Smokescreen Marriage

‘Yes.’ It was a painful whisper.

He nodded. ‘You can contact me there with your answer.’

He walked to the door, and paused for a final swift look round the room.

He said, ‘So this is what you left me for. I hope it is worth it.’

‘I don’t have to live in the lap of luxury to be happy,’ Kate said defiantly.

‘Evidently,’ he said. ‘If happy is what you are.’ He looked her over, slowly and thoroughly, a smile curling his mouth.

He said softly, ‘Eyes like smoke and hair like flame. What a waste agapi mou. What a tragic waste.’

And was gone.

CHAPTER TWO

FOR several long moments Kate stood like a statue, staring at the closed door, pain and disbelief warring within her for supremacy.

Then she gave a little choked cry and ran to her bedroom, flinging herself face down across the bed, her hands gripping the covers as if they were her last hold on sanity.

She said aloud, ‘Fool.’ And again, more savagely, her voice breaking, ‘Fool.’

Had she really thought she could escape so easily? That Michael Theodakis would simply allow her—the girl he’d taken from nowhere—to walk away from him?

Not that he cared about her, or their marriage, as she had bitter cause to know, but the fact that she’d chosen to expose the hypocrisy of their relationship by leaving, had clearly damaged his pride. And that, of course, was an unforgivable sin.

Her own pride, naturally, didn’t count.

He hadn’t even asked her why she had left, but then he didn’t have to. He already knew. He would have been told…

Nor had he offered one word of apology or explanation for the actions which had driven her away.

No, she was clearly the one who was at fault because she’d failed to turn a blind eye to his cynical infidelity.

After all, she’d had the Theodakis millions to enjoy, and she could not deny Mick had been generous. There’d been the house outside Athens, and the sumptuous apartments in Paris and New York as well as the clothes and jewellery he’d given her, all of which she’d left behind when she fled.

But that had been her choice, and Mick, no doubt, felt he had bought her silence—her discretion, and, in his eyes, she had reneged on their unwritten bargain.

A bargain she had not realised existed until that terrible afternoon…

She shuddered, pressing her face deep into the bed until coloured sparks danced behind her closed eyelids.

But nothing could drive the image from her brain. Mick sprawled naked and asleep across the bed—their bed. And Victorine sitting at the dressing table combing her hair, clad in nothing but a towel.

And now, in spite of that, he required her to stand meekly at his side during Ismene’s wedding celebrations, playing the dutiful wife. As if she owed him something.

But she’d only have to role-play by day, she reminded herself. At least she would not be asked to pretend at night.

And neither would he. Not any longer.

How could a man do that? she wondered wildly. How could he make love to one woman, with his heart and mind committed to another?

And all those precious passionate moments when the dark strength of his body had lifted her to the edge of paradise and beyond—how could they have meant so little to him?

But perhaps sexual fulfilment had also been part of his side of the bargain along with the designer wardrobe and the money he’d provided. One of the assets of being Mrs Michael Theodakis.

But it wasn’t enough. Because she’d wanted love. And that was something he’d never offered. At least he’d been honest about that.

Probably, he’d found her inexperience—her naïvete amusing, she thought, lashing herself into fresh anger against him.

Because anger was good. Safe. It kept the frantic tears of loneliness and betrayal at bay. And she couldn’t afford any more tears. Any more heartbreak.

She’d wept enough. Now, somehow, she had to move on.

But she couldn’t begin to build a new life while her brief marriage still existed, trapping her in the old one. She needed it to be over, and left far behind her. But for that, of course, she had to have Mick’s co-operation. Oh, it would be so good to tell him to go to hell. That she would die sooner than return to Kefalonia and play at being his wife again for however short a time.

Because that meant she would become once more the smokescreen against his father’s jealous and totally justified suspicions. And how could she bear it?

Or stand seeing, yet again, the triumph and contempt in Victorine’s beautiful face? The look she’d turned on Kate, standing ashen-faced in the doorway that afternoon only a few agonised weeks ago.

‘How tactless of you, chère.’ Her honeyed drawl was barbed. ‘Perhaps in future you should knock before entering your husband’s bedroom.’

Kate had taken two shaky steps backwards, then run for the bathroom down the passage, her hand over her mouth as nausea churned inside her.

She was violently, cripplingly sick, kneeling on the tiled floor while walls and ceiling revolved unsteadily around her. She had no idea how long she’d stayed there. But eventually some firm purpose was born out of the sickness and misery, making her realise that she had to get out. That her brief marriage was over, and that she could not bear to spend even another hour under any roof that belonged to the Theodakis family.

She had to force herself to go back into that bedroom, bracing herself for another humiliating confrontation, but Victorine had gone.

Mick was still fast asleep. Exhausted by his labours, no doubt, she thought, rubbing salt into her own bitter wounds. And how dared he sleep while her heart was breaking?

She needed to confront him, she realised. To accuse him and see the guilt in his face.

She put her hand on his shoulder, and shook him.

‘Mick.’ Her voice cracked on his name. ‘Wake up.’

He stirred drowsily, without opening his eyes. ‘S’agapo,’ he muttered, his voice slurred. ‘I love you.’

Kate gasped, and took a step backwards, a stricken hand flying to her mouth. At last he’d said them—the words she’d yearned to hear ever since they’d been together.

Only they were not meant for her, but his secret lover—the woman he’d been enjoying so passionately in her absence. The mistress he’d never actually discarded. It was the final—the unforgivable hurt, she thought as she turned painfully and walked away.

She packed the minimum in a small weekend case, then scribbled him a note which she left on the night table with her wedding ring.

‘I should never have married you,’ she wrote. ‘It was a terrible mistake, and I cannot bear to go on living with you for another moment. Don’t try to find me.’

No one saw her go. She drove to the airport, and managed to get a seat on a plane to Athens, and from there to London.