Smokescreen Marriage

“That’s blackmail.” Kate’s voice shook.

“Is it?” he said. “But perhaps I do not agree that our marriage has ‘irretrievably broken down,’ as you allege.”

Kate drew a deep breath. “You’re bluffing. You don’t wish to stay married any more than I do.”

His mouth twisted. “You’re mistaken, agapi mou. I am in no particular hurry to be free.”

SARA CRAVEN was born in South Devon, England, and grew up surrounded by books, in a house by the sea. After leaving grammar school she worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders. She started writing for Harlequin Mills & Boon® in 1975. Apart from writing, her passions include films, music, cooking and eating in good restaurants. She now lives in Somerset.

Sara Craven has recently become the latest (and last ever) winner of the British quiz show Mastermind.

Smokescreen Marriage

Sara Craven

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Endpage

CHAPTER ONE

THE room was in deep shadow. Moonlight pouring through the slats of the tall shuttered windows lay in thin bands across the tiled floor.

The whirr of the ceiling fan gently moving the warm air above the wide bed was barely audible against the ceaseless rasp of the cicadas in the garden below the room.

Once, she’d found these sounds alien. Now, they were the natural accompaniment to her nights in this house.

As was the firm masculine tread approaching the bed. The warm, husky voice, touched with laughter, whispering ‘Katharina mou.’

And she, turning slowly, languidly, under the linen sheet that was her only covering, smiling her welcome, as she reached up to him with outstretched arms, her body alive with need—with longing…

With a gasp, Kate sat up in the darkness, throat tight, heart pounding violently.

She made herself draw deep calming breaths as she glanced round the room, seeking reassurance. Her bedroom, in her flat. Curtains masking the windows, not shutters. And, outside, the uneasy rumble of London traffic.

A dream, she thought. Only a bad dream. Just another nightmare.

At the beginning, they’d been almost nightly occurrences, as her stunned mind and bruised senses tried to rationalise what had happened to her.

She had never really succeeded, of course. The hurt, the betrayal had cut too deep. The events of the past year were always there, in the corner of her mind, eating corrosively into her consciousness.

But the bad dreams had been kept at bay for a while. It was now almost two weeks since the last one.

She had, she thought, begun to heal.

And now this…

Was it an omen? she wondered. Tomorrow—the next day—would there be some news at last? The letter—the phone call—that would bring her the promise of freedom.

God knows, she’d made it as easy as she could, going right against the advice of her lawyer.

‘But, Mrs Theodakis, you’re entitled…’

She’d stopped him there. ‘I want nothing,’ she said. ‘Nothing at all. Kindly make sure the other side is—aware of that. And please don’t use that name either,’ she added constrainedly. ‘I prefer Miss Dennison.’

He had assented politely, but his raised brows told her more loudly than words that no amount of preference could change a thing.

She had taken off her wedding ring, but she couldn’t as easily erase the events of the past year from her tired memory.

She was still legally the wife of Michael Theodakis, and would remain so until she received his consent to the swift, clean-break divorce she had requested.

Once she was free of him, then the nightmares would stop, she told herself. And she could begin to put her life back together again.

That was the inner promise that had kept her going through these dark days and endless nights since she’d fled from Mick, and their charade of a marriage. From the images that still haunted her, waking and sleeping.

She drew her knees up to her chin, shivering a little. Her cotton nightgown was damp, and clinging to her body. She was tired—her job as a tour guide escorting parties of foreign tourists round the British Isles was a demanding one—but her body was wide awake, restless with the needs and desires she’d struggled so hard to suppress.

How could the memory of him still be so potent? she wondered despairingly. Why couldn’t she forget him as easily as he seemed to have forgotten her? Why didn’t he answer her solicitor’s letters—or instruct one of the team of lawyers who served the mighty Theodakis clan to deal with them for him?

With all his money and power, it was the simplest thing in the world to rid himself of an unwanted wife. He was signing papers all day long. What would one more signature matter?

She lay down again, pulling the covers round her, in spite of the warmth of the August night. Cocooning herself so that the expanse of the bed beside her would not seem quite so empty—so desolate.

And knowing that nothing would ever make any difference to the loneliness and the hurt.

It was nearly eight when she reached home the following evening, and Kate felt bone-weary as she let herself into the narrow hall. She had spent the day showing a party of thirty Japanese tourists round Stratford-on-Avon. They had been unfailingly polite, and interested, absorbing information like sponges, but Kate was aware that she had not been on top form. She’d been restless, edgy all day, blaming her disturbed night for her difficulties in concentration.

Tonight, she thought grimly, she would take one of the pills the doctor had prescribed when she first returned from Greece.

She needed this job, and couldn’t afford to lose it, even if it was only temporary, filling in for someone on maternity leave.

All the winter jobs for reps with tour companies had already gone when she came back to Britain, although her old company Halcyon Club Travel were keen to hire her again next summer.

And that’s what she planned to do, although she’d stipulated that she would not return to any of the Greek islands.

On her way to the stairs, she paused to collect her mail from the row of rickety pigeon-holes on the wall.

Mostly circulars, she judged, and the gas bill—and then stopped, her attention totally arrested as she saw the Greek stamp.

She stared down at the large square envelope with its neatly typed direction, her eyes dilating, a small choked sound rising in her throat.

She thought, ‘He’s found me. He knows where I am. But how?’

And why was he making contact with her directly, when she’d made it clear that all correspondence was to be conducted through their lawyers?

But then, when had Mick Theodakis ever played by any rules except his own?

She went up the stairs slowly, aware that her legs were shaking. When she reached her door, she had to struggle to fit her key into the lock, but at last she managed it.

In her small living room, she dropped the letter on to the dining table as if it was red-hot, then walked across to her answerphone which was blinking at her, and pressed the ‘play’ button. Perhaps, if Mick had written to her, he’d also contacted her lawyer, and the message she was hoping for might be waiting at last.

Instead Grant’s concerned voice said, ‘Kate—are you all right? You haven’t called me this week. Touch base, darling—please.’

Kate sighed inwardly, and went across to the bedroom to take off the navy shift dress, and navy and emerald striped blazer that constituted her uniform.

It was kind of Grant to be anxious, but she knew in her heart that it was more than kindness that prompted his frequent calls. It was pressure. He wanted her back, their former relationship re-established, and moved on to the next stage. He took it for granted that she wanted this too. That, like him, she regarded the past year as an aberration—a period of temporary insanity, now happily concluded. And that when she had gained her divorce, she would marry him.

But Kate knew it would never happen. She and Grant had not been officially engaged, when she’d gone off to work as a travel company rep on Zycos in the Ionian Sea, but she knew, when the season was over, he would ask her to marry him, and that she would probably agree.

She hadn’t even been sure why she was hesitating. He was good-looking, they shared a number of interests, and, if his kisses did not set her on fire, Kate enjoyed them enough to look forward to the full consummation of their relationship. And during her weeks on Zycos she had missed him, written to him every week, and happily anticipated his phone calls planning their future.

Surely that was a good enough basis for marriage—wasn’t it?

Probably Grant thought it still was. Only she knew better. Knew she was no longer the same person. And soon she would have to tell him so, she thought with genuine regret.

She unzipped her dress, and put it on a hanger. Underneath she was wearing bra and briefs in white broderie anglaise, pretty and practical, but not glamorous or sexy, she thought, studying herself dispassionately.

And totally different from the exquisite lingerie that Mick had brought her from Paris and Rome—lacy cobwebby things that whispered against her skin. Filmy enticing scraps to please the eyes of a lover.

Only, there was no lover—and never had been.

She slipped on her pale-green gingham housecoat and tied its sash, then put up a hand and removed the barrette that confined her red-gold hair at the nape of her neck during the working day, letting it cascade down to her shoulders.

‘Like a scented flame,’ Mick would tell her huskily, his hands tangling in the silky strands—lifting them to his lips.

She stiffened, recognising that was a no-go area. She could not afford such memories.

She wanted to move away from the mirror but something kept her there, examining herself with cold critical attention.

How could she ever have imagined in her wildest dreams that she was the kind of woman to attract and hold a man like Mick Theodakis? she asked herself bleakly.

Because she had never been a classic beauty. Her nose was too long and her jaw too square for that. But she had good cheekbones, and long lashes, although the eyes they fringed were an odd shade between green and grey.

‘Jade smoke,’ Mick had called them…

And she was luckier than most redheads, she thought, swiftly refocusing her attention. Her creamy skin didn’t burn or freckle, but turned a light, even gold. The tan she’d acquired in Greece still lingered. She could see quite plainly the white band of her finger where her wedding ring had been. But that was the only mark, because Mick had always encouraged her to join him in sunbathing nude beside their private pool.

She froze, cursing inwardly. Oh, God, why was she doing this to herself—allowing herself to remember these things?

Well, she knew why, of course. It was because of that envelope ticking away like a time bomb in the other room.

Her throat tightened uncontrollably. She turned away from the mirror and went into the kitchen and made herself a mug of coffee, hot, black and very strong. If she’d had any brandy, she’d have added a dollop of that too.

Then, she sat down at the table, and steeled herself to open the envelope.

It was disturbing to realise how easily he’d been able to pinpoint her whereabouts—as if he was demonstrating his power over her from across the world. Showing her that there was nowhere she could run and hide. No refuge that he could not find.

Only he had no power, she told herself fiercely. Not any more. Not ever again. And she tore open the envelope.

She found herself staring down at an elegantly engraved white card. A wedding invitation, she thought in total bewilderment, as she scanned it. And the last thing she’d expected to find. She felt oddly deflated as she read the beautifully printed words.

So—Ismene, Mick’s younger sister was marrying her Petros at last. But why on earth was she being sent an invitation?

Frowningly, she unfolded the accompanying note.

‘Dearest Katharina,’ it read. ‘Papa finally gave his permission and I am so happy. We are to be married in the village in October, and you promised you would be there for me on my wedding day. I depend on you, sister. Your loving Ismene.’

Kate crumpled the note in her hand. Was Ismene crazy, or just naïve? she wondered. She couldn’t really expect her brother’s estranged wife to be part of a family occasion, whatever rash commitment Kate might have made in those early days when she was still living in her fool’s paradise.

But I’m not that person any more, Kate thought, her face set, her body rigid. I’ll have to write to her—explain somehow.

But why had Mick ever allowed the invitation to be sent? It made no sense. Although the wilful Ismene probably hadn’t bothered to seek his permission, she acknowledged with a faint sigh.

And she was astonished that Aristotle Theodakis, the all-powerful patriarch of the family, had agreed to the marriage. While she’d been living under his roof at the Villa Dionysius, he’d been adamantly opposed to it. No mere doctor was good enough for his daughter, he’d roared, even if it was the son of his old friend and tavli opponent. And slammed doors, furious scenes, and the sound of Ismene’s hysterical weeping had been almost daily occurrences.

Until Mick had flatly announced he could stand no more, and had insisted that he and Kate move out of their wing of the main building, and out of earshot, down to the comparative seclusion of the beach house. Where they’d remained…

She drank some of the scalding coffee, but it did nothing to melt the ice in the pit of her stomach.

Those weeks, she thought, had been the happiest of her life. Day had succeeded sunlit day. Night followed moonlit night. Raised voices were replaced by birdsong, the whisper of the breeze in the pine trees, and the murmur of the sea.

And, above all, Michael touching her—whispering to her, coaxing her out of the last of her natural shyness, teaching her to take as well as give in their lovemaking. And to be proud of her slim, long-legged body with its narrow waist and small high breasts.

And she’d been an eager pupil, she thought bitterly. How readily she’d surrendered to the caress of his cool, experienced hands and mouth, sobbing out her breathless, mindless rapture as their naked bodies joined in passion.

So beguiled, so entranced by the new sensual vistas that Mick had revealed to her, that she’d mistaken them for love.

Whereas all she’d really been to him was a novelty—a temporary amusement.

The smokescreen he’d cynically needed to divert attention from his real passion.

The coffee tasted bitter, and she pushed it away from her, feeling faintly nauseous.

She couldn’t afford to tear her heart out over Ismene, she told herself curtly. They’d become close over the months, and she knew that the younger girl would be missing her company with only Victorine to turn to. In fact, the note had almost sounded like a cry for help.

But she couldn’t allow herself to think like that. And in particular she couldn’t permit her mind to dwell on Victorine, the Creole beauty who now ruled Aristotle Theodakis, without releasing any of her hold over his son.

She would write a brief and formal expression of regret, and leave it there. Keep it strictly impersonal, although Ismene might be hurt to have no response to her note.

But then, Kate thought, I also have the right to some reaction to my request for a divorce. After all, it’s been a month since my lawyer sent off the papers.

Impatiently, she pushed the invitation away and rose. It was no wonder she was feeling flaky. She ought to have something to eat. She’d only had time to grab a sandwich at lunch time, and there was cold chicken and salad in the fridge, only her appetite seemed to have deserted her.

And she had a hectic day tomorrow—a group of reluctant French schoolchildren to chivvy around the Tower of London.

Perhaps she would just have a warm shower, wash her hair, and go to bed early. Catch up on some of that lost sleep.

Her bathroom was small, and the shower cubicle rather cramped, not tempting her to linger. She towelled down quickly, and resumed her housecoat before returning to the living room with her hair-drier.

She was just plugging it in when, to her surprise and irritation, someone knocked at the door.

Kate sighed, winding a towel round her wet hair. It was bound to be Mrs Thursgood, the elderly widow who lived on the ground floor, and accepted parcels and packets intended for other tenants who’d left for work before the mail arrived.

She was a kindly soul but gossipy, and she would expect a cup of tea and a cosy chat in return for her trouble of trailing up to the top floor with Kate’s book club selection, or whatever.

I really, truly, don’t want to talk, Kate thought grimly, as she pinned on a smile and flung open the door.

And stood, lips parting in a soundless gasp, eyes widening in shock, feeling the blood drain from her face.

‘My beloved wife,’ Michael Theodakis said softly. ‘Kalispera. May I come in?’

‘No,’ she said. Her voice sounded hoarse—distorted above the sudden roaring in her ears. She was afraid she was going to faint, and knew she couldn’t afford any such weakness. She took a step backwards.

‘No,’ she repeated more vehemently.

He was smiling, totally at ease, propping a dark-clad shoulder against the doorframe.

‘But we cannot conduct a civilised conversation on the doorstep, agapi mou.’

She said thickly, ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you—on the doorstep or anywhere else. If you want to talk, speak to my solicitor. And don’t call me your darling.’

‘How unkind,’ he said. ‘When I have travelled such a long way at such inconvenience to see you again. I’d hoped some of our Greek hospitality might have rubbed off on you.’

‘That isn’t the aspect of my life with you that I remember most clearly,’ Kate said, her breathing beginning to steady. ‘And I didn’t invite you here, so please go.’

Mick Theodakis raised both hands in mock surrender. ‘Easy, Katharina mou. I did not come here to fight a war, but negotiate a peaceful settlement. Isn’t that what you want too?’

‘I want a quick divorce,’ she said. ‘And never to see you again.’

‘Go on.’ The dark eyes glinted down at her from beneath hooded lids. ‘Surely you have a third wish. All the best stories do, I believe.’

Kate drew a quick, sharp breath. ‘This,’ she said gratingly, ‘is not a fairy story.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘To be honest, I am not sure whether it is a comedy or a tragedy.’

‘Honest?’ Kate echoed scornfully. ‘You don’t know the meaning of the word.’

‘However,’ he went on as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘I am quite certain I am not leaving until you have heard what I have to say, yineka mou.’

‘I am not your wife,’ she said. ‘I resigned that dubious honour when I left Kefalonia. And I thought I’d made it clear in my note that our so-called marriage was over.’

‘It was a model of clarity,’ he said courteously. ‘I have learned every word of it by heart. And the fact that you left your wedding ring beside it added extra emphasis.’

‘Then you’ll understand there is nothing to discuss.’ She lifted her chin. ‘Now, go please. I have a heavy duty tomorrow, and I’d like to go to bed.’

‘Not,’ he said softly. ‘With wet hair. That is something that I remember from our brief marriage, Katharina.’ He stepped into the room, kicking the door shut behind him.

There was no lock on her bedroom door, and one dodgy bolt on the bathroom. With nowhere to run, Kate decided to stand her ground.

‘How dare you.’ Her face was burning as she glared at him. ‘Get out of here, before I call the police.’

‘To do what?’ Mick asked coolly. ‘Have I ever struck you—or molested you in any way, agapi mou, that you did not welcome?’ He watched the colour suddenly deepen in her shocked face, and nodded sardonically. ‘Besides, all police are reluctant to intervene in domestic disputes. So, why don’t you sit down and dry your hair while you listen to what I have to say?’

He paused, then held out his hand. ‘Unless you would like me to dry it for you,’ he added softly. ‘As I used to.’

Kate swallowed convulsively, and shook her head, not trusting her voice.

It wasn’t fair, she raged inwardly. It wasn’t right for him to remind her of all the small, tender intimacies they’d once shared.

The way she’d sat between his knees as he blow-dried her hair, combing it gently with his fingers, letting the soft strands drift in the current of warm air.

And how her efforts to perform the same service for him had always been thwarted, as he loosened the sash on her robe, and drew the folds slowly apart, pressing tiny sensuous kisses on her naked body as she stood, flushed and breathless, in front of him. Until her attempt at hairdressing was forgotten in the sweet urgency of the moment.

Oh, she did not need to remember that.

Her cotton housecoat was long-sleeved and full-skirted, buttoned chastely to the throat, but she was still blazingly aware that she was naked under it—and that he knew it too, and was enjoying her discomfort.

The room seemed suddenly to have shrunk. His presence dominated it, physically and emotionally. Invaded her space in the worst way. Dried her throat and made her legs shake under her.

Even as she turned away and walked across to the dining table, every detail of him was etched on her mind, as if she’d touched him with her fingers.

Yet she did not have to do that—to remember.

She knew that the black curling hair was brushed back from his face with careless elegance. That his dark eyes were brilliant, but watchful beneath their heavy lids, or that the cool, firm mouth held a hint of sensuality in the slight fullness of the lower lip.

It was a proud face, strong and uncompromising, but when he smiled, its charm had twisted the heart in her body.

He was formally dressed, the charcoal business suit accentuating the tall, lean body which moved with such arrogant grace. His olive skin looked very dark against the immaculate white shirt. His tie was silk, and there were discreet gold links in his cuffs matching the narrow bracelet on his watch and, she noticed with a sudden painful thud of her heart, the plain band on the third finger of his right hand.

The ring which matched hers, inscribed inside with their names and the date, which she had slipped on to his finger on their wedding day…

How could he still be wearing it? How could he be such a hypocrite? she asked herself numbly.