Elena left, not bothering to close the door behind her.
Miranda glared, hating her. She went to the door to shut it, and saw Elena open the door of the manager’s office, glimpsed her entwining herself with Alex, cooing up at him.
‘Darling Alex . . .’
He didn’t exactly push her away, either. ‘Good morning, Elena, how are you? I hope you slept well. I’m sorry but I’m busy. Maybe we could have lunch?’
Miranda shut her own door and sat down at her desk again. Her temples were throbbing with pain. A migraine, she felt it gathering, darkening her sight. She had been such a fool. She put both hands over her eyes, pressing her palms down.
She wished she were dead.
For a few minutes she sat, breathing slowly, feeling the aching in her head lessen. Then the door opened, and she let her hands drop, fought to appear calm.
Alex came over to her desk. ‘Good morning. How are you today?’ His voice was warm, held a hint of passion.
‘Fine,’ she said, her stomach churning with sickness and pain. How could he cheat, lie and pretend like that?
‘You look beautiful.’ He ran a hand over her hair, cupped her chin, forcing her to look up at him. ‘Every time I see you, I can’t believe how lovely you are. It’s going to be hell to leave you again. But I’ve got to, I’m afraid. I have some important business to deal with. I’m sailing back this morning.’
When he had gone, would Terry arrive to kill her? Fear choked her, fear and misery over Alex’s betrayal. She pulled her head away, refusing to look at him. How could he live with himself afterwards, knowing he had abandoned her to her fate? Or was he leaving so that he needn’t be here when she died? Maybe that was his version of a conscience? What he didn’t have to see he need not feel guilty about?
‘I’ll miss you, I hate to leave you,’ he said huskily. He was a consummate actor. Men could be such liars.
She couldn’t bring herself to answer him; she couldn’t pretend, the way he did.
‘I wish you would move back into the hotel so that it would be easier to keep an eye on you,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you do that while I’m away?’
She forced herself to answer that, her voice rusty. ‘No, I told you, I prefer to be independent.’ Why was he so insistent that she move back into the hotel? Was it because he knew Terry would come here and stay in the hotel, and having her under the same roof would make it so much easier for Terry to get at her?
‘You obstinate vixen!’ he said, sighing. ‘Well, I must go. I’ll ring you tomorrow to check up on you.’
He kissed her averted cheek, then was gone and she sat bleakly listening to his departing footsteps.
When would Terry arrive? Today? Tomorrow?
What was she to do? Just sit here like a trapped rabbit and wait for the final blow? Yet what else could she do? Well, she could take the ferry to the mainland and fly back to London, of course. But her passport was locked in the office. Milo had taken it weeks ago for some official reason to do with the Greek police she thought.
He probably had it locked away for safe-keeping. If she asked for it she would have to explain why she wanted it, she would have to say she was leaving – but she couldn’t say why because Milo would think she was crazy.
Later that morning she saw on her computer screen that Elena had checked out. Had she gone back to Athens with Alex? Was that why he had left so unexpectedly?
She went back to her bungalow when she stopped work, ate a light salad for supper and went to bed early, exhausted by the tension and misery she had suffered with all day.
That night she had the old dream which she had had for years, where Tom was drowning and she could not reach him, however hard she struggled. He called her name and she cried out, ‘I’m coming, Tom, I’m trying to get to you,’ yet knew she wouldn’t. The marbled sea tumbled her over and over. Her head rang with echoes. Miranda, Miranda, he called, and in her sleep tears ran down her face.
‘Oh, God, Tom . . . I’m sorry.’
This time, though, she heard another voice, luring her towards him. ‘Miranda, Miranda, come to me,’ She quivered with weakness and the green sea took her, drifted her, into his arms.
‘Help Tom,’ she begged. ‘Save Tom, never mind me.’
He kissed her passionately, his mouth demanding, and her body grew limp, weak and helpless, kissing him back, despite the guilt she felt.
Alex put his hands around her neck. They tightened and tightened, the fingertips biting into her flesh. He was going to kill her, she realised. He meant to strangle her.
She woke up screaming, her face wet with tears. The room was shuttered, warm, dark, a womb of sleep. She listened to the sounds outside: the soft shushing of the palms, the rustle of fronds, the distant whisper of the sea on the beach. There was no sound from the other bungalows, no light pierced her darkness. She could have been alone on a desert island.
The last time she had been this unhappy had been during the months after Tom’s death. She had been haunted by grief and guilt. This time her misery came from knowing Alex had lied to her, betrayed her, plotted her death. Yet she still loved him, her Angel of Death, she always had, from the minute she first saw him, and that was why she had felt so guilty over Tom. In wanting Alex she had always felt she betrayed her husband, and now she had betrayed herself, too, by letting Alex make love to her. He did not love her. Oh, God, why was she such a fool?