The Innocent's Surrender. Sara Craven
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Natasha returned curtly. ‘To keep him waiting.’
‘We have done so,’ said Andonis. ‘But now some gesture is needed. A little…propitiation to keep him interested.’ He chuckled. ‘And to keep him sweet.’
‘I don’t think sweet and Alex Mandrakis are words that belong in the same sentence.’ Restlessly, Natasha pushed her chair back and rose, walking over to the tall glass doors which opened into the garden. ‘You shouldn’t have brought me into this business,’ she said, staring into the warm darkness. ‘Not without asking me first. You had no right—no right at all.’
‘But where is the harm?’ Andonis demanded. ‘There will be no marriage between you and Mandrakis. We swear it. You have only to say you accept the terms we are offering. Give him something to think about.’
He looked at her appealingly. ‘The fact that a girl he has never seen is offering herself to him will appeal to his vanity and his arrogance. In the short term, it may cloud his judgement, and create a delay that is vital to us, and to the continued prosperity of the Papadimos family—in which you share, Natasha mou.’
He paused. ‘Perhaps you should remember that. Also how my father rescued you and treated you as his own,’ he added significantly. ‘Maybe it is time you repaid the memory of his kindness, with a little generosity of your own.’
She said coldly and clearly, ‘Your father wouldn’t have touched a deal like this, and you know it. He hated the Mandrakis family far too much to offer even a bogus olive branch.’
And Alex Mandrakis has seen me, even though he won’t remember it…
‘That is true,’ Stavros agreed. ‘But think what a fool this Alexandros will appear when we obtain our money, and his offer is brushed aside with our contempt. He will lose face with his shareholders, his board, and most of all, with his father. Old Petros will not easily forgive him for walking into our little trap.
‘And he has made other enemies. Once we have demonstrated that he is not fireproof, they too may move against him.’ He sighed gustily. ‘Our ultimate victory may be greater than we could hope for. And that is something our father would relish indeed. As you well know, sister.’
Yes, Natasha thought bitterly. Only too well. Where the Mandrakis family was concerned, Basilis too had seemed to abandon all logic and reason. He would never have forgone an opportunity to do them a serious mischief, if it had lain in his power.
But did it never occur to either Stavros or Andonis that what they had in mind might prove to be a double-edged sword, and that Alex Mandrakis might well have some similar plan?
Or did they believe they were the ones who were fireproof?
If so, she thought fatalistically, God help us all.
She said abruptly, ‘Very well. If there’s really no other way, give me the letter, and, for your father’s sake, I’ll sign.’
She paused. ‘But I still think it’s a truly terrible idea, and I hope it with all my heart that it won’t all end in tears.’
It wasn’t just that one letter, of course, she reflected later, as she lay in bed, listening to the soft swoosh of the ceiling fan above her. When it came down to it, there’d been a whole sheaf of documents relating to the refinancing that also required her signature, and she’d obeyed wearily, sitting at Basilis’s old desk in his former study, with Stavros and Andonis like twin sentinels fussily directing her pen.
Afterwards they’d been barely able to conceal their triumph at her capitulation, and she’d had no difficulty in refusing their offer to join them in the saloni for a celebratory drink, on the grounds that she had an early flight the next day and needed to get her rest.
Except that she couldn’t sleep, she thought, turning over and giving her inoffensive pillow a thump, as if that might improve the situation.
But her failure to relax had nothing to do with her physical surroundings. It was the nagging conviction that she’d just made a hideous mistake that was keeping her awake.
She wished with all her heart that she could go down to the study, retrieve the letter to Alex Mandrakis and destroy it. But it was locked away in the safe, along with the other documents, and she didn’t have the combination.
And telling the Papadimos brothers over breakfast that she’d changed her mind would make not an atom of difference, she thought bitterly. It was too late, and there was no way back.
What a pity, she thought wryly, that I can’t share Maria and Christina’s unswerving faith in their husbands’ perspicacity. In their belief that this ludicrous swindle has some outside chance of success.
She’d been almost tempted to confide in Thia Theodosia when she’d visited her on her way to bed. But she’d found the older woman lying on a couch, a book neglected in her lap, and gazing into space with eyes that seemed to see nothing but sadness, and she’d known at once that she could not add to her troubles.
So she’d sat with her for a while, bringing a smile to her lips with stories of some of Helping Out’s more eccentric clients, and then, as she’d always done, asking for her foster mother’s parting blessing.
But this time, she’d had an odd feeling that her request was prompted by more than mere convention. That, after the evening’s events, she needed all the protection she could get.
She felt almost as if she’d stepped through some barrier into an alternative universe, she told herself wryly, consoling herself that things would seem altogether better once she was back in England, and out of harm’s way, her debt to the Papadimos family finally paid.
London was her real world, she thought gratefully. The flat she shared with Molly while the latter’s fiancé was overseas, the company they were steadily building together, and now, of course, Neil.
Closing her eyes, she let herself reflect pleasurably and deliberately on Neil.
They’d met six weeks ago at a book-launch party for an author whose domestic life had been thrown into chaos when his pregnant wife had been taken into hospital with persistent high blood pressure, leaving him with two demanding older children, a total lack of catering skills and a fast-approaching deadline.
Natasha had moved in, restored order with a firm hand, and given the author the space he needed to finish his book, along with three meals a day. She’d also stayed on to help when the mother-to-be was eventually allowed home with strict orders to rest, and joined in the general rejoicings when seven-and-a-half-pound Nathan—‘The nearest we could get to Natasha for a boy’—had been safely born.
Neil was an executive with the PR company used by the publishers.
He was tall, distinctly attractive, effortlessly charming, and he’d made an unashamed beeline for her when she’d made a hesitant appearance in the doorway of the crowded room, looking round for James and Fiona.
He hadn’t haunted her side all evening, because he had work to do, but he’d sought her out again as she was leaving, asked for her card, and suggested they should have dinner some time.
Some time had proved to be the following night, she recalled, smiling into the darkness, and they’d been seeing each other regularly ever since.
‘So, is he the one?’ Molly had enquired teasingly only a few nights ago when Neil had brought Natasha home from the theatre, drunk the offered coffee as always, then taken his leave with the usual ruefulness. ‘Are you finally going to take that leap into the great unknown of sex?’
Natasha had flushed. ‘You think I’m mad to have kept him waiting this long, don’t you?’
‘Not altogether. “Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen” would seem to be working in this case. And when it happens, he’ll know you really mean it.’ Molly allowed herself a small reminiscent smile. ‘But you’re far more hard-hearted than I was with Craig.’
‘Blame