The Secret Wife

Her teeth were chattering by the time she had finished washing. Constantine had used both threadbare towels and discarded them in a sodden heap on the floor. Presumably he was also responsible for the lack of hot water. Even Maurice was better trained as a housemate. She would have to get dressed to fetch her backpack upstairs and only then would she be able to put on fresh clothes. However, on her return to the bedroom, Rosie discovered that she couldn’t find a single item of the clothing which Constantine had unceremoniously ripped off.

Wrapped in a thin and embarrassingly small wet towel, Rosie hauled open the bedroom door and shouted at full volume, ‘Constantine!’

Sixty seconds passed. Her toes began to tap on the dull, unpolished wooden floor. She yelled again. Steps sounded on the stairs. Rosie smiled and folded her arms. But it was not Constantine. Dmitri had been sent to deal with her. Furious, Rosie ducked back behind the door to conceal her undressed state.

‘Mr Voulos is not accustomed to being hailed by a shout,’ Dmitri said in an apologetic whisper voiced in fluent English from the landing. ‘In fact that form of address puts him in a very bad mood.’

‘He’s never in anything else,’ Rosie grumbled.

‘He still feels the loss of Mr Estrada very deeply.’

That quiet, sobering reminder drained Rosie’s face of colour. No, she hadn’t made any allowances for the effects of grief on Constantine’s temperament, had she?

‘How may I help you, kiria?’ Dmitri prompted in the ringing silence.

‘It’s not important.’ Rosie closed the door again and sank down on the edge of the bed.

Since her father’s death she had been pretty bad-tempered too, and how many nights had she lain sleepless? Something would happen and she would want to tell Anton about it and then, once more, she would have to come to terms with the fact that he was no longer there to eagerly receive her every confidence and never would be again. After twenty years how much greater that sense of loss must be for Constantine... and surely it was all wrong that they still could not behave like civilised human beings with each other?

A maid knocked on the door and entered, almost staggering under the weight of the garment bags she was carrying. Laying her burden down on a chair, she left the room again. A split second later Constantine strode in with two leather cases.

‘Right, obviously you’re moving in here...when do I get my clothes back so that I can move out?’ Rosie demanded, but after her recent unsettling thoughts her tone was less tart than usual.

‘These are your clothes,’ Constantine responded. ‘I bought them between flights on my travels.’

Her fiery head tipped back. ‘Why would you buy me clothes?’

‘You have nothing appropriate to wear. Consider the new wardrobe a gift.’

Her green eyes glittered. ‘That’s very generous of you, Constantine...but I would prefer to have my own clothes returned.’

‘No. Why do you think I removed them?’

‘Removed them ... removed them? You ripped them off me!’

Constantine dealt her a dark, brooding appraisal, his sensual mouth compressing. ‘I find it distasteful that you should wear garments bought by another man.’

‘Actually I bought what I was wearing in the cheapest shop I could find in Palma.’

Anger burnished his black eyes. ‘You know very well what I am telling you. That dress you wore at the hotel...Anton purchased that, did he not?’

Rosie nodded with a bemused frown.

‘So I have made a clean sweep. Theos...I can do without the reminder that you were his woman first!’ Constantine completed in a positive snarl, enraged at being forced to explain his peculiar behaviour.

‘Apart from the fact that I am not any man’s woman—’

‘You are mine now.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Rosie breathed.

‘Anton gave you to me.’

‘Say that again,’ Rosie invited tremulously, outraged by that particular choice of words.

‘And if I am to accept that you are my responsibility I expect you to conform to my expectations and respect my wishes from now on.’

‘I don’t conform, Constantine.’