Greek Affairs: The Virgin's Seduction

‘That is usually the bridegroom’s responsibility,’ he said. ‘Therefore, you may leave it to me.’

‘It’s hardly an expense you can afford,’ she returned. ‘Besides, you don’t know the correct size.’

‘I could make an educated guess.’ He looked her over, eyes narrowed. ‘As I could do about the size of everything you are wearing at this moment. Do you wish me to demonstrate?’

She was infuriated to realise that her face was burning again. She said with a snap, ‘No, thank you.’ She got to her feet, and he stood up too, making her aware all over again of how tall he was, and how broad his shoulders were under the cling of his shirt. She added hurriedly, ‘There’ll be things to sign—papers and such. My lawyer will contact you.’

She paused. ‘The date of the wedding—is there any particular day of the week that you’d find inconvenient?’

‘You are most considerate,’ he said courteously. ‘However, I will make quite sure I’m available when you require me to be so.’

‘Then I’ll arrange for Mr Slevin to come to your studio,’ she said. ‘I—I hope the visit goes well. His backing would be such a fantastic boost for you.’

She realised she was babbling again, and stopped, rummaging inside her bag for her wallet instead. She put some notes on the table. ‘That should cover the bill.’ She sent him a bright, meaningless smile. ‘If you want to order anything else, please do so.’

For an instant, there was an odd silence—almost a tension in the air. Then Roan bent his head in polite acknowledgement, and the moment passed.

All the same, her goodbye was faintly uncertain as she took her departure. And as she emerged into the street, she found she was strangely breathless.

But why? she wondered. Because I should be cheering, now that I’ve solved my problem at last.

Except, she reminded herself as she signalled to a passing taxi, that I still have to tell Grandfather.

The week that followed was a busy one. Harriet spent the latter part of it in the Midlands, revisiting the sites she’d targeted on earlier trips, and taking extensive photographs to accompany her redrafted report, when it was prepared, and support its recommendations. Nothing this time would be left to chance, she thought with grim determination. Whatever the questions, she would have all the answers.

However, in spite of this resolution, she seemed to be finding concentration difficult, particularly as she wasn’t sleeping too well at nights.

Clearly the forthcoming confrontation with her grandfather must be preying on her mind rather more than she’d expected, she told herself wryly.

When she got back to London on Friday afternoon, the atmosphere at Flint Audley was festive. Gina, who worked in Accounting, was having a birthday, and a cake, complete with candles, had been cut up and passed around the office at teatime. And after work, everyone was going out for a celebratory drink. Or all except one …

‘We didn’t think you’d be back,’ Gina informed Harriet offhandedly. ‘But you’re welcome to join us—if you want,’ she added, eying Harriet’s serviceable black pants and tunic top with ill-concealed disfavour.

‘Thank you,’ Harriet returned with equal insincerity. ‘But I’m going down to the country this evening.’

‘Off to the stately pile?’ Jon Audley joined them, his smile malicious. ‘Dad always thought it would divide up into great flats, and I’m sure he was right. There’s even enough land to construct a nine-hole golf course as a total bonus. Something to bear in mind when it finally falls into your waiting hands, Harriet dear.’

She looked back at him evenly. ‘Except that Gracemead is not for sale,’ she said. ‘Not now. Not ever.’

‘Always supposing you have the choice,’ he murmured, and walked away, leaving her staring after him, more shaken than she cared to admit. Had rumours of her grandfather’s intentions somehow reached Flint Audley?

If so, it would give her intense pleasure to prove them unfounded.

Because, whether Gregory Flint liked it or not, he would have to accept her unlikely bridegroom.

Her own attitude to him, however, seemed less easy to define.

While she’d been away, she’d found Roan Zandros in her thoughts far more than she wished. She wasn’t altogether sure she hadn’t dreamed about him, but, if so, her memories were thankfully hazy.

She could only be certain that he wasn’t what she’d had in mind when she originally devised her plan.

And in some ways she wished he’d turned her down, and walked away.

Oh, come on, she adjured herself impatiently. That’s defeatist thinking. He’s a means to an end, that’s all. A business deal. And you’ll have a firewall to protect you anyway, with your pre-nuptial agreement.

Back at the flat, she showered quickly and shampooed her hair. She’d intended to wear it up, or braid it, but she was running late, so she decided for once simply to brush it and leave it loose.

There was a beige linen shift dress in her wardrobe, and she changed into it with reluctance, her grandfather’s preferences and prejudices at the forefront of her mind. He preferred her to wear skirts, and there was no point in getting off on the wrong foot, and upsetting him over something as trivial as her choice of clothing.

However, he’d sounded genuinely pleased when she phoned to say she was coming down. Their recent meetings had been less frequent than usual, and overshadowed by the inevitable tensions arising from his ultimatum.

Maybe he hoped that some kind of reconciliation was on the cards, and, if so, she would listen. But only if he relented sufficiently to let her off the hook.

She bit her lip. It was far more likely that she’d have to proceed with her bargain, and go through a wedding ceremony with Roan Zandros.

After which, her life would just—continue as usual.

While she packed her weekend case, she listened to the messages on her answering machine. An investment group was offering her a financial health check. Her oldest friend Tessa wanted her to come to dinner. ‘Bill says it’s been far too long, and he’s right, Harry, love. Where does the time go, I ask myself? So call us.’

And her lawyer, Isobel Crane, had also phoned, to tell her that the pre-nuptial agreement had been prepared according to her instructions, and was ready for signature, but might need further discussion.

In other words, she wants to talk me out of the whole thing, Harriet thought, her lips twisting wryly. Well, nothing new there.

She was a little disappointed that there was no message from Desmond Slevin, who’d been planning to visit Roan’s studio two days earlier. But he was a busy man, she told herself, and maybe there’d been no opportunity as yet. It was certainly too soon to give up hope.

Besides, whatever Desmond’s decision, Roan Zandros would get his exhibition. That was the deal, and whatever it cost, it would be worth it.

At least, that’s what I have to believe, she thought, and realised with shock that it was the first time she’d even been remotely doubtful about what she was doing.

And her doubts multiplied on the way down, so that when she drove into the village a couple of hours later, she felt almost sick with nerves. Any sense of triumph had long since dissipated. Now she was simply doing what she must to safeguard her inheritance.

When she reached Gracemead, she parked at the rear of the house, near the old stable block, and went in through the kitchen to be met by the enticing aroma of roast duck, unless she missed her guess.

Mrs Wade, a little stouter and greyer, was whipping thick cream to accompany the chocolate mousse which was one of her masterpieces. She greeted Harriet with affection, and told her that Mr Flint was in the drawing room.

‘With his visitor, Miss Harriet,’ she added.

Harriet grimaced inwardly. She’d hoped to have her grandfather all to herself, so she could break the news about her wedding before she lost her nerve. But maybe his company wouldn’t stay long.

She dropped her case in the hall, and went into the drawing room, only to find it empty. But the French windows were standing open to the evening sun, and she could hear the faint rumble of her grandfather’s voice coming from the terrace outside.

Taking a deep breath, she went out to join him.

Gregory Flint was standing at the balustrade, gesturing expansively as he indicated points of interest in the gardens spread out before them to the man at his side, too wrapped up in one of his favourite topics to notice her arrival.

Although she could only see his companion’s back, she knew instinctively that he was not one of the locals, but someone she’d never seen before, tall and soberly suited, a dark silhouette against the sunset’s brightness.

A complete stranger, she thought. Or was he …?

She halted suddenly, staring at the strong shoulders and narrow hips set off by some expensive tailoring. Feeling her mouth turn dry as her brain tried to reject the evidence being presented by her eyes. Telling herself—no—it wasn’t—couldn’t be possible …

And as if aware of her scrutiny, he turned slowly and looked at her as she stood, hesitating, by the drawing room windows.

‘Agapi mou,’ Roan Zandros said, smiling, and walked towards her, his dark eyes sweeping over her in a frank appraisal that reminded her that it was the first time he’d seen her wearing a dress, and also that her hair had dried into a waving, unruly cloud on her shoulders. The lingering look he was bestowing on her legs as he approached only served to add outrage to her anger at this unwarranted intrusion—here at her home, her sanctuary.

She managed the single word, ‘What—?’ before his arms went round her, pulling her towards him, and jerking the breath out of her.

He bent towards her, shielding her with his body to give the impression that they were locked in a passionate embrace, as he stared down into her frantically widening eyes. His mouth an indrawn breath from hers, he whispered, ‘Smile, Harriet. Pretend you are pleased to see me.’

Then he swung her round, his arm holding her firmly, his hand resting on her hip in a gesture of unmistakable possession, as they faced her grandfather together.

‘Well, my dear.’ Gregory Flint’s tone might be mild, but his eyes were watchful under their shaggy brows. ‘I gather from this young man that I must wish you happiness.’ He paused. ‘I confess I had no idea that there was anyone in your life, and this visit came as a complete surprise to me.’

And to me, thought Harriet as she lifted her chin, her gaze meeting his with a serenity she was far from feeling. ‘A pleasant one, I hope, Grandfather.’

‘I hope so too,’ he agreed dryly. ‘I told your fiancé frankly, Harriet, that he was not what I had expected, but he assures me that his prospects are excellent, and I am obliged to believe him.’

Roan said quietly, ‘Harriet has been away, and therefore does not know that Desmond Slevin has agreed to exhibit my work at the Parsifal Gallery. I heard from him today.’

‘Oh.’ Harriet swallowed. ‘Well, that’s wonderful news. I’m—delighted for you. Darling,’ she added belatedly.

Roan’s smile did not reach his eyes. ‘And I owe all my good fortune to you, my sweet one.’ He turned back to Gregory Flint. ‘I hope, sir, we have your consent to our marriage—and your blessing.’

‘For what it’s worth—yes.’ There was a hint of grimness in Gregory Flint’s faint smile. ‘I’m sure any opinion of mine will make no difference at all to your plans.’

He looked at his watch. ‘Dinner will be in forty minutes. Why don’t you show Mr Zandros the garden, my dear, and enjoy your reunion in private? I expect you have a lot to talk about.’

Roan held her arm as they descended the shallow stone steps leading to the lawn. He said very softly, ‘If you wish to attack me, Harriet mou, I suggest you wait. And don’t pull away from me. We are still under surveillance.’

‘How dare you?’ she muttered furiously in return, her entire body rigid. ‘How dare you—barge in like this?’

‘No barging was necessary,’ he returned calmly. ‘I rang the bell, and was admitted like any other visitor.’

‘But how did you find your way here in the first place?’

‘It wasn’t difficult. I knew your grandfather’s name, and that of the house. I simply—made enquiries.’

‘I think you must have gone completely mad.’ She shook her head. ‘Whatever possessed you to come here—and ask his permission, for God’s sake? I feel as if I’m taking part in some costume drama on television.’

‘From what you have told me,’ he said slowly, ‘it seemed that your grandfather was an old-fashioned man, who might prefer such a gesture instead of merely being told of your decision—which he might interpret as deliberate provocation.’

‘Oh, you know so much about it, naturally.’ She tugged herself free, no longer caring if they were being watched.

He shrugged a shoulder. ‘I’ve dealt with autocrats before. Pitched battles are rarely the answer.’ He smiled at her. ‘An element of surprise is often more successful.’

Yes, she thought, seething. I’ve just discovered that for myself.

Aloud, she said, ‘It didn’t occur to you to consult me first?’

‘You were not around to consult, Harriet mou,’ he pointed out, his tone infuriatingly reasonable. ‘Besides, I was certain you would refuse.’

‘How right you were,’ she said stormily, and relapsed into another simmering silence. At the same time, she took her first proper look at him.

Little wonder she hadn’t recognised him immediately, she thought in bewilderment. Because there wasn’t a scrap of torn denim or a paint stain in sight. The charcoal suit he was wearing might not be new, but it was unmistakably elegant. His white shirt was crisp, his tie was silk, and his shoes, amazingly, were polished. He even appeared—dear God—to be wearing socks.

His hair was still too long, at least by Gregory Flint’s exacting standards, but it had been trimmed, and he was immaculately shaven. During those few unpleasant seconds when she’d been in his arms, she’d been aware of a faint, beguiling hint of expensive cologne.

In fact she had to admit that he scrubbed up quite well, she thought reluctantly, then realised that he was watching her in turn, his smile widening as if he’d guessed exactly what she was thinking.

Embarrassment prompted her into waspishness. ‘So where did you get the clothes—some upmarket charity shop?’

‘I thought you would be pleased,’ he said, ‘to find me correctly dressed for my part. As you are too, Harriet mou,’ he added dryly. ‘For once you have decided to abandon your usual camouflage and look like a woman.’

She managed to turn her instinctive gasp into a deep breath. She said stonily, ‘May I remind you that we have a strictly business arrangement, and therefore sexist remarks are neither required nor appreciated?’

His tone was silky. ‘But sometimes irresistible, nonetheless. And now shall we continue to explore the grounds? They are very beautiful.’

‘Is that what it’s all about—this unexpected visit?’ She swung to face him again. ‘To assess the estate, and see what extra pickings there might be? Because, if so, you’ll be disappointed, Mr Zandros. You get your exhibition and some money in your pocket, but nothing more. The pre-nuptial agreement I’ve had drawn up gives you no other claim.’

He remained annoyingly unfazed. ‘I cannot wait to read this fascinating document,’ he said softly. ‘However, I came here solely out of curiosity, Harriet mou. I wished to see for myself what there could be about this place that would make you to risk so much for its possession.’ He gestured around him. ‘Can this really be all that constitutes happiness for you?’

‘I don’t expect you to understand,’ she said defiantly. ‘Besides, it’s none of your business.’

‘I think you made it my business when you asked me to marry you.’

‘Well, we’re not likely to agree about that,’ Harriet said coldly. ‘As a matter of interest, just how long are you planning to stay?’

‘I leave in the morning. I have work to do for the exhibition.’ He paused. ‘Does that reassure you?’

‘Not particularly,’ she said. ‘So, let me make something clear. This will be your first and last visit to this house. When you go tomorrow, you do not come back—on any pretext.’

‘I think that is a decision for your grandfather to make,’ Roan said with equal iciness. ‘You do not rule here yet, Harriet mou. Maybe you should remember that.’ He paused, his dark gaze sweeping over her with something like contempt in its depths. ‘And now I find I would prefer to continue my tour of this garden alone. Your company does nothing for the beauty of the landscape.’

And he walked away, leaving her staring after him, open-mouthed, as she searched for a riposte that would reduce him to a pile of smoking ash, and failed dismally to find one.

Harriet did not return to the house immediately. She told herself that she needed to regain some measure of composure before she faced her grandfather’s hawk gaze again, and responded to the inevitable inquisition.

Yet it wasn’t Gregory Flint, or his possible reaction to recent events, which occupied the forefront of her mind as she made a long slow circuit of the lawns. And for once the gardens she knew and loved were not having their usual soothing effect.

Because Roan Zandros was getting in the way. How dared he look at her—speak to her like that? she asked herself furiously, defensively, especially when he’d had the unmitigated gall to appear at Gracemead uninvited and unwanted—a blatant intruder in her private and beloved world.

Well, she would have to teach him, and pretty damn quick, that his interference was unwarranted and unappreciated. Maybe a clause in the contract was needed, actually forbidding his return to Gracemead under any pretext.

He had to learn his place in their arrangement, and cosy visits were not on the agenda. Not now, and definitely not in the future.

She found her grandfather in the drawing room pouring sherry. He turned and looked at her, brows raised enquiringly. ‘You’re alone?’

‘Why, yes.’ She smiled brightly. ‘I turned out to be not much of a guide, so Roan’s conducting his own tour.’

He handed her a glass of her favourite fino, and gestured her to take a seat on the sofa facing his armchair. ‘You and your fiancé haven’t quarrelled already, I hope.’

‘Of course not,’ she denied swiftly. Too swiftly?

‘Because it occurred to me that you were a little taken aback to find him here,’ Gregory Flint went on. ‘I hope it wasn’t the subject of a disagreement between you.’

Harriet shrugged, trying for rueful amusement. ‘You don’t miss a thing, do you, darling?’

‘I try not to, my dear.’

‘Well, to be honest, I was a little miffed when I realised he’d stolen my thunder.’ Harriet turned it into a faintly wistful confession. ‘And I so much wanted to be the one to break the news to you about our engagement.’

‘I’m quite sure you did.’ There was a dry note in his voice, which did not escape her.

‘Not that it really matters,’ she added hastily. ‘Just as long as you approve of my choice.’

‘Let’s say that I find him a most interesting young man,’ Mr Flint said after a pause. ‘He tells me you met through his work.’

The exact nature of the encounter still had the power to make her grind her teeth, and her smile was taut. ‘We did indeed,’ she said. ‘And it made an unforgettable impression on me.’

‘So I gather.’ He leaned back in his armchair. ‘You feel, then, that he has real talent?’

‘Yes.’ At least she could be totally honest about that. ‘Yes, I do. He has this amazing use of colour—and emotion.’

‘And will that earn him sufficient money to support a wife—and a family?’

Well, he’d slipped that in under the wire, Harriet thought, her heartbeat quickening. ‘I believe so,’ she said. ‘And anyway, I shan’t be giving up my career.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘But has it occurred to you that your future husband might have his own ideas?’

Why—what’s he been saying? That was the question she was burning to ask. Instead she said lightly, ‘Even so, we still have to be practical.’

‘And you’ve always been that, Harriet.’ Pensively, Gregory Flint studied the colour of his sherry. ‘Finding solutions to any problems that presented themselves—fighting to stay ahead of the game. Quite admirable in a great many ways.

‘So, I find it all the more surprising that it should be the emotion in Roan’s work that has appealed to you, instead of its strictly commercial aspect. Heart instead of head for once. I congratulate you.’

He raised his glass. ‘And I drink to your future happiness, dear child. But at the same time I find myself wondering if you know—if you really know—exactly what you’re taking on.’

Harriet was still digesting that when Roan rejoined them, smiling pleasantly, his voice unruffled as he praised the gardens with obvious sincerity. And in a way that revealed he knew what he was talking about, she registered sourly.

But gardening couldn’t occupy the entire conversation, and throughout dinner she felt as if she was treading barefoot through broken glass, waiting for her grandfather to ask something—some question about their relationship—some small personal detail that she’d flounder over in humiliating self-betrayal. And what a wide range that offered, she thought.

But she eventually become aware that Roan was manipulating the conversation, quietly and skilfully, moving it away from topics about which she was woefully and dangerously ignorant to more general subjects.

And that under this guise he was actually imparting information—telling her stuff that, by rights, she should already know about the man she was to marry.

For one thing, he mentioned that his father was still alive, and living in Greece, adding casually that his parents had separated while he was a small child, but not elaborating any further.

But when he said that his late mother had been Vanessa Abbot, the celebrated miniaturist, Harriet had to struggle not to let her jaw drop.

Gregory Flint was clearly equally astonished, but all he said was, ‘That explains the artistic talent my granddaughter so admires. Once again, as the saying goes, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’

But was it true? Harriet wondered grimly, observing from under lowered lashes the sardonic twist of Roan’s lips as he raised his glass and drank. Because she wouldn’t put it past her grandfather to check. And would his other claim to have attended a famous English public school stand up to scrutiny either?

Oh, God, she thought, seething, there would have been no need for any of this nonsense if Roan Zandros had simply—stayed away and minded his own business.

As dinner ended, Harriet heard with relief Roan accepting her grandfather’s surprisingly genial challenge to a game of chess. Wonderful game, she thought, played mainly in silence, which suited her just fine, because she wasn’t sure that her nervous system could stand any more questionable revelations.

She waited until they were well settled with their brandy over the ivory and ebony board, then smothered a manufactured yawn.

‘Oh dear,’ she said sweetly. ‘I’m afraid my hectic week is catching up with me. If you’ll both excuse me, I think I’ll have an early night.’

She blew a smiling kiss aimed somewhere between the pair of them, and headed out of the drawing room, longing only to reach the safety of her room.

But as she reached the foot of the stairs she heard Roan say her name, and looked round, alarmed, to see him closing the drawing room door behind him before walking towards her across the hall.

‘What do you want?’ she demanded defensively.

‘I am merely obeying instructions, matia mou.’ He shrugged, his eyes glinting in amusement. ‘Your grandfather has sent me to bid you a romantic goodnight in private, while he considers his next move.’

‘Well, consider it done,’ she said curtly. ‘And I only hope you can remember the details of the rubbish you’ve been talking over dinner, because he has the memory of an elephant. Whatever possessed you to come out with all that stuff?’