Whatever Angelos Petrakos tried to do to her, he could not take that away. She was Thea Dauntry—and Kat Jones was gone for ever!
Yet, for all her resolution, it was hard—hideously hard—to pack an overnight case, lock her flat, and make her way, as she had been ordered, to his hotel. The same one, with vicious mockery, he had been staying at five long years ago—the same suite always reserved for him whenever he wanted to be in London.
Heart as heavy as lead, her mind studiedly, deliberately blank, she stepped inside the hotel, inside the revolving doors where, five long years ago, she had first set eyes on Angelos Petrakos. The man she hated with all her being and always would …
Angelos stared at the screen of his laptop. He wasn’t reading what was on it—his thoughts were elsewhere. Doing something they rarely did. Questioning himself. A frown creased his brow. Why was he doing this? Why should he care whether some unknown man ended up married to the likes of Kat Jones? He’d finished with her five years ago …
There was no need to do what he was doing.
No need to bring her here again.
His expression shifted minutely. Need was not the only driver for his decision, he knew. Something else was impelling him.
It was anger, that was all, he told himself. Anger that she was set on deceiving an innocent, trusting man who did not deserve it. Anger that she had dared to do so and saw nothing wrong in doing so. That was the only reason he was doing this.
He would allow it to be for no other reason.
Not because of her luminous beauty that drew the eye disturbingly … evocatively …
The soft tones of the house phone sounded. He glanced at his watch. The watch she had once stolen from him. Two minutes to nine. He picked up the phone. It was Reception. Kat Jones was right on time.
Thea was calm. She would not allow herself to be anything else. She was in lockdown. It was essential. Essential in order to be able to walk into the suite, to see Angelos Petrakos again. She stood quite still, like a statue, staring ahead while the bellboy set down her case and then left. Angelos was looking at her, she could see. She would not look at him. But she could feel his presence like a dark pressure all around her.
‘So …’ his voice incised into the silence, deep and accented ‘… have you given your lordling his release?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was dead. Unemotional.
‘Good. Well, by tomorrow morning he will be permanently safe from you—even if you reneged on your rejection of him and went after him again he would have no wish to take my mistress for his wife, would he?’
‘No.’ The same deadness was in her voice.
He paused. Then in measured tones he spoke again. ‘I am glad, Kat, that you understand that. There is no going back for you. Your ambitions in that direction are over. Permanently.’
He walked away from her, and from her eyeline she could see him cross to a drinks cabinet on the far side of the lavishly appointed suite. A terrifying surge of déjà vu suddenly swept over her, as if time had collapsed and she was once more standing here in that nightmare confrontation five years ago.
No! The lockdown on her mind tightened. No memories. None.
She made her eyes rest on him as he reached for a bottle and unstoppered it. She made herself look at him. Tall, powerful—brutal. Incised features, hard body, dark tanned skin, the darker hue of his black hair, the blacker shade of his handmade business suit—all created the aura he was projecting. Not a man to mess with, not a man to defy—not a man to cross.
A man she could only … survive.
‘What would you like to drink?’
The casual enquiry seemed at odds with the reality of the situation. As if there was anything sociable, anything normal in what she was doing here. Not like the grim, harsh truth of the situation.
‘Mineral water,’ she answered. Her voice was clipped. It sounded unreal, even to her, and she knew that she could still feel the shades of her once-rough accents haunting her. But that was Kat—and she was no longer Kat. She was Thea, and Thea spoke with pure Queen’s English. No one looked down on her socially any more.
‘Still or sparkling?’
‘I couldn’t care less,’ she replied indifferently.
He finished pouring and then came back towards her, a tumbler of malt whisky in one hand, a tall glass of mineral water in the other. She set her handbag down on the coffee table and took the glass he proffered. She still didn’t want to look at him, but she forced herself. She must not let him see she did not want to look at him. That would give him a satisfaction she must deny him. He would get nothing from her—no reaction at all.
Angelos Petrakos raised his tumbler.
‘To our time together,’ he said, and took a mouthful of the whisky. His eyes washed over her.
Thea’s mouth suddenly felt dry as bone. She wanted to drink, wanted to drop her eyes away from him. But she forced herself to do neither—forced herself to let him look. She was used to being looked at—it was her profession, hate it though she did.