For Pleasure...Or Marriage?

‘Please take this back. I have no idea why you are trying to give it to me, and I must ask that you leave.’

She spoke in a quiet, dignified fashion. She would not reduce herself to the other woman’s level.

But she might as well have been speaking to herself. Constantia Dimistris’s face hardened, and she made no attempt either to take the cheque or to move.

‘You are insolent! But I did not come here to bandy words. I came here—which I need not have done, be assured!—simply to make your departure easier. To spare you—’ her expression did not match her words ‘—from the necessity of being given your marching orders by Markos Makarios.’

Vanessa’s face bleached.

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

A look of cold pleasure showed in the woman’s eyes.

‘So you did not know? He has kept you in complete ignorance.’ The malice in her voice was quite open.

‘About?’ said Vanessa. Her arm, holding out the cheque, dropped to her side.

Constantia Dimistris lifted her chin and looked at her disdainfully, with mock pity in her eyes.

‘Your time is up. Very shortly you will need to seek a new protector. Hence my offer to expedite your departure.’ She nodded at the cheque hanging limply from Vanessa’s nerveless fingers.

Vanessa forced herself to speak. ‘I really have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.’

Malice—and satisfaction—mingled in the woman’s voice and eyes.

‘Allow me to enlighten you, in that case. In a very short space of time Markos Makarios will have no need of a mistress and will dispose of you. You see…’ there was a note of absolute satisfaction and triumph in her voice ‘…he will shortly be marrying my daughter.’

Pain. Grief. Despair. Laced together, like stitches running through a gaping wound in her flesh, with disbelief.

It couldn’t be true. What that horrible, horrible woman had thrown at her—it couldn’t be.

Markos, getting married. To a Greek girl, the daughter of that woman. The last ugly remnants of her visit rang in Vanessa’s ears. She had taken such malicious delight in telling Vanessa, and discovering her ignorance had seemed to elicit a particular relish. She had departed on an openly triumphant note.

‘You can ply your trade elsewhere from now on. The power of a mistress is nothing, nothing compared with the power of a wife! I know your sort.’ Her lip had curled sneeringly. ‘Opening your legs to every man and—’

‘Please leave.’ Vanessa’s voice had been level, but inside she’d been falling. Falling from the greatest height.

She had crossed to the front door and opened it, standing by it pointedly. For a moment the woman had simply stood, eyes flashing with malice and hostility, then she had swept forward, and out into the corridor beyond.

Vanessa had closed the door behind her, her whole body trembling. How she’d made it back to the sofa she did not know.

And all she’d been able to do was collapse on it and sit there, as she was torn apart.

Outside, the rain lashed down with pitiless ferocity.

After a long, long while, as the overcast daylight began to fail, she got slowly, very slowly, to her feet. She made her way into one of the spare bedrooms and opened the closet. Her suitcases were inside.

Lifting them as if they were dead weights, even though they were empty, she made her way to the master bedroom.

It took her a long time to pack.

Markos’s mobile rang. He answered it immediately.

‘Well?’ His voice barked harshly.

‘It wasn’t her, sir.’

‘You’re sure?’