For Pleasure...Or Marriage? Page 4

  Both cousins had looked at her, blank expression on their faces. They were so similar, clearly related to each other, and yet Leo Makarios, for all his broad shoulders and heavily sensual looks, could have been a block of stone so far as she was concerned. It was Markos, with his powerful build, his fine-cut features, the humour lurking at his mouth and the way his grey eyes could suddenly flare with naked desire, who held her in thrall. Who twisted her heart until it was a knot inside her breast. Who sent her heart-rate soaring, her breathing haywire, her body trembling and weak.

  She knew now what that shared blank look had meant. It had meant that the very idea that the preferences of someone paid to work for Leo Makarios should be taken into account simply did not exist for either of the cousins. It was an attitude that had, at first, astonished her.

  But then, the realisation of just who she had fallen in love with still seemed quite unbelievable. She could remember the moment when it had dawned. It had been the afternoon of their first time together. They had arisen, finally, after spending most of the day still in bed, and Markos had smiled down at her, and told her they should start getting ready to go to the opera.

  ‘Is it Wagner?’ she had asked tentatively, because his were the only operas she knew that were so long they started in the afternoon.

  He’d only shaken his head and laughed.

  ‘Far more romantic,’ he’d assured her.

  It had been. And more than just romantic.

  Utterly, devastatingly eye-opening.

  She had emerged from the bathroom to find the bedroom swarming with people, all chattering away in French. For the next hour she had been at their mercy—having her hair cut and styled, her nails manicured, her body measurements taken, her face made up and one incredible gown after another draped over her. And then, finally, when she had stood, bemused and more beautiful than she had ever looked in her life, wearing a gold tissue gown and a golden torque around her throat, Markos had walked in, taking her breath away as she gazed at him in his tuxedo, and smiled at her.

  ‘Come,’ he had said to her. ‘Your chariot awaits, Cinderella.’

  But it hadn’t been a chariot, nor even a limo.

  It had been a private jet, and they had flown to Milan, to take in La Bohème at La Scala, and for the first time Vanessa had realised that the man she had fallen in love with was no ordinary businessman.

  He was one of the richest men in Europe.

  The discovery—which had at first overwhelmed her—had made her realise over again just how miraculous it was that Markos should have chosen her to be with him.

  He could have any woman he wants—but he wants me.

  It was a warm glow around her heart.

  But it brought its difficulties, all the same. The rich, she had swiftly discovered, really were different. They saw life not as ordinary people saw it, and treated others differently from themselves. Markos was never rude to anyone, yet there was, Vanessa had swiftly become aware, an intransigence about him. What he wanted, he got. Not by demands, or petulance, or bad behaviour. He got it because…well, because he was Markos Makarios. People did what he wanted. Staff, servants—everyone.

  Even her.

  Unease skittered through her mind. No, she did what Markos wanted because she wanted to do what he wanted. How could she possibly want to do anything else? She loved him, adored him; he was everything to her—everything! She would walk over broken glass for him. Not that he would ever ask her to.

  Now, as his brows drew together, evincing displeasure at the very thought that she might not have enjoyed being a model, she knew that he would never subject her to something she did not want. Entirely the opposite! He had showered her with his largesse, lavishing his wealth on her. And far, far more than his wealth.

  Himself.

  That was what melted her heart, warmed her like a living flame. That he spent his time with her, took her with him wherever he went, showing her all the wonderful far-away places she’d only ever dreamt of, kept her at his side by day and by night, except when work took him away as it must, inevitably, when he was running half of a business empire as vast as the Makarios Corporation.

  ‘We run it between us, Leo and I,’ Markos had told her, when she had first realised just what his true circumstances were. ‘His father—my uncle—is dead, and mine is retired now, so Leo and I have it to ourselves so far as executive power is concerned.’

  ‘Don’t you ever argue?’ she had asked, half curious, half teasing.

  Markos had shrugged, humour pulling at his mouth.

  ‘Oh, big cousin Leo likes to think he gets his own way, but I see him off when I have to.’

  When she had met Leo she had seen that the relationship between them worked well. Though cut from similar cloth—both with scarily sharp business minds, both as rich as each other—Markos had the cooler head, Leo was swifter to anger. Markos was more calculating, Leo more impulsive. True, Leo liked to make Markos recognise his place as the younger of the two, but he also, she could see, had both respect and fondness for him.

  A frown crossed her brow. Leo had spent the evening of the launch gala with one of the models—Anna—clamped to his side. Anna hadn’t seemed very happy about it, but then she wasn’t very happy about the shoot anyway. Vanessa wasn’t surprised—Anna had clashed with the horrible photographer, who had done nothing but shout at them all day.

  Now, with Markos asking her if she had enjoyed it, she could—knowing it was finally all over—be honest.

  ‘Not really,’ she confessed. ‘I don’t think it’s my thing, really—modelling.’

  ‘You looked fantastic.’

  ‘It’s harder work than you think,’ Vanessa answered. ‘I hadn’t realised what a strain it would be. I know you think it’s just posing in gorgeous clothes, wearing fabulous necklaces and things, but you get so tired. And Signor Embrutti was very demanding. He was rather unpleasant, actually.’

  Markos’s expression was thunderous. ‘To you? You should have walked out. Come and told me.’

  ‘No! Honestly, it was fine. If anything he was less horrible to me than any of the other girls. Because everyone knows that you and I—’ She fell silent again.

  Markos nodded. ‘That is as well,’ he said grimly, and reached for her hand. She squeezed his fingers, seeking to lighten the atmosphere, glancing out for inspiration over the darkening snow-covered landscape they were driving through.

  ‘When did you learn to ski?’ she asked.

  ‘God knows,’ he replied, easing back in the seat. ‘My mother skiied and she took me wherever she went, so I suppose I was pretty young.’

  ‘Did she teach you?’ Vanessa’s face broke into a smile, seeing a miniature Markos lovingly helped to ski by a doting mother. It was a rare glimpse of the man behind the lover.

  ‘No, she hired instructors.’

  His face shuttered. The last thing his mother would have bothered with was teaching him to ski. Not only had she been too busy with her lover du jour up in a mountain lodge somewhere private, but the only reason she had lugged her son around with her everywhere had been to make sure she kept him safely. He was, after all, her prime asset, and he had to be kept secure.

  Vanessa saw his expression close and changed the subject, knowing she must not feel snubbed. Markos never talked about his family—except for his cousin Leo—and she respected his privacy. After all, he did not talk to her about her family. When he had swept her off with him she had simply told him that her parents had died when she was young, and that the grandparents who had raised her had both died, so she was a free agent. He had only smiled glintingly down at her, said ‘Not any more, Vanessa,’ and kissed her, deeply and possessively, taking her mind very effectively off anything other than himself—and the wonderful, magical implications of what he had just said to her.

  Now, casting about for something innocuous to say, she asked, ‘Is that the Dorf below the castle? I can see lights through the trees.’

  Markos glanced ou
t of the window. ‘Probably. God knows what possessed Leo to buy that white elephant! It’s as well he didn’t do so under corporate finances, or I’d have lambasted him for it! It can be his own personal money pit if he wants.’

  ‘It is very big,’ Vanessa allowed.

  The glint in Markos’s eyes came again, its message very clear. He leant towards her, lips brushing hers.

  ‘Even better, the beds are very big too, hmm?’

  There was a softness in his voice, a husk of anticipation. Once again, colour flared out across her cheeks.

  And in her body another sensation flared.

  Suddenly she was as impatient as Markos for the journey to end.

  Vanessa stirred, luxuriating in the softness of the deep feather mattress and the heavy warmth of the billowing duvet smothering her. In front of her, Markos was getting dressed. She sat herself up, propping up the thick pillows, pushing back her tumbled hair. As she moved, the duvet slipped a little, exposing one breast. Automatically, she covered it again.

  ‘Just as well,’ Markos told her, the grey eyes glinting briefly in appreciation as he slipped gold cufflinks through his cuffs. ‘Much as I want to, there’s no time for playing today.’

  ‘Are we going back to London?’ Vanessa asked sleepily. The house party at the schloss was over, the guests had dispersed, and their host, Leo, was off as well. Apparently his charms had won over the reluctant Anna after all, for he was leaving, so Markos said, with her in tow. Vanessa wished her well. She wished the whole world well. That was what loving Markos did to her—filled her with a joy and generosity of spirit that spilled out to everyone.

  How could I have imagined living without Markos?

  The very idea seemed unbelievable, unbearable. To think that she had gone to Paris with no more expectation than to see the most magical city in Europe—and had had her life transformed! Her original intention had been to spend a week in Paris and then return home to put the last of her affairs in order so that she could fulfil her even more ambitious dream of travelling around Europe—even beyond, perhaps—lashing out with a proportion of the money from the sale of her grandparents’ large house, the balance safely invested, together with the money her grandparents had left her, her nest egg for the future.

  Now all that seemed a universe away. All that existed to her now was Markos. Markos, Markos, Markos. His name ran like a litany in her head.

  Where he would go, she would follow. To the ends of the earth if he would let her.

  She felt her heart turn over. She did not know what the future would bring—could not even bring herself to think of it. She lived only in the ever-present present, the wonderful, magical now of being with Markos. He wanted her—and that was enough.

  More, more than enough! Heaven, bliss and wonderland all combined. She gazed at him, lovelight blinding in her eyes.

  He was just so incredible to look at! Even now—getting dressed, standing there in the lamplight and glowing firelight of the still-dark winter morning, lean and tall, buttoning the shirt that hid his smooth, powerful torso from her sight, reaching for the tie that was draped over the back of a chair, knotting it with skilled, casual fingers—he made her breath catch, her heart beat faster.

  ‘London for you, yes,’ he answered her. ‘But I—’he made a face ‘—have to go to Athens. I’m sorry, but I can’t get out of it.’

  Her face fell. She couldn’t help it.

  She wanted to ask him—beg him—to let her come with him, but she knew she mustn’t. If Markos had to go to Athens on business he would have no time for her, and she would not importune him. She would wait, patiently, in his vast, opulent London apartment—one of the half-dozen or so he owned in the major cities of Europe and North America—counting the hours until he returned.

  ‘Of course,’ she said bravely. ‘How—how long will you be in Athens, do you think?’

  She hoped she didn’t sound nagging. No man liked being nagged. Especially not a man like Markos Makarios.

  He gave a shrug, tightening the knot on his tie and reaching for his jacket.

  ‘A few days—maybe a week. I don’t know.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Well, I hope it all goes well—whatever the business is.’

  It was Markos’s turn to nod, but briefly. It wasn’t business calling him to Athens; he wished it was. Anything would be preferable to the real reason. It was his father, summoning him again. He had missed out on Christmas and the New Year, spending the holiday season in Mauritius with Vanessa, a far more enjoyable experience than seeing his carping father. Of course his father had found out—nothing he did was secret from the old man, he knew that—but the berating would come in person, not over the phone. Hence the summons now.

  He knew exactly how it would go. His father was old. His only son, Markos, was feckless, unfilial, self-indulgent, thinking nothing of his obligations to the Makarios name, the future of the Makarios fortunes. Had his father not suffered enough grief through Markos’s mother? Did his father not deserve to have his worries and anxieties for his closing years allayed? Did his father not deserve to have his grandchildren finally around him, after so long and stubborn a prevarication by his son? And did his stubborn, disloyal son not know that he must, must take himself a wife to provide those essential grandchildren? A good wife, a loyal wife, a Greek wife, who would be faithful and true, not faithless and false. A wife who knew her duty—to give her husband sons, her father-in-law the grandchildren he deserved.

  But, no, Markos was selfish and self-indulgent. He wasted his loins on harlots and whores, like the one he had spent Christmas with, fornicating in the tropics instead of coming home to take a wife for himself, a good Greek girl, any one of the dozen his father had picked out for him as worthy to bear his grandchildren…

  Markos slammed down a steel door on the endlessly complaining voice echoing in his brain. Thee mou, but he did not want to go to Athens! Did not want to stand, teeth gritted, while his father wailed and lamented over him, accusing him of fornication and harlotry. But it had to be done—like penance. And when it was done he could escape again, get back to the life he had built for himself—a life where beautiful women like the one there in his bed now gave him everything he wanted. Everything he needed.

  And who would never in a million years think about marriage.

  Or children.

  Or falling in love.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  VANESSA GAZED OUT over the night. Twenty storeys below, the River Thames gleamed, dark and opaque. She shivered. It was not just the winter’s bleakness—raw and biting in the damp British air—that made her do so. The bleakness was inside her as well.

  It was because Markos was not there with her.

  He had been gone longer than she’d thought he would be—well over a week now. And she had counted every day, felt each one like a hard, heavy weight dragging at her.

  She was missing him badly. There was an emptiness inside her, a dull, raw, sick longing like acid in her stomach, a restlessness that made her pace, now, despite the cold and the late hour, up and down on the roof terrace of his Chelsea penthouse overlooking the river. But the central-heated warmth of the luxurious interior had suddenly seemed too hot, too breathless, exacerbating the sick feeling in her stomach that had been there since she’d come back from Austria, parted from Markos.

  She halted, hugging her arms around her body. Oh, Markos, why are you away so long? I hate it when you are away from me! Please come back—please come back soon! Tomorrow—please. I miss you so much!

  The words tumbled through her head, aching and hurting.

  She had it bad, she knew. Loving and wanting like this, pining when he was not there, unable to settle to anything, unable to do anything—unable to live. Just—waiting. That was all she was doing. Waiting for him to come back to her.

  She couldn’t even phone him or communicate with him. The mobile he had given her was for receiving his calls, not making her own to him—she didn’t even know hi
s personal number, which came up as ‘private’ on her screen, and phoning his PA would have been too mortifying. And, anyway, how could she phone him when he was in Athens on business? If he’d wanted to speak to her he would have done so. But he hadn’t. She hadn’t heard from him since she’d arrived in London.

  The days had passed with brutal slowness. The Chelsea apartment was huge and luxurious, with a vast plasma-screen television, every form of sound equipment and a huge library of recordings. If she’d wanted, Housekeeping would have sent a chef up every night to cook a gourmet meal for her. But she had no interest in that. Going out shopping gave her something to do in the daytime. So did museums and concerts and the cinema and theatre matinees. She’d been to the cinema tonight to see a film, but it had been a sad love story and it had only depressed her. Besides, most of the people at the cinema had been either couples or groups of friends. She knew no one in London.

  Oh, she’d met some of Markos’s acquaintances when she was out and about with him, but she was hardly on their social circuit. None of them would think to invite her on her own, without Markos. Not that she would have wanted to go. The circles Markos moved in were a million miles from those she was used to, and even after five months she did not feel comfortable among such people. Only when Markos was with her could she relax, devote herself to him and pay very little attention to anyone else beyond smiling and saying whatever was required socially—which, she knew, was very little. They saw her as the woman on Markos Makarios’s arm, that was all.

  She didn’t care. All she wanted to be, in the entire world, was the woman on Markos Makarios’s arm.

  She went on staring down at the cold, dark river, so far below. Waiting for Markos to come back.