of his shirt revealing the strong column of his throat, the turned-up cuffs showing the lean strength of his wrist and hands, the taut material over his torso emphasising the breadth of his chest.
And not looking, above all, at his face. The wide, sensual mouth, the dark heavy-lidded eyes.
Eyes that pressed on her like weights.
With all her strength she sat there, impassive, indifferent, while her stomach contorted in hard, convoluted knots.
Praying for the strength to get through the ordeal ahead.
But she could not, dared not, put into words what she was praying for.
The meal seemed to go on for ever. She refused dessert, desultorily picking at a slice of mango and sipping mineral water, her champagne abandoned. Leo Makarios, it seemed, was in no hurry. He’d eaten a leisurely first course, a leisurely main course, and had made a considered selection from the cheese board.
Finally he leant back, brandy swirling slowly in his glass, a cup of coffee at his place, eyes resting on her contemplatively.
‘Tell me something,’ he said suddenly, his tone conversational. ‘Why did you steal the bracelet?’
Anna’s head turned. Her eyes looked at him, widening slightly as the meaning of what he’d just asked registered. The question seemed extraordinary.
‘That’s none of your business,’ she returned repressively.
For a moment Leo Makarios just stared at her, as if he did not believe what she’d just said. Then a thread of anger flashed in his eyes. Next it was gone.
He leant back in his chair and gave a laugh.
It was an incredulous, disbelieving laugh, with not the slightest trace of humour in it.
‘You really are a piece of work,’ he said slowly. His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me it was for your sick grandmother, or something? To pay for an operation?’ His voice was jibing.
She looked at him levelly. ‘No.’ Her voice was expressionless, but inside emotion was running. Thank God she had not tried to throw herself and Jenny on his mercy—his taunt just now showed exactly how he’d have received her plea. No. Her face hardened. There was only one way out of this, and that was the way Leo Makarios had given her in his office.
Oh, God, just let it be over and done with!
She just wanted it over and done with. That was all she wanted.
Suddenly, tension spilling out of her in words, she spoke.
‘Look, what’s with this stupid inquisition? You gave me the choice of the police or you—and here I am. So what are you waiting for? You’ve had your dinner—why hang around? Just get it over and damn well done with!’
Her voice was terse.
For a moment he just went on looking at her, his face suddenly unreadable. Then, abruptly, he set down his brandy and got to his feet.
‘Very well. Time for bed, Ms Delane. Let the reparation begin.’
Was there mockery in his words? She couldn’t tell. Didn’t know.
Didn’t care.
This was it, then. No more tense, fraught waiting. No more prevarication.
She was going to go to bed with Leo Makarios.
Right now. Now.
And have sex with him.
Carefully Anna got to her feet. Her heart, she could tell, seemed to have gone strangely numb as well. Just like the rest of her.
She could only be grateful.
It was the best way to get it over and done with.
She just had to keep her nerve, that was all. Endure. Let him take what he wanted and it would be over.
At least for now. Tomorrow night she’d have to go through it all again, but that was tomorrow. She’d think about that then. Now she just had to focus on getting through tonight.
She walked into the villa ahead of him, every footstep, his and hers, falling heavily on the marble floor, and let him guide her up the shallow flight of stairs into a room that was not hers.
His, evidently.
She stood for a moment in the middle, not sure what to do. There was a large bed in here, just like in her bedroom, but this one was not a four-poster, and it did not have yards of muslin draped. The air was cool from the air-conditioning, but not as chilly as the setting in her room. On either side of the bed low lamps provided the only illumination, making the room shadowed, intimate.
‘Wait there.’
She did as she was told. Leo Makarios disappeared into his en suite bathroom. She heard the sound of water running. Anna went on standing there, immobile. Her brain was frozen, her mind empty. She couldn’t think, couldn’t feel. She was standing in Leo Makarios’s bedroom, waiting for him to emerge from his bathroom and take her to his bed. It was impossible, outrageous.
And yet it was happening.
Now.
Tonight.
She should be feeling something, she knew—but she felt nothing. Nothing at all.
Only the hard, heavy thumping of her heart in her breast, the tautness in the line of her jaw told her that, numb though her mind was, her body was registering the anxiety, the tension in her psyche at what was going to happen.
Tonight.
Now.
She went on standing there. Not looking. Not thinking. Not feeling.
Completely numb.
The bathroom door clicked open and Leo Makarios reappeared. He was wearing a white towelling robe. Short. To the knees. Belted tight. The whiteness made his Mediterranean skin tone even darker in the subdued lamplight.
Anna felt some kind of emotion prickle out across her skin.
She watched him as, scarcely glancing at her, he went across to the bed, drew back the covers, and lounged down against the pillows, propping them up behind him. His long tanned legs stretched out bare on the white sheets.
He settled his gaze on her.
Time seemed to stop. Stop completely. As if the world had stopped turning.
His eyes were dark, unreadable. His face immobile.
But something in his eyes made the prickling intensify across her skin.
A pressure started to build.
Inside her—outside her. In the room, in the space between where she was standing, motionless, numb, in the middle of Leo Makarios’s bedroom, and where he was lounging back on his bed.
Looking at her.
Waiting for her.
For one endless moment the silence held.
Then he spoke.
‘Come here,’ he said softly.
For the space of a single heartbeat—which lasted an unbearable agony of time—Anna did not move.
Could not move.
Somewhere deep in her head words were forming. She could hear them, very low. They were telling her to run. To yell. To shout abuse at the man who lounged back against his pillows like some eastern pasha, waiting for his slave woman to come and pleasure him…
But even as she heard the muffled, vehement words they were stifled. Extinguished.
She could not listen to their siren call. Must not.
If she did, Jenny would be doomed.
Slowly, like a puppet, Anna started walking towards him. Feeling nothing, she stood beside