Pagan Adversary
Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

COVER

TITLE PAGE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ENDPAGE

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

‘WHAT you’re saying is that there’s nothing I can do—that I can’t win.’ By a superhuman effort Harriet Masters kept her voice steady.

The man sitting opposite her at the wide, polished desk gave a slight shrug. ‘You are mistaken if you regard this as a battle, Thespinis Masters. But if you insist on doing so, then I must tell you it is one you will find impossible to win. My client is prepared to carry his claim for custody of his nephew to any court either in this country or internationally. It would be a costly process, but one that he could afford. Whereas you—–’ he glanced down at some papers in front of him—‘You, I see, are a secretary.’

‘Nothing so important,’ Harriet said defiantly. ‘I’m a typist. I earn a reasonable salary, but I can’t fight the Marcos millions—I admit that. But my claim to Nicky is on moral grounds.’ She took a deep breath. ‘My sister was my only living relative. When she and Kostas married—when they had Nicky, they let me become part of their family. I—I even had a room in their house, and I was actually looking after Nicky when—when….’ She paused, struggling for composure.

‘I am aware of that, thespinis,’ Mr Philippides looked at her with a trace of compassion. ‘It was a great tragedy, a grievous shock for you. But surely you wish for the best for the boy.’

Harriet returned his glance coolly. ‘Naturally. But I think we differ on how we would interpret what’s best for him.’

Mr Philippides pursed his lips. ‘Come, thespinis.’ There was a trace of impatience in his voice. ‘In his uncle’s care, he will have every possible advantage.’

‘I’d find that easier to believe if that same uncle had taken the slightest interest in him when he was born, and during the time before Kostas and Becca were—killed,’ Harriet retorted, and was glad to see Mr Philippides look uncomfortable. In a detached way, she could almost feel sorry for him. He had a wretched job to do, and, one that was probably little to his taste. But on the other hand, she thought cynically, Alex Marcos was undoubtedly paying him well to persuade her to hand little Nicky over without a struggle.

When she had arrived at the imposing suite of offices which housed the London branch of the Marcos corporation, she had been frankly terrified in case she had to face Alex Marcos himself. She had never met him, but Kostas naturally had spoken of him often, and although Harriet acknowledged that his view was coloured by the fact that there was little love lost between the brothers, there was no doubt that he sounded a formidable figure.

She had found Mr Philippides with his grizzled hair and rotund person a distinct relief, although she did not underestimate him. Anyone Alex Marcos employed would have high professional skills, and would be expected to win any encounters they undertook on his behalf.

But not this one, Harriet thought, her nails digging painfully into the palms of her hands. Not this one. I can’t let Nicky go. He’s all I have.

She stole a swift glance at herself in the huge mirror which dominated one wall of the office, and was glad to see that apart from a telltale spot of colour in each cheek, she looked relatively calm. She was thankful that Mr Philippides could not know how near collapse she had been through sheer tension as the lift had borne her swiftly upwards to the penthouse.

Alex Marcos’ arrogant claim to Nicky had come as a complete shock to her. He and Kostas had been on cool terms for several years, and relations between them had been totally severed when Kostas married Becca against his family’s wishes. From that moment on there had been no contact, either by letter or telephone, and Kostas had declared savagely that he would never go back to Greece again. Harriet could only be glad he had never known how tragically his prophecy would be fulfilled. He and Becca had been killed instantly on their way home from a friend’s house when a car driven by a drunk had careered into their own vehicle at some crossroads.

From that moment, life had become a nightmare for Harriet, but she had coped with the inquest and the funeral because there was no one else to do it. And no one else to look after Nicky. The firm she worked for had allowed her several weeks leave with pay while she made what arrangements she could. The house had to be sold. It was on a mortgage, and she could not afford the payments. It was as much as she could do to pay the rent on the large bedsitter she had found. It was an airy room, but she had to share the kitchen and bathroom, and when Nicky grew older she would have to find something larger.

But she had been prepared for that. Prepared for all the eventualities and sacrifices that would be necessary, because she loved Nicky.

She had got him a place with a registered childminder, a girl only a few years older than herself with twins of Nicky’s age, and a pleasantly untidy house and garden. Manda Lane was a serene, unruffled personality and Harriet had taken to her immediately, and, what was more important, so had Nicky, who although too young to fully comprehend the rapid change in his circumstances, was nevertheless disturbed by it, and inclined to cling.

Life wasn’t easy, and money was tight, but she was coping.

And then had come the letter from Alex Marcos’ solicitors, informing her that he was claiming custody of his brother’s child, and offering her payment in compensation.

She had been stunned by the letter’s cruelty and insensitivity, and had dashed off an impetuous refusal of his terms by return of post.

The next communication had been couched in slightly more conciliatory terms, but with no alteration in the basic demand. Nicky was to leave England and take up residence in Greece in his uncle’s charge, and she, Harriet, was to relinquish all claims to him. Her reply to this showed no lessening of her own determination. There had been a lengthy pause, and she had begun to hope, idiotically, that Alex Marcos had thought better of engaging in what the media called a ‘tug of love’ over a child who was a total stranger to him.

He didn’t need Nicky, she had persuaded herself. He had so much else—wealth, property, business interests which took him all over the world, and if the gossip columns were to be believed, more female company than was decent.

‘We were born the wrong way round,’ Kostas had said once ruefully. ‘Alex is a wild man, a rover, a true pagan. That is the role of the young brother, ne? Whereas I—I am the tame, domesticated man. Very dull.’

He had laughed and looked at Becca, and something in their eyes and intimate smiles had brought a lump to Harriet’s throat. There was nothing dull about their lives together, she’d thought.

Led by her thoughts, aloud she said, ‘Judging by what one reads in the papers, I’d have said Alex Marcos is the last man in the world to want to saddle himself with a small child. Won’t it cramp his usual style?’

Mr Philippides almost gaped at her, and she saw with satisfaction that a faint film of perspiration had broken out on his swarthy forehead.

He said repressively, ‘That is hardly a subject for discussion. You forget, thespinis, that the child Nicos is his heir.’

Harriet smiled. ‘And he forgets that Nicky is my heir too.’

‘Po, po, po,’ Mr Philippides gestured impatiently. ‘Let us speak seriously, Thespinis Masters, and practically too. What can you possibly hope to give the child in comparison to the Marcos family?’

‘I can give him love,’ Harriet said bravely. ‘Nicky isn’t a commodity, as Mr Marcos seems to think, judging by the insulting offer he made to me.’

Mr Philippides avoided her gaze ‘That was perhaps—unfortunate.’

‘That is putting it extremely mildly,’ said Harriet.

Mr Philippides leaned forward. ‘You must not mistake yourself, my dear young lady, that the child will not be cared for. As well as his uncle, his grandmother is also anxious to receive him.’

‘What a pity they weren’t equally anxious to receive my sister.’ Harriet’s tone held a note of steel.

She could remember Kostas’ distress at the implacable silence which greeted his marriage. ‘Mama and Alex!’ he had raged. ‘All my life I have taken their orders—obeyed them dutifully. But all that is forgotten now. In their eyes I have transgressed—and neither of them will forgive or forget.’

Harriet’s heart muscles contracted at the thought of little Nicky growing up in such an atmosphere.

Mr Philippides sighed. ‘It could hardly be expected they would welcome such a match,’ he said, clearly making an effort to be placatory. ‘You do not fully understand, dear young lady, that in our country such matters are often still arranged. A bride had already been chosen for the late Mr Marcos. His marriage to your sister caused great offence—deep embarrassment.’

‘Then why didn’t Alex marry her himself, if it was so important?’ Harriet snapped. ‘As for Nicky being his heir, that’s a ridiculous argument. He’s bound to marry and have children himself one day—if he can find any woman fool enough to tie herself up to him—and where will Nicky be then?’ She thumped the desk with her clenched fist. ‘He has—everything, Mr Philippides— and I only have Nicky. I won’t give him up. If Mr Marcos wants him, he’ll have to fight for him!’

‘I hope that is not your final word, Thespinis Masters.’ As Harriet rose to her feet, Mr Philippides stood up too.

‘No,’ said Harriet. ‘My final word is—tyrant. A Greek word, I think. In England, we don’t believe in them.’

She marched to the door without a backward glance.

Her bravado had faded slightly when she reached the street. In fact she was shaking so much, she had to pause for a few moments in the doorway until she had regained her self-control

The interview had not in fact taken as long as she had anticipated, and there was still nearly three-quarters of an hour left of her lunch break, although she had little appetite.

It was a fine sunny day, and several of the pubs she passed on her way back to her own office had awnings out, and tables on the pavement. Reasoning that she couldn’t do a full afternoon’s work on an empty stomach, no matter how churned-up that stomach might be, Harriet sat down at one of the outside tables, ordering a tomato juice and a cheese sandwich.

She might have promised Alex Marcos a fight, she thought sombrely, but Mr Philippides had been right when he said she could not win. He had everything going for him—money, power, resources. How could she hope to convince anyone, let alone a court of law, that she would be a more suitable guardian for a small child?

She sighed, and tossed the remains of a crust to a hopefully strutting pigeon.

Besides, couldn’t it be argued that by attempting to keep Nicky, she was actually being selfish? She did want Nicky to have all the advantages that the Marcos family could provide, but she could not. Had she any real justification for depriving him of them?

She thought wistfully how lonely life would be without Nicky. At just over two and a half, he was beginning to talk quite fluently, and enjoy the nursery rhymes and stories she read to him. The thought of losing that close and loving relationship for ever—of abandoning him to people who were strangers, who even spoke an alien language—chilled her to the bone.

If the relationship between Kostas and his brother had been a normal one, the situation could have been so different, she thought sadly. But the Marcos family had never even acknowledged Becca, and the feelings of her younger sister would have no significance at all in their reckonings. The fact that they had cynically offered her a sum of money to induce her to part with Nicky without a fuss proved how little they estimated her.

Poor Kostas, she thought. He had always been reticent on the exact nature of the quarrel which had driven him to England, away from his family, but if it was to escape an unwanted marriage with a comparative stranger, then it was quite understandable.

When he and Becca had met, it had been several months before he had even told her that he was related to the Marcos family. In fact their romance had nearly ended when Becca discovered the truth, because she felt almost overwhelmed by it. She was a gentle girl, and the jet-setting lifestyle of the man who was to be her brother-in-law repelled and frightened her. It took all the persuasion and all the assurances that Kostas was capable of to convince her that his was a very different personality.

Harriet suspected that the unconcealed hostility of the Marcos family to the marriage had almost come as a relief to Becca. Kostas was working as an accountant and earning sufficient to provide for their needs, and that was all she wanted.

Harriet sighed. If only Alex Marcos or his mother had seen them together, she thought passionately, had seen how much they loved each other, then they must have relented. But at the same time, a small cold voice deep inside her told her that she was being sentimental. A man as ruthlessly successful as Alex Marcos would regard any such change of heart as a sign of weakness.

She got up, brushing a few stray crumbs from her navy pleated skirt, and began to walk along the street, not hurrying, looking into the windows of shops she passed with unseeing eyes.

There was a danger, and she could see it, of making Nicky the centre of her world. She rarely went out now in the evenings. For one thing, baby-sitters cost money, but more importantly it seemed wrong not to spend as much time as possible with Nicky at the only time it was possible—after work. She had never grudged him one minute of her time, or felt deprived, but sometimes when she heard the other girls she worked with chatting animatedly about boy-friends and outings, she felt as if she occupied another world.

At twenty-one, she was hardly likely to be written off as a spinster, the archetypal maiden aunt, she knew. She wasn’t conceited, but she was aware that her pale fair hair and wide grey eyes had an attraction all their own. But she also knew that Nicky’s existence in her life was a drawback as far as men were concerned. Roy, for instance.

She flushed slightly as she remembered that she had actually been considering becoming engaged to Roy. Then the accident had happened, and her life had changed overnight, and somehow Roy wasn’t there any more. She’d been bewildered, and more than a little hurt, because she had counted on his support. But he had been almost brutally frank.

‘I’m sorry, love,’ he’d said, ‘but I didn’t bargain for a ready-made family. I don’t want to have to share your attention with a kid who isn’t even my own.’

Harriet had told herself she was well rid of him, and knew that it was true, but the hurt still lingered, and made her chary of accepting such invitations that did come her way.

Claudia who occupied the adjoining desk at the office pool was always trying to make dates for her, and urging her to go out more, insisting that she owed it to herself. But Harriet felt that it was Nicky who was owed—owed as settled and secure an environment as she could create for him, at least for the time being.

Claudia was waiting agog for her return. ‘What happened?’ she hissed.

Harriet shrugged. ‘We talked. I lost my temper.’

Claudia grinned. ‘It’s amazing,’ she said. ‘You are the image of a cool blonde, and yet it’s like an ice-cap over a volcano. Was it the great man himself?’

Harriet shook her head, and Claudia made a frustrated noise.

‘Damn, there goes my last chance of finding out what a really sexy man is like! I expected you to come reeling back here with stars in your eyes and no buttons left on your blouse.’

‘You’re joking, of course.’ Harriet was acid.

‘Not really,’ Claudia grinned. ‘After all, he must have something. Look at the birds he pulls!’

Harriet smiled cynically as she wound papers and carbons into her typewriter. ‘Oh, he’s got something all right,’ she agreed. ‘Money.’

Claudia snorted. ‘Bet it’s more than that. Haven’t you ever seen a photograph of him?’

Harriet shrugged. ‘The odd newspaper one. But they don’t tell you much except he hasn’t got two heads. It’s a pity he hasn’t, really,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘then everyone would know what a monster he is.’

‘Miss Masters!’ The typing pool supervisor materialised beside Harriet’s desk, looking severe. ‘Miss Greystoke has buzzed. You’re wanted in the chairman’s suite.’

Harriet’s fingers stilled on the keys of her machine. She was a good efficient worker, and she had sometimes taken dictation for the managing director and the company secretary when their own girls were away, but the chairman was another kettle of fish altogether. None of the typing pool ever filled in for the remote and efficient Miss Greystoke. And anyway, if Miss Greystoke had buzzed, it was reasonable to suppose that she was there, and not requiring a substitute.

‘When you’re quite ready, Miss Masters,’ the supervisor reminded her sarcastically.

The chairman’s suite and the other executive offices were one floor up, and Harriet walked up the stairs, trying to tuck errant strands of hair back into the smooth coil she wore on top of her head. What on earth could Sir Michael want her for? she wondered in alarm. In the two years she had been with the company, she had never even spoken to him. When Kostas and Becca had been killed, it had been the company secretary Mr Crane who had dealt with her, and he had been kindness himself. But perhaps Sir Michael didn’t think she was worth the time and the money she had been allowed. But if so, was it likely he would summon her to tell her so himself?

She was totally mystified by the time she reached Miss Greystoke’s office. Miss Greystoke was looking at her watch ostentatiously when she knocked politely and went in.

‘At last,’ she said coolly. ‘You’re to go straight in.’

‘Yes.’ Harriet hesitated. ‘Do—do you know by any chance what it’s about?’

Miss Greystoke looked as if she was about to be withering, then suddenly relented, perhaps noticing for the first time Harriet’s pallor.

‘I haven’t the slightest idea. There was a message waiting when I got back from lunch.’ She smiled. ‘But don’t look so worried. He’s not a bad old stick, you know,’ she added, lowering her voice.

Harriet returned the smile nervously. She walked over to the door of the inner office, squared her shoulders resolutely, pressed the handle down and went in.

Unlike Miss Greystoke’s office, which was artificially lit, the chairman’s room had windows the length of one wall, and the sudden glare of sunlight almost dazzled Harriet as she stood hesitating, just inside the door.

For a moment, all she was aware of was a man’s figure standing at one of the windows, and then as he turned and came towards her, she realised in an odd panic that whoever this was, it wasn’t Sir Michael.

For one thing, this man was at least twenty years his junior, black-haired with a dark, harshly attractive face. He was tall too, and expensive tailoring did full justice to the breadth of his shoulders and his lean hips and long legs.

Harriet took a breath. ‘I’m sorry—there’s been some mistake,’ she began, backing towards the door.

He held up a swift authoritative hand, halting her.

‘Oh, don’t run away, Miss Masters.’ His voice was as harsh as his face, with a faint foreign intonation. ‘You were brave enough to my lawyer not so long ago. What do you dare say to my face, I wonder?’

Oh God, Harriet thought in anguish. It can’t be true! It can’t be him.

Trying to sound cool, she said, ‘Am I supposed to know who you are?’

‘We’ll dispense with the games, if you please,’ he said. ‘We’re both well aware of each other’s identity.’

Harriet swallowed. ‘How—how did you know where I work?’

‘I know everything I need to know about you,’ he said cuttingly. ‘Including the fact that you are not a fit person to be in charge of my brother’s child.’

Harriet gasped. ‘You have no right to say that!’

‘I have every right,’ he said. ‘Every word you said to Philippides revealed your immaturity, your headstrong foolishness. You destroyed any case you might have had for retaining Nicos in your care with your own silly tongue.’

‘Mr Philippides didn’t waste any time in making a full report,’ she said furiously. ‘Did he use a tape recorder?’

‘No, Miss Masters. I saw and heard you myself.’ He paused. ‘The mirror in that room has another function apart from allowing young girls to preen themselves in it.’

A two-way mirror. Harriet had only heard of such things.

She said, ‘That’s the most despicable thing I’ve ever heard!’

‘But then your experience had been so limited.’

‘No wonder your brother was glad to get away from you,’ she said recklessly, and halted, appalled at the expression of molten rage on his face.

She said in a voice that didn’t sound like her own. ‘I—I didn’t mean that.’

‘I should hope not.’ His face was grim.

Harriet made a little helpless movement with her hands. ‘I don’t think you understand how upset I’ve been—about Nicky. He’s all I have in the world.’

‘At present, perhaps,’ he agreed. ‘Apart from the fact that you have a tongue like a shrew, you shouldn’t find it hard to attract a husband, particularly with the money I have offered you as a dowry.’

Harriet’s newly acquired cool went up in smoke. ‘I wouldn’t touch a penny of your bloody money!’

‘Your language is unbecoming,’ he said icily. ‘If you think to force me into making a higher offer by your intransigence, then forget it. You’re not worth what I have already suggested, but I wish to have the matter settled quickly. The child’s grandmother wishes to see him.’

‘The child’s grandmother could have had every opportunity of seeing him over the past two years.’ Harriet’s voice shook.

‘Was that what your sister counted on?’ he asked. ‘That the birth of her child would give her the entrée into our family? How mistaken she was! Let me advise you not to fall into the same error, Miss Masters, of playing for stakes that are beyond you. You will only lose.’

She took two hasty steps forward, her hand swung up, and she slapped him hard across his face.

The sound was like a shot going off in the quiet room, and it was followed by a terrifying silence. Harriet stood in horror, watching the marks of her fingers appear across his swarthy cheek. She saw an almost murderous flare in his eyes and braced herself for some kind of retaliation, to be shaken perhaps, or slapped in her turn, but none came.

At last he said, ‘Violent as well as insolent. What have you to say now?’

She said, ‘If you’re waiting for me to apologise, then—you’ll wait for ever! You can report me to Sir Michael if you want—I don’t care. I suppose you must be a friend of his or he wouldn’t have let you use this room. But whatever you do, I’m not prepared to hear you say things like that about Becca. You—you didn’t know her, and that was your loss, but she wasn’t interested in your family for the sort of mercenary motives that you think. There was nothing about the way you lived your lives that attracted her. She wanted Kostas and Nicky and they were enough. But she saw that the—estrangement between you hurt Kostas, so she was hurt too. That’s all.’

‘A very moving story,’ he said cynically. ‘Kostas would seem to have chosen a rare gem for his wife. Unfortunately my knowledge of him and his judgment makes that doubtful. However, I give you credit for believing what you say, and for having affection for your sister. But let us not forget that the real issue is Nicos.’

‘Nicky isn’t an—issue! He’s a child, a little human being. He’s my nephew as much as yours, and whatever you may think I’m quite capable of bringing him up. And that’s what I intend to do,’ she added in a little rush.

As she fumbled with the door handle she was afraid that he might come after her and stop her leaving, but he didn’t move, and at last she got the door open and shot through it into the outer room under Miss Greystoke’s startled gaze.

As she reached the corridor she was crying, and she made straight for the staff cloakroom on the ground floor. Fortunately it was unoccupied, and she sank down on the bench against the wall and let her emotions have their way with her. She was sick and trembling when the tears finally stopped, and the face which stared back at her from the mirror looked pale and ravaged. She bathed her eyes with cool water, and let the tap run over her wrists in an attempt to steady her racing pulses. Then she snatched her blazer from its peg and slung it round her shoulders.

Her thoughts weren’t particularly coherent, but the necessity to get Nicky out of London predominated. She had no idea where to go, or how to find a hiding place which Alex Marcos’ money would not disclose, but speed was of the essence.

She had a little money in her bag, and more at the flat, and some savings in a building society. If she went to one of the big stations in the rush hour, she thought feverishly, it was unlikely anyone would remember a girl with a young child. She would travel as far as she could afford, and pretend Nicky was hers—that she was an unmarried mother. She could disguise herself, she thought wildly, dye her hair, or buy a wig. If she could lie low for long enough, surely Alex Marcos would get tired of looking for them and return to Greece.

She bit her lip. There was no way she could make that sound convincing to herself. I said I’d fight him, so I’m damned if I’ll just give in without a struggle, she thought.

She felt guilty about leaving the company without a word of explanation, or handing in her notice but she had no alternative. She didn’t think anyone had seen her leaving the building, but she kept glancing behind her as she anxiously waited for a bus.

Manda looked surprised as she opened the door. ‘You’re early,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve just put him down for a nap.’

‘Yes,’ Harriet forced a smile. ‘I’m sorry, Manda, but I must take him with me. And he won’t be coming tomorrow—or until further notice. In fact I don’t know if—or when….’

Manda gave her a searching look. ‘The kettle’s just boiled,’ she said. ‘Go and make yourself a cup of something while I get Nicky up and put his coat on. On your own head be it too,’ she added as Harriet moved obediently towards the kitchen. ‘He’s hell if he’s woken before he’s ready.’

Nicky was plainly disgruntled when he appeared in Manda’s arms, but still too sleepy to be real hell. He held his arms out imperatively to Harriet, who took him, her welcoming smile wavering as she felt his warm little body curling trustingly into her lap.

‘Don’t squeeze him to death,’ advised Manda, refilling her own cup. ‘What’s the matter? Has the Wicked Uncle appeared and started putting pressure on?’

Harriet nodded, and Manda sighed. ‘Well, I suppose it was inevitable.’ She put out a hand and affectionately ruffled Nicky’s thick dark hair. ‘Goodbye, love. Our yard today—a millionaires’ playground tomorrow. Can’t be bad.’

‘He’s not having him!’ Harriet’s voice was fierce.

‘I admire your spirit, but I don’t think you’re being very realistic.’ Manda sounded almost matter-of-fact. ‘Greeks are very patriarchal, you know, and Nicky has Marcos blood in his veins. And just suppose you did persuade his uncle to let you keep him—do you think Nicky would always be grateful? Unless he was superhuman, he might start reckoning up on some of the things he’d missed out on.’

‘That’s—horrible,’ Harriet said slowly.

‘Yes, isn’t it?’ Manda agreed. ‘But being an orphan doesn’t automatically confer sanctity as well, you know.’

‘So you think I should just—give him up?’ Harriet was astounded.

‘No.’ Manda frowned. ‘Of course not. But surely you should be able to do some kind of deal with the Marcos man—agree that Nicky should spend a certain amount of time with you each year.’

Harriet groaned. ‘After what’s happened today, I don’t think he’d agree to Nicky even sending me a Christmas card!’ She gave Manda a succinct account of the day’s events, and her intentions, and Manda looked startled.

‘For God’s sake, Harriet, don’t do anything hasty. If you grab Nicky and start dashing all over the country with him, you’ll be giving Alex Marcos the gun to shoot you down with. He may be an arrogant swine, but you won’t beat him by acting like a madwoman. You run away and you’ll just be playing into his hands.’

‘Whose side are you on?’ Harriet joked weakly.

‘Nicky’s.’ Manda gave her a gentle smile. ‘Take him home if you want, but do some good, hard thinking once you get there. If you don’t you could end by losing out completely, and that would be a bad thing for you both.’

Harriet’s thoughts were sober as she walked along, pushing the baby buggy. Nicky was fast asleep, his dark lashes making half-moons on his pink cheeks. She looked down at him with tenderness. The thought of losing him was frankly intolerable, but Manda’s words had hit home.

At first, as she turned into her road, she was barely aware of the car, and when she did notice it, it was with a kind of detached curiosity. There were plenty of cars in the road, especially at weekends, all the popular models and mostly with elderly registrations, but this was very different.

A Rolls-Royce, she thought incredulously, and her steps began to slow instinctively, her white-knuckled hands gripping the handle of the buggy.

There was a uniformed driver in the front seat, and his passenger was already getting out, tossing his half-smoked cigar into the gutter as he waited for her.

Alex Marcos said with a glittering smile, ‘Welcome home, Miss Masters. So this is Nicos. Thank you for bringing him to me.’

CHAPTER TWO

HARRIET stood staring at him. Her lips moved almost helplessly, ‘But—I didn’t….’

‘Oh, I am quite sure you did not,’ he said sardonically. ‘Nevertheless, the boy is here, and I am here, which is what I wanted.’

Harriet looked down at the sleeping Nicky, and knew that Alex Marcos’ gaze had followed her own.

‘He is very much a Marcos,’ he said after a pause, his voice expressionless.

‘He has my sister’s eyes.’ Harriet’s grip tightened almost defeatedly on the handle of the pushchair. She swallowed. ‘Will you be taking him now—or do I have time to pack his things?’

‘You speak as if I planned to kidnap the child.’ He did not bother to disguise the note of irritation in his voice. ‘I do not, I promise you. However, this is hardly the place to discuss the matter. Shall we go indoors before we begin to attract unwelcome attention?’

Harriet hesitated, but really she had very little choice, she thought angrily as she began to manoeuvre the pushchair up the rather overgrown path to the front door.

In the hall, she bent to release Nicky. Alex Marcos was at her side.

‘Give him to me.’ His voice was authoritative, and he took Nicky from her, not waiting for any sign of assent on her part, leaving her to fold the buggy and lead the way up the stairs.

As she unlocked her own door, she was thankful that the room was tidy and clean. She hated coming home at the end of a long day to any kind of mess, and she was glad now that she had made the usual effort to clear up before leaving that morning. She was thankful too that the small clothes-horse only held a selection of Nicky’s garments, and none of her own.

‘He has not woken,’ Alex Marcos said from behind her. ‘What shall I do with him?’

Harriet indicated the cot in the corner, shielded from the rest of the room by a small screen which she had recovered herself in a collage of bright pictures cut from magazines.

‘He’ll sleep for a while,’ she said with something of an effort. ‘Until he realises it’s teatime.’

She watched him put Nicky down in the cot, his movements deft and gentle. Unusually so, she thought, because he could not be a man who was used to children.

He straightened, and turned unsmilingly, the brilliant dark gaze going over the room in candid assessment. Harriet felt an absurd desire to apologise for it. The square of carpet had come from a saleroom, as had much of the furniture. The rest had been picked up from junk shops and lovingly repaired where necessary, and polished, but few of the pieces were beautiful, and none of them were valuable. And besides, there was something in Alex Marcos’ sheer physical presence, she realised crossly, that made the surroundings seem far more cramped and shabby than they actually were.

No, she was damned if she would apologise that it was only a room and not a flat, or justify herself in any way. This was her home, and he could make whatever judgments he liked. At the same time, she was his hostess, however reluctant.

She said slowly, ‘Can I offer you some refreshment?’—some imp of perversity making her continue, ‘I’ve some sherry left over from Christmas, some instant coffee, or tea-bags.’

He inclined his head mockingly. ‘You are most gracious. Perhaps—the coffee.’

She had hoped he would stay where he was, but he followed her along the passage to the first-floor communal kitchen. She could just imagine what he thought of that too, from the elderly gas cooker to the enormous peeling fridge. She opened the cupboard where she kept her provisions and crockery and extracted the coffee and a couple of pottery mugs, while the kettle was boiling.

Alex Marcos was lounging in the doorway, very much at his ease, but not missing a thing, Harriet thought.

She said, ‘There’s no point in waiting here. The kettle takes rather a long time.’

‘I imagine that it might,’ he said, smiling faintly.

‘It must all be very different from what you’re used to,’ she said stiffly. ‘You should have stayed in the West End, where you belong.’

His brows lifted. ‘You have never visited Greece, it is clear, Miss Masters, or you would know that for many of our people such a kitchen would be the height of luxury.’

‘But you’re not among them.’

‘That is true. But my own good fortune does not lead me to feel contempt for the way others lead their lives.’

That wasn’t the picture Kostas had painted, Harriet thought, as they went back to the flat. He had spoken with feeling of unyielding pride and arrogance, of a total inability to make allowances for the weakness or feelings of others, or to forgive—and with good reason, considering the way he had been treated by his family. Not his marriage, not Nicky’s birth, had done anything to heal whatever breach was between them. Harriet was aware that the Marcos family had been notified when Kostas was killed, but she had frankly never expected to hear from them again. Certainly there had been no flowers, no message of condolence at the funeral. For months there had been silence—and then the bombshell about Nicky had exploded.

Nicky still hadn’t stirred when they got back, and Harriet moved round quietly taking his aired clothes from the clothes-horse and folding them, before putting them away in the small chest of drawers. She opened the window a little too, letting some of the later afternoon sunlight into the room, along with the distant noise of traffic, and the overhead throb of a passing jet.

This was the time of day she usually looked forward to—tea with Nicky, then playtime before she got him ready for his bath and bed. But for how many more times? she wondered desolately.

As she turned away from the window, she found Alex Marcos was watching her, and there must have been something about the droop of her shoulders which had betrayed her, because his voice had softened a little as he said, ‘You cannot pretend that you wish to spend the rest of your life in this way—looking after someone else’s child. You are young. You should be planning a life of your own—children of your own.’

‘I’m perfectly content as I am,’ Harriet said woodenly.

‘You do not wish to marry?’ His mouth curled slightly in satirical amusement. ‘That is hard to believe. Are you afraid of men?’

Harriet gasped. ‘Of course not! How dare you imply….’ Her voice tailed away rather helplessly.

He shrugged. ‘What else is one to think? You must be aware that you do not lack—attraction.’

His eyes went over her in one swift, sexual assessment which brought the colour roaring into her face.

She didn’t know whether to be angrier with him for looking at her like that, or herself for blushing so stupidly. After all, she was reasonably used to being looked over like that. You could hardly work in a large office and avoid it, and Harriet supposed it was part of the ‘sexual harassment’ that so many women complained of nowadays. But while it remained tacit, and at a distance, she had never felt it was worth complaining about.

But then, she thought furiously, she had never been so frankly or so completely mentally undressed by any man. He had a skin-tingling expertise which rocked her on her heels and made her feel tremblingly vulnerable.

The sound of the kettle’s piercing whistle rescued her, and she had to force herself to walk out of the room, not run, with at least a semblance of composure. In the kitchen, she fought for complete control, setting the mugs on a tray and pouring milk into a jug, and sugar into a basin, instead of serving them in their respective containers, as she felt inclined.

It was his constant, unnerving scrutiny which was getting to her, she told herself as she added boiling water to the coffee granules, and not just the sensual element which had intervened. She disliked the knowledge that every detail of her environment, every facet of her life, the way she dressed, moved, spoke and looked, was being continuously judged by a total stranger. If he was looking for faults, he wouldn’t have to look far, she thought crossly.

As she carried the tray into the room, he came and took it from her, placing it on a small table in front of the studio couch. He declined both sugar and milk, so her efforts had been a waste of time as she took it black too.

He remained standing, obviously waiting for her to sit down beside him on the studio couch, which made sense as it was the only really comfortable form of seating in the room. She had two high-backed wooden dining chairs tucked back against the wall with her small drop-leaf table, and she wished she had the nerve to go and fetch one of them to establish some kind of independence, but something warned her that he would not interpret her action in that way, and that she might simply be exposing herself to more mocking comments about feminine fears. But she made a point of seating herself as far from him as the width of the couch would permit, and ignored the slightly derisive twist of his lips.

He said silkily, ‘Let us return to the subject of Nicos. It is clear that this present situation cannot continue. As he becomes older and more active, these surroundings will become impossible.’

Harriet said coolly, ‘I’ve already been considering that.’ And panicking about it, she thought, but he didn’t have to know that.

‘And what conclusions have you come to?’

She hedged. ‘Well, clearly I’ll need a bigger flat—a ground floor one, preferably—with a garden.’ Or a castle in Spain, she added silently and hysterically.

Alex Marcos drank some of the coffee. ‘You have somewhere in mind, perhaps?’ He sounded politely interested, but Harriet was not deceived.

She said with a sigh, ‘You know I haven’t.’

He nodded. ‘And even if such a haven were to present itself, the rent would be beyond your means—is it not so?’—

‘Yes.’ Damn you, she thought. Damn you!

There was a silence. She had begun to shake again inside, and she gulped at the transient comfort the hot coffee gave her, although in terms of Dutch courage she might have done better to opt for the sherry, she thought.

He said at last, ‘Miss Masters—if this unhappy business between us were to become a legal battle—what do you imagine a judge would say about the circumstances in which you are trying to raise my nephew?’

Harriet did not meet his gaze. ‘I believe—I hope that he would say I was doing my best,’ she said wearily.

‘I do not doubt that for a moment. But is that what you truly want—a battle in the courts—to make Nicos the subject of gossip and speculation and lurid newspaper stories?’

‘I’d have thought you would be used to such things.’

‘But I am not the subject under discussion,’ he said too softly. ‘We are speaking of a two-year-old child, who may one day be embarrassed and emotionally torn by our past battles.’

She gave him an incredulous glance. ‘That’s blackmail!’

He shrugged. ‘I would prefer to describe it as a valid possibility. He is already old enough to sense conflict and be disturbed by it.’

‘And therefore I should just be prepared to hand him over,’ Harriet said bitterly. ‘I think not, Mr-Marcos. Doesn’t it occur to you that Nicky might one day wonder why I let him go so easily, and be hurt by it? You’re not denying that you intend to separate us permanently?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘That has always been my intention.’

‘At least we understand each other,’ she said huskily. ‘I refuse to let Nicky go under such circumstances.’

‘What are you hoping for?’ His voice was suddenly harsh. ‘A place under my roof for yourself? A more generous financial offer than the one already made? If so, you will be disappointed.’

‘I want nothing from you,’ Harriet said vehemently. ‘The fact that we’ve even met is your doing, not mine.’

He gave her a weary look. ‘Why are you being so stubborn? You are scarcely more than a child yourself. You cannot wish to bear such a burden unaided for perhaps twenty years longer.’

Put like that, it sounded daunting, but Harriet had always faced up to what her responsibilities to Nicky would entail.

‘I might ask you the same thing,’ she countered. ‘All this time you haven’t displayed the slightest interest in Nicky. We could both have starved or been homeless for all you knew. Yet now you want him—why?’

‘Because it is my duty to care for him,’ he said. ‘Kostas would have expected it, whatever the relations were between us. The child is of my blood.’

‘And mine.’

‘Nevertheless,’ he said, ‘if Kostas had wished you to have charge of the boy, he would have left a document—a will, even a letter saying so. Yet he did not—is it not so?’

Harriet finished her coffee and put the mug down. ‘No, there was nothing,’ she said after a pause. ‘They were so young—too young to be thinking about wills anything of that kind.’

Alex Marcos’ mouth twisted. ‘When one has responsibilities Thespinis Masters, one is never too young, and it is never too soon to make provision for the future. Kostas knew, in fact, that if the worst happened, I would take charge of Nicos. He was always happy to shelve his responsibilities.’

Harriet was uneasily aware that her own solicitor had deplored the absence of a will, but she had been too fond of her late brother-in-law to meekly hear him criticised.

‘Kostas was too busy being happy and making my sister happy to worry about the worst happening. He was a warm, loving man, so what does it matter if he wasn’t perhaps the greatest businessman in the world?’

‘If he had stayed with the Marcos Corporation, then it might have mattered a great deal,’ Alex Marcos said coldly. ‘But we stray towards matters that do not concern you. You will do well to reflect, Miss Masters. At the moment, you claim that Nicky has your whole heart. That is—commendable. But with the money I have offered you, you could buy a new wardrobe—go perhaps for a cruise round the world—meet someone who would make you glad that you are young—and without encumbrances.’

‘God, you’re insulting!’ Harriet muttered between her teeth.

The dark brows rose in exaggerated surprise. ‘Why? Because I imply that if you had more time to yourself, you would have little difficulty in attracting a man? I am paying you a compliment.’

‘Not as far as I’m concerned. Oddly enough, I quite like my life—and my present wardrobe. Marriage isn’t the be-all and end-all in my life.’

He smiled. ‘So I was right,’ he said lazily. ‘You are afraid of men.’

‘That’s ridiculous!’

‘What is more,’ he said slowly, his eyes never leaving her face, ‘you are afraid of me.’

‘Nonsense!’ said Harriet with a robust conviction she was far from feeling.

His smile widened. His eyes travelled slowly downwards, over the soft swell of her breasts, rising and falling more quickly than she could control under the crisp blouse, then on down to the smooth line of her thighs outlined by the cling of the trim navy skirt, then back, swiftly, to her face where spots of outraged colour were now burning in each cheek.

He said very softly, ‘And all this because I—look. What would you do if I touched?’

‘Nothing at all,’ said Harriet very quickly. ‘I’m not afraid, Mr Marcos, just not interested. I expect in your own circle, you find that women are pushovers. Probably a lot of very wealthy men find the same thing. But I don’t belong to your circle, I’m not bothered about your money—and frankly, Mr Marcos, you leave me cold.’ She paused, aware that her breathing was constricted, and that there was an odd tightening in her throat.

She saw the amusement fade from his eyes, to be replaced by something deeper and more dangerous, saw a muscle jerk in his cheek, and wished desperately that she’d kept quiet. But it was too late to retract or even apologise. He was already reaching for her, his hands not gentle as they pulled her across his hard body.

He said something quietly in his own language, and then he bent his head, putting his mouth on hers with an almost soulless precision.

At first she fought, her lips clamped tight against any deeper invasion, but even then she was aware of other factors subtly undermining her instinctive resistance. Her hands were imprisoned helplessly between their bodies, her palms flat against the wall of his chest, deepening her consciousness of his warm muscularity. The scent of his skin was in her nostrils, emphasised by the faint muskiness of some cologne. If she opened her eyes he would fill her vision, and they seemed enveloped in a cone of silence broken only by their own uneven breathing. Harriet had been kissed before, but she had never before known a domination overpowering her every sense. Ultimately, she had always known she was in control.

Yet now…. Her lips parted on a little sigh of capitulation that had nothing to do with coercion suddenly, because she was as eager as he was, as greedy for the deeper intimacy he was already seeking, his teeth grazing the softness of her inner lip, his tongue delicately and erotically exploring all the soft moist contours of her mouth.

Gently his hand freed the blouse from her waistband, and his warm fingers moved caressingly on her back, tracing the length of her spine with a featherlight touch that had her arching against him in unspoken delight.

For the first time in her life, Harriet knew need, knew the simple and unequivocal ache for fulfilment. And knew how easy it would be to release the last hold on sanity and let herself drift inevitably on this warm tide of pleasure.

And then from the corner, behind the sheltering screen she heard a small whimpering cry, ‘Harry!’

Nicky was awake, and suddenly so was she—jolted out of her dangerous dream and back in reality.

Alex Marcos had heard the child too. He was no longer holding her so tightly, and she was able to sit up and draw away from him, combing shaking fingers through her fair hair.

Her legs were trembling, but she made herself stand up, nervously ramming her disordered blouse back into the waist of her skirt. She stole a sidelong glance at him, biting her lip.

He was leaning back watching her. His tie was loosened, and the black hair was dishevelled. His dark eyes were brilliant, not with thwarted passion, but with stinging, cynical mockery.

He said softly, ‘You were saying something about your immunity, I think.’

Hot colour flooded her face, and she lifted her hands, pressing them almost helplessly to her burning cheeks. Then, as Nicky’s whimper threatened to develop into a wail, she walked across the room and lifted him out of his cot. Thumb in his mouth, still half asleep, he hitched a chubby arm round her neck as she carried him towards the centre of the room. Alex Marcos stood waiting, hands on hips. Nicky lifted his head and stared at him.

Harriet said gently, ‘This is your uncle Alex, Nicky. Say hello.’

He wasn’t good with strangers. He didn’t always oblige. Perhaps in her secret heart, Harriet hoped this would be one of those times, and that he would either become silent and clinging or—which was more likely—roar with temper.

But he did neither. He summoned a shy engaging smile and said, ‘ ’Lo,’ before burying his face in Harriet’s shoulder.

Alex spoke to him in Greek, and Harriet felt the little body in her arms stiffen as if the soft words had sparked off an association, an elusive memory he was trying to recapture. Eventually a small muffled voice said uncertainly, ‘Papa?’

Harriet felt tears prick at her eyes.

‘Did you have to do that?’ she demanded.

‘He is half Greek,’ Alex said flatly. ‘It is right he should remember and learn to speak his father’s tongue.’

‘You heard what he said. He thinks you’re his father.’ Harriet spoke fiercely.

‘As far as he is concerned, that is what I shall be. Explanations can wait until he is old enough to understand.’

‘And the succession of surrogate “mothers” in his life? How old will he be before you explain them?’

He said silkily, ‘Guard your tongue, my little English wasp, or you may have cause to regret it. Yes, I enjoy the company of women, in bed and out of it. Why should I deny it? Perhaps you have forgotten that if Nicos had not woken when he did I might well have persuaded you to share some of that—enjoyment.’

Harriet’s lips parted in impetuous denial—and closed again in silence.

Alex smiled faintly. ‘Very wise,’ he approved. ‘I hope you behave with equal wisdom during the rest of our dealings together.’

Harriet stared at the floor. She said, ‘I would prefer to deal with Mr Philippides.’

‘I’m sure you would,’ he said sardonically. ‘Now, I wish to get to know my nephew, and preferably without your sheltering arms around him. Would it be convenient for him to spend the weekend with me?’

She glanced up. ‘You have a house in London?’

‘I have a hotel suite.’

‘And you’re going to look after him?’ Harriet shook her head. ‘He—he still wears nappies a lot of the time….’

‘I’ve brought a nursemaid with me from Greece,’ he said impatiently. ‘She will deal with such matters, not I.’

‘I see.’ She did see too. She saw his power, and the certainty and arrogance which that power bestowed, and she hated it. So sure of his ultimate victory that he’d even brought a nanny, she thought. ‘And if I refuse?’

He lifted his brows. ‘Are you sure that you can? You may resist my claim to total rights, but as his uncle surely I can demand rights that are equal to yours at least.’ He paused. ‘I give you my word I will not attempt to take the boy out of the country. Will that satisfy you?’

Harriet moved her shoulders wearily. ‘I doubt if I could stop you, whatever you wanted to do,’ she said. ‘When would you want to collect him? Tomorrow afternoon? If you give me a time, I’ll have his things ready.’

‘Shall we say three o’clock? And I’ll return him to you on Sunday evening.’

‘Very well,’ she agreed dully. It was the beginning of the end, she knew. He wouldn’t snatch Nicky away as she’d first thought, but detach the child from her by degrees. And there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.

He said, ‘Until tomorrow, then.’ He put out a hand and ruffled Nicky’s curls, then ran a finger down his cheek. For a shocked moment, Harriet wondered if he was going to try the same caress on her, because she wasn’t at all confident that her reaction would have the necessary cool, but he made no attempt to touch her again.

He said, ‘Herete’, and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Harriet stood holding Nicky, her arms tightening round him until he wriggled in protest, demanding to be set down and given his tea. Toast, he wanted, and Marmite and ‘ronge’.

‘Yes, darling,’ she promised penitently, because usually he’d been fed by now at Manda’s. But she didn’t put him down at once. She carried him over to the window and pulled back the shrouding net curtain, looking into the street below.

Alex Marcos was just about to get into the car. As she watched, he turned and looked up at the window, lifting a hand in mocking acknowledgment of her presence. Furious with herself, Harriet let the curtain fall hurriedly into place, and moved away, wishing that she’d been strong-minded enough to ignore his departure—and wondering why she had failed….

Friday was a miserable day. Harriet had phoned the personnel officer at work first thing and received a sympathetic response when she gave family troubles as the reason for her hasty departure the previous day, and for her continued absence. Then she phoned Manda and told her what had happened, or at least an edited version.

She still found it hard to believe that she had behaved as she did. She had let a man who was almost a stranger, and certainly her enemy, kiss her and arouse feelings within her which had kept her awake and restless most of the night. The warm, airless atmosphere of the room hadn’t helped either, and more than once Harriet had found herself wishing wryly for the cliché comfort of a cold shower. But it was only people with money and private bathrooms who could afford such luxuries, she thought regretfully. The bathroom she shared had nothing so sophisticated as a shower in any temperature, and the old-fashioned plumbing made such an infernal din that except in cases of emergency the residents tried to use it as little as possible at night.

Manda heard her explanation of why Nicky would not be spending the day with her without much comment. When Harriet had finished she merely asked, ‘And what’s he like—Alex Marcos?’

Even in her own ears, Harriet’s laugh sounded artificial and she hoped fervently that Manda would assume it was some distortion on the line. ‘Oh—just as you’d imagine, I suppose. The answer to the maiden’s prayer.’

‘Depending, of course,’ Manda said gravely, ‘on what the maiden happened to be praying for. See you, love. Take care now.’

As she replaced the receiver, Harriet pondered on the real note of warning in Manda’s voice, and reflected rather despondently that it was no use trying to fool her, even at a distance.

She tidied and cleaned the flat again almost compulsively, then tucked Nicky into the buggy and took him to the nearby shops which he loved. The sun was shining, and the Italian greengrocer gave him an orange, and Harriet, in a moment of weakness, bought him some sweets. While she was in the newsagents’ she treated herself to a daily paper, and some magazines, because she had a whole weekend to fill for once.

Of course she didn’t have to stay in the flat, she told herself robustly. She had always promised herself that one day she would do the whole tourist bit—go to the British Museum, or the Zoo, or take a boat down to Greenwich—but she had always put the idea to the back of her mind, telling herself it could wait till Nicky was older and could enjoy it with her. Well, there seemed little point in delaying any longer, she thought, with a kind of unhappy resolution.

She cooked Nicky’s favourite food for lunch—fish fingers, baked beans and oven chips. Manda, who believed in wholefoods and a balanced diet, would have frowned a little, but Nicky was jubilant and ate every scrap, including the ice cream which followed.

Harriet tried to explain to him that he was going to have a little holiday with his uncle, but wasn’t sure how much she’d got through to him, because he seemed far more interested in his toy cars than in the fact that she was packing his night things and the best of his clothes in a small case.

He’s only a baby, she thought as she watched him play, quite oblivious to her own mental and emotional turmoil. He’s too little to be taken from all the security he knows, and be made to speak Greek, and all the other things he’ll have to learn.

Yet on the other hand there was the very real danger that out of love and inexperience she might keep him a baby too long, might try too hard to protect him from the world which he was as much a part of as she was herself. A man’s influence in his life was probably essential, Harriet thought—but what would be the effect of someone like Alex Marcos, wealthy, cynical and amoral, on the mind of an impressionable child?

It was inevitable that when she sat down with the newspaper and a cup of coffee while Nicky played on the carpet at her feet, Alex’s picture should be the first to leap out at her. And, again, inevitably, it was the gossip column, and he wasn’t alone. He was sitting at a table in a restaurant or a night club—Harriet didn’t recognise the name anyway—and the girl beside him, smiling radiantly at the camera had her arm through his and her head on his shoulder.

Her red head on his shoulder, Harriet discovered as she read through the piece that accompanied the photograph. Alex, it said, was in London on business and lovely model Vicky Hanlon was just the girl to help him unwind from his busy schedule.

After an unctuous dwelling on Vicky Hanlon’s physical attributes which would have had even the mildest Women’s Libber spitting carpet tacks and reaching for the telephone, the columnist quoted her as saying, ‘Poor Alex leads such a hectic life. I just want to help him relax as much as possible.’

‘Yuck!’ said Harriet violently, dropping the paper as if it had bitten her. She marched down the passage to the bathroom and washed her face and cleaned her teeth thoroughly which, while a relatively futile gesture, nevertheless made her feel better.

She was increasingly on edge as three o’clock approached. Nicky had grown tired of his toys and demanded a story, and she was just following The Little Gingerbread Man with the Three Billy Goats Gruff when she heard the sound of a car door slam in the street below.

Her voice hesitated and died away right in the middle of the troll’s threat, and her whole body tensed. Nicky bounced plaintively and said, ‘Troll.’

She hugged him fiercely. ‘Another time, darling. Your—your uncle’s come to fetch you, and you’re going to have a wonderful time.’

She remembered what Alex had said the previous day about her sheltering arms and was careful to let Nicky walk beside her to the door as the buzzer sounded imperatively.

Her palms were damp, and her mouth was dry. She had brushed her hair until it shone, and the dress she was wearing, although simple and sleeveless, was the most becoming in her wardrobe, its cool blues and greens accentuating her fairness, and the very fact that she had chosen to wear it was evidence enough that she was on the verge of making a complete and utter fool of herself.

She made herself reach out and release the Yale knob and turn the handle.

There was a man outside, stockily built and swarthy in a chauffeur’s uniform, his cap under one arm, and accompanied by a middle-aged woman with greying black hair who looked nervous.

It was the woman who spoke. ‘Thespinis Masters—I am Yannina. I have come from Kyrios Marcos to fetch his nephew, the little Nicos.’ Her anxious expression splintered into a broad smile as she spied Nicky, who had relapsed into instant shyness at the sight of strangers and who was peering at them from behind Harriet’s skirt.

She crouched down, holding out her arms and murmuring encouragingly in Greek, and slowly Nicky edged towards her.

Harriet picked up his case and handed it to the chauffeur, who nodded respectfully to her.

‘Kyrios Marcos wishes to assure you that the boy will be returned to you on Sunday evening, not later than six o’clock,’ he said in careful heavily accented English.

‘Thank you.’ Harriet hesitated. ‘I—I thought he would be coming to fetch Nicky himself.’

The chauffeur looked surprised. ‘He is waiting below in the car, thespinis. If you have a message for him, I would be glad to convey it.’

Not, Harriet thought, the sort of message I have in mind. She forced a smile and shook her head, and stepped backward as Yannina took Nicky’s hand and began to lead him away. He looked back once and grinned and waved, and Harriet felt a lump rise in her throat as she shut the door between them.

This time, wild horses weren’t going to drag her to the window to watch them go.

So he’d decided to stay downstairs in the car, which was a delicate way of telling her not to read too much into a kiss. Had he sensed something in her untutored, unguarded response to what he would regard as quite a casual caress that had warned him it might be kinder to keep his distance?

The thought shamed her to the core. She felt sick and empty, and although she tried to blame this on Nicky’s carefree departure, she knew she was fooling herself.

The unpalatable truth she had to face was that every nerve, every pulse beat in her body had been counting away the hours, the minutes, the seconds before she saw Alex Marcos again. She knew too that the ache beginning inside her now was deeper and more wounding than mere disappointment or injured pride, and she remembered Manda’s warning, and was frightened.

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