Greek Affairs: The Virgin's Seduction: The Virgin's Wedding Night / Kyriakis's Innocent Mistress / The Ruthless Greek's Virgin Princess. Trish Morey
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the voluptuous tenderness between her thighs soon disabused her of that notion. She had to face the fact that she’d spent most of the previous night having sex, with an increasing hunger and lack of inhibition that made her quail as she recalled it now in daylight.
Unable, it seemed, to get enough of him, she thought, turning over to bury her burning face in her pillow. Or to give enough either …
I wish you to make love to me.
And she’d done so, following instincts she barely understood, hesitant, even gauche at first, but learning quickly, guided by Roan’s glance, his whispered word, even an indrawn breath. Discovering intimacies she could never have imagined she’d permit, let alone enjoy.
Until, at the last, she’d found herself astride him, absorbing him with exquisite totality, her body bent in an arc of pleasure as she pursued, with him, yet another release that was as savage as it was mutual.
They’d finally fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion, still entwined. Harriet could remember waking around dawn, and finding she was sprawled across him, imprisoned by his arm, her cheek pressed against the heavy beat of his heart. And when she’d tried gingerly to move to a more decorous distance, Roan had muttered something sleepily in his own language, his grasp tightening around her. So she’d stayed, and slept again.
Yet he’d had no problem extricating himself, it seemed. And she’d been too dead to the world to notice. Had expected to find him there, holding her, when she woke. Had wanted him to be there …
Now, there was an admission.
She sat up again, pushing back her tumble of hair, listening for the sound of the shower, trying to detect a hint of coffee in the air— any indication that he was still around. Somewhere. But there was only silence, and the sunlight pressing against the blinds far more brightly than it should have done.
Biting her lip, Harriet glanced at the bedside clock and stifled a yelp. He’d gone, and so had half the morning, which meant that for the first time she was going to be horrifyingly late for work.
She stood under the shower, letting the water stream over her body, touching every part of her that his hands—his mouth—had caressed. Rinsing away the carnation-scented lather, remembering its fragrance on his skin, and now she’d breathed it—licked at it. Remembering altogether too much, she thought breathlessly, bracing a hand against the tiled wall for support because her legs were shaking under her again. And these memories had to be dealt with—barred—if she was ever to know any peace again.
As she went to discard her used towel in the linen basket, she saw a glimmer of peach satin, and realised he’d collected her pyjamas from the floor, as if he knew she only wore things once before laundering. Although, in this case, she’d hardly had the chance to wear them at all.
She hunted discontentedly along the rail in her wardrobe, wishing there was something else to choose apart from black, black and yet more black. ‘Those shapeless garments,’ he’d called them, and much good they’d done her.
Now there seemed little point in persevering with her camouflage, and it would have been nice to wear something light and bright—something that floated—on this glorious sunlit morning.
Then paused, her lips twisting in self-derision. ‘And what does that make you, my dear?’ she wondered aloud. ‘A butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, or the same dreary moth with delusions? Get back to square one where you belong.’
It occurred to her, as she scraped her hair back into its usual style, that she was ravenous. No point in being late on an empty stomach, she thought, as she dashed into her smart galley kitchen, slipping bread into the toaster, and switching on the kettle.
There was no sign of Roan having breakfasted. Not so much as a cup of coffee, she noticed, but perhaps he felt he’d helped himself to quite enough already. And if that was intended as a joke, it hadn’t worked, she told herself with a pang.
She ladled honey on to her toast, eating and drinking standing up, before grabbing her bag and racing to the door.
At first sight, the living room was in its usual pristine condition, with no trace of him there either. And then she saw the piece of paper lying on her ash table, a sheet torn at random, it seemed, from a sketch block, the edges ragged. And in the middle of it, a small circle of gold.
The wedding ring, she thought, that she’d handed back to him yesterday with such insouciance. And scrawled across the paper in thick black letters the single word, ‘Souvenir.’
So it had been revenge, she thought, feeling suddenly numb. Amongst all the disastrous mistakes she’d made last night, she’d been right about that, at least.
I couldn’t have made it easier for him if I’d tried, she thought. Or sweeter.
And somehow I have to learn to live with that.
By the time Harriet reached the office, the weekly round-up meeting had already begun.
‘Nice of you to join us, Miss Flint,’ Tony commented acidly.
‘I’m sorry.’ Harriet sat down, needled by the sight of Jon Audley exchanging complicit grins with Anthea. ‘My alarm didn’t go off.’ Largely because I forgot to set it, having so many other things to think about at the time. Most of which I don’t want to contemplate.
And her inner turmoil had been further compounded by an encounter with George, the concierge, as he sorted the mail in the foyer. His beaming smile, and the faint archness of his, ‘Good morning, Mrs Zandros,’ had totally stymied any rebuke she’d been considering over the matter of the key, and she’d simply mumbled a flushed response and fled.
‘How brave of it,’ said Tony, recalling her sharply to the here and now. ‘How did things go yesterday, by the way?’
For a moment she stared at him, totally thrown once again. ‘What do you mean?’ Her voice was a croak.
‘At Hayford House.’ He held out his hand. ‘I presume you’ve already written up your report with your usual blazing efficiency.’
She took a deep steadying breath. Think! ‘Actually, no,’ she returned calmly. ‘As nothing has changed diametrically since the last report was produced, I thought it would be simpler to work from that.’ She looked at Jonathan. ‘I presume you still have a copy on file.’
There was a silence, then he said curtly, ‘I didn’t write one. I simply got on to our maintenance people and—requested a visit.’
‘And made a follow-up call to ensure it had been carried out?’
‘I didn’t suppose it was necessary.’ Jon’s look spoke daggers. ‘They’re pretty reliable, and God knows there weren’t any major issues.’
‘No,’ Harriet said reflectively. ‘And the tenants appreciated how busy you are.’ She allowed another awkward silence to establish itself, then glanced back at Tony’s annoyed face. ‘I’ll get on to it as soon as the meeting is over.’ But will that be before or after I call Isobel …?
At any other time she’d have been jubilant having scored a minor triumph over the obnoxious Audley, but, set against everything else going on in her life, it barely registered, and she was aware she was frankly sleep-walking her way through the rest of the meeting.
And the remainder of the morning wasn’t much better. Her concentration was shot to pieces, her thinking dominated by the memory of last night, and her need to make sense of what had happened. And, of course, deal with it.
Three times she reached for the phone and began to dial Isobel’s number. Three times she got halfway, only to abandon the call.
I can’t talk to her yet, she thought. I’m too confused. Besides, what on earth can I say? Tell her I want an injunction against him, followed by the quickest divorce in the history of the world? How many awkward explanations will that throw up?
‘What’s the matter?