Pagan Adversary. Sara Craven

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