Bridal Bargains

Mistress? Claire struggled to keep her expression from altering, but the sickening squirm that suddenly hit her stomach sent some of the warmth draining from her cheeks.

Desmona saw it happen. ‘You didn’t know,’ she sighed. ‘Oh, how tragic for you—and on your betrothal night, too. I am so sorry …’

No, you’re not, you’re enjoying yourself, Claire silently contended, aware that she was being baited by a woman who—as Andreas had warned her—was out for her blood.

‘He doesn’t have a mistress.’ She coldly dismissed the suggestion, but in reality she found herself suddenly having to face the fact that he most probably did have one somewhere. A man like Andreas would not put himself in a marriage of convenience without having that side of his needs adequately covered—surely!

‘All Greek men of class have mistresses, darling,’ Desmona drawled deridingly. ‘You could almost say it is expected of them. So, which one do you think?’ she prompted. ‘The lovely thing he is dancing with? Or the other one over there who can’t take her eyes off him—or maybe the one standing in the corner, who looks too besotted with her husband to even notice Andreas.’

Without wanting them to, Claire’s eyes flicked from woman to woman as Desmona pointed them out to her. And all of them—all of them were so beautiful that she wouldn’t have blamed him for wanting any of them.

‘I would go for the besotted one if I were you,’ Desmona advised, not missing a single telling flicker of Claire’s blue eyes. ‘For the way she is clinging to her husband smacks of desperation to me …’

‘I think you’re lying,’ Claire responded, refusing to let the other woman get to her.

‘Then you are a fool,’ Desmona replied. ‘And maybe you deserve all you are about to receive from Andreas Markopoulou. For he may have good reason to want your child, but I cannot believe that he truly wants you—though he is cold-blooded and ruthless enough to take you if that is the only way he can achieve his aim. There,’ she concluded. ‘I have said what I needed to say. So now I will leave you to enjoy the rest of your betrothal party. Good luck, Miss Stenson.’ She smiled as she turned away. ‘I think you may well need it very soon …’

But why had she said it? Claire wondered as she watched Desmona walk smoothly away. To hurt her—Claire—or to hurt Andreas because he had rejected her?

In the end it didn’t matter, because now the seed had been planted Claire could feel herself looking at every female face with new suspicious eyes.

Andreas was no longer dancing but talking to the woman Desmona had described as besotted with her husband. Well, she observed, there was no sign of the husband now as she laughed with Andreas, with her big eyes shining up into his.

Was she his mistress?

It’s none of your business! she told herself furiously.

But knowing that didn’t stop her from studying their body language as Andreas touched a light finger to the woman’s shoulder, to her cheek, laughed softly at something she said to him and kissed the hand she used to teasingly cover his mouth when he gave what must have been a wicked reply.

The woman spoke again, only this time her expression turned very serious. With her hand still resting in his, Andreas sobered also, then began glancing furtively around them before giving a grim nod of his head. Then, turning, they moved off into one of the other rooms.

Even with that quick glance around to check that their withdrawal would not be observed, he didn’t even notice me, Claire noted painfully. Then she saw Desmona’s gaze fixed mockingly on her, and humiliation swept over her in a sickening wave.

It was one thing to deceive but quite another to be deceived, she realised, hurt, so very hurt that she didn’t quite know what to do with herself as she stood there alone and feeling utterly unable to pretend it hadn’t happened.

So when several of the younger guests approached her to say they had set up a disco outside on the pool terrace, then warily asked if she would like to join them, she was so relieved at the diversion from her own hectic thoughts that she accepted eagerly.

Half an hour later she was a different person. A person her mother would have recognised if she’d been there to see the old laughing, teasing, fun-loving Claire who danced disco with enthusiasm rather than stuffy waltzes with reluctance.

If there was something rather desperate about the way she threw herself into the fun, then no one seemed to notice that. They were just pleased to discover that Andreas Markopoulou’s newly betrothed was nothing like the hard-crusted English floozy they had all been led to believe she would be.

Someone appeared with a case of champagne they’d pinched from somewhere. And for the next few minutes the small group threw themselves into the fun of making corks explode from bottles then quickly supping at the frothy wine as it spilled over the bottle rim.

After that the wine flowed like water, and as the intoxicating bubbles entered h

er bloodstream Claire began to let go of what was left of her inhibitions. The music was throbbing—and she danced like a dream. There wasn’t one person there who didn’t pause to take note of that as her long, slender body swayed and gyrated inside the slinky dress, with the kind of innate sensuality that made the other girls envious and the young men throb to an entirely different beat.

One young man who was bolder than the rest stepped up behind her to slide his hands around her silk-tulle-lined stomach and began gyrating with her. Claire laughed and didn’t push him away; instead she began exaggerating her movements to which he had to follow.

‘You are wasted on Andreas,’ he whispered against her ear. ‘He is too cold and stuffy for a wonderful creature like you.’

‘I adore him,’ Claire lied glibly, when really at that moment she was hating him so badly that she could barely cope with it. ‘He’s absolute dynamite.’

Not so big a lie, she acknowledged bleakly from some darker place inside her that she refused to go off to. Instead she turned her head against her shoulder and smiled a stunning smile into her new consort’s captivated face.

That was how Andreas came upon her. He stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Enjoying yourselves?’ his deep voice harshly intruded, and effectively silenced the whole group in the blink of an eyelid as heads came up, twisted round, then simply froze to stare at him like guilty thieves caught red-handed.

He was standing in a circle of light being thrown from the open French window that led to the indoor pool just behind him. And even with his dark face cast in shadows there wasn’t one of them present who didn’t know that he was furiously angry.