Smokescreen Marriage. Sara Craven

all she’d really been to him was a novelty—a temporary amusement.

      The smokescreen he’d cynically needed to divert attention from his real passion.

      The coffee tasted bitter, and she pushed it away from her, feeling faintly nauseous.

      She couldn’t afford to tear her heart out over Ismene, she told herself curtly. They’d become close over the months, and she knew that the younger girl would be missing her company with only Victorine to turn to. In fact, the note had almost sounded like a cry for help.

      But she couldn’t allow herself to think like that. And in particular she couldn’t permit her mind to dwell on Victorine, the Creole beauty who now ruled Aristotle Theodakis, without releasing any of her hold over his son.

      She would write a brief and formal expression of regret, and leave it there. Keep it strictly impersonal, although Ismene might be hurt to have no response to her note.

      But then, Kate thought, I also have the right to some reaction to my request for a divorce. After all, it’s been a month since my lawyer sent off the papers.

      Impatiently, she pushed the invitation away and rose. It was no wonder she was feeling flaky. She ought to have something to eat. She’d only had time to grab a sandwich at lunch time, and there was cold chicken and salad in the fridge, only her appetite seemed to have deserted her.

      And she had a hectic day tomorrow—a group of reluctant French schoolchildren to chivvy around the Tower of London.

      Perhaps she would just have a warm shower, wash her hair, and go to bed early. Catch up on some of that lost sleep.

      Her bathroom was small, and the shower cubicle rather cramped, not tempting her to linger. She towelled down quickly, and resumed her housecoat before returning to the living room with her hair-drier.

      She was just plugging it in when, to her surprise and irritation, someone knocked at the door.

      Kate sighed, winding a towel round her wet hair. It was bound to be Mrs Thursgood, the elderly widow who lived on the ground floor, and accepted parcels and packets intended for other tenants who’d left for work before the mail arrived.

      She was a kindly soul but gossipy, and she would expect a cup of tea and a cosy chat in return for her trouble of trailing up to the top floor with Kate’s book club selection, or whatever.

      I really, truly, don’t want to talk, Kate thought grimly, as she pinned on a smile and flung open the door.

      And stood, lips parting in a soundless gasp, eyes widening in shock, feeling the blood drain from her face.

      ‘My beloved wife,’ Michael Theodakis said softly. ‘Kalispera. May I come in?’

      ‘No,’ she said. Her voice sounded hoarse—distorted above the sudden roaring in her ears. She was afraid she was going to faint, and knew she couldn’t afford any such weakness. She took a step backwards.

      ‘No,’ she repeated more vehemently.

      He was smiling, totally at ease, propping a dark-clad shoulder against the doorframe.

      ‘But we cannot conduct a civilised conversation on the doorstep, agapi mou.’

      She said thickly, ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you—on the doorstep or anywhere else. If you want to talk, speak to my solicitor. And don’t call me your darling.’

      ‘How unkind,’ he said. ‘When I have travelled such a long way at such inconvenience to see you again. I’d hoped some of our Greek hospitality might have rubbed off on you.’

      ‘That isn’t the aspect of my life with you that I remember most clearly,’ Kate said, her breathing beginning to steady. ‘And I didn’t invite you here, so please go.’

      Mick Theodakis raised both hands in mock surrender. ‘Easy, Katharina mou. I did not come here to fight a war, but negotiate a peaceful settlement. Isn’t that what you want too?’

      ‘I want a quick divorce,’ she said. ‘And never to see you again.’

      ‘Go on.’ The dark eyes glinted down at her from beneath hooded lids. ‘Surely you have a third wish. All the best stories do, I believe.’

      Kate drew a quick, sharp breath. ‘This,’ she said gratingly, ‘is not a fairy story.’

      ‘No,’ he said. ‘To be honest, I am not sure whether it is a comedy or a tragedy.’

      ‘Honest?’ Kate echoed scornfully. ‘You don’t know the meaning of the word.’

      ‘However,’ he went on as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘I am quite certain I am not leaving until you have heard what I have to say, yineka mou.’

      ‘I am not your wife,’ she said. ‘I resigned that dubious honour when I left Kefalonia. And I thought I’d made it clear in my note that our so-called marriage was over.’

      ‘It was a model of clarity,’ he said courteously. ‘I have learned every word of it by heart. And the fact that you left your wedding ring beside it added extra emphasis.’

      ‘Then you’ll understand there is nothing to discuss.’ She lifted her chin. ‘Now, go please. I have a heavy duty tomorrow, and I’d like to go to bed.’

      ‘Not,’ he said softly. ‘With wet hair. That is something that I remember from our brief marriage, Katharina.’ He stepped into the room, kicking the door shut behind him.

      There was no lock on her bedroom door, and one dodgy bolt on the bathroom. With nowhere to run, Kate decided to stand her ground.

      ‘How dare you.’ Her face was burning as she glared at him. ‘Get out of here, before I call the police.’

      ‘To do what?’ Mick asked coolly. ‘Have I ever struck you—or molested you in any way, agapi mou, that you did not welcome?’ He watched the colour suddenly deepen in her shocked face, and nodded sardonically. ‘Besides, all police are reluctant to intervene in domestic disputes. So, why don’t you sit down and dry your hair while you listen to what I have to say?’

      He paused, then held out his hand. ‘Unless you would like me to dry it for you,’ he added softly. ‘As I used to.’

      Kate swallowed convulsively, and shook her head, not trusting her voice.

      It wasn’t fair, she raged inwardly. It wasn’t right for him to remind her of all the small, tender intimacies they’d once shared.

      The way she’d sat between his knees as he blow-dried her hair, combing it gently with his fingers, letting the soft strands drift in the current of warm air.

      And how her efforts to perform the same service for him had always been thwarted, as he loosened the sash on her robe, and drew the folds slowly apart, pressing tiny sensuous kisses on her naked body as she stood, flushed and breathless, in front of him. Until her attempt at hairdressing was forgotten in the sweet urgency of the moment.

      Oh, she did not need to remember that.

      Her cotton housecoat was long-sleeved and full-skirted, buttoned chastely to the throat, but she was still blazingly aware that she was naked under it—and that he knew it too, and was enjoying her discomfort.

      The room seemed suddenly to have shrunk. His presence dominated it, physically and emotionally. Invaded her space in the worst way. Dried her throat and made her legs shake under her.

      Even as she turned away and walked across to the dining table, every detail of him was etched on her mind, as if she’d touched him with her fingers.

      Yet she did not have to do that—to remember.

      She knew that the black curling hair was brushed back from his face with careless elegance. That his dark eyes were brilliant, but watchful beneath their heavy lids, or that the cool, firm mouth held a hint of sensuality in the slight fullness of the lower lip.

      It