Her Greek Groom

I got off lightly, she told herself. But she knew in her heart that it wasn’t true.

When she was dressed, she looked at herself and winced. All those carefully chosen garments—the business suit and prim shirt—had been worn as armour, yet they’d proved no protection at all.

She went back to her flat and changed into a plain black shift, sleeveless and severe, stuffing the discarded clothing into a refuse sack. She never wanted to see any of it again. She thrust her bare feet into sandals and grabbed a simple cream linen jacket before going down to her car.

It was a nightmare journey, a battle between her need to concentrate on the road and the storm of bewildered emotion within her. But at last she reached the hospital.

In one piece, but only just, she thought grimly.

As she waited for the lift to take her up to the ICU, she was waylaid by a nurse.

‘Your father’s been moved, Miss Fielding. He’s made such good progress over the last twenty-four hours that he’s in a private room on “A” wing now.’

‘You mean he’s getting better? But that’s wonderful.’ Cressy’s mouth trembled into a relieved smile. ‘Because he looked so ill when I was here last.’

‘Oh, he’s still being carefully monitored, but everyone’s very pleased with him.’ The older woman beamed. ‘Mind you, I think all the goodies he’s been receiving—the fruit and flowers from Mrs Fielding—have cheered him up a lot.’

‘Eloise has sent fruit and flowers?’ Cressy repeated incredulously.

‘Well, there wasn’t an actual card, but he said they must be from her. He was so thrilled.’ She paused. ‘Is Mrs Fielding not with you today? What a shame.’

When she reached her father’s room, it looked like a florist’s window.

As she paused in the doorway, admiring the banks of blooms, James Fielding turned an eager head towards her, his welcoming smile fading when he saw who it was.

‘Cressy, my dear.’ He spoke with an effort, failing to mask the disappointment in his voice. ‘How good to see you.’

‘You look marvellous, Daddy.’ She went to the bed and kissed his cheek. ‘I’ve never seen so many flowers. I’d have brought some, but they didn’t allow them in ICU, and now everyone else has beaten me to it.’ She was aware she was chattering, trying to cover up the awkward moment. Attempting to hide the instinctive hurt provoked by his reaction.

He didn’t want it to be me, she thought with desolation. He hoped it was Eloise. That she’d come back to him.

‘Those lilies and carnations over there, and the fruit basket, came without a card,’ her father said eagerly. ‘But I think I know who they’re from.’ He smiled tenderly. ‘In fact, I’m sure. I just wish she’d signed her name. But perhaps she felt diffident about that—under the circumstances.’

Diffident? Cressy wanted to scream. Eloise hasn’t an insecure bone in her body.

Instead, she forced a smile as she sat down beside his bed. ‘Yes—perhaps…’

He played with the edge of the sheet, frowning a little. ‘Has she been in contact—left any message at all?’

Cressy shook her head. ‘There’s been nothing. Daddy. Don’t you think I’d have told you?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said with a touch of impatience. ‘Certainly there’s never been any love lost between you.’

‘Well, that’s unimportant now.’ She put a hand over his. ‘All that matters is that you get well.’

‘The consultant says I can go home soon, if I keep up this progress. But he wants me to have a live-in nurse for a while. He feels it will be too much for Berry.’

His frown deepened. ‘I wasn’t sure that my insurance covered private nursing, but he says it’s all taken care of.’ He paused. ‘What I need to know is—do I still have a home to go to?’

She said gently, ‘Yes, you have, darling. I’ve managed to do a deal with your creditors. You can go on living at the house.’

He nodded. ‘That’s good. I’d have hated Eloise to find the place all shut up, or occupied by strangers, and not know where to find me. Because it won’t last—this Alec Caravas thing. She’s had her head turned by a younger man, that’s all.’

Cressy’s lips parted in a silent gasp of incredulity. For a moment she could feel the blood drumming in her ears and felt physically sick.

Was that really his only concern—providing a bolt-hole for his worthless wife—if she chose to return? Didn’t he realise she’d been Alec Caravas’s full accomplice—and that the police would want to interview her if she ever dared show her face again?

She’d expected her father to ask all sorts of awkward questions about the exact accommodation she’d reached over his debts, but he didn’t seem remotely interested. Instead he just took it for granted that she’d managed to get things sorted.

Just as he’d tacitly accepted the estrangement between them that Eloise had imposed, she realised with a sudden ache of the heart.

And he would never have any conception of the terrible personal price she’d been forced to pay on his behalf.

I’ve ruined my life to get him out of trouble, Cressy thought with anguish. And he doesn’t even care. Nothing matters except this obsession with Eloise.

She got clumsily to her feet. ‘I—I’d better go. I promised the nurses I wouldn’t tire you.’

‘Perhaps it would be best.’ He leaned back against his pillows, reaching for the radio headphones.

She took a deep breath. ‘But there’s something I must tell you first. I—I have to go abroad very soon—to work. It’s a special contract. It may take a few months.’

‘Well, that’s excellent news.’ His smile held some of the old warmth. ‘I hope it means more money—or a promotion. You deserve it, you know.’

She said quietly, ‘I’m not sure what I deserve any more. And I’m not certain if I should go—if I should leave you.’

‘Nonsense, darling. Of course you must go. We both have our own lives to lead. We can’t be dependent on each other. And the last thing I want is you fussing round me. Berry and this nurse will be bad enough.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re probably right. I—I’ll see you tomorrow.’

She went quietly to the door and let herself out. In the corridor, she stopped and leaned against the wall, aware that her legs were shaking so badly she thought she might collapse. She closed her eyes as a scalding tear forced its way under her lid and down her cheek.

She thought brokenly, Oh, Daddy…

‘Miss Fielding—is something wrong?’ A nurse’s anxious voice invaded her torturous thoughts.

Cressy straightened quickly. ‘No—it’s all right.’ She tried a little laugh. ‘I think the worry of the past few days has just caught up with me, that’s all.’

‘I’m not surprised. Oh, and talking of surprises…’ The girl felt in the pocket of her uniform. ‘You know the fruit and flowers that arrived for your father with no name on them? Well, they’ve just found this card in Reception. It must have fallen off when the delivery was made.’ She beamed. ‘One mystery solved.’ She lowered her voice significantly. ‘Although I think he was hoping they were from Mrs Fielding.’

Cressy held out her hand. ‘May I look?’

The signature was a slash of black ink across the rectangle of pasteboard. ‘Draco Viannis.’

She wasn’t even surprised. She closed her hand on the card, feeling its sharp edges dig into her palm. Wanting it to hurt. Needing a visible scar to counterbalance all the inner pain.

She said quietly, ‘Thank you. I’ll—see that he gets it. Now, is it possible for me to have a word with the consultant?’

She didn’t go straight back to the house. There was a National Trust property a few miles away, whose grounds were open to the public. There was an Elizabethan knot garden, and a lake with swans, and Cressy had always loved it there.

She found an unoccupied bench and sat, gazing across the sunlit waters with eyes that saw nothing and a heart without peace.

Her father had needed her, she thought, so she’d turned her back on the love that Draco was offering and gone running to him. She’d wanted, just once more, to be the cherished only daughter—to bask in the old relationship. To be important to him again.

But that was always going to be impossible, she realised wearily. Because they were not the same people any longer. Life had moved on for both of them.

So why this last vain attempt to cling on to her childhood?

She looked down at her hands, clenched in her lap. She remembered other hands, dark against her pale skin, and shivered.

She thought, Was I really so afraid of becoming a woman? Was that the true reason I ran away from Draco?

Under the circumstances, her reluctance to face the challenge of her own sexuality was ironic. Because Draco himself had changed all that in one brief, but very succinct lesson.

And now she was left stranded, between his desire for revenge and her father’s indifference.

I’ve wrecked everything, she told herself desolately. Sacrificed the only chance of real happiness I’ve ever been offered.

But she couldn’t let herself think about that, or she would break down completely. And she had to be strong to get through the next few weeks or months, living on the edge of Draco’s life. Strong enough, too, to walk away with her head high when it was over.

And before that she had other problems to deal with.

Her father might be too preoccupied with the loss of his wife to question this ‘job abroad’ too closely, but her aunt and uncle might not be so incurious. They would want a full explanation, and she couldn’t imagine what she would say to them—or to Berry, who would find it unthinkable for her to leave her father in this way.

And how could she explain why her father’s debts were now in abeyance, and the house reprieved, without mentioning the precise terms of her ‘contract’ with Draco?

Her conversation with the consultant had been uncomfortably revealing. Over the years her father’s health cover had been reduced to a minimum. The top-grade private room he was occupying, and the services of the live-in nurse, were being paid for by Draco.

‘I thought you knew and approved, Miss Fielding,’ the consultant had told her, frowning. ‘He described himself as a close friend of the family.’

‘Yes,’ she’d said, dry-mouthed. ‘Yes, of course.’

It seemed there was not a part of her life that Draco didn’t control. And the fact that in this instance his influence was totally benign somehow made it no better.

Oh, God, she thought. It’s all such a mess.

And began, soundlessly and uncontrollably, to cry until she had no more tears left.

It was the sudden chill of the evening breeze across the lake and the clang of the bell announcing that the grounds were closing that eventually roused her from her unhappy reverie.

It was more than time she was getting back. Berry would have dinner waiting for her and would be worried about her non-appearance, she thought, sighing, as she returned reluctantly to her car.

The hall lights were on when she let herself into the house, but there was no sign of the housekeeper—or of dinner either. No place laid in the dining room or welcoming aroma of food in the air. Just—silence.

She called, ‘Berry—I’m home,’ and waited, but there was no response.

Maybe she’d gone into the garden, to pick some last-minute fruit for dessert or bring in some washing, Cressy thought, subduing an unwelcome tingle of apprehension.

She walked to the drawing room door, twisted the handle, and went in.

Draco was standing beside the fireplace, one arm resting on the mantelshelf as he stared down at the empty grate. He turned slightly, the dark eyes narrowing as Cressy paused in the doorway, her hand going to her throat in shock.

He said softly, ‘So here you are at last, agapi mou. I have been waiting for you.’

She said shakily, ‘So I see. Where’s Berry? What’s happened to her?’

His brows lifted. ‘Naturally, I have murdered her and buried her body under the lawn,’ he returned caustically. ‘Or so you seem to think.’

She bit her lip. ‘I don’t think anything of the kind,’ she denied curtly, aware that her heart was hammering in a totally unwelcome way at the sight of him. But then he’d startled her—hadn’t he?

‘I was just a little anxious about her,’ she added defensively.

‘So many anxieties about so many people.’ His smile did not reach his eyes. ‘What a caring heart you have, my golden girl. The truth is that I gave your Mrs Berryman the evening off. I believe she means to go to a cinema.’

‘You gave Berry the evening off?’ She stared at him, open-mouthed. ‘And she agreed?’

His mouth twisted. ‘She was a little reluctant at first, but I can be very persuasive.’

‘To hell with your powers of persuasion,’ Cressy lifted her chin. ‘You had no right to do anything of the sort.’

‘I have all kinds of rights, Cressida mou.’ His tone hardened. ‘And I mean to enjoy all of them.’ He held out a hand. ‘Now come and welcome me properly.’

Mutinously, she walked forward and stood in front of him. When he kissed her she stood unmoving, un-responding to the warm, sensuous pressure of his lips on hers.

After a moment, he drew back.

‘Sulking?’ he asked. ‘What’s the matter? Did I hurt you, perhaps, this morning?’

Colour rushed into her face. She stared down at the carpet. ‘I don’t know.’

He said, ‘Look at me, matia mou. Look at me and say that.’

Cressy raised her eyes unwillingly to him. His smile was faintly mocking, but there was an odd watchfulness in his gaze which she found unnerving.

She said, ‘No—no, you didn’t. As you know quite well.’

‘Where you are concerned, my beautiful one, I suspect I know very little.’ His tone was dry. ‘But I am glad you did not find your first surrender too much of an ordeal.’

She threw her head back defiantly. ‘Your words, kyrie. Not mine. And now perhaps you’d tell me what you’re doing here.’

‘I thought I should pay a visit,’ he said. ‘To make sure that all was well with my property.’ He paused. ‘But I see it is not.’ He took her chin in his hand, studying her, ignoring her gasp of outrage. ‘You have been crying, pethi mou. Why?’

‘Do you really need to ask that?’ She freed herself stormily and stepped back. ‘Or did you imagine I’d be turning cartwheels for joy because the mighty Draco Viannis had sex with me today.’

His mouth tightened. ‘Would you have wept if Draco the fisherman had taken you that day on Myros?’

‘He didn’t exist,’ she said. ‘So how can I know?’

‘You could always—pretend.’

She shook her head. ‘There’s been too much pretence already. Now we have a business arrangement.’

‘Ah, yes,’ he said softly. He removed his jacket, tossed it over the arm of one of the sofas and sat down, loosening his tie.

He smiled at her. ‘Then perhaps you would take off your dress—strictly in the line of business.’

Her skin warmed again, hectically. ‘My—dress?’

‘To begin with.’ His tie followed the jacket, and he began, unhurriedly, to unbutton his shirt.

She said, ‘You—you actually expect me to strip for you?’

‘It is hardly a novelty.’ His tone was dry. ‘After all, Cressida mou, the first time I saw your beautiful breasts it was your own idea.’

Her voice trembled. ‘I—hate you.’

He laughed. ‘That should add an extra dimension to the way you remove your clothes, my lovely one. I cannot wait.’

She said, ‘But someone might come…’

He grinned at her. ‘More than one, I hope, agapi mou.’

To her fury, she realised she was blushing again. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And why do you think I gave the housekeeper leave of absence? Precisely so we should not be disturbed. Now, will you take off your dress, or do you wish me to do it for you?’

‘No.’ Her voice was a thread. ‘I’ll do it.’

She unfastened the long zip, slid the dress from her shoulders and let it pool round her feet.

‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘If we’d been married, would you have degraded me like this?’

‘And if we’d been on our honeymoon, Cressida mou, would you have expected either of us to remain fully clothed for very long?’

‘You,’ she said bitterly, ‘have an answer for everything.’

‘And you, my lovely one, talk too much.’ Draco leaned back, watching her through half-closed eyes. ‘Now take off the rest—but slowly.’

They lay together on the thick rug in front of the fireplace, his hands making a long, lingering voyage of rediscovery.

This time, she thought fiercely, she wouldn’t let it happen. She wouldn’t become some mindless—thing, subject to his every sexual whim. She had a will of her own and she would use it.

But it wasn’t easy. Not when he was kissing her slowly and deeply, his tongue a flame against her own. Not when her breasts were in his hands and the tight buds of her nipples were unfurling slowly under his caress. Or when he was stroking her flanks, cupping the roundness of her buttocks in his palms.

And not when she needed him so desperately, so crazily, to touch her—there—at the very core of her womanhood.

He whispered against her lips. ‘This time you have to ask, agapi mou. You have to tell me what you want.’

Her voice cracked. ‘Draco—please…’

‘Not good enough, my sweet one. Is it this?’ He kissed her breasts, taking each soft, scented mound into his mouth in turn.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘No. Oh, God…’

‘Or this?’ His fingertips brushed her intimately, as lightly as a butterfly kiss and as fleeting.

Her only answer was a soft, involuntary whimper of yearning.

‘Or even—this?’ His voice sank to a whisper as he bent his head and his mouth found her.

She cried out, and for a moment her body went rigid, all her inhibitions rearing up in shock.

But her one prim attempt to push him away was unavailing. He simply captured her wrists in one strong hand and did exactly as he wanted.

Which, Cressy realised, as her whole body began to shake in sudden wanton delight, was exactly what she wanted too.

The last vestiges of control were dissolving under the warm, subtle flicker of his tongue. She was going wild, her head twisting from side to side, the breath bursting hoarsely from her lungs. Pleasure was filling her like a dark flame, driving her to the limits of her endurance. And beyond.

Her whole being seemed to splinter in a rapture so intense she thought she might die.

As awareness slowly returned, she realised she was kissing him, her parted lips clinging to his in abandoned greed. She had marked him too, she saw. There were small crescents on the smooth skin of his shoulders that her nails had scored in those final fainting seconds.

She felt bewildered—and ashamed that her resistance could be so easily and swiftly destroyed. And she was angry, too, because she didn’t want to be Draco’s creature, locked into this—sexual thrall.

He raised his head and looked down at her.

He said, his voice slurred, ‘I couldn’t concentrate at my meeting for thinking of your loveliness—your sweetness. I should be at a dinner tonight with a group of other bankers, but I had to find you—to be with you…’

She turned her head, avoiding his gaze. ‘Am I supposed to be grateful?’

‘No,’ he said with sudden harshness. ‘Just willing.’

He lifted her hips towards him, and smoothly and expertly joined his body to hers.

She could not fight him physically—she was no match for his hard, virile muscularity—but she could close her mind against him. Force herself to lie passive and unresponsive beneath him—refuse herself the delicious agony of consummation that his powerful body was offering her once more. That, she discovered with shock, her own sated flesh was incredibly, impossibly eager to accept.

And Draco knew what she was doing. Because he too was holding back, deliberately tempting her to abandon her self-denial and join him on the path to their mutual delight.

His mouth touched hers, softly, coaxingly, then brushed her closed eyelids. His lips tugged at the lobe of her ear and explored the vulnerable pulse in her throat. He whispered her name almost pleadingly against her breast.

And, in spite of everything, her iron resolve was beginning to falter, her aroused body making demands she could no longer ignore.

But Draco’s patience had cracked too. He was no longer teasing, or even very gentle. Instead, he was driving himself with a kind of grim determination towards his own climax.

At its height, he cried out something in his own language, his voice harsh, almost broken.

When it was over, he rolled away from her and lay, one arm covering his eyes, as his rasping breath slowly returned to normal.

Cressy sat up slowly, pushing her hair from her eyes. She supposed she had scored a small victory, but it seemed a barren, sterile thing, especially when her newly awakened body was aching for the fulfilment she’d spurned.

She felt cold, and a little frightened. She didn’t dare look at him, or say anything, even when, a long time later, he got to his feet and walked to the sofa and his discarded clothing. A brooding silence enclosed them both.

At last he said, ‘You made me use you. Why?’

She said, ‘I assumed you wished to be repaid for my father’s medical bills. You can’t always choose the currency.’

He whispered something under his breath, and the controlled violence of it made her flinch. He picked up her dress and tossed it to her. ‘Cover yourself.’

She slipped it over her head, but didn’t fasten it. She didn’t trust her shaking hands to deal with the zip.

He was fully dressed when he spoke again, his tone clipped, remote. ‘You will find food in the kitchen. I brought a hamper from London. There is chicken, and champagne and peaches.’

She ran her tongue across her dry lips. ‘Aren’t you hungry?’

‘I find I do not wish to eat with you,’ he returned curtly. ‘Besides, I think it best if I go before I do something I shall regret.’

He walked to the door and she followed him, barefoot, holding the slipping dress against her.

She said, her voice faltering a little, ‘Did you drive yourself here? I didn’t see another car.’

‘I parked at the back of the house. The housekeeper directed me.’

‘In my father’s place?’ Her voice rose. ‘Oh, God, how could she do such a thing?’

‘Because, unlike you, Cressida mou, she seems able to accept that I am the master here now.’

Hurt exploded inside her, and an odd sense of desolation.

She said thickly, ‘Damn you,’ and swung back her hand. She wanted to hit him—to drive the expression of cold mockery from his face.

But he was too quick for her, grabbing her wrist with hard fingers, shaking her slightly, so that the damned dress slid off her shoulders again, baring her to the waist.

She saw his face change, become starkly intent. He said softly, ‘There is only one way to deal with a woman like you.’

He swung her round so that her back, suddenly, was against the closed door. She tried to cover her breasts with her hands, but his fingers closed round her wrists, lifting them above her head and holding them there.

He said, ‘It is a little late for such modesty. Rage suits you better.’

She said breathlessly, ‘Let me go—you bastard…’

‘When I choose,’ he said. ‘Not you.’

She heard her dress tear as it fell to the floor. He took her quickly, his anger meeting hers in an explosive fusion that stunned the senses.

She thought, This is an outrage… And then she stopped thinking altogether.

Because his hands were under her thighs, lifting her so that she had to clamp her legs round his waist, join the driving rhythm of his possession.

His mouth was crushing hers passionately, drinking the salty, angry tears from her lips. She was moaning in her throat, gasping for breath, dizzy and drowning in the merciless forces he had released in her.

She tried to push him away, but it was already too late. Deep within her she could feel the first harsh tremors of her approaching climax. As the pulsations overwhelmed her, tore through her, she sobbed her release against his lips, then hung in his arms, limp as a rag doll, incapable of speech, hardly able to think.