Shackled by Diamonds Page 11

  She had to keep busy! Had to do something, anything, to distract her body. She’d already done her morning stretches and skincare routine, using them to blank out her mind as best she could, when she had finally stirred from her exhausted slumber to wake to lacerating consciousness. Sick with horror, she’d bolted from the bedroom, hearing the shower in the en suite bathroom, knowing she had to get away before he emerged.

  Emerged to enjoy his triumph over her.

  She’d stuck in her room, body aching, trembling with over-stimulation, wanting only to sink into permanent oblivion—anything other than face up to what she had done.

  But there had been no oblivion—only a maid, insistent, not once but twice, that Mr Makarios was waiting for her on the terrace.

  So she had put her armour on. Like one going into battle. Her exercise outfit was hardly the thing to wear in the Caribbean, but it was the only daywear she had brought with her that was not designed for the Alps in winter. She’d tied up her hair, put on the concealing veil of her dark glasses, and gone down to face up to what she had done.

  Taking refuge from it the only way she knew how.

  And she’d nearly cracked.

  So very nearly.

  As she’d walked up to him and seen him sitting there, lounging back, the strength of his body exposed in a close-hugging polo shirt, in hip-lean shorts, seen the long, strong sinews of his thighs, the smooth, muscled forearms, seen him watching her approach through lazy, heavy-lidded eyes, she had felt her insides start to dissolve.

  He had just looked so devastating!

  Something had turned over inside her, melting through her.

  And then another emotion had taken its place. A familiar one—a safe one. The safest she could ever have in his company.

  Anger.

  That was what she had to feel in his presence—nothing but anger. It was the only way she could endure what lay ahead.

  In the night, she knew, with bitter self-hatred, she would succumb—could do nothing else, was helpless to resist.

  But in the day—

  In the day the object of her hatred could be someone other than herself. It could be the man who had done to her the thing she could never, ever forgive herself for.

  Leo Makarios—the man she both hated and desired.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  LEO slewed the Jeep to a halt in front of the villa in the golden light of the westering sun. His muscles ached, but at least his black mood had gone. He’d spent the day on the island’s eastern coast, punishing it out of him by wave-sailing the rough Atlantic swell. He’d thought of doing what he’d done yesterday—inspecting his property developments taking shape on the southern shores—but everything was going to schedule and there was nothing more there to occupy him. Besides, he hadn’t come here to work. He’d come here to relax.

  Unwind.

  Enjoy some well-earned R&R with a beautiful woman to warm his bed…

  His face darkened momentarily as he tossed the Jeep’s keys at one of the outdoor staff and headed indoors. All day he’d deliberately kept Anna Delane out of his head. He didn’t want to think about her.

  Now he wondered idly how she’d spent the day. Still sulking?

  A smile twisted at his mouth as he sprinted lithely upstairs.

  She wouldn’t be sulking for long. He’d make sure of it.

  There was no way a thieving piece like Anna Delane was going to get the better of him. His smile deepened.

  He would start again on her, right now.

  He’d just thought of an excellent way to do so.

  A massage, personally administered, was exactly what he wanted.

  And after the massage…

  Anna lay in Leo Makarios’s arms. She was facing away from him, drawn back against his body by his heavy, restraining arm. His thigh was heavy across hers.

  She stared out across the room.

  It had happened again.

  The fire had burnt through her, burnt away every last vestige of her self-control, her self-respect.

  A massage. She had been summoned to give him a massage.

  Like a slave girl!

  She’d done it, too. Because what would have been the point of objecting? She’d been brought here for this purpose—the price of keeping her out of jail, keeping Jenny safe. And if a massage was what the man who thought her a thief wanted, then a massage was what he would have.

  And what came after.

  It had taken very, very little time for her kneading hands to be caught, stilled. For him to turn over with lithe, muscled grace onto his back, for him to draw her down on him again and then, with sudden avid hunger, to tip her over until he was over her. His mouth had been on hers, his hands on her body, peeling the clothes from her as if he were peeling a ripe, luscious fruit for his delectation.

  And she had let him. Once more she had let him. Helpless to resist, helpless to do anything except let her body ignite from his, catch the hunger of his kisses, the ardency of his caressing.

  Until she had burned with him in the same hot, fierce flame, crying out, her hair whipping, consumed absolutely by the sensation obliterating all sense from her, obliterating everything but its own desperate, urgent need for satiation.

  Then afterwards, as the tumult had died, draining away like an inferno that had consumed its own fuel, he had lifted himself from her, rolling to his side, drawing her back against him, smoothing her hair, murmuring to her words she did not understand, his breath warm on her neck, his hands warm on her body.

  And now she lay there, her body’s conflagration slowly ebbing to its last cooling embers, exhausted, sated, feeling his chest rise and fall heavily behind her spine, knowing her lungs too were replenishing their air, her heart gradually slowing.

  She lay staring out into the dusky room, hearing only the susurration of his breathing, only the low hum of the air-conditioning.

  Her mind seemed suspended, incapable of operation. She couldn’t think, or feel, or make any conscious use of words or thoughts.

  She seemed to be somewhere else.

  Someone else.

  And there was nothing, nothing she could do.

  Leo lay, Anna enfolded in his arms. His body was warm, inert. So was hers. They were incapable of movement, both of them, he knew. The exhaustion that followed the little death had overtaken them both.

  It felt good to hold her like this, spooned back against him.

  It was as if she belonged to him.

  His mind shifted. Where had that thought come from?

  He did not want Anna Delane to belong to him. What would he want that for? She was a thief. A beautiful, desirable thief. But a thief for all that.

  He did not want to get involved with her.

  But then, he never wanted to get involved with any of the women he slept with. They kept to their own lives and he to his. He felt no desire for more.

  Good sex was all he asked for, and a woman who knew not to make a nuisance of herself.

  Let alone think she could steal a fortune from him with impunity.

  Like the woman in his arms now.

  He smoothed the hair back from her face a moment. Her eyes were open, but looking blankly ahead of her. He found himself wondering what she was thinking. What went on in her head?

  He frowned. He never cared what went on in a woman’s head. It was of no interest to him.

  Was any other person of any interest to him? he found himself thinking.

  His father had died of a heart attack seven years ago, and his mother had moved to Melbourne to be with relatives. But he’d never been close to either of his parents. He’d seen little of his father while he was growing up, because his father, like his grandfather, had devoted his life to making the Makarios fortune. His mother had played her part by being a society hostess, assiduously cultivating anyone and everyone who could be useful to Makarios Corp. Which meant that her son had been handed over to nannies and teachers.

  Possibly the closest person to him was Mar
kos, with whom he’d shared some of his schooling, but now, as adults, they met up only sporadically. Both led the highly peripatetic lives of the very rich, each running their own separate portions of the vast Makarios corporation which inevitably took them in different physical directions much of the time.

  He had an extensive staff, of course, ranging from key executives to a team of personal assistants. And he had friends. Of course he had friends. Every man in his position had friends. Usually far too damn many.

  But were any of them close to him?

  Was he interested in any of them other than for what use they were to Makarios Corp? None sprang to mind.

  Impatiently, he put the thoughts from him. His life was good—very good. Makarios Corp was riding high, he was riding high. He was in the prime of life, fit and healthy, and he knew without false modesty that he’d been blessed with a physical appearance that would be enviable even in a poor man. Combine that with his riches and he was a man other men envied and women wanted.

  Anna Delane didn’t…

  The words stole into his head before he could stop them.

  Anna Delane didn’t want you—she threw you from her bedroom. Screeched her head off at you. Rejected you royally!

  Deliberately he made himself stroke her arm, slowly, possessively. She wasn’t rejecting him now—but the choice had been between him or jail…no wonder she hadn’t rejected him! he thought bitterly.

  Leo’s jaw tightened.

  Anna Delane would not have gone on rejecting him. He’d have seen to that. If he hadn’t caught her red-handed with the Levantsky bracelet he’d still have pursued her. Whatever hypocritical reason she’d had for rejecting him that evening, he’d have got her in the end. Women didn’t hold out on him. His usual problem was quite the opposite—fending them off. No, he’d have got Anna Delane in his bed. Thief or no.

  It was a pity she was a thief…

  Again, the words stole into his brain before he could stop them. They annoyed him. Obviously he’d have preferred her not to be a thief—after all, she’d come far too damn close to walking off with the Levantsky bracelet!—but that was the only reason for his preference. It would have made no other difference. The end result would have been the same. Her in his bed, a few weeks together, and then he’d tire of her.

  His hand moved slowly up her arm again, enjoying her soft, silken skin.

  He felt his body begin to stir.

  No chance of tiring of her yet.

  He shifted his weight onto his elbow, and cupped her chin, turning her head towards him. His mouth lowered to hers.

  It felt good. Arousing.

  Yes, definitely no chance of tiring of her yet.

  Carefully, Anna smoothed total sunblock over her legs. Even though she spent as much time as she could in the shade, and put sunblock on religiously, she still seemed to be browning. She frowned. It was a damned nuisance. Her white skin was one of her selling points, and she guarded it assiduously. OK, so she could have stayed indoors every day, but she couldn’t bear to. It was bad enough just getting through the days, without being denied the run of the gardens and the beach. Or the pool.

  Thank God for the pool. Swimming up and down occupied hours of her time, and a swimsuit was something she never travelled without. Although she had enough evening outfits—brought for her time at the Schloss—daywear suitable for the Caribbean climate was more of a problem. By dint of washing her exercise outfit daily, and wearing the jade-green silk trouser suit during the day, she was just managing to cope. She could also, during the day, wander round with just a towel wrapped round her like a sarong. That was because—and she thanked all the gods there were—Leo Makarios was never around in the daytime.

  Maybe he sleeps in his earth-filled coffin in daytime? she thought acidly.

  The reality, she knew, was more prosaic. He took himself off on the water. He seemed, thankfully, to have a whole range of ways of enjoying himself out at sea. Sometimes she saw him on a windsurf board, racing across the bay in a crosswind; sometimes—according to her cautious enquires of the house staff—he went to the Atlantic coast for stronger winds and wave-sailing and kite-surfing. Often he disappeared off in a variety of sailing craft. He seemed to have a whole collection in a boathouse further along the beach. She saw him skimming along in a one-handed dinghy, or on windier days taking a catamaran out, spinnaker billowing. He went off diving, too, some days, and she watched the staff lug oxygen tanks on board the inflatable dive boat, then him heading out to the reefs.

  Whatever took him out to sea, she was just grateful.

  It gave her precious respite time—without which, she knew, she would have cracked.

  How many days had passed since she’d been brought here? She was losing count. It was coming up to two weeks, it must be. Or was it longer? She had tried not to count, tried not to think. The moon was changing, at its peak now, sailing serene and high far above the ocean, mocking her with its romantic beauty.

  But then the whole place mocked her.

  It could have been a paradise on earth. Instead it was her prison. Her place of torment.

  A place where Leo Makarios tormented her to the utmost of his malign powers.

  Night after night she burnt like a flame in his arms as he wrung from her the response he would not let her rest without.

  The response she could not let herself rest without.

  He had become a poison for her. A poison that had got into her bloodstream and which she was now utterly, completely dependent on.

  And the poison was desire.

  Abject, helpless desire.

  It mortified her, humiliated her, lacerated her.

  But it held her in its thrall.

  And she knew she could not free herself from it now—she had succumbed to it abjectly, helplessly. Succumbed to Leo Makarios and what he could make her feel.

  Every day when he came back to the villa her heart gave a leap. She tried to crush it, but it would not be crushed. She felt her breath quicken in her lungs, felt a rush of pleasure. Of anticipation.

  Sometimes he took her to his bed immediately. Walking up to her, catching her hand, and taking her upstairs. She would feel her body quickening even as she went with him, feel the warm, delicious flood of arousal start in her body. She was as ardent as he; she could not help it. She wanted to feel his mouth on hers, his hands on her body, her hands on his, their bodies seeking, melding, fusing together in a rush of desire so intense it consumed her, time, after time, after time.

  It had been a revelation—never had she understood how raw, how powerful, desire could be. Leo Makarios had taken her to a new place, one she had not known existed.

  It was a place of passion, of ecstasy, of wanting and needing, of sating and slaking.

  She knew no peace. Not during the day, when her restless body waited in forced patience for his return. Not when he was there either, and she went to him and let him take her in that white rush of desire as she took him into her. No peace then, only hunger, a driving, pulsing hunger that was a desperate, ravening need for what he and he alone could give her.

  She knew only the brief, strange peace that came after, when their bodies were spent and they lay, exhausted, in each other’s arms.

  As if they were lovers.

  But they weren’t lovers. She knew that. Knew it deep in her being. There was nothing between them. Neither knowledge nor intimacy.

  They were strangers. Day after day. Night after night.

  Nothing but strangers.

  A dull, crushing heaviness filled her as she sat, now, putting cream on her legs, before plunging into the warm waters of the pool. She looked around. There was a house full of staff tending the villa and its grounds—other human beings who lived and breathed and had hopes and ambitions and families and friends and loved ones—and yet she was all on her own.

  You’re always on your own. You always have been.

  The thought distilled in her mind. It was true. It had always been true. Her gra
ndmother loved her dearly, had brought her up single-handed after her mother’s death, with her father long since disappeared into whatever wasteland involuntary fathers disappeared to. But her grandmother, for all her love, all her protection, was two generations away from her—happy with her little world in the street of terraced houses beside the gasworks, happy to spend the day watching soaps and chat shows, and scared to let Anna go out into the world. Let alone take up modelling.

  Her grandmother hated it; she’d always known that. Warning her about the evils of the life she was heading for. But she could not have turned down her one big chance to get away from the gasworks and the beckoning biscuit factory. She’d always visited her grandmother as often as she could, and the years had passed, and she’d become too infirm in body and mind to go on living in her little terraced house. Now she passed her time in an expensive private nursing home, paid for by her granddaughter’s modelling fees, sometimes recognising her when she visited, sometimes not.

  Who will I have when my grandmother dies? Who will I have then?

  The question echoed in her head as she stared out over the azure sea beyond.

  She had some friends—good friends like Jenny, with whom she’d bonded in the frenetic, superficial, all too often corrupt and corrupting world of fashion modelling, and a few others that she trusted. But, valuable as her friends were, they each had someone special in their lives. Even Jenny had the child she would bear, in secrecy and safety, in her new life that she would make for herself in Australia.

  I could go with her.

  The thought came from nowhere.

  And even as it formed a terrible heaviness came in its wake.

  When Leo Makarios is finished with me—what shall I do?

  She had thought she would simply go back to her life. Had thought nothing else.

  But now, with punishing clarity, she knew it was impossible, that her life was empty.

  She could never go back.

  Her life as a model seemed a million miles away from here. On another planet.

  She could never go back to it.