Painted the Other Woman Page 13

I should have known that I could never be part of Ian’s life—never be accepted, never tolerated.

  She gazed bleakly over the bare landscape. Her mother had warned her—warned her about the world she sought—but she hadn’t believed her, hadn’t wanted to believe her. Her mother had been burnt, too, expelled and rejected, and that was why she’d sought refuge here, in this lonely place, accepting a life austere and alone, instead of the life she had once hoped for.

  Her mother’s hopes had been cruelly dashed.

  So, now, had her own.

  Marisa’s eyes darkened. She had had days now to try and accept what Athan had done to her—to join together the two utterly different people he seemed to be, to accept that the man she’d thought she’d known, the man she’d come to trust, to give herself to, had been nothing like that at all.

  Ruthless. Brutal. Lethal.

  That was the true Athan Teodarkis. That was the man she had to see him as. No matter what dreams came in the night, beguiling her. No matter what memories tried to seep into her consciousness, tormenting her.

  She lifted her face into the wind, the oncoming rain. Her hair was plastered to her head but she didn’t care. She was used to the weather—glad of the punishing elements battering her. She deserved them to be lashing her.

  I was a fool—a trusting, self-deceiving fool—who fell for a man who was all surface, all temptation …

  Just as her mother had done.

  The realisation hit her like an intake of breath. She shut her eyes, rocking with the ugly, accusing truth of it. The pain of recognition scalded her.

  Her mother had been a fool once, hoping for her dreams to come true—but she’d founded her hopes on a man who had made a fool of her.

  Just as Athan has made a fool of me …

  Pain seized her. Racking her body. She forced herself to be still, to wait it out, to let it pass. She’d been doing that for days now, every time the memory of that nightmare conversation in the apartment leapt to malevolent, vicious life in her head—his denouncement of her, telling her that he’d set up everything between them for the sole purpose of separating her from Ian.

  The last of the louring clouds passed overhead and sunshine, bright through the rain-washed air, pooled over her. It was pale and had hardly any heat in it—a frail, fleeting lightening of the grim, bleak day.

  Not like the hot, fierce sun of the Caribbean, beating down on my bare shoulders like a physical force, soaking into me as I lay on a sun lounger, idly chatting to Athan lying beside me. Filtering through the louvered windows when we retired to our cabana after lunch to make love …

  The pain came again, but she quenched it. Quenched it by will power, by the power of the shame that she had fallen for such a ruthless, heartless masquerade. Because, whatever the rights and wrongs of it, he had lied to her from the very start, and nothing—not the slightest thing about him—had been true.

  She got to her feet, scrambling down from her perch in the rocks of the tor and jumping down onto the wet ground. She paused to gaze around her at the vast expanse of open moor. On a rise a few hundred yards away she could see the low outline of stone-edged walls, almost obliterated by heather and time. It was a Bronze Age village, thousands of years old, and it was a familiar part of the landscape to her. Now, as she looked across at it, she wondered at the people who had once, so very long ago, lived there, made their lives there. They had loved and lived and worked and died, each little life as important to its owner as hers was to her. Yet all there was left of them was a few stones.

  My life will be like that one day. Leaving not even a shadow on the land. So what does it matter if I am hurt or humiliated or angry or anguished? Soon the pain I feel will pass—soon I will feel nothing.

  It had been true for her mother, surely, that a time had come when the man who had treated her so badly no longer had the power to wound her?

  I’ll make it true of me, too. I have to.

  Slowly, she made her way back down off the moor. The sunshine remained, thin and pale, but better than the rain. The wind was softer here, in the lee of the moor, and there was the scent of spring in it. Winter was nearly over.

  All she needed was time. Time to let him fade like a bad dream, to let him go, to move on, forward into a life that she was yet to make. What that new life would be she didn’t know—couldn’t even envisage. She had thought when she’d left the cottage to go to London that her life was just starting—now she was stranded back here again, with no way forward that she could think of.

  But I’ll find one—I can. I must. And I can be strong—I have to!

  Resolution filled her. With a firmer step she headed down the trackway that led off the moor, climbing the stile that gave on to the dead end of the lane that went back past her cottage to the village a mile or so beyond. The light was fading now, the sun sunk below the tor behind her, and she wanted to get back to the cottage before evening closed in. But as she rounded the final bend of the narrow lane she stopped short.

  A car was parked in front of the cottage. For a moment she thought it must be Ian, returning despite her refusal to go back to London with him, but then she realised it was another make of car, and even in the dusk she could see the colour was different. It was an expensive car, though, as Ian’s had been—sleek and powerful-looking. But it wasn’t until the driver’s door opened that she realised just who had come to call …

  Athan unfolded his tall frame from the confines of the car he’d been sitting in since his arrival half an hour ago, and watched Marisa walk towards him. His emotions were tamped down—under strict control. They had been ever since he’d got the phone call from his security agency—the call he’d been steeling himself against, hoping he would never get it. But, as predictable as a greedy child stealing from the candy jar, Ian Randall had done exactly what Athan had feared he would do.

  Icily he’d heard out the phone call, taking in the bare, bald details provided. Time, route, venue. It was all he’d needed to know. Now, though, he needed to know a hell of a lot more …

  She walked up to him. She had nerve, he gave her that. Or perhaps it was her lover’s presence that was giving her confidence. Not that there was any sign of Ian, or his car.

  His voice, harsh and rough, cut through the chilly air.

  ‘Where is he?’ It was a curt demand, and he wanted an answer.

  She stopped dead. Absently, Athan wondered at her appearance. She looked totally different from the way he was used to seeing her. She had a baggy pair of trousers on, mud-spattered boots, and a voluminous anorak that was as unflattering as it was obscuring of her figure. Her hair was sopping wet, and dragged back off her head with a clip. She looked a sodden mess.

  But her face—her face was as breathtaking as ever. Her eyes, flashing with anger, were luminous, her mouth kissed by the rain …

  ‘He’s gone.’ Her voice was as curt as his. She knew exactly who Athan meant. Knew exactly why he was here. Anger spiked in her, because it was obvious that the only way Athan Teodarkis could have known where his brother-in-law had gone was if he’d had him tailed.

  ‘Didn’t your spies spot him heading back to London?’ she threw at him caustically.

  Athan’s face tightened. No, they hadn’t—or at least he hadn’t had a report to that effect. He’d told them to keep a discreet distance—presumably it had been too discreet. But even so the point was clear. Despite everything he’d said to Ian, the man had still come chasing after his mistress like a dog on heat …

  He strode towards her.

  She flinched, but held her ground. Shock waves were detonating through her, but she had to ignore them. Had to ignore more than just the shock of seeing Athan Teodarkis, tall, forbidding and grim-visaged, here outside her home. The juxtaposition was jarring. Athan Teodarkis didn’t belong here in this rural backwater, in this bleak, stark landscape dripping with the dregs of winter. But, however jarring, it was not that which was consuming her self-control.

  Emotions were hurtl
ing through her—tumbling and overwhelming her.

  Athan! Athan here—now! Right in front of her! So close … his presence overpowering her senses.

  She almost reeled from the impact of it.

  I didn’t think I would ever see him again!

  But he was here, and she could feel her treacherous blood leaping in her veins, emotion pouring through her …

  She had to subdue it—had to make herself realise that he was here for one reason and one reason only. Because Ian had come to her. That was all. That was why he was here—angry. Accusing.

  But this time her conscience was clear. His accusations could reach no target—none.

  ‘So whatever you think you’re doing here—you can clear off!’ she said. ‘He isn’t here.’

  His eyes narrowed—eyes that had once looked at her with hot, melting desire … now filled only with cold anger.

  ‘But he came here all the same.’

  Her chin lifted. ‘And now he’s gone—for good.’

  Athan stilled. ‘Did you tell him about us?’

  Marisa’s lip curled in scorn. ‘Of course I didn’t.’

  No, thought Athan, of course you didn’t. You wouldn’t want him to know how easily I seduced you … took you away from him.

  He smiled in grim satisfaction. His anger was ebbing now. Anger fuelled by much more than fury at his philandering brother in law. Fuelled by a far more powerful impulse. The impulse that had brought him here, powering down the motorway relentlessly, as driven as the car bringing him here. Driven by a force he could no longer suppress—no longer wanted to suppress.

  He nodded at the cottage. ‘I need to talk to you—and not out here.’ He stamped his feet. His Italian leather handmade shoes were fine for the city. Not fine for a cold evening in the wilds.

  ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’ Marisa’s voice was still curt. Shock was still detonating through her.

  He looked at her. In the dusk his expression was saturnine. ‘But I,’ he told her, ‘have something to say to you.’ His expression changed slightly. ‘You look frozen,’ he said.

  For a moment the breath caught in her throat. There had been concern in his voice—caring.

  The way he’d once sounded when he spoke to her …

  Brutal truth sliced down, forcing open her throat. He’d lied to her from the beginning—lied with every caring, affectionate, casual word. That was what she must remember.

  Not the way he used to look at her—the way his mouth would quirk with that half smile of his, the way his dark, lambent eyes used to rest on her …

  She cut off the memory again. No, not that way at all.

  She shivered under the anorak. He was right—she felt frozen. Stiffly she went up to the front door and opened it with the key taken from the map pocket in her anorak. He followed her in. Immediately the small cottage felt smaller. She didn’t want to let him in—didn’t want him here. Didn’t want him anywhere near her within a thousand miles.

  Liar! Liar—liar—liar!

  The words in her head accused her, betrayed her. Again she had to call on the cold, emotionless self-control she’d faced him with outside the cottage. It didn’t matter where he was—he was nothing to her. The same nothing to her that she was to him.

  She would let him say whatever it was he had to say—another reinforcement about her staying out of Ian’s life was all it could be—and then she would send him packing. He could find his own way back to the village, his own way back to the motorway. What did she care? Nothing—that was what she cared. All that was left of her feelings for him …

  Nothing.

  She went into the kitchen, feeling relief at the warmth from the wood range enveloping her. Shrugging off her wet anorak, she draped it around one of the chairs at the scrubbed wooden kitchen table and opened the door to the range, restacking it with wood. Then she filled the kettle and set it on one of the rings to boil. Familiar tasks that gave her hands and brain something to do while she tried to assimilate the fact—jolting, bizarre, impossible—that Athan Teodarkis had sat himself down at the kitchen table in a tiny cob-walled cottage that had been a haven for her mother after the ruination of her happiness.

  Her gaze went to the man sitting at her kitchen table who could reach out with a single finger and with a single touch melt her like honey. Who could quirk a slanting smile at her and weaken her bones. Who could wind his hand around the nape of her neck and lower his mouth to hers, and take her to a paradise she had never dreamt of …

  A man who had never—not once until that bitter, scathing denouement—said an honest word to her.

  She took a breath. ‘You said you had something to say—so say it. Say it and go.’

  Gimlet eyes snapped to her. He’d been looking around him, taking in the room they were in. It had come as a shock to him, seeing how poor a place it was.

  No wonder the world Ian moved in had seemed so tempting to her—no wonder she’d been so impressed by him, beguiled by him. Coming from a place like this, to her Ian’s world must have seemed glittering and luxurious beyond anything she could have hoped for.

  It sobered him. He couldn’t deny it.

  His gaze went back to her. His mind split instantly into two. One half was taking in just how shabby she looked—the other was simply drinking her in like a thirsty man in a desert. Even without a scrap of make-up, with wet, stringy hair and atrocious clothes, she still made his pulse leap!

  ‘Well?’

  Her voice refocused him. ‘Do you need any money?’ The question came out more bluntly than he’d intended. Nor was it the question he’d wanted to ask her—but after seeing this rundown place it had come out of his mouth without thinking.

  ‘What?’

  Athan looked slightly awkward. He really hadn’t meant to sound that blunt, but it was too late now. He took a breath.

  ‘Look, I’ve got eyes in my head. I can see there’s one hell of a difference between your lifestyle in London and what you’ve got here. So, if you need something to tide you over I can easily—’

  He got no further. She slammed the mug she’d been about to fill with coffee down on to the wooden table.

  ‘No! I do not want your stinking money!’ Her eyes were like lasers, and he had to shield himself from their glare.

  ‘It was an offer—nothing more than that.’ He had to mitigate. ‘If Ian’s seen you all right then you won’t need anything from me.’

  ‘You’ll be glad to know,’ she said, as sweetly as acid, ‘that Ian does not continue to fund me.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said evenly, taking the fight back to her. ‘And it’s just as well—he is about to become unemployed. No,’ he said, holding up a hand to silence her, ‘it was not my doing. He’s resigned from the company.’ He paused. ‘He didn’t tell you?’

  Marisa was looking pale. ‘No. But … but why?’

  Athan spelt it out, keeping his gaze on her to assess her reaction. ‘He wishes to cut the apron strings from me. Assert his independence. Which is why,’ he went on, his voice tinged with sarcasm, ‘you will doubtless understand my concern that he has high-tailed it down to find you. I don’t want him thinking he is now free to take up with you again.’

  ‘Well, he isn’t, is he?’ she retorted. ‘You’ve seen to that. How can I possibly look him in the face knowing what his own brother-in-law did to me?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Athan’s voice was smooth now. ‘So—’ he took a breath ‘—he’s accepted he cannot see you again? You told him that? Made it crystal-clear?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her monosyllabic reply was clipped, unemotional. But her emotions were running all the same—like a deep, underground river, cutting through the rocks and obstacles in her mind. Obstacles she had to keep in place. Absolutely had to …

  ‘Good.’

  He sounded satisfied. But there was something in his voice that alarmed her. It was not the satisfaction of a man who had disposed of an embarrassing and unwanted family problem.

 
‘In which case …’ he said, his eyes resting on her. ‘In which case,’ he repeated, ‘I have something else to say to you.’

  She stared. Her heart-rate had started to quicken, but she didn’t want it to. As she didn’t want to see what she was seeing in his eyes.

  He’s too close. This kitchen is too small. I can’t breathe—can’t find fresh air …

  He was still sitting at the kitchen table, but his presence dominated the room—dominated her senses, her vision. She tried to think straight, but she couldn’t. Everything about him focussed her on him, and deep within her still that powerful subterranean river of emotion was coursing, seeking its way upwards, out of the depths of her mind …

  ‘It’s this.’

  He was speaking again, and she heard his words—heard the accent in them that had so worked on her, drawn her to him, just as everything about him had drawn her hopelessly, ineluctably, irresistibly …

  His sloe-dark eyes were resting on her, delving into her, winding her gaze on his like a spool, so she could only look back at him, her eyes widening, melting …

  ‘I want you back.’

  His words fell into the space between them. The space that would soon no longer be between them …

  Because it was quite clear in his head now. Crystal-clear. It had taken till this morning to crystallise—and it had done so instantly, irreversibly, when his phone had rung and he’d been told that Ian Randall was heading down to Devon.

  In that instant he’d known—known with a spike of emotion that was like a punch to his guts—that he would never allow Ian or any other man to take Marisa from him. That whatever it cost he would take her back. However impossible, he would smash those problems to pieces and get what with every cell in his body over this punishing absence had grown more and more and more impossible to deny.

  So he had let instinct—hot, overpowering instinct—take over. Take him from his desk, his office, London, and into his car, pressing pedal to the metal and storming his way westwards.

  And now he was here—and so was Marisa, so was everything he wanted. Everything he was going to have.

  No one and nothing was going to stop him. Not any more …