Apollo's Seed. Anne Mather

gazed up at him helplessly, conscious that against her will, he was arousing her awareness of him as a man, a man moreover who had been her husband, and who had once been able to weaken her limbs by the simple exchanging of a glance. She didn’t want to remember these things, she didn’t want to acknowledge that instinctive attraction between them, that had tom down the barriers of race and society, and made them both prisoners of its urgent expression. It was not love, it had never been love, on his part at least, she exhorted herself, but that didn’t prevent the devastating effect he was having on her senses.

      ‘The child?’ he muttered huskily, holding her eyes with his. ‘Is she like you? Does she have your colouring? Your slenderness? Your determination?’

      Martha trembled, pressing her hands against her chest, keeping them away from him with a supreme effort of will power. ‘Y-yes,’ she admitted at last, ‘she is like me. She’s quite tall for her age, and slender, and she does have a very definite will of her own.’

      He nodded, slowly, his mouth taking on a downward curve, as remorse twisted his expression. ‘I knew she would,’ he averred hoarsely, as the hostility faded from his eyes to be replaced by a tormented bitterness. ‘Your daughter was bound to be like you. Just as wilful, just as independent, and just as beautiful …’

      Martha’s breath caught in her throat. There was no mistaking the violent emotion that dragged that word from his lips, and she was scarcely surprised when their mutual awareness became too much for him, and with a moan of self-disgust, he brought her body close to his. She could not avoid touching him now. Her hands were crushed against the hardness of his chest, only lightly disguised beneath the maroon silk of his shirt, and as his hands slid down her spine, she could feel the stirring muscles of his thighs.

      It was his mouth that truly possessed her, parting her lips beneath its moist invasion, exploring and searching and inspiring a response that she had no will to resist. Maybe if she had had more time, she thought, hanging on to coherence with only a shred of control, if she had been prepared for the effect he would have on her. But she would never have believed that he could do this to her, and all the old magnetism came flooding back, to envelop her in a drowning web of sensual feeling. The pressure increased, became passionate, enfolding them both for a spell in hungry, mindless abandon. His hands were on her thighs, arching her body, moulding her to his maleness with an ease born of their knowledge of one another. And she wanted him, she realised. Wanted him so badly there was a physical ache inside her, as there had been in those awful weeks after she left him.

      ‘Martha,’ he groaned, releasing her mouth to seek the scented hollows behind her ear. ‘Who is the father of your child? Don’t I have the right to know?’ and in the emotive tenor of the moment, she betrayed herself completely and whispered huskily:

       ‘You are!’

      His withdrawal was so abrupt, it left her bemused and speechless, staring at his contorted face without really understanding why he looked so balefully furious.

      ‘Theos!’ he grated disbelievingly. ‘Mou theos! Say it is not so?’

      Martha blinked, and put a dazed hand to her head. It was difficult to bring her mind to normal things, when every nerve and tissue in her being was still crying out for a satisfaction it had not received. Her hair felt reasonably tidy, she thought unsteadily, and her fingers fumbled to fasten the button of her shirt which had come loose in their ardent exchange. Her face was probably bare of all make-up, but that didn’t really matter, although her lips felt bruised from the hungry pressure of his. What did matter was that somehow he had tricked her once again, and this whole fiasco had been staged to discover the truth behind Josy’s conception. It was cold and ruthless, but typical of the man he had become, and she felt soiled and abused, and totally abased.

      ‘Martha!’ He was speaking to her again, but she refused to answer him, turning away, picking up her handbag which had fallen to the floor, extracting her handkerchief to scrub the taste of his lips from her mouth.

      ‘Martha!’ His response to her ignoring of him was to snatch the bag and the handkerchief out of her hands, throwing them to the floor with a cold disregard for their well-being. ‘Martha, I demand an answer!’

      She backed away from him, too stunned to say anything. He had seduced her into betraying herself, and her thoughts ran wildly in all directions, seeking escape from the awful implications of the situation. Did he believe her? How could he not, when she had confessed so emotionally? She had sworn he would never get that information from her, not unless she had chosen to tell him, and now he had cajoled it from her, in the most degrading circumstances ever.

      The study door opened suddenly and Aristotle reappeared. His shrewd dark eyes took in the scene he had interrupted—his son’s grim countenance, Martha’s pale desperation, and the handbag and square of linen lying like a gauntlet on the floor between them. Then, with the discretion born of years of boardroom diplomacy, he said calmly:

      ‘A cold buffet has been prepared. Martha …’ he addressed the young woman holding weakly to the back of a chair, ‘if you would like to come with me …’

      Martha wanted to refuse him. She did not want to take anything from the Myconos family. But it was an escape from Dion, from the suffocating menace of his presence, and with a little helpless shrug of her shoulders she turned towards the door.

      The corridor stretched ahead of her, endlessly, and as if sensing her uncertainty, Aristotle offered his arm. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘My son will follow. We will walk together, and you can tell me about your life in England, and about that sister of yours of whom you were so fond.’

      It was a polite way of gaining her compliance and Martha, much against her better judgment, took his arm, and they walked slowly down the cool, arched passageway. When Helene’s boys were here, or Nikos, with his family, these halls rang with the excited laughter of children, but today they were cloistered, quiet, echoing the brooding violence of Dion’s anger.

      It was a relief to get outside, beneath the perspex awning, whose slatted leaves shaded the noonday sun. The scent of mimosa mingled with the perfume of the flowering vines that overhung the trellises, and the blue-green tiles of the swimming pool, were visible between their blossoming stems. A circular, glass-topped table was set with dishes of meats and salads, savoury eggs and stuffed tomatoes, lobster and anchovies, and various other Greek dishes, that Martha had once found much to her taste. There was a jug of freshly-squeezed orange juice, and another of grapefruit juice, and tall frosted glasses beside a bucket of ice containing a bottle of champagne. She had forgotten Aristotle’s love for champagne, she realised, trying to concentrate on the moment, and dreading the inevitable dénouement that Dion was sure to make.

      ‘Kathiste, parakalo,’ Andros invited politely, moving from his stance beside the table to offer Martha a chair, and she sank into it gratefully.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said, giving him the benefit of a wavering smile, and his eyes warmed her after the cold brilliance of Dion’s.

      Aristotle seated himself opposite her, and while Andros offered the various dishes for Martha’s selection, he opened the champagne. The cork burst from the neck of the bottle, but he caught the Dom Perignon expertly in his glass, raising the frothy wine to his lips, and toasting her in its potency.

      Martha accepted only a slice of ham flavoured with honey from the slopes below Parnassus, and a little of the Greek salad, that mainly comprised huge slices of tomato and cucumber, tossed in a little light oil. She was not hungry, but she was feeling a little faint, and she hoped the food might restore her equilibrium. Right now, she felt confused and unbalanced, and completely incapable of anticipating what might happen next.

      Dion appeared as she was sipping a glass of orange juice. She had refused Aristotle’s offer of champagne, realising anything alcoholic might aggravate the sense of unreality that was gripping her, but her husband’s appearance had an intoxicating mesmerism all its own. She felt like a rabbit, hypnotised by a snake, her limbs frozen into attitudes of helplessness and supplication.

      ‘Ah,