style="font-size:15px;"> Skye turned away from the window with its panoramic view of the sea and sank back down onto the bed with a sigh, digging her teeth into her lower lip in an attempt to force back the tears that were threatening.
She was always on the edge of tears these days. Always only just managing to subdue the panic that gripped her when she contemplated what lay ahead of her. She still couldn’t quite take it all in. Still couldn’t believe that this was to be her future.
But sitting here brooding wasn’t going to change that. She really ought to come out of the bedroom at some point soon, and get to know the rest of the house better. She was going to live here, after all.
That thought only added to her sense of desolate unreality. This house, beautiful as it was, just didn’t seem anything like the home she had left in the damp and green countryside of Suffolk, the small village where she had grown up.
She supposed she would get used to it in time. She had to get used to it; she had no choice.
Skye rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes, brushing away the tears. When she’d phoned home earlier, her father had told her that her mother had been taken into hospital again. Claire Marston needed yet another operation, and soon. And her doctors had said that it was vital she was kept quiet. Any stress at all could be fatal.
It was a terrible, bitter irony, one that brought a taste like the burn of acid into her mouth, to think that she had always dreamed of visiting Greece, of seeing the cluster of the Sporades Islands, perhaps holidaying there. She had dreamed of the sunshine, the sea, the white houses she had seen in photographs. And now she had achieved her dream, but it had turned into a terrible nightmare; one from which even waking wouldn’t mean that she could escape.
Now she had the sun. It had been shining all day. And, there, beyond her window, was the sea, an almost unbelievable bright and sparkling turquoise in colour. She lived in one of the white houses—a huge white house. And she hated it.
She was lonely and lost and terrified of the future.
And she had no way out.
‘Oh, Dad! Why did you have to be so stupid? How could you have made such a mess of things?’
If only…
But no! Skye caught herself up sharply, giving herself a brusque, reproving shake.
She couldn’t let herself dwell on if only. Couldn’t even let herself dream of if only.
But, oh, if only she had never made that mad, foolish mistake last week. If only she hadn’t given into the crazy, wild impulse to have one last night of freedom while she could.
And if only she had never met the most devastating man called Anton. A man who had taken her to bed for the most amazing, most stunning, most memorable night of passion. The only night of such passion she was ever likely to know. A night of passion she would never forget.
And she could never, ever forget the man who had shared it with her.
But because she would never forget, then the situation in which she now found herself became so very much worse. Appallingly so. Perhaps before last week she might have been able to bear the prospect of the future with some degree of equanimity. Now she had been shown, oh, so briefly, the image of another, very different future, only to have it snatched away from her for ever, and she had no idea at all how she was ever going to cope.
But she had to. Even though she felt that her heart would break just with trying.
‘Come on, Marston!’ she told herself fiercely. ‘Pull yourself together. You’re going to have to make the best of this!’
She could at least keep herself busy. Keep her mind occupied and not let herself brood.
What was it Cyril had said before he left—to go into the village on business?
‘Make yourself at home. The house is yours—anything you want, just ask for it. Use the cinema, or the pool.’
The pool! There was her answer. Some exercise would distract her; it would fill the long, empty afternoon that stretched ahead. And if she was lucky, it would tire her out so that she would finally manage to sleep tonight.
And she needed to sleep, she told herself as she pulled open a drawer, hunting through it for the sleek white costume that Cyril had insisted on buying for her when he had realised that she didn’t have anything to wear to swim in, apart from the regulation navy blue one piece that had seen her through school and was now definitely on its last legs.
She would exercise until she was exhausted and then tonight she might crash out, almost unconscious. With luck she would not have to lie there, in the strange bed, staring at the white-painted ceiling, remembering…
Or would falling asleep be worse? Every night she had slept so badly, locked in feverish dreams of a night in a hotel, a long, sleekly muscled body next to hers, powerful arms holding her, jet-black eyes looking down at her. And every morning she had woken with the bedclothes in a twisted tangle, knotted around her body, evidence of the disturbed night she had passed.
She was shivering with reaction to her memories as she pulled on the white swimsuit, grabbed a towel, and headed for the pool.
Theo’s unpacking only took a very short time. There was little enough to put away in the cupboards of the pool house where his father had left instructions he was to stay, his old room apparently being occupied by The Fiancée, and now he was at a loss. The afternoon was warm and the thought of the cool, clear water of the pool was appealing. It was the work of seconds to change into black swimming shorts and head outside, padding silently in bare feet over the white-tiled surround.
What he didn’t expect was to see someone already in the water. Shock brought him to a halt, eyes narrowing against the glint of the sun on the water as he studied the scene before him.
A sleek form sped through the water, powering from one end of the pool to another. A sleek female form in a clinging white costume. The Fiancée, if he wasn’t very much mistaken. He couldn’t see much of her from here, she was swimming away from him and the water hid most of her body. He had a brief, blurred impression of dark hair, long, slender arms slicing through the water, slim, toned legs kicking out behind the shapely body, high, tight buttocks…
What the hell was he doing? He couldn’t have thoughts like that about his father’s fiancée—the woman who was going to be his stepmother by the end of the month.
Or was this in fact the brand-new fiancée? Because she was much younger than he had ever anticipated…
Perhaps The Fiancée had been married before and this girl was a daughter? Whoever she was, she made him think disturbingly of the mysterious Skye.
He’d better make himself known to her. He didn’t want to give the impression of behaving like a peeping Tom, standing here staring at her.
‘Kalimera.’
She hadn’t heard him—the water must still be in her ears. Or perhaps she didn’t even understand Greek. A cynical smile twisted his mouth. It was an indication of just how bad things had become between him and his father that he had no idea whether the new woman in Cyril’s life was Greek or some other nationality entirely. The last time he had known anything
