For Pleasure...Or Marriage?

‘I’m sorry, Markos,’ she said. Her throat was constricted.

He gave another sigh, more heavy this time.

‘Vanessa—some people have a very relaxed attitude, and some, like the Duchesse, do not. She just isn’t someone I could introduce you to.’

‘Too grand, huh?’ Vanessa tried to put a laugh into her voice, though it still sounded shaky. But then, she felt pretty shaky herself, with Markos’s unexpected sharpness coming right after that horrible friend of his speaking to her like that. ‘Doesn’t she speak to bourgeois commoners like me?’ She forced herself to sound light-hearted, self-deprecating.

Markos’s expression was odd. Probably, she thought, because she’d hit the nail on the head, and he was embarrassed by having to admit to the Frenchwoman’s snobbery.

Then someone a little way away was hailing him, and the moment passed as he responded and led Vanessa across, his hand cupping around her elbow.

‘Guido—it’s good to see you.’ He launched into fluent Italian.

Gratefully, Vanessa resumed her safe and familiar role—the woman at Markos Makarios’s side. Deliberately, she put aside the two upsetting incidents that had just happened. They meant nothing. She mustn’t think about them. She was with Markos.

That was all that counted.

The remainder of the evening passed without further incident, and gradually Vanessa’s spirits were restored. OK, so she didn’t belong in this glittering, high society world that the man she loved lived in, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t learn to belong. Unpleasant incidents like those that had happened earlier were rare—in fact, she didn’t think they’d ever really happened before. True, she’d been on the receiving end of some dagger-drawn looks, but they had invariably been from other women, and it had not taken her long to twig that the cause of their unfriendliness was that she was the one with Markos Makarios. Women were all over him like flies to a honeypot, and she could hardly be surprised at that when she was so smitten with him! She was bound to encounter jealousy and resentment from other women less fortunate than herself. Markos himself never gave her cause for anxiety in that respect. He was obviously accustomed to being fêted by females, but he never flirted with any of them—never made her think he was more interested in them than he was in her. He was always attentive, always possessive. It was a warm feeling that set a golden glow around her heart.

As they moved around, clearly a couple, smiling and sipping champagne, or nibbling the delicious canapés that circulated endlessly, a stray phrase came back to her. She tried to banish it, because it had come from that odious man who had said such creepy stuff to her, but for all that it repeated itself in her mind.

Future plans, the man had said. What were her future plans?

A faint furrow creased between her eyebrows. She pushed the thought away. She didn’t want to think about things like that. After all, she had no plans. She was simply with Markos, that was all.

For how long?

The words pricked into her consciousness like an insect bite. She brushed them aside as if they were just that. She wouldn’t think about things like the future, or how long she had with Markos. If she didn’t think about them, they didn’t exist. She was too happy, too blissful, too floating on her wonderful, unbelievable personal cloud nine to think about anything like that! Markos was so good to her, so wonderful. It was enough—of course it was enough!—just to have what she had.

And she had so much. She had everything her heart could desire—the most wonderful man in the world to love, who wanted her with him.

Her eyes went to him, standing so tall, so devastatingly gorgeous beside her. Her heart swelled with love.

As she gazed, happy to do nothing more than that, to take in the perfection of his profile, he seemed to sense it, pausing minutely in his conversation. His eye caught hers, and for a brief, shivering moment he just looked at her. She could read the message in them as clearly as if he’d spoken aloud. Then his long dark lashes swept down and he went on talking again.

But at her back she could feel the pressure of his fingers, softly smoothing the satin of her gown, conveying their unmistakable message and making her limbs feel weak.

They left very soon after.

Vanessa slid the ice-blue cocktail dress over her head and felt it slither down her body. Brushing her hair aside, she crooked her arms back to zip it up, then stared at her reflection in the huge mirror in the dressing room off Markos’s bedroom.

She frowned. Had she put on weight? The material seemed to be clinging slightly around her stomach and hips. The last time she’d worn this particular dress a few weeks ago it had fitted perfectly. She breathed in, and looked at her reflection again. She looked all right, it was just that the dress felt a tad more clingy than it had done before. Maybe she was imagining things. Maybe it had shrunk slightly with cleaning.

Surely she couldn’t have put on weight. She was scrupulous about what she ate. Naturally slim, now that she was with Markos she knew she could not afford to lose her figure even minutely. She wanted to look perfect for him the whole time. The trouble was, all this high life seemed to come accompanied by the most gorgeous gourmet food wherever they went, even when they ate in, and it was all so tempting! That was one reason why she was such a regular habituée of the gym and pool in the basement of the apartment block, or of the fitness suites in the hotels they stayed at when they were abroad. Exercise toned her body, and kept her in peak condition for Markos.

It also helped to pass the time when he was working.

She frowned again, breathing out slowly. Yes, the material was definitely brushing against her stomach and hips. She bit her lip. She would have to cut back on the food and increase her workout time, that was all. It might only be a few pounds she’d put on, but there was, she could see now, a discernible swell to her tummy that she was sure had not been there before.

Maybe it was just monthly bloating, of course. Not that she usually suffered much from PMS, but perhaps having an active sex life—a very active sex life, she thought with an inward blush—was making a difference of some kind. If it was PMS, though, it was a bit odd, as she’d only just finished another period. But then that had been an odd period too—just as the one before, up in the mountains, had been odd. Much shorter. Different.

Out in the bedroom, she heard the phone start to ring, distracting her thoughts as she hurried to answer it. It must be Markos, saying where to meet him that evening.

‘Hello?’ she said, picking the handset up, sounding very slightly breathless.

‘Good evening, Vanessa. Did I disturb you in bed? Or in the bath, perhaps?’

The male voice was definitely not Markos. Nor could it possibly be either Taki or Stelios, the two Greek members of his staff who acted as a mix of bodyguards, chauffeurs and general factotums to him.