Angel had swallowed nervously, unaccountably concerned for the much elder man she could remember seeing at the party in the villa; he’d looked so frail. ‘But still, it can’t be easy, when he’s spent his whole life wanting to avenge his family name.’
Leo had just replied with silken emphasis, ‘Which is exactly what I’m doing. My father, above all things, is a strategist. If he knew for a second what you’d done, what a threat you are, he would endorse my methods wholeheartedly.’
Angel had still felt miserable to think of how his father might be feeling, and had been reminded again that whenever Leo spoke of him it was clear that little love was lost.
And then Leo had asked casually, ‘Have you spoken to your father yet?’
Angel had blanched and shaken her head. She knew from Delphi that her father was home and in a near constant state of violent inebriation, cursing her volubly. His trip to London had been spectacularly unsuccessful. Angel knew a lot of his bluster was just that. And she wasn’t scared for Delphi’s safety. Her father had only ever lashed out at her, Angel, with his fists, in those moments when she reminded him too much of her mother.
She’d shaken her head again. ‘No, we haven’t spoken.’ Angel sent up a silent prayer. At least when Delphi was married she’d be moving in with Stavros and Angel would be free to live elsewhere. And lick her wounds from the fall-out of her association with Leo.
Leo had looked suspicious. Angel had done her best to ignore him.
Now, Angel sighed as she looked in the full-length mirror of her dressing room. She was tired. And she had to admit that she was still shell-shocked. She felt as though from the moment she’d met Leo again, that fateful night in the study, she’d not had a chance to draw breath.
He consumed her utterly. In the nights he taught her body how it could respond so powerfully to his; but she was still shy, still mortified at her reaction to him. And her days were filled with vivid flashbacks to moments that took her breath away, making her body heat up and melt all over again.
She quite literally could not remember what it had been like not to know this man, not to know his hard features, the faint line of the scar above his mouth which still tantalised her.
She tried to clear her mind of him and twisted in front of the mirror. The dress she wore was the most daring one yet. It was strapless and mostly gold, ending a few inches above her knees, where the gold tapered off into silver. Her waist was cinched in with a gold belt, and gold hoop earrings and strappy sandals completed the outfit.
Something defiant had made her pick it out of the myriad clothes that now filled the walk-in closet, along with a glittering array of stunning jewellery. When she’d seen the jewellery her heart had twisted. How she longed to make her own again. She’d always found the designs of others too garish for her tastes, preferring delicate chains and subtle designs. Like Lucy’s butterfly necklace.
She heard a sound, and whirled around to see Leo, leaning nonchalantly against her door, already dressed and ready to go. She felt vulnerable at having been observed. This was how it seemed to be going. He’d be gone every day to work when she awoke, her body heavy after the rigours of a long night of lovemaking. Then he’d come home and get ready, only coming to fetch her when she too was ready. Minimal conversation. Minimal emotional involvement.
She’d noticed Leo tensing beside her last night, at an art gallery opening, when a couple had started a passionate and very public row. When Angel had glanced up at him in response to his hand tightening on hers, she’d been surprised to see him looking slightly mesmerised, and yet grey underneath his tan. Eventually he’d turned from the scene, with disgust etched all over his face. Angel hadn’t been able to understand his reaction; it had seemed totally disproportionate to what was really just a domestic fight.
She found that the memory and the concern she’d felt now made her feel even more vulnerable. She didn’t care about what made Leo tick. She only cared that he was facilitating her sister’s happiness.
She drew on all the confidence she could and put a hand on her hip, cocking her head. ‘Well? Is it suitably mistressy for you?’
Leo’s jaw clenched, and Angel’s belly quivered.
‘Don’t push me, Angel.’ His eyes dropped then insultingly, lingering and assessing. He looked at her again, and all her bravado had melted.
He just said cuttingly, ‘Yes, it’s perfect. Exactly the kind of thing the press will be expecting you to wear. Let’s go.’
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