Painted the Other Woman

Then, with an abrupt turn on his heel, he strode down to his own apartment, and went inside.

He had made it to first base with her, just as he’d planned. Now it was a question of taking it to the next stage.

The idea he’d had during dinner flared again in his head. It was attractive, simple, decisive—and it would sever her, unquestionably from Ian Randall, in the shortest possible time.

He was quite some distance from it yet—there was more preparation to do. A lot more. But when it was complete Marisa Milburne would never be available to his brother-in-law again.

‘Aren’t you going to open it?’

Athan’s voice held its familiar note of faint amusement as she stared down at the envelope he’d placed in front of her at their table in the restaurant. Marisa knew that tone of voice by now. It made him sound as if he found her behaviour funny but he chose to indulge it. Chose to indulge the way she behaved with him.

As if what was happening wasn’t happening at all. As if she hadn’t for the past two weeks held him at arm’s length. Not that he’d tried to close the distance. She had to allow him that—and be appreciative of it. Of course if he had tried to close the distance she would have bolted instantly. Of course she would! If he’d made a move on her, flirted with her, come on to her, she’d have backed away—retreated out of reach.

But he hadn’t. For a start, for several days after their theatre date she hadn’t even set eyes on him. Well, that was understandable. It had been the weekend, and he’d probably gone back to Athens. Or spent his time with someone else.

Who else?

The moment she’d asked the question, she had supplied the answer. A woman, of course—someone svelte, glamorous and gorgeous. A supermodel, a high-powered career woman, a glittering socialite … her mind had run through the possibilities. Not someone like her—a quiet, provincial girl who didn’t move in the kind of circles a man like him would move in. She was someone he’d taken to the theatre on the spur of the moment because he’d had no one else to take to such a play, and that was all. Not that she was asking for more—of course she wasn’t. But it was as well to face the facts—a female who lived on her own, didn’t go out anywhere, and was new to London didn’t usually get to hang out with sinfully good-looking Greek tycoons.

The theatre date had been a one-off. That was the obvious conclusion. And the one she’d wanted. Hadn’t she? Of course she had—hadn’t she spent the whole evening reminding herself he was a complete stranger?

Except when she’d got back home in her flat again she’d realised she’d enjoyed the evening. Not just because it had been so nice to go to the theatre with someone else, but because his company had been so good. Oh, not only because he was so ludicrously good looking, but because it had been interesting to talk to him, to exchange views on the play with him. It had been mentally stimulating, and the discussion they’d had still buzzed in her head.

Spending that weekend on her own—she had accepted she could never see Ian at the weekends, for that was the time he spent with his wife—had brought home to her just how isolated she felt here in London, however easy and luxurious her life. Her resolve to get some sort of voluntary work, try and make friends, had strengthened, and on the Monday she’d headed for the nearest charity shop and enquired about volunteering. Then she’d investigated dance classes nearby, and signed up for those as well. But her good mood had been dashed later that day, when Ian had phoned. Yet again he wouldn’t be able to meet her. He hadn’t even known when he could be free to see her again—maybe later that week, maybe not.

He’d been apologetic, she’d been understanding. Of course she had. His job was demanding, especially at the moment, and there were a lot more demands on his time than work—including from his wife. That was understandable. It was all understandable.

But as he’d rung off, having cancelled yet another lunch-time with her, she’d felt depression pluck at her. When the phone had rung again, a little while later, and a deep accented voice had spoken, she’d felt her spirits lift in reaction.

‘This is completely on the off chance,’ Athan Teodarkis’s distinctively accented voice had said, ‘but would you have any interest in seeing Hamlet at the National? Or have you already been?’

‘I’d love to!’ she said immediately.

His voice warmed. ‘Excellent. Would Thursday suit?’

For a moment Marisa hesitated. Thursday was usually the evening that Ian was able to meet her without arousing his wife’s suspicions. Eva went to her book club that day and wouldn’t be aware he’d returned late, or would accept that he’d just been at the office. But his phone call earlier had already warned her that this week he really would be stuck at the office, burning the midnight oil on a complex deal he was closely involved with.

He’ll probably be relieved if I make another arrangement. He won’t feel bad about not being able to see me, she reasoned.

A second later she gave Athan Teodarkis his answer.

The answer he wanted, the answer he’d intended to extract from her. He’d deliberately let her cool her heels over the weekend, knowing that Ian Randall never saw her at that time. For once—Athan’s lip curled—he’d be playing the devoted husband.

But with the weekend over he’d known he needed to target Marisa Milburne again, and continue with his strategy to part her from her married swain.

As with the Chekov, Hamlet was followed by dinner, over which their discussion of the production predominated. Yet again Marisa made sure she was wearing the kind of outfit that wouldn’t scream Find me attractive! and yet again Athan Teodarkis behaved scrupulously towards her, bidding her a chaste goodnight at her door once again.

Expecting another solitary weekend, Marisa was surprised when her doorbell sounded just before midday the following Sunday

‘It’s a glorious sunny day—can I persuade you to lunch at the Belvedere in Holland Park?’ Athan Teodarkis invited.

Her face lit. ‘Oh, that sounds wonderful! I’ve never been there.’

He smiled—that increasingly familiar quirking of his well-shaped mouth. ‘Then I must definitely take you. It’s memorable.’

She took a breath. ‘This time it’s on me. I insist you must be my guest for a change.’

His expression stilled. For a moment Marisa thought she had offended him. Then, his eyes still veiled, he gave a distinct shake of his head.