What the Greek Can't Resist
No. Never in a thousand years would he bring himself to touch her. They’d come together in a moment he’d thought was sacred, monumentally divine. Instead, it’d turned out to be a tawdry roll in the hay for her.
‘Hello...Arion. I’m guessing your surname is Pantelides.’ Green eyes searched his with wariness.
‘And I now know your full name is Perla Lowell. So tell me, what role are you playing here now? Because we both know the grieving widow routine is just a front, don’t we? Perhaps you’re silently amused because you have saucy underwear underneath that staid black?’
She gasped, an expression that looked shockingly like deep hurt flashing across her face.
Theos, how utterly convincing she was. But not convincing enough to make him forget he’d nearly lost his mind hanging on for dear life as she rode him with merciless enthusiasm a little over forty-eight hours ago.
‘How dare you?’ She finally found her voice, even though it shook with her words.
‘Very easily. I was the guy you were screwing when you should’ve been home mourning your husband. Now what the hell do you want?’
Her complexion had paled but then her skin was translucent thanks to her colouring. And yes, his words had been cruel, deliberately so. But she’d sullied his own memory of what the date had meant to him for ever.
And that he found hard to forgive.
‘I was going to apologise for the...um...small deception. And to thank you for your discretion. But I see I needn’t have bothered. You’re nothing but a vile, bitter man, one who sees nothing wrong in bringing further pain and anguish on an already difficult day. So if you were truly on your way out of here, I guess the only thing I have to say is good riddance.’
Ari hardened his heart against the words. She was in the wrong here, not him. She was clearly deluded if she thought he had something to be ashamed of. Turning, he yanked the back door open.
Before he slid in, he glanced at her one last time. ‘Have fun revelling in your role of grieving widow. But when the crowd is gone and you think of reprising your other role, be sure to stay away from Macdonald Hall. Before the hour’s out, I intend to supply the management with your name and ensure you’re never allowed to set foot in there again.’
* * *
Fugue state.
Perla was sure that perfectly described her condition as she drifted through the wake, shaking hands, accepting condolences and agreeing that yes, Morgan had been a lovely man and a generous husband. On occasion, she even smiled at a distant uncle or great-aunt’s fond anecdote.
The part of her that had reeled at Ari Pantelides’s scathing condemnation an hour ago had long been suppressed under a blanket of fierce denial with Do Not Disturb signs hammered all over it.
At the time, she’d barely been able to contain the belief that he thought her some kind of scarlet woman or a trollop who frequented bars in the hope of landing a hot body for the night.
She audibly choked at the thought.
Mrs Clinton, who’d faithfully stuck by her side once they’d returned to the house she’d shared with Morgan and now shared with his parents, gave her a firm rub on the back. ‘You’re almost there, dear girl. Give it another half hour and I’ll start dropping heavy hints that you should be left alone. Enough is enough.’
She glanced at the old dear’s face. Perla had never confided the true state of her marriage with Mrs Clinton, or anyone for that matter. The very thought of it made humiliation rise like a tide inside her.
But she’d long suspected that the older woman somehow knew. Seeing the sympathy in her old rheumy eyes, Perla felt tears well up in hers.
Suddenly, as if the bough had broken, she couldn’t stop the tide of hot, gulping tears that rose from deep inside.
‘Oh, my dear.’ Warm arms hugged her, providing the solace she’d been so cruelly denied throughout her marriage. The solace she’d imagined she’d found in a luxury penthouse suite three days ago, but had turned out to be another cruel illusion.
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t...I didn’t mean to...’
‘Nonsense! You have every right to do whatever you want on a day like this. Propriety be damned.’
Hysterical laughter bubbled up from her throat but she quickly smothered it. When a glass containing a caramel-coloured liquid that smelled suspiciously like brandy appeared in front of her, she glanced up.
The exquisitely beautiful woman who’d introduced herself as Brianna Moneypenny, soon-to-be Brianna Pantelides, held out the drink, sympathy shining from her expertly made-up eyes.