a couple of pottery mugs, while the kettle was boiling.
Alex Marcos was lounging in the doorway, very much at his ease, but not missing a thing, Harriet thought.
She said, ‘There’s no point in waiting here. The kettle takes rather a long time.’
‘I imagine that it might,’ he said, smiling faintly.
‘It must all be very different from what you’re used to,’ she said stiffly. ‘You should have stayed in the West End, where you belong.’
His brows lifted. ‘You have never visited Greece, it is clear, Miss Masters, or you would know that for many of our people such a kitchen would be the height of luxury.’
‘But you’re not among them.’
‘That is true. But my own good fortune does not lead me to feel contempt for the way others lead their lives.’
That wasn’t the picture Kostas had painted, Harriet thought, as they went back to the flat. He had spoken with feeling of unyielding pride and arrogance, of a total inability to make allowances for the weakness or feelings of others, or to forgive—and with good reason, considering the way he had been treated by his family. Not his marriage, not Nicky’s birth, had done anything to heal whatever breach was between them. Harriet was aware that the Marcos family had been notified when Kostas was killed, but she had frankly never expected to hear from them again. Certainly there had been no flowers, no message of condolence at the funeral. For months there had been silence—and then the bombshell about Nicky had exploded.
Nicky still hadn’t stirred when they got back, and Harriet moved round quietly taking his aired clothes from the clothes-horse and folding them, before putting them away in the small chest of drawers. She opened the window a little too, letting some of the later afternoon sunlight into the room, along with the distant noise of traffic, and the overhead throb of a passing jet.
This was the time of day she usually looked forward to—tea with Nicky, then playtime before she got him ready for his bath and bed. But for how many more times? she wondered desolately.
As she turned away from the window, she found Alex Marcos was watching her, and there must have been something about the droop of her shoulders which had betrayed her, because his voice had softened a little as he said, ‘You cannot pretend that you wish to spend the rest of your life in this way—looking after someone else’s child. You are young. You should be planning a life of your own—children of your own.’
‘I’m perfectly content as I am,’ Harriet said woodenly.
‘You do not wish to marry?’ His mouth curled slightly in satirical amusement. ‘That is hard to believe. Are you afraid of men?’
Harriet gasped. ‘Of course not! How dare you imply….’ Her voice tailed away rather helplessly.
He shrugged. ‘What else is one to think? You must be aware that you do not lack—attraction.’
His eyes went over her in one swift, sexual assessment which brought the colour roaring into her face.
She didn’t know whether to be angrier with him for looking at her like that, or herself for blushing so stupidly. After all, she was reasonably used to being looked over like that. You could hardly work in a large office and avoid it, and Harriet supposed it was part of the ‘sexual harassment’ that so many women complained of nowadays. But while it remained tacit, and at a distance, she had never felt it was worth complaining about.
But then, she thought furiously, she had never been so frankly or so completely mentally undressed by any man. He had a skin-tingling expertise which rocked her on her heels and made her feel tremblingly vulnerable.
The sound of the kettle’s piercing whistle rescued her, and she had to force herself to walk out of the room, not run, with at least a semblance of composure. In the kitchen, she fought for complete control, setting the mugs on a tray and pouring milk into a jug, and sugar into a basin, instead of serving them in their respective containers, as she felt inclined.
It was his constant, unnerving scrutiny which was getting to her, she told herself as she added boiling water to the coffee granules, and not just the sensual element which had intervened. She disliked the knowledge that every detail of her environment, every facet of her life, the way she dressed, moved, spoke and looked, was being continuously judged by a total stranger. If he was looking for faults, he wouldn’t have to look far, she thought crossly.
As she carried the tray into the room, he came and took it from her, placing it on a small table in front of the studio couch. He declined both sugar and milk, so her efforts had been a waste of time as she took it black too.
He remained standing, obviously waiting for her to sit down beside him on the studio couch, which made sense as it was the only really comfortable form of seating in the room. She had two high-backed wooden dining chairs tucked back against the wall with her small drop-leaf table, and she wished she had the nerve to go and fetch one of them to establish some kind of independence, but something warned her that he would not interpret her action in that way, and that she might simply be exposing herself to more mocking comments about feminine fears. But she made a point of seating herself as far from him as the width of the couch would permit, and ignored the slightly derisive twist of his lips.
He said silkily, ‘Let us return to the subject of Nicos. It is clear that this present situation cannot continue. As he becomes older and more active, these surroundings will become impossible.’
Harriet said coolly, ‘I’ve already been considering that.’ And panicking about it, she thought, but he didn’t have to know that.
‘And what conclusions have you come to?’
She hedged. ‘Well, clearly I’ll need a bigger flat—a ground floor one, preferably—with a garden.’ Or a castle in Spain, she added silently and hysterically.
Alex Marcos drank some of the coffee. ‘You have somewhere in mind, perhaps?’ He sounded politely interested, but Harriet was not deceived.
She said with a sigh, ‘You know I haven’t.’
He nodded. ‘And even if such a haven were to present itself, the rent would be beyond your means—is it not so?’—
‘Yes.’ Damn you, she thought. Damn you!
There was a silence. She had begun to shake again inside, and she gulped at the transient comfort the hot coffee gave her, although in terms of Dutch courage she might have done better to opt for the sherry, she thought.
He said at last, ‘Miss Masters—if this unhappy business between us were to become a legal battle—what do you imagine a judge would say about the circumstances in which you are trying to raise my nephew?’
Harriet did not meet his gaze. ‘I believe—I hope that he would say I was doing my best,’ she said wearily.
‘I do not doubt that for a moment. But is that what you truly want—a battle in the courts—to make Nicos the subject of gossip and speculation and lurid newspaper stories?’
‘I’d have thought you would be used to such things.’
‘But I am not the subject under discussion,’ he said too softly. ‘We are speaking of a two-year-old child, who may one day be embarrassed and emotionally
