Greek Affairs: The Virgin's Seduction. Trish Morey
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plan.
And in some ways she wished he’d turned her down, and walked away.
Oh, come on, she adjured herself impatiently. That’s defeatist thinking. He’s a means to an end, that’s all. A business deal. And you’ll have a firewall to protect you anyway, with your pre-nuptial agreement.
Back at the flat, she showered quickly and shampooed her hair. She’d intended to wear it up, or braid it, but she was running late, so she decided for once simply to brush it and leave it loose.
There was a beige linen shift dress in her wardrobe, and she changed into it with reluctance, her grandfather’s preferences and prejudices at the forefront of her mind. He preferred her to wear skirts, and there was no point in getting off on the wrong foot, and upsetting him over something as trivial as her choice of clothing.
However, he’d sounded genuinely pleased when she phoned to say she was coming down. Their recent meetings had been less frequent than usual, and overshadowed by the inevitable tensions arising from his ultimatum.
Maybe he hoped that some kind of reconciliation was on the cards, and, if so, she would listen. But only if he relented sufficiently to let her off the hook.
She bit her lip. It was far more likely that she’d have to proceed with her bargain, and go through a wedding ceremony with Roan Zandros.
After which, her life would just—continue as usual.
While she packed her weekend case, she listened to the messages on her answering machine. An investment group was offering her a financial health check. Her oldest friend Tessa wanted her to come to dinner. ‘Bill says it’s been far too long, and he’s right, Harry, love. Where does the time go, I ask myself? So call us.’
And her lawyer, Isobel Crane, had also phoned, to tell her that the pre-nuptial agreement had been prepared according to her instructions, and was ready for signature, but might need further discussion.
In other words, she wants to talk me out of the whole thing, Harriet thought, her lips twisting wryly. Well, nothing new there.
She was a little disappointed that there was no message from Desmond Slevin, who’d been planning to visit Roan’s studio two days earlier. But he was a busy man, she told herself, and maybe there’d been no opportunity as yet. It was certainly too soon to give up hope.
Besides, whatever Desmond’s decision, Roan Zandros would get his exhibition. That was the deal, and whatever it cost, it would be worth it.
At least, that’s what I have to believe, she thought, and realised with shock that it was the first time she’d even been remotely doubtful about what she was doing.
And her doubts multiplied on the way down, so that when she drove into the village a couple of hours later, she felt almost sick with nerves. Any sense of triumph had long since dissipated. Now she was simply doing what she must to safeguard her inheritance.
When she reached Gracemead, she parked at the rear of the house, near the old stable block, and went in through the kitchen to be met by the enticing aroma of roast duck, unless she missed her guess.
Mrs Wade, a little stouter and greyer, was whipping thick cream to accompany the chocolate mousse which was one of her masterpieces. She greeted Harriet with affection, and told her that Mr Flint was in the drawing room.
‘With his visitor, Miss Harriet,’ she added.
Harriet grimaced inwardly. She’d hoped to have her grandfather all to herself, so she could break the news about her wedding before she lost her nerve. But maybe his company wouldn’t stay long.
She dropped her case in the hall, and went into the drawing room, only to find it empty. But the French windows were standing open to the evening sun, and she could hear the faint rumble of her grandfather’s voice coming from the terrace outside.
Taking a deep breath, she went out to join him.
Gregory Flint was standing at the balustrade, gesturing expansively as he indicated points of interest in the gardens spread out before them to the man at his side, too wrapped up in one of his favourite topics to notice her arrival.
Although she could only see his companion’s back, she knew instinctively that he was not one of the locals, but someone she’d never seen before, tall and soberly suited, a dark silhouette against the sunset’s brightness.
A complete stranger, she thought. Or was he …?
She halted suddenly, staring at the strong shoulders and narrow hips set off by some expensive tailoring. Feeling her mouth turn dry as her brain tried to reject the evidence being presented by her eyes. Telling herself—no—it wasn’t—couldn’t be possible …
And as if aware of her scrutiny, he turned slowly and looked at her as she stood, hesitating, by the drawing room windows.
‘Agapi mou,’ Roan Zandros said, smiling, and walked towards her, his dark eyes sweeping over her in a frank appraisal that reminded her that it was the first time he’d seen her wearing a dress, and also that her hair had dried into a waving, unruly cloud on her shoulders. The lingering look he was bestowing on her legs as he approached only served to add outrage to her anger at this unwarranted intrusion—here at her home, her sanctuary.
She managed the single word, ‘What—?’ before his arms went round her, pulling her towards him, and jerking the breath out of her.
He bent towards her, shielding her with his body to give the impression that they were locked in a passionate embrace, as he stared down into her frantically widening eyes. His mouth an indrawn breath from hers, he whispered, ‘Smile, Harriet. Pretend you are pleased to see me.’
Then he swung her round, his arm holding her firmly, his hand resting on her hip in a gesture of unmistakable possession, as they faced her grandfather together.
‘Well, my dear.’ Gregory Flint’s tone might be mild, but his eyes were watchful under their shaggy brows. ‘I gather from this young man that I must wish you happiness.’ He paused. ‘I confess I had no idea that there was anyone in your life, and this visit came as a complete surprise to me.’
And to me, thought Harriet as she lifted her chin, her gaze meeting his with a serenity she was far from feeling. ‘A pleasant one, I hope, Grandfather.’
‘I hope so too,’ he agreed dryly. ‘I told your fiancé frankly, Harriet, that he was not what I had expected, but he assures me that his prospects are excellent, and I am obliged to believe him.’
Roan said quietly, ‘Harriet has been away, and therefore does not know that Desmond Slevin has agreed to exhibit my work at the Parsifal Gallery. I heard from him today.’
‘Oh.’ Harriet swallowed. ‘Well, that’s wonderful news. I’m—delighted for you. Darling,’ she added belatedly.
Roan’s smile did not reach his eyes. ‘And I owe all my good fortune to you, my sweet one.’ He turned back to Gregory Flint. ‘I hope, sir, we have your consent to our marriage—and your blessing.’
‘For what it’s worth—yes.’ There was a hint of grimness in Gregory Flint’s faint smile. ‘I’m sure any opinion of mine will make no difference at all to your plans.’
He looked at his watch. ‘Dinner will be in forty minutes. Why don’t you show Mr Zandros the garden, my dear, and enjoy your reunion in private? I expect you have a lot to talk about.’
Roan held her arm as they descended the shallow stone steps leading to the lawn. He said very softly, ‘If you wish to attack me, Harriet mou, I suggest you wait. And don’t pull away from me. We are still under surveillance.’
‘How dare you?’ she muttered furiously in return, her entire body rigid. ‘How dare you—barge in like this?’
‘No barging was necessary,’ he returned calmly. ‘I rang the bell, and was admitted like any other visitor.’
‘But how did you find