from you,’ Harriet said vehemently. ‘The fact that we’ve even met is your doing, not mine.’
He gave her a weary look. ‘Why are you being so stubborn? You are scarcely more than a child yourself. You cannot wish to bear such a burden unaided for perhaps twenty years longer.’
Put like that, it sounded daunting, but Harriet had always faced up to what her responsibilities to Nicky would entail.
‘I might ask you the same thing,’ she countered. ‘All this time you haven’t displayed the slightest interest in Nicky. We could both have starved or been homeless for all you knew. Yet now you want him—why?’
‘Because it is my duty to care for him,’ he said. ‘Kostas would have expected it, whatever the relations were between us. The child is of my blood.’
‘And mine.’
‘Nevertheless,’ he said, ‘if Kostas had wished you to have charge of the boy, he would have left a document—a will, even a letter saying so. Yet he did not—is it not so?’
Harriet finished her coffee and put the mug down. ‘No, there was nothing,’ she said after a pause. ‘They were so young—too young to be thinking about wills anything of that kind.’
Alex Marcos’ mouth twisted. ‘When one has responsibilities Thespinis Masters, one is never too young, and it is never too soon to make provision for the future. Kostas knew, in fact, that if the worst happened, I would take charge of Nicos. He was always happy to shelve his responsibilities.’
Harriet was uneasily aware that her own solicitor had deplored the absence of a will, but she had been too fond of her late brother-in-law to meekly hear him criticised.
‘Kostas was too busy being happy and making my sister happy to worry about the worst happening. He was a warm, loving man, so what does it matter if he wasn’t perhaps the greatest businessman in the world?’
‘If he had stayed with the Marcos Corporation, then it might have mattered a great deal,’ Alex Marcos said coldly. ‘But we stray towards matters that do not concern you. You will do well to reflect, Miss Masters. At the moment, you claim that Nicky has your whole heart. That is—commendable. But with the money I have offered you, you could buy a new wardrobe—go perhaps for a cruise round the world—meet someone who would make you glad that you are young—and without encumbrances.’
‘God, you’re insulting!’ Harriet muttered between her teeth.
The dark brows rose in exaggerated surprise. ‘Why? Because I imply that if you had more time to yourself, you would have little difficulty in attracting a man? I am paying you a compliment.’
‘Not as far as I’m concerned. Oddly enough, I quite like my life—and my present wardrobe. Marriage isn’t the be-all and end-all in my life.’
He smiled. ‘So I was right,’ he said lazily. ‘You are afraid of men.’
‘That’s ridiculous!’
‘What is more,’ he said slowly, his eyes never leaving her face, ‘you are afraid of me.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Harriet with a robust conviction she was far from feeling.
His smile widened. His eyes travelled slowly downwards, over the soft swell of her breasts, rising and falling more quickly than she could control under the crisp blouse, then on down to the smooth line of her thighs outlined by the cling of the trim navy skirt, then back, swiftly, to her face where spots of outraged colour were now burning in each cheek.
He said 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
