Bought ForThe Greek's Bed

She was here, in Greece. She had not been here for two years. All around she could hear the chitter of cicadas, feel the warmth of the southern clime, see the Mediterranean vegetation and the sparkle of the sun on blue, blue water. This time yesterday she’d had no idea at all that she would be here.

No idea of the ordeal ahead of her.

Am I mad to do this? Even to think I can do this?

Doubt assailed her, eroding what little dogged determination she was retaining. Disbelief swept over her, and then panic again, and she had to fight them both down.

I can do this—I can get through it, and I can come out the other side. And I will. That’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to come out the other side, and I’m going to get my money, and then I’m going home—home to my real life. Home far, far away from here—and farther away from Theo Theakis than he can ever reach again.

She felt anger and loathing for him pool deep within her. She let it gather, taking strength from it. Let his image form in her mind.

Tall, dark, deadly.

Abruptly she jumped to her feet, dumping her coffee cup on the tray and letting her book tumble to the floor. She strode off the terrace, past the pool, with its purpose-built whirlpool, and plunged down the set of steps that led on to the shingle beach. It was only a tiny beach, hardly enough to stride along. The vegetation at either end was too thick for her to negotiate, and she was reduced to crossing and recrossing the patch of shingle as all around her the warm Mediterranean dusk gathered like a thickening blanket, pierced only by the noise of the cicadas in the foliage.

Agitation poured through her, a sick anxiety, as she strode up and down, backwards and forwards, the soles of her trainers crunching the gravel. Then, without knowing why, she halted. Her skin seemed to prickle. She had heard nothing, but she was spiked with awareness.

Slowly, very slowly, she turned to look back at the villa.

Theo was standing on the veranda.

Watching her.

Theo let his eyes continue to rest on her, even though she was now aware of his presence.

She was agitated. That was good. It meant that the air of blankness she’d pulled over herself during the flight had been nothing but a pose. She was good at poses, he knew—all too well. Posing at being his wife—until she’d been caught in flagrante by the gutter press who had, for once in their sordid, voyeuristic lives, come in useful.

A familiar fury gripped him—fury on so many, many counts. Fury at her sheer gall, at her daring to do what she had and then, when confronted with it, being without shame or repentance. Fury at her continued shamelessness, thinking she was entitled to the money Aristides had set aside for her, for which she had repaid him with dishonour and disgrace. But she hadn’t cared about that, either. Or about anyone else…

Deliberately he let the fury drain out of him. It had had two years to drain out now, and there was no point letting it return. Emotion was out of place now. All emotion. He did not need to be Greek to know that the first rule of revenge held true whatever the nationality of the injured party. Revenge was a dish to be eaten cold.

It was a dish he would start to dine on tonight.

Abruptly he raised a hand, and summoned her to him.

Vicky went back up to the villa. She didn’t want to. She wanted to find a power boat—a fast one—climb into it, let out the throttle and carve a way through the sea until the land behind was gone. Until Theo Theakis was gone.

But she couldn’t. So instead, with steady tread, she walked up the steps and on to the veranda. She stood, saying nothing. Not meeting his eyes.

But punishingly aware of his physical presence.

For a moment he stayed silent. Then he spoke.

‘Get changed. Clothes have been delivered for you. I’ll meet you for drinks in an hour.’

She didn’t deign to answer, just walked past him into the villa and out into the hall to go up the stairs. In the room she’d selected there were two people. One was a member of the house staff, and the other, she assumed, was some kind of personal shopper. They were placing clothes in the closet, on rails and in drawers.

‘I’m going to take a shower,’ Vicky announced, and went through to the bathroom, shutting the door firmly. Inside, she felt the bitterness starting to pool again. She took a sharp breath, stared dead ahead of her into the mirror above the vanity unit. But she did not meet her own gaze. She did not even look at herself. She looked at the reflection of the far wall in the glass. Then, counting to three, she steeled herself and started to pull her clothes off.

By the time she emerged a few minutes later she was clean, her hair towelled dry, swathed in a bathrobe. It was too skimpy on her, and she felt too much of her legs exposed. Both the other women were still in her room, clearly awaiting her. She forced a polite smile to her face, thanked them and dismissed them. She did not want anyone around while she dressed.

With a calmness she had to impose rigidly on herself she set to, sliding open drawers and sifting through the plastic-swathed clothes now hanging in the closet. It didn’t take more than a few seconds to see exactly what instructions the personal shopper had been given. For a brief moment anger surged in Vicky. Then, with a grim tightening of her mouth, she reminded herself that that choice of attire suited her purposes entirely, as it happened. Whatever Theo’s agenda was, she had one of her own. One that she must not waver from.

With iron discipline, stony-faced, she made her selection and started to get ready.

She hadn’t brought a stick of make-up with her. But the personal shopper had seen to that, as well. A vanity case bearing the logo of a famous parfumier had been set out for her.

It took nearly all of the hour Theo had allocated her to do what she had to, and she did it with all the blankness she could summon to her aid. Then, with nothing more than a last, expressionless glance at her own reflection, she made her way downstairs.