‘What do you expect?’ Lysander enquired with abrasive cool. ‘One minute we’re making love and the next you call a halt without warning and start trying
to stage an argument.’
Her indignation was increasing in direct proportion to his cold-blooded lack of concern. ‘You’ve got about as much feeling inside you as the rocks on the beach!’
‘But you have more than enough for both of us, glikia mou,’ Lysander countered, smooth as silk in his satire.
That retaliation struck Ophelia like a sobering slap. He could not have made it clearer that he didn’t care how she felt. How could she have slept with a guy willing to treat her like this? A hurricane of stormy emotion clawed at her. On some level she suspected that if she paused for thought and actually faced what she was feeling it might destroy her. She had ignored her misgivings, turned her back on what she knew to be right and succumbed to the temptation he offered. So if she couldn’t resist Lysander, did that make her one bit better than the women who couldn’t resist him or his wealth?
‘Your jacket smells of a woman’s perfume,’ Ophelia told him resolutely. She was giving him one more chance to explain himself without knowing when she had made the decision to give him an extra opportunity, which he most certainly did not deserve.
Handsome head at an imperious angle, dark, deep-set gaze stony, Lysander lifted and dropped a shoulder in a fluid shrug that just roared bone-deep stubborn insolence. ‘I don’t do scenes like this.’
All fired up and desperate to hear him assure her that her suspicions were wildly off beam, Ophelia could not believe that that was all he was prepared to offer her in the way of explanation. ‘You don’t do-?’
‘I don’t accept being shouted at either,’ Lysander delivered icily.
‘If you imagine that that was a shout, I wouldn’t like to think how you would react to the genuine article.’ Flushed and rigid, Ophelia rested defiant blue eyes on him and tilted her chin. She would have no peace of mind until she knew the worst and had never ducked bad news in her life. ‘Were you with someone else last night? I have the right to know.’
Lysander dealt her a smouldering appraisal. ‘You have the right to nothing.’
Her slender hands snapped into tight fists by her side. ‘Oh, yes, I do. We’re married. If you’d kept it platonic and everything was fake, then I wouldn’t have the right to question you like this. But you wouldn’t settle for that arrangement,’ she reminded him fiercely. ‘So, either this is a marriage or it isn’t. You can’t have it both ways.’
‘No comment.’
It was the last straw for Ophelia. She lifted the water carafe by the bed and chucked it at him. She didn’t think about doing it, she simply closed her hand round the glass bottle and slung it with all her might. He ducked, which infuriated her, and the glass smashed against the wall, sending pieces of glass and drops of water flying in all directions.
‘I need a shower,’ Lysander imparted with hauteur. ‘Hopefully you’ll have calmed down by the time I reappear, yineka mou.’
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Ophelia advised shakily.
In the smouldering silence, Lysander removed his jacket and tossed it on the bed. He was furious with her. How dared she start ranting and raving and throwing things at him? He couldn’t believe it, but he had married a bunny-boiler! He would have dumped her if he weren’t married to her. Although he wouldn’t have dumped her until she had apologised. No, he thought with seething fury, not until he had her in his bed begging for release or on her knees pleading for forgiveness.
‘These rooms say all there is to know about your attitude to women,’ Ophelia condemned in a driven rush of pent-up feeling. ‘You just use us with contempt.’
Lysander swung round. Metallic eyes landed on her like lightning rods. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘The designer clothes in multi-sizes in the wardrobes. Payment for services received?’ she questioned in a voice that was very close to breaking, stark strain etched in her fragile bone structure. ‘You don’t treat women like equals. You keep them at a distance. You prefer to buy sex or should I call it…rewarding your lovers with very expensive presents?’
Lysander was incensed by that indictment of his character. ‘The rich are expected to be generous. I like my guests to enjoy themselves. I won’t apologise for that.’
Ophelia compressed her lips. ‘I-’
‘Be careful how you refer to my sexual partners when you’re one of them and when you’ve cost me much more than any other woman in the short time I’ve known you,’ Lysander drawled in sardonic continuance.
His derision was unconcealed. Ophelia was frozen to the spot by the mortifying truth of his retort. The angry colour bled out from beneath her complexion. ‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be’ had been one of her grandmother’s favourite maxims, because once those lines were blurred obligations were formed. And Ophelia was all too well aware that she had put herself in hock to Lysander through the household bills for Madrigal Court that he’d paid, the repairs he had instigated and also through the clothes and the jewellery he had bought her.
‘But I didn’t even want to know you, never mind marry you and be stuck out here on your stupid island,’ Ophelia whispered tightly, fighting very hard to retain her self-control while rage and tears burned the backs of her eyes. ‘Away from my home, from Haddock and my garden…’
‘Ripping me off for every penny you can get does entail some sacrifice,’ Lysander dropped in with withering cool.
Forced to recall the angry words she had hurled on their wedding day, Ophelia registered that for every action there was a reaction when Lysander was concerned. He hit back hard-and he had just hit back with the hardest blow ever when she’d felt horribly vulnerable. The bathroom door closed. She dived on his jacket and sniffed at the expensive material like a bloodhound. But the elusive scent of the famous designer perfume was unmistakable and could only have been acquired by very close contact.
Her stomach lurching, Ophelia shivered violently. Lysander was perfectly capable of making love to two women in one day. According to Pamela, Lysander’s libido was the stuff of legend in the tabloids. She closed her eyes tight. He had had sex with another woman. Stark, unwelcome imagery attacked her imagination. She broke out in a sweat when she found herself inadvertently picturing his lean brown body erotically entwined with a sinuous brunette. In fact she felt so nauseous that she had to sit down and lower her head in an effort to overcome the sickness. Was the woman his mistress? Naturally he wouldn’t answer her questions when he was guilty as charged. He wouldn’t defend himself, make excuses or apologise or promise that it would never happen again. He believed that he had every right to do as he liked.
So why did she feel as if someone had plunged a skewer through her heart? Why was she shaking all over like an accident victim? Why was there this giant agonised pain inside her? After all, wasn’t Lysander behaving exactly as any sane and intelligent woman could have forecast? One woman at a time-fidelity-was not the Metaxis way. She knew that better than anyone. Aristide Metaxis had never restricted himself to a single partner either and growing up with that example within his own home must have made its mark on Lysander, his son.
Ophelia forced herself upright again. It was the wrong moment to get bogged down in analysing emotions that had no bearing whatsoever on her plight. It was practicalities she had to deal with. She was so angry with him for hurting and humiliating her that she was trembling like a leaf. But she was already working out what she had to do to break free, as there was no way that she would allow Lysander to betray her trust. She wondered when money had begun to seem so important to her that she had decided to do wrong in the belief that it would cause no harm and indeed bring about a greater good. The sensible way out of her predicament seemed both clear and simple.