took the opportunity it gave her. Shoving him away from her, she ran half sobbing towards the door.
The distinctive sound of the door opening halted her headlong flight. It was late afternoon and the sun filtering through the blinds threw the visitor’s face into shadow. All Jane could tell for certain was that it was a woman and her initial thought was that Olga had come back.
‘Thank God you’re here,’ she got out unsteadily hurrying, towards her. ‘Please—you must get Alex to leave me alone.’
‘Alex?’
The voice was unfamiliar at first and Jane closed her eyes for a moment, praying she hadn’t made a complete fool of herself in front of one of Olga’s more influential clients. Then she opened her eyes again, realising she knew that accent. Ianthe Adonides of all people was standing staring at her, slim and elegant in a cream Chanel suit and pearls.
The house owned by the Souvakis family was in Bloomsbury. An elegant Georgian townhouse, overlooking Russell Square, it had three floors, a basement and an attic. It had once belonged to some minor member of the aristocracy, Jane remembered Demetri telling her. It had amused him to keep the area ‘below stairs’ for his own use.
Of course, that had been in the days when his mother and father had been frequent visitors to London. He’d first furnished the basement rooms when he was a teenager and that was where he’d taken Jane when they’d first become lovers. It was where he’d asked her to marry him, she remembered, her heart quickening instinctively. They’d been so happy in those days. How could she have let her own jealousy destroy what they’d had?
Why hadn’t she believed him?
She asked the taxi driver to drop her at the corner of Bedford Place and walked the last few yards to the house she remembered so well. There were steps up to the glossy green door and a fanlight glowing with the light from inside. So someone was at home, she comforted herself. Of course, it could be just the housekeeper. Or even Theo Vasilis. Ianthe had told her she’d flown to England with both men, her growing relationship with Demetri’s assistant the reason why she’d been invited along on what was primarily a business trip.
It was getting dark and, not wanting to be taken for a wouldbe intruder, Jane climbed the steps and rang the bell. Then, to give herself something to do while she waited, she checked that the belt of the loose-fitting woollen jacket she was wearing was securely tied about her waist. Until she was absolutely sure that Demetri wanted to see her again, her pride wouldn’t let her use her condition to influence the outcome of this visit.
She seemed to wait for ages and only a grim determination forced her to stay the distance. Imagining Demetri checking some security monitor, and discovering it was her, tormented her. What if he refused to speak to her? What if what Ianthe had told her—that he and Ariadne were no longer seeing one another—simply wasn’t true? Would she lie?
She’d certainly lied before.
The sound of a key turning put all these anxieties on hold. The deadlock was released and the door swung open on oiled hinges to reveal a rather plump, attractive woman in her late thirties. Jane’s first devastating thought was that this was why Demetri and Ariadne had split up. He’d found someone else. But then the woman spoke and Jane realised that once again she was jumping to conclusions. Besides, Demetri would never allow a girlfriend of his to answer the door.
‘May I help you?’
The woman’s voice was polite, deferential, and Jane drew a breath. ‘Um—is Mr Souvakis at home?’
The woman frowned now. ‘Is he expecting you, Ms—Ms—’
‘Souvakis,’ said Jane at once and saw the way the woman’s eyes widened with a mixture of surprise and disbelief. ‘I’m—Mrs Souvakis. Demetri’s wife.’
The woman blinked. Then, glancing nervously behind her, she murmured, ‘I’m sorry. Mr Souvakis didn’t tell me you were joining him.’
