Painted the Other Woman

Shock detonated through her. He saw it in her face. Felt a savage pleasure in it. As savage as the anger that had been leashed tight within him. Now it was unleashed. He’d had to unleash it, to let it serve its purpose. An anger whose cause he would not name. Refused to name.

Because to name it would be to give it power. Power over him. Power he would not allow.

Could not allow ….

She clutched at the curved arm of the sofa, as if without its support she would crumple and fall. Shock was still etched across her face.

‘You won’t be seeing him again,’ he told her. ‘He’s going to be working out of Athens from now on. I’m transferring him to my headquarters there.’

He’d finalised the transfer while they’d been on St Cecile—it had been the obvious thing to do, he’d realised. Get Ian out of London, keep him in Athens under his watchful and suspicious eyes. Ian Randall wouldn’t be lining up any adulterous affairs under the nose of his wife’s husband. Athan knew that for a certainty.

He watched how the news was going down with Marisa. His own face was still a mask. It had to be. He must not crack now—not when he’d achieved his goal. His purpose.

He had to focus on standing there, his muscles tensed. It was as if he had suddenly put on a suit of steel, banded tightly around him, keeping him motionless, immobile.

Because if he didn’t—if he didn’t keep his body leashed in steel—then he would surge forward, clip his arms around her, draw her to him, hold her close against him tightly, so tightly—

Marisa’s expression worked—as if she were trying to cling to something, anything, that might make sense. Sense in a tidal wave of unreality …

‘You have? But Ian doesn’t work for you … ‘

It was a pointless thing to say—the least relevant—but the words fell from her lips all the same. Shock was ricocheting around inside her.

How does he know about Ian?

She heard him give a brief, hard laugh. There was no humour in it. Then it cut out abruptly.

‘Of course he works for me.’

‘No! He’s marketing director of a company—’

‘One of my subsidiaries.’

Her mouth opened, then closed. She had to make sense of this—somehow she had to make sense of this. She seized on the biggest thing she could not understand—out of all that she could not understand. Her mind was reeling.

‘

But why do you care about Ian and me? What does it matter to you, even if you do employ him indirectly? What harm is it to you?’

The questions tumbled from her—bewildered—accusatory. He felt his anger lash out again.

Anger at so much. Anger at Ian for what he was doing to Eva. Anger that he’d been landed in this mess to try and sort it out. Anger that sorting it out meant doing what he was doing now to Marisa.

I don’t want to do this to her!

The thought burned across his brain. But there was no point to it. None. He had to do what he must—say what he had to. He lurched forward, his hands going around her elbows, his grip like steel.

‘Because Eva Randall—’ his voice was like steel wire ‘—Eva Randall is my sister!’

He watched her face whiten. Felt the steel bite into him, tighter yet.

‘I didn’t know.’ Her voice was a whisper. Her eyes were distended.

He gave another harsh, humourless laugh. Because the universe was mocking him—mocking the scene he had to play out to the bitter, painful end. Because ending it was all he could do now.

‘Why would he tell you?’ he countered, forcing himself to speak. ‘Why would he tell you what was no concern of yours? I knew he hadn’t told you from the moment I introduced myself to you—the moment you saw my name on my business card. I’d gambled that he hadn’t and it paid off.’

His voice changed suddenly, and as it did Marisa felt a new emotion slither through the disbelieving shock that was shaking her like an earthquake.