her across the hall.
‘What do you want?’ she demanded defensively.
‘I am merely obeying instructions, matia mou.’ He shrugged, his eyes glinting in amusement. ‘Your grandfather has sent me to bid you a romantic goodnight in private, while he considers his next move.’
‘Well, consider it done,’ she said curtly. ‘And I only hope you can remember the details of the rubbish you’ve been talking over dinner, because he has the memory of an elephant. Whatever possessed you to come out with all that stuff?’
‘Because I thought it was what he wanted to hear, Harriet mou,’ he drawled. ‘A reassurance that you were not throwing yourself away on—nobody.’
‘Just a liar and a conman, instead,’ Harriet said scornfully. ‘But maybe that’s all to the good. At least he won’t be able to oppose the divorce when I confess tearfully how you betrayed and deceived me. In essence, made utter fools of us both.’
He gave her a meditative look. ‘You don’t think that is a little harsh—on someone who wants only your happiness?’
‘Except that Grandfather and I don’t agree on what that involves.’ She paused. ‘And let me remind you that I’ve paid for your acquiescence, Mr Zandros, not your opinion.’
‘Perhaps you are the one who needs a reminder, Harriet mou,’ he said softly. Without warning his hands descended on her shoulders, jerking her towards him, and before she could utter any kind of protest his mouth took hers in a long, hard, and arrogantly deliberate kiss.
She tried to struggle—to free herself—but the arms holding her were far too strong, and determined. She could hardly breathe—let alone speak—or think.
She began to feel giddy, tiny coloured sparks dancing behind her closed eyelids, as the relentless pressure of his lips went on—and on—carrying her into some dark and swirling eternity.
And then—as suddenly as it had begun—it was over, and Roan was stepping back, putting her at arm’s length, his dark eyes watching her unsmilingly.
Harriet stood, swaying slightly, lifting shaking fingers to touch the ravaged contours of her mouth, her mind blurred—incredulous. She tried to say something, but no words would come.
‘Is that acquiescent enough for you, kyria?’ His voice seemed to reach her across some vast wasteland. ‘I would not wish you to feel you were wasting your money.’ He added harshly, ‘Now, go to bed, and I hope you enjoy your dreams.’
And he turned and went back across the wide hall into the drawing room, leaving her dazed and trembling. Aware only that, in some strange way, she was suddenly more utterly alone than she’d ever been in her life before.
CHAPTER FIVE
IT HAD not been passion. Even someone as woefully inexperienced as Harriet could appreciate that. On the contrary, it had been, she thought, more of a calculated insult. She’d provoked him. He’d responded. And that was it.
Her mouth still felt faintly swollen from his unwanted attentions, she realised with disgust, and there was a strange ache in her breasts—the result of them being crushed against the hardness of his chest, no doubt.
A sensation she would give a great deal to forget, she thought, drawing a quick sharp breath. No one had ever—handled her like that before. She’d made deadly sure of that. It was the stuff her worst nightmares were made of.
But on this occasion she hadn’t seen it coming, and therefore she hadn’t been able to take the evasive action she’d brought to a fine art.
But matters couldn’t rest there. That was obvious. So, in the morning she would have to do—something. But what?
Because, technically, it was already morning, and, even though she’d been lying there for hours, staring sleeplessly into the darkness, she still hadn’t the least idea how to deal with the situation.
The obvious answer, of course, was to abandon the whole idea. Tell him she’d changed her mind and the deal was off. That there would be no wedding.
And therefore no Gracemead either, she thought, pain twisting inside her, because then she’d have to confess to her grandfather and reap the inevitable consequences. He would naturally demand an explanation for the collapse of her ‘engagement’, and there was no way she’d be able to hide the truth from him for long, even if Roan kept his mouth shut, which was by no means certain.
And that meant she’d also have to bear with Gramps’s anger and disappointment over her attempt to deceive him. And, quite rightly, he’d never trust her again.
She could feel the sting of tears in her eyes—taste their acridity in her throat.
I should never have started this, she told herself in desolation. Because nothing—nothing is worth this kind of pain, and that bastard was quite right about that, damn him.
What was more, that same bastard would still be around to be dealt with, she reminded herself grimly. She’d have to fulfil her commitments to him. The deal with the gallery was already set up, so there was nothing she could do about that. But she guessed she’d have to pay him the agreed lump sum too, if only to make him go away.
But perhaps that was exactly what he wanted her to do, she thought, sitting up suddenly as if she’d been jabbed by a cattle prod. Maybe he’d figured out exactly how to push her to the limit, and that—travesty of a kiss had simply been a deliberate ploy to get her to cry off.
In that way he could avoid keeping his part of the bargain, and walk away with everything he wanted. Leaving her plans in ruins yet again.
Just a conman after all, completing his ‘sting’, she thought, aware of an odd stir of disappointment.
But only if she let him, she rallied herself. And maybe he hadn’t taken that into his calculations while he was—mauling her.
Well, now it was time to demonstrate that she was made of stronger stuff.
Because she wouldn’t let him win. There was too much at stake for her to draw back now, however compelling the reason might seem.
So, she would treat the entire episode as some—temporary aberration, she planned, her heart racing. Dismiss it lightly as an irrelevance. Make it clear that all she wanted was his name on a marriage certificate, following which he could—paint himself into a corner for all she cared.
At the same time, she had to admit that he’d forced her to become altogether too aware of him as a man, rather than a signature on the dotted line she required. In fact, if she was honest, he’d been an irritation—an all-singing, all-dancing thorn in her side—from the moment they’d met.
And now flesh and blood instead of the obedient, malleable figment of her imagination—and her will. And she found the reality—disturbing. She’d needed a stranger who would remain strictly a stranger, and suddenly it had become—up close and personal. Dear God, he was here—sleeping in one of the guest rooms. Or awake and thinking—what?
But I can’t let it matter, she thought, staring round the moonlit room. This is my home. It’s my own place—the only security I’ve ever known, and I won’t let him take
