Mediterranean Mavericks: Greeks

CHAPTER SEVEN

AS SHE PREPARED for Ariston’s visit next morning, Keeley stared at her white-faced reflection in the mirror and gritted her teeth. This time she wouldn’t lose her temper. She would be calm and clear and focussed. She would tell him she couldn’t possibly marry him but that she was willing to be reasonable.

She washed her hair and put on a loose cotton dress and a sudden desire to impose some order made her give her bedsit an extra-special clean—busying herself with mop and duster. She even went down to the local market and bought a cheap bunch of flowers from the friendly stallholder who implored her to, ‘Cheer up, love! It might never happen!’

It already had, she thought gloomily as she crammed the spindly pink tulips into a vase as she waited for the Greek tycoon to arrive.

He was bang on time and she hated her instinctive reaction when she opened the door to see him in an exquisite pale grey suit, which today didn’t make him look remotely uncomfortable. In fact, he came over as supremely relaxed as well as looking expensive and hopelessly out of place in her crummy little home. She didn’t want to shiver with awareness whenever she looked at him, nor remember how it had felt to be naked in his arms, yet the erotic images just kept flooding back. Was she imagining the faint triumph which curved those cruel lips of his—as if he was perfectly aware of the way he made her feel? He can’t make you do anything you don’t want him to, she reminded herself fiercely. You might be carrying his baby but you are still a free agent. This is modern England, not the Middle Ages. He can hardly drag you up the aisle against your will.

‘I’m hoping you’ve had time to come to your senses, Keeley,’ he said, without preamble. ‘Have you?’

‘I’ve given it a lot of thought, yes—but I’m afraid I haven’t changed my mind. I won’t marry you, Ariston.’

He said something soft in his native tongue and when he looked at her, he seemed almost regretful as he sighed. ‘I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this.’

‘Come to what?’ she questioned in confusion.

‘Why didn’t you tell me about your mother?’

She felt the blood drain from her face. ‘Wh-what about my mother?’

His gaze slid over her. ‘That she’s living in a care home and has been for the last seven years.’

Keeley’s lips folded in on themselves because she was afraid she might cry, until she reminded herself that she couldn’t afford the luxury of tears—or to show any kind of vulnerability to a man she suspected would seize on it, as a starving dog might seize on a bone. ‘How did you find out?’

He shrugged. ‘The gathering of information is simple if you know who to ask.’

‘But why? Why would you go to the trouble of having me investigated?’

‘Don’t be naïve, Keeley. Because you are the mother of my child and you have something I want. And knowledge is power,’ he added as his sapphire eyes bored into her. ‘So what happened? How come a middle-aged woman has ended up living in an institution where the average age is eighty, unable to recognise her only daughter when she visits?’

Without thinking, Keeley grabbed the arm of the nearest chair before sinking into it before her legs gave way, as they were threatening to. ‘Didn’t your investigators tell you?’ she questioned hoarsely. ‘Didn’t they gain access to her medical records and tell you everything you needed to know?’

‘No—they didn’t. I don’t think it’s morally right to do something like that.’

‘How dare you talk to me about morals?’ she bit back. ‘I’m surprised you even know the definition of the word.’

‘So what happened, Keeley?’ he questioned again, more softly this time.

She wanted to tell him it was none of his business but she suspected that wouldn’t deter him. And maybe it was his business now, she realised, with a wrench to her heart. Because her mother was the grandmother of his child, wasn’t she? Even if she would never realise that fact for herself. A sudden wave of sadness engulfed her and she blinked away another hint of tears before he could see them. ‘So what do you want to know?’ she questioned.

‘Everything.’

Everything. That was a tall order. Keeley leant her head back against the chair but it took a couple of moments before she had composed herself enough to speak. ‘I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you my mother’s fleeting fame as an actress was quickly replaced by the notorious reputation she gained after that…’ she stumbled on the words ‘…that summer at your house.’

His mouth hardened, but he didn’t comment. ‘Go on.’

‘When we arrived back in England she was approached by lots of tabloid newspapers and the tackier end of the magazine market. They wanted her to be a torch-bearer for the older woman who was determined to have a good sex life, but in reality they just wanted a gullible fool who could shift a few extra copies in a dwindling retail market.’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘She talked at length about her different lovers—most of whom were considerably younger. Well, you already know that. She thought she was striking a blow for women’s liberation but, in reality, everyone was laughing at her behind her back. But she didn’t notice and she certainly didn’t let it deter her. And then her looks began to fade…quite dramatically. Too much wine and sun. One crash diet too many.’

She stopped.

‘Don’t stop now,’ he said.

His voice was almost gentle and Keeley wanted to tell him not to talk that way. She’d misinterpreted his kindness once before and she wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. She wanted to tell him that she could deal with him better when he was being harsh and brutal.

She shrugged. ‘She started having surgery. A nip here and a tuck there. One minute it was an eyebrow job and the next she was having goodness knows what pumped into her lips. She started to look…’ She closed her eyes as she remembered the cruelty of the newspapers which had once courted her mother so assiduously. The snatched photos which had been only marginally less flattering than the awful ones she’d still insisted on posing for, usually dressed in something cringe-makingly unsuitable—like leather hot pants and a see-through blouse. How quickly she had become a national laughing stock—her face resembling a cruel parody of youth.

And how ultimately frustrating that she had been too blind to see what was happening to her.

‘She started to look bizarre,’ she continued, not wanting to appear disloyal but now the words seemed to be rushing to get out because she’d never talked about it before. She’d kept it buttoned up inside her, as if it was her shame and her secret. ‘She met this surgeon and he offered to give her a complete facelift, only she didn’t bother to check out his credentials or to wonder why he was offering her all that work at such an advantageous price. Nobody was quite sure of what happened during the operation—only that my mother was left brain-damaged afterwards. And that she never recognised me—or anyone else again. Her capacity for normal living is “severely compromised” is how they described it.’ She swallowed. ‘And she’s been living in that care home ever since.’

He frowned. ‘But you visit her regularly?’

‘I do. Every week, come rain or shine.’

‘Even though she doesn’t recognise you?’

‘Of course,’ she said quietly. ‘She’s still my mother.’

Ariston flinched at the quiet sense of dignity and grief underpinning her words. Maybe it was inevitable that they made him think about his own mother, but there was no such softening in his heart. Bitterness rose in his throat but he pushed it away as he studied the woman in front of him. She looked very different today, with her newly washed hair shining over her shoulders in a pale fall of waves. The shapeless sweat-pants and baggy top were gone and in their place was a loose cotton dress. She looked soft and feminine and strangely vulnerable.

‘Why don’t you tell me what it is you want?’ he said suddenly.

She met his gaze warily, as if suspecting him of setting up some kind of trap. ‘I want my baby to have the best,’ she said cautiously. ‘Just like every mother does.’

‘And you think that living here…’ he looked around, unable to hide the contemptuous twist of his mouth ‘…can provide that?’

‘People have babies in all kinds of environments, Ariston.’

‘Not a baby carrying the Kavakos name,’ he corrected repressively. ‘How are you managing for money? Are you still working?’

She shook her head. ‘Not at the moment, no.’

‘Oh?’ His gaze bored into her.

She shrugged. ‘I found another supermarket job when I got back from Lasia and then I started getting sick. I eked out the money you paid me but…’

‘Then how the hell,’ he persisted savagely as her words tailed off, ‘do you think you’re going to manage?’

Keeley swallowed in a vain attempt to stop her lips from wobbling, before drawing on her residual reserves. She’d overcome stuff before and she could do it again. ‘Once the sickness has improved, then I can start working more hours. If I need to I might have to move to a cheaper area somewhere.’

‘But that would take you further away from your mother,’ he pointed out.

She glared at him for daring to point out the obvious but suddenly she couldn’t avoid the enormity of her situation. She hadn’t even got a buggy or a crib—and even if she had, there was barely any space to put them. And meanwhile Ariston was offering what most women in her situation would snatch at. He wasn’t trying to deny responsibility. On the contrary, he seemed more than willing to embrace it. He was offering to marry her, for heaven’s sake. Whoever would have thought it?

But yesterday he’d wanted her to give him the baby, she reminded herself. To take her child away from her. Because he could. Because he was powerful and rich and she was weak and poor. He’d wanted to remove her from the equation—to treat her like a surrogate—and that was a measure of his ruthlessness. At least if she was married to him she would have some legal rights—and wouldn’t that be the safest place to start from? Staring into the watchful brilliance of his eyes, she repressed a shiver as she realised what she must do. Because what choice did she have? She didn’t. She didn’t have a choice.

‘If I did agree to marry you,’ she said slowly, ‘then I would want some kind of equality.’

‘Equality?’ he echoed, as if it was a word he’d never used before.

She nodded. ‘That’s right. I’m not prepared to do anything until you agree to my terms.’

‘And what terms might they be, Keeley?’

‘I would like some say in where we live—’

‘Accommodation is the last thing you need concern yourself with,’ he said carelessly. ‘Don’t forget, I have a whole island at my disposal.’

‘No!’ Her response came out more vehemently than she’d planned but Keeley knew what she could and couldn’t tolerate. And the thought of the isolation of his island home and of being at Ariston’s total mercy made her blood run cold. ‘Lasia isn’t a suitable place to bring up a baby.’

‘I grew up there.’

‘Exactly.’

There was a flicker of amusement in his brilliantine eyes before it was replaced by the more familiar glint of hardness. ‘Let me guess, you have somewhere else in mind—somewhere you’ve always longed to live? A town house in the centre of Mayfair perhaps, or an apartment overlooking the river? Aren’t these the places women dream about if money were no option?’

‘I haven’t spent my whole life plotting my rise up the property ladder!’ she snapped.

‘Then you are rare among your sex.’ His gaze bored into her. ‘Lasia is my home, Keeley.’

‘And this is mine.’

‘This?’

She heard the condescension in his voice and suddenly she was fighting for her reputation and what she’d made of her life. It wasn’t much, but in the circumstances hadn’t it been the best she could manage? Hadn’t she struggled to get even this far? But what would Ariston Kavakos know of hardship and making do, with his island and his ships and the ability to click his fingers to get whatever he wanted? Even her. ‘I want to stay in London,’ she said stubbornly. ‘My mother is here, as you yourself just pointed out, remember? I can’t just up sticks and move away.’

He rubbed his forefinger along the bridge of his nose and Keeley watched as he closed his eyes, the thick lashes feathering blackly against his olive skin. Was he wondering how he was going to tolerate a life saddled with a woman he didn’t really want, with a mother whose incapacity had been brought about by her own vanity? Was he now working out how to back-pedal on his hastily offered proposal of marriage?

His eyes flickered open. ‘Very well. London it shall be. I have an apartment here,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘A penthouse in the City.’

Keeley nodded. Of course he did. He probably had a penthouse in every major city in the world. ‘Just out of interest, how long do you think this marriage of ours is going to last?’

‘The tone of your voice indicates that you think a long-standing union unlikely?’

‘I think the odds are stacked against it,’ she said. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Actually, no, I don’t. Put it this way,’ he added softly. ‘I don’t intend for my child to be brought up by any other man than me. So if you want to maintain your role as the mother, then we stay married.’

‘But—’

‘But what, Keeley? What makes you look so horrified? The realisation that I am determined to make this work? Surely that is only a good thing.’

‘But how can it work when it isn’t going to be a true marriage?’ she demanded desperately.

‘Says who? Perhaps we could learn to get along together. Something which might work if we put our minds to it. I have no illusions about marriage and my expectations are fairly low. But I think we could learn how to be civil to one another, don’t you?’

‘That isn’t what I meant and you know it,’ she said, her voice low.

‘Are you talking about sex?’ A trace of sardonic amusement crept into his tone. ‘Ah, yes. I can see from your enchanting little blush that you are. So what’s the problem? When two people have a chemistry like ours it seems a pity not to capitalise on it. I find that good sex makes a woman very agreeable. Who knows? It might even bring a smile to your face.’

Keeley felt both faint and excited at the way he was expressing himself—and didn’t she despise herself for feeling that way? ‘And if I…refuse?’

‘Why would you?’ His gaze flicked over her body. ‘Why fight it when submission is much more satisfactory? You’re thinking about it now, aren’t you, Keeley? Remembering how good it felt to have me inside you, kissing you and touching you, until you cried out with pleasure?’

The awful thing was that not only was he speaking the truth—but she was reacting to his words and there didn’t seem to be a thing she could do about it. It was as if her body were no longer her own—as if he was controlling her reaction with just one sizzling glance. Keeley’s nipples were pushing against her cotton dress and she could feel a newfound but instantly familiar tug of desire. She wanted him, yes—but surely it was wrong to want a man who treated her the way Ariston did. He had used her as a sexual object rather than someone he respected and something told her he would continue to do so. And wouldn’t that leave her open to emotional wounding? Because something told her Ariston was the kind of man who could hurt. Who could hurt without even trying.

‘But what,’ she continued determinedly, ‘what if I decided I couldn’t stomach the idea of cold-blooded sex with a man like you?’

‘Sex with me is never cold-blooded, koukla mou—we both know that. But if you were to persist in such stubbornness, then I would be forced to find myself a mistress.’ His face darkened. ‘I believe that’s what usually happens in these circumstances.’

‘In that parallel universe of yours, you mean?’ she spat back.

‘It’s a universe I was born into,’ he snapped back. ‘It’s what I know. I won’t consign myself to a sexless future because you refuse to face up to the fact that we are having difficulty keeping our hands off each other,’ he said. ‘But I will not insult you, nor feel the need to take another woman to my bed if you behave as a wife should, Keeley. If you give me your body then I will promise you my fidelity.’

And then he smiled, a hard, cold smile which suggested he was almost enjoying her resistance. As if he were savouring the moment until he was able to conquer her. Or defeat her.

‘It’s up to you,’ he finished. ‘It’s your call.’

Keeley’s heart pounded. The way he spoke about marriage and sex was so primitive. He was autocratic and proud and he stirred her up so she couldn’t think straight, but deep down she realised she had no other place to go. She remembered his warning about taking her to court to fight for the baby if she tried to oppose him. Some men might have made such a threat lightly, but she suspected Ariston wasn’t one of them. But women had rights too, didn’t they? He couldn’t force her to remain in a marriage if it wasn’t working. And he couldn’t demand sex from her because it was his marital right to do so. Surely even he couldn’t be that primitive.

‘Very well, I will marry you. Just so long as you understand I’m only doing it to give my baby security.’ She tilted her chin to meet the triumphant fire blazing from his eyes. ‘But if you think I’m going to be some kind of sexual pushover just to satisfy your raging libido, then you’re mistaken, Ariston.’

‘You think so?’ The smile which flickered at the edges of his lips was arrogant and certain. ‘I am rarely mistaken, koukla mou.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

‘WOW! I’VE NEVER seen a bride wearing red before!’ exclaimed Megan. ‘Is this some new kind of fashion?’

But before Keeley had a chance to answer the woman who’d lent her the ill-fated dress on Lasia, her brand-new husband leaned forward and spoke for her.

‘It’s an ancient Greek custom,’ said Ariston smoothly, his words curling over her skin like dark smoke. ‘Traditionally, the bride wore a red veil in order to ward off evil spirits. But I suspect Keeley has deliberately adapted the look and given it a modern twist by wearing a crown of scarlet roses to match her dress. Isn’t that right, Keeley?’

Resenting his perception even more than the way he’d just butted in, Keeley looked up into the blue blaze of Ariston’s eyes, trying not to react as he slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer, looking for all the world like a loving and attentive groom. How appearances could deceive, she thought bitterly. Because he was not a loving groom—he was a cold-hearted control freak who was positively glowing with satisfaction because an hour earlier he had slipped an embellished golden wedding ring onto her rigid finger. He’d got exactly what he wanted and she was now his wife, stuck in an unwanted marriage he was determined would last.

He dipped his mouth to her ear and she hated the involuntary shiver which trickled down her spine as his breath fanned her skin.

‘Clever you for researching Greek customs so thoroughly,’ he murmured. ‘Am I the evil spirit you’re trying to ward off, Keeley?’

‘Of course!’ she said, curving her mouth into a big smile, because she’d discovered she could do the appearance thing just as well as Ariston. She could play the part of the blushing bride to perfection—all it took was a little practice. And why spoil a day with something as disappointing as the truth? Why not let people believe what they wanted to believe—the fairy-tale version of their story—that the struggling daughter of a notorious actress had bagged one of the world’s most eligible men?

In the back of her mind she’d wondered if her past might catch up with her and if Ariston would have second thoughts about marrying a woman with a history like hers. Yet when a newspaper had regurgitated the old story of Keeley’s mother cavorting on the back seat of the ministerial limo and asked Ariston whether the tawdry behaviour of his new mother-in-law gave him any cause for concern, he had broken the habit of a lifetime and given them a quote: ‘Old news,’ he’d commented, in a bored and velvety drawl. ‘And old news is so dull, don’t you think?’

Which was kind of ironic when Keeley thought about how much fuss he’d made about what had happened in the past. But she supposed her pregnancy changed everything. It made him overlook her mother’s transgressions. It made him act proprietorially towards her, something which he made no attempt to hide. She could feel him stroking his finger across the front of her scarlet dress, lingering lightly over the curve of her belly as if it was his right to do so. And she guessed it was. Because he was pulling the strings now, wasn’t he? Certainly the purse strings. He had given her a brand-new credit card and told herself to buy what she liked—to transform herself into the woman who would soon become his wife. ‘Because I want you to look like my wife from now on.’ His eyes had glittered like blue ice as he had spoken. ‘Not some little supermarket stacker who just happens to be wearing my ring.’

His remark had riled her and she’d been tempted to wear her oldest clothes all the time and see how he liked that. Would such defiance make him eager to be rid of her and thus grant her the freedom she craved? But then she thought about her baby…and the fact that she was soon going to be a mother. Did she really want to be seen pushing her buggy around the fancy places which Ariston frequented, wearing clothes which had come from the thrift shop? Wouldn’t that whittle away at her confidence even more?