Painted the Other Woman Read online

  Marisa looked at him. ‘But not one that’s always taken,’ she said.

  She looked away again. This wasn’t a subject she wanted to discuss. It was too close, too painful, and the arrival of their main course was a welcome interruption.

  As the waiters departed she picked up her knife and fork and said, deliberately seeking a new topic, ‘What brings you to London?’

  Her voice was bright and enquiring. Glancing at her, realising she was deliberately steering him away from a subject that was obviously too close to the bone for her, Athan momentarily wondered how she would react if he told her the truth: I’m here to stop you having an adulterous affair with Ian Randall … my brother-in-law.

  Instead, of course, he responded in a similar vein to her conversational opening.

  ‘Unlike the three sisters, I travel extensively for my work. I’m primarily based in Athens, but the company is international and travel goes with the ticket.’

  A wistful look entered her eyes. ‘That must be wonderful,’ she said.

  He gave a mordant smile. ‘It can get tedious,’ he answered. ‘One airport is very much like another in the end—and offices are very similar wherever in the world they are.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it palls after a while.’

  He looked at her speculatively. ‘Why don’t you try it some time—travel? If you’ll excuse me saying so, you have the means to do so, don’t you?’

  Living in a Holland Park flat as she did, wearing the expensive closthes she did, it was a reasonable assumption for him to make—assuming, of course, he didn’t know that she was not a free agent and that her accommodation and wardrobe were provided by a lover who was London-based and would want to keep his mistress close by and not gadding about abroad.

  Her response confirmed that assessment of her situation.

  A hesitant expression flitted across her face. ‘Oh, it would be a bit difficult at the moment. But, yes, perhaps one day—it would be wonderful to see other countries.’

  ‘What would be your first choice?’ he asked. An idea was forming in his mind, but he needed more information first.

  She glanced out of the window at the wintry rain that had started to descend through the streetlights.

  ‘Anywhere with a tropical beach!’ she said with a laugh.

  He gave a light, answering laugh. ‘Yes, I can see the appeal.’

  She looked at him. ‘You must be used to hot weather?’

  ‘Contrary to popular opinion, Athens can have very cold weather sometimes,’ he said wryly. ‘At this time of year you’d need to go a lot further south to find any warmth, let alone tropical beaches.’

  Even as he spoke his mind was racing ahead. Would it be feasible, what he’d just thought of? It would take some reorganisation, but it could certainly be done. Best of all, a cold, cynical part of his brain told him, it would be something she could not lie about afterwards. If he had to he could demonstrably prove to Ian that the woman he wanted to make his mistress had preferred another man to him.

  She was speaking again, saying something about dream holiday destinations, and he turned his attention back to her. Her expression was more animated now, as if she were losing the guard that she’d put up against him all evening.

  Was it deliberate, this lightening up, or was she unconscious of it?

  Whichever it is, animation only makes her yet more beautiful.

  As she spoke his gaze rested on her. Sitting across a dining table from her like this, he could see exactly why Ian Randall was so smitten with her. She could have been wearing a sack, for all her appearance was seeking to mute her beauty. Hers was a beauty that shone like a star.

  Can I really go through with this?

  The unwelcome question uncoiled again in his mind, troubling him. It had seemed easy enough when he’d decided this was the best, fastest and most irreversible way of terminating her relationship with Ian. But now that he was only a few feet away from her, dining with her, talking with her … drinking in her blonde, perfect beauty … was it really such a good idea? Were there hidden dangers that he did not see ahead of him?

  He pushed the thought aside ruthlessly. Of course there was no danger—not to him. He would do what he intended, achieve what he’d set out to do, and then walk away, his purpose accomplished. Unscathed. Of course unscathed.

  Why would he even be thinking of anything else?

  Not the way her cheekbones seem to be sculpted out of alabaster, or the blue of her eyes seems to catch the reflection of a tranquil sea, or her mouth seems as tender as a newly ripe peach …

  He tore his mind away from cataloguing her physical attributes and back to what she was talking about. He realised he had no idea what she’d just said.

  ‘I’m sorry—you were saying …?’ he said.

  She seemed to have faltered to a stop, and he wondered at it. Then he realised she was simply looking at him. A faint colour was staining her cheekbones—those cheekbones carved from alabaster, he thought, then pushed it aside. Her eyelashes swept down over her eyes, veiling their expression. But it was too late—he’d seen it, recognised it …

  Knew it for what it was.

  Marisa felt heat flare in her face, dipped her gaze swiftly. But she knew it was too late. Knew that she hadn’t been able to disguise her reaction to the way he’d just been looking at her. The power of his gaze, the message clear and unambiguous in his eyes. She felt hot, then shivery, as if one moment her blood was heating in her veins, and the next it had drained from her, pooling somewhere very deep inside her. She felt a breathlessness, a constriction in her throat, a hectic beating of her heart.

  She fought for composure. It wasn’t supposed to happen! This wasn’t supposed to be anything like this. She was here with him only because he’d invited her to the theatre, then to dinner afterwards—it wasn’t a date, not in the romance sense. Of course it wasn’t!

  He’s a stranger! I don’t know him!

  But she knew enough.

  Enough to tell her that when he looked at her he was looking at her not as someone to accompany him to a play or to talk to him about it afterwards.

  All that stuff she’d told herself about how he was behaving like she was the wife of a friend, or a colleague, or a middle aged woman … it mocked her—made a fool of her self-pretence.

  Jerkily, she got on with eating. That was what she must do—focus on the meal, on getting to the end of it. Making herself chit-chat about anything and nothing—it didn’t really matter what.

  And don’t look at him—not like that. Ignore him—make myself ignore him—if he looks at me.

  It took self-discipline and effort—a lot of effort—but she managed to stick to her resolve. For the rest of the meal she made light, bright conversation, doggedly not meeting his eyes, not gazing at him, not paying any attention at all to the way his eyes seemed to be flecked with gold, or the way lines formed around his mouth when he smiled, or the way his head turned, the way his strong, long-fingered hands curved around the stem of his wine glass, or the way his deep, accented voice played on her nerve-endings like the low bass notes of a song that pulsed slow and heavy in her veins …

  But it was as if there were two of her. One that was doing the light, bright chit-chat and another, watching from inside, wanting to do what she was not allowing herself to do. To drink him in, feel the power of his physicality, his presence, his impact on her.

  In the taxi back to Holland Park she was as jittery as a cat, sliding to the far side of the seat, deliberately putting her handbag down beside her, as if to form a barricade against him, and then leaping out of the cab as fast as she could when they alighted. She kept up the hectic, inconsequential chatter as they ascended in the lift, ignoring—doggedly ignoring!—the fact that they were enclosed in a small, six-by-six box with no one else, alone together, and the moment the lift doors opened she was out in the corridor and turning towards him.

  ‘Thank you so much for a lovely evening,’ she said, in the light, b
right voice she had kept up so determinedly. ‘It was so kind of you—I really enjoyed myself.’ She put a bright social smile on her face. ‘Goodnight,’ she said airily.

  Athan looked down at her. OK, so she was holding him off. Keeping him at bay. Well, he would go along with it—for now.

  He gave her the faint half-smile he’d used before. ‘Goodnight, Marisa—I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. So did I.’

  There was nothing in his voice or his expression to show her that he was playing along with her, but he was sure he saw her colour deepen fractionally before she turned away and got her key out of her bag to open her front door. Did she fumble slightly as she did so? And was that for the reason he wanted it to be? He watched her open the door and step inside, her hand lifting in a little half-wave of farewell as she shut the door on him.

  For a moment or two he stood looking at her closed apartment door, his own face closed as well. Eyes masked. Thoughts went through his head. Conflicting, disturbing thoughts that were a waste of his time. That interfered with his purpose.

  Then, with an abrupt turn on his heel, he strode down to his own apartment, and went inside.

  He had made it to first base with her, just as he’d planned. Now it was a question of taking it to the next stage.

  The idea he’d had during dinner flared again in his head. It was attractive, simple, decisive—and it would sever her, unquestionably from Ian Randall, in the shortest possible time.

  He was quite some distance from it yet—there was more preparation to do. A lot more. But when it was complete Marisa Milburne would never be available to his brother-in-law again.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’

  Athan’s voice held its familiar note of faint amusement as she stared down at the envelope he’d placed in front of her at their table in the restaurant. Marisa knew that tone of voice by now. It made him sound as if he found her behaviour funny but he chose to indulge it. Chose to indulge the way she behaved with him.

  As if what was happening wasn’t happening at all. As if she hadn’t for the past two weeks held him at arm’s length. Not that he’d tried to close the distance. She had to allow him that—and be appreciative of it. Of course if he had tried to close the distance she would have bolted instantly. Of course she would! If he’d made a move on her, flirted with her, come on to her, she’d have backed away—retreated out of reach.

  But he hadn’t. For a start, for several days after their theatre date she hadn’t even set eyes on him. Well, that was understandable. It had been the weekend, and he’d probably gone back to Athens. Or spent his time with someone else.

  Who else?

  The moment she’d asked the question, she had supplied the answer. A woman, of course—someone svelte, glamorous and gorgeous. A supermodel, a high-powered career woman, a glittering socialite … her mind had run through the possibilities. Not someone like her—a quiet, provincial girl who didn’t move in the kind of circles a man like him would move in. She was someone he’d taken to the theatre on the spur of the moment because he’d had no one else to take to such a play, and that was all. Not that she was asking for more—of course she wasn’t. But it was as well to face the facts—a female who lived on her own, didn’t go out anywhere, and was new to London didn’t usually get to hang out with sinfully good-looking Greek tycoons.

  The theatre date had been a one-off. That was the obvious conclusion. And the one she’d wanted. Hadn’t she? Of course she had—hadn’t she spent the whole evening reminding herself he was a complete stranger?

  Except when she’d got back home in her flat again she’d realised she’d enjoyed the evening. Not just because it had been so nice to go to the theatre with someone else, but because his company had been so good. Oh, not only because he was so ludicrously good looking, but because it had been interesting to talk to him, to exchange views on the play with him. It had been mentally stimulating, and the discussion they’d had still buzzed in her head.

  Spending that weekend on her own—she had accepted she could never see Ian at the weekends, for that was the time he spent with his wife—had brought home to her just how isolated she felt here in London, however easy and luxurious her life. Her resolve to get some sort of voluntary work, try and make friends, had strengthened, and on the Monday she’d headed for the nearest charity shop and enquired about volunteering. Then she’d investigated dance classes nearby, and signed up for those as well. But her good mood had been dashed later that day, when Ian had phoned. Yet again he wouldn’t be able to meet her. He hadn’t even known when he could be free to see her again—maybe later that week, maybe not.

  He’d been apologetic, she’d been understanding. Of course she had. His job was demanding, especially at the moment, and there were a lot more demands on his time than work—including from his wife. That was understandable. It was all understandable.

  But as he’d rung off, having cancelled yet another lunch-time with her, she’d felt depression pluck at her. When the phone had rung again, a little while later, and a deep accented voice had spoken, she’d felt her spirits lift in reaction.

  ‘This is completely on the off chance,’ Athan Teodarkis’s distinctively accented voice had said, ‘but would you have any interest in seeing Hamlet at the National? Or have you already been?’

  ‘I’d love to!’ she said immediately.

  His voice warmed. ‘Excellent. Would Thursday suit?’

  For a moment Marisa hesitated. Thursday was usually the evening that Ian was able to meet her without arousing his wife’s suspicions. Eva went to her book club that day and wouldn’t be aware he’d returned late, or would accept that he’d just been at the office. But his phone call earlier had already warned her that this week he really would be stuck at the office, burning the midnight oil on a complex deal he was closely involved with.

  He’ll probably be relieved if I make another arrangement. He won’t feel bad about not being able to see me, she reasoned.

  A second later she gave Athan Teodarkis his answer.

  The answer he wanted, the answer he’d intended to extract from her. He’d deliberately let her cool her heels over the weekend, knowing that Ian Randall never saw her at that time. For once—Athan’s lip curled—he’d be playing the devoted husband.

  But with the weekend over he’d known he needed to target Marisa Milburne again, and continue with his strategy to part her from her married swain.

  As with the Chekov, Hamlet was followed by dinner, over which their discussion of the production predominated. Yet again Marisa made sure she was wearing the kind of outfit that wouldn’t scream Find me attractive! and yet again Athan Teodarkis behaved scrupulously towards her, bidding her a chaste goodnight at her door once again.

  Expecting another solitary weekend, Marisa was surprised when her doorbell sounded just before midday the following Sunday

  ‘It’s a glorious sunny day—can I persuade you to lunch at the Belvedere in Holland Park?’ Athan Teodarkis invited.

  Her face lit. ‘Oh, that sounds wonderful! I’ve never been there.’

  He smiled—that increasingly familiar quirking of his well-shaped mouth. ‘Then I must definitely take you. It’s memorable.’

  She took a breath. ‘This time it’s on me. I insist you must be my guest for a change.’

  His expression stilled. For a moment Marisa thought she had offended him. Then, his eyes still veiled, he gave a distinct shake of his head.

  ‘That’s not in the least necessary,’ he said, and there was a clipped note to his voice.

  Marisa looked at him uncertainly. There seemed to be a shadow in his eyes. She couldn’t quite see into them. A little chill went through her.

  Then it was gone. ‘Cook me a meal one evening,’ he said. ‘Simple fare will do me fine. Oh, and I can show you how to work that coffee machine of yours!’

  ‘OK,’ she said slowly, not sure whether it was still that momentary chill that disturbed her, or the prospect of Athan Teodarkis coming into
her apartment, eating dinner there …

  Had she really felt that chill? she wondered later, as they set off for Holland Park.

  Athan set a brisk pace and she kept up with it—walking was one thing, after her rural upbringing, where transport was sparse and the wilds of Dartmoor were close at hand, she had become inured her to. It was, as he had said, a glorious day—but very cold. She was glad of her pure wool jacket and warm leather boots as they walked through the park towards the restaurant, which was situated in the ballroom that was almost all that was left of the grand Holland House that had once stood there.

  She wished she’d brought a pair of sunglasses, as Athan had. As she glanced sideways at him she could feel her insides do a little somersault. What was it about dark glasses that made him look so … so even more than he already looked in spades!

  She snapped her head away. He was glancing down at her, she was sure of it, and being caught gazing at him was not what she wanted. Did his mouth give that familiar quirk? she wondered. To cover herself, she started talking. ‘I do love Holland Park, even at this time of year. It’s a real haven. I come here all the time. It’s such a shame that Holland House itself got bombed in the war—all that’s left is enough for a youth hostel. And the Orangery, where the Belvedere restaurant is, of course. Apparently there’s an opera season in the summer. All outdoors. It must be wonderful on a warm summer’s night!’

  She was babbling, but she couldn’t help it. He didn’t seem to mind, though, and made an appropriate response to what she’d said, and they continued chatting as they made their way towards the restaurant.

  The setting was indeed memorable—an eighteenth century summer ballroom, with beautiful long windows all around that let the winter sunshine pour in. And lunch was superb. Marisa wondered again whether to offer to pay, for she felt bad eating at his expense a third time, but found she dared not mention it again. He would take offence, she was sure. It was probably something he just wasn’t used to. Even so, she felt she ought to insist, and it made her feel very slightly uncomfortable.

  Apart from that, however, Marisa found she was the most comfortable yet in his company. He was, she realised with a little start, no longer a stranger …