Part 12 (1/2)

A CRESCENT moon was lying like a sliver of silver light, just above the dark ma.s.s of the mountains. Angelos stood on the balcony, hands curled over the bal.u.s.trade, ignoring the chill of the night.

What was happening to him? For days now he'd taken Kat out across the mountains, walking for hours across the roof of the world, and with every pa.s.sing day his thoughts about her had been changing. He knew it-could feel it. Could feel the emotions flowing through him like a watercourse finding a new path.

His brow furrowed frowningly. He had deliberately brought her here to these mountains, to this high, lonely place which exposed the truth about a person, giving them no place to hide, to disguise what they were. He knew that it was here that he became the person he most truly was-not the head of a huge multinational corporation, with thousands of employees and dozens to do his bidding at the nod of his head or his briefest word of instruction, but simply the man beneath that. The man he would have been had his father not worked his life away to build the company he'd bequeathed-too soon, far too soon-to his son. The burden along with the wealth and power. Here, in these mountains, he was himself.

And Kat-or Thea-or whatever name she called herself-was she the person she truly was here? Was that what he was seeing now? The truth exposed by the mountains that let no one hide their true selves here?

One thing he was certain of-his anger towards her had gone.

When it had happened he could not tell. But at some point the keening wind had whipped away the last shreds of it, like rags that had become tattered over the years and were now no more. It was strange not to feel angry with her any more. Strange to feel that now he could simply lay that long-carried emotion aside and allow himself to focus only on the woman who had become in this place, sharing this strange, unexpected affinity, his companion ...

His unblinking gaze rested on the crescent moon. He let the word resonate in his mind. Companion ...

Had any woman ever been a companion to him? His experience of women was wide, but he could think of none who would have wanted to come here. None he would have wanted here.

But the woman he had brought here, to find out the truth about her-that woman, and that woman only, he did want here. Whoever she had once been, whatever she had once done, seemed very distant to him now. Now the only reality he saw was a woman whose company seemed to fit his in every way, whether it was in the companions.h.i.+p of the shared trail, the long silences of their treks, the mutual appreciation of the stark beauty of the alpine landscape, or in the easy, unstilted conversation of their evenings on any and every subject their discourse led them to, or the quiet enjoyment of music and the fireside.

His hands tightened over the wooden railing. There was one other reality that he knew about her. About himself.

His weight s.h.i.+fted restlessly.

With every day spent with her that reality became clearer, stronger. With every day her extraordinary beauty haunted him more powerfully, drew him more ineluctably. And now, as he stood here, beneath the heavens, high above the world below, he knew with absolute certainty what he wanted above all. It no longer mattered how she had offered him her body five years ago. If she was truly the woman she seemed now to be, whom he no longer had to be angry with, then surely there was no reason why he should not, finally, consummate his long desire for her?

And hers for him. Because, for all her vehement protestation that night in London, when she had shrilled at him that she could not bear him to touch her, he knew-oh, he knew!-that she was lying. With every day, with every evening spent with her, he could feel like an electric charge her s.h.i.+mmering awareness of him. She could deny it all she liked-but for how much longer?

Day by day it brought him closer to her acceptance of what was between them. Day by day it brought him closer to the consummation he sought. It could not be long now ...

And after?

For a moment he felt his mind hover over the question, circling like an eagle, then wheel away, leaving it unanswered.

Unanswerable ...

He turned away, relinquis.h.i.+ng his hold on the railing, heading back indoors, downstairs. A new emotion filled him.

Antic.i.p.ation.

Thea paused, knowing she had to step through the doorway into the dining room, just as she had every evening for the past week and more, but knowing that her reluctance now was quite, quite different from the reluctance she had felt that first evening here.

Completely different.

She was still shaken by the revelation that had swept over her that afternoon out on the mountainside. Still trying to reject the realisation that had forced itself upon her, yet knowing how hopeless it was to do so. Because, as she made herself go forward into the dining room, she could only feel the swirling, inchoate emotions circling within her. Could only feel the rus.h.i.+ng in her lungs making her suddenly breathless as her eyes lighted on Angelos once again. His physical presence dominated her senses, made her feel shaky, overwhelmed her.

Did he see her reaction? For a brief instant she thought she saw his eyes flicker, but then it was gone, and he was-as he always was these days-his usual self, greeting her briefly, waiting to take his seat while Franz pulled out her chair for her.

To counter the emotions swirling within her she made a play of shaking out her napkin, settling herself, smiling at Franz as he said something to her which she didn't quite catch. She nodded her head politely and poured herself a gla.s.s of water, trying to keep her hands steady, to breathe evenly despite the raggedness of her breath, the rapid pulse in her veins. Her eyes lifted to the figure at the head of the table.

And immediately she knew that what she had discovered about herself was true-hopelessly, helplessly true. That if, right now, she could walk out of here and never set eyes on Angelos Petrakos ever again-she would not go. She would stay here, her breath caught in her lungs, and go on gazing at him, just gazing, while emotions chased each other round her body-gazing at him, at the turn of his head as he talked to Franz, at his strong, tanned features, so familiar now, so- 'Gnadige, fraulein-'

The voice at her side made her drag her hapless gaze away, and she blinked. As Franz was being detained by Angelos, it was Johann who was holding out a bottle for her view, with an enquiring expression on his face. She could see the word 'apfel' on the bottle, and nodded abstractedly. Then her eyes were sucked back to Angelos.

Her heart-rate quickened.

He nodded with finality to Franz, and the man moved away. As Angelos turned his attention back to her. Immediately, urgently, she dropped her gaze. For something to cover her shaken state, she reached for the newly filled gla.s.s at her side. She took a long draft, for her mouth was suddenly dry. Briefly it registered that the apple juice tasted different from the way it usually did, but she had no mental capacity to pay it any regard-all the focus of her mind was on controlling her reaction to Angelos Petrakos.

Because control it she must. That was essential. Essential not to let that fluttering deep inside her-as if a bird were beating its wings somewhere-take her over. Essential not to let her eyes hang on him, drinking in his face, his features, the very being of him. Essential to make it appear, at least, even if it were a hopeless lie, that all she felt about him was what she had always felt.

She dipped her gaze, though it was an effort, and smiled at Franz as he placed their first course in front of her. Absently she took another mouthful of apple juice to give herself something to do. The taste was less different this time, and it seemed to quench her thirst more-be slightly less sweet. She drank again, more deeply, feeling the juice warming through her, quickening her senses, it seemed to her. Then she picked up her knife and fork and made great concentration on the artfully folded arrangement of cold meats, furrowing her brow as she did so.

All the time she was burningly conscious, more than ever before, of Angelos Petrakos at the far end of the table.

She had always been aware of him-always! The impact he made on her senses had always been overpowering. But it had always been countered by the long, bitter resentment of him that had filled her for so many years with fierce, implacable hatred.

But now- I don't hate him any more.

The words formed in her head and hung there, suspended, as she felt her mind enfold them.

No more hatred ...

How it had happened, she did not know. It had been in the days spent here, the time spent with him, seeing him anew, as if the harsh, punis.h.i.+ng, pitiless being she had once known was no longer there and she no longer had to hate him.

It was as if a burden were slipping from her. A burden she had carried so long, so unrelentingly. And as it slipped from her shoulders she felt a sense of release go through her. A lightening of her whole being. As if she were finally, finally free.

Free to feel, finally, what she was filled with now. Free to do, finally, what she was doing now-letting her eyes gaze upon him freely, openly, taking in everything about him, wanting to do nothing else but hold this moment ...

How she got through the meal, Thea did not know. Time seemed to be doing something strange, for it seemed to take both a huge length of time and be over in a flash. What they talked about she had no idea. Her mind seemed to be losing focus, and yet everything about him seemed to be in super-focus, dominating her consciousness. She seemed to be feeling strangely relaxed, which was odd, because she knew that her awareness of Angelos's intense physical presence had never been greater. She could see him, it seemed, in absolute detail.

She kept noticing things impinge on her consciousness-tiny, inconsequential things, but they caught her attention, made her see them, become aware of them, permeating her mind like a running commentary ...

He's shaved. His jawline's quite smooth. His hair is still slightly damp, feathering at his nape. His brow, his eyes are flecked, his lashes thick. The lines around his mouth were incised. His wrists are lean, his hands square, powerful. But the fingers are long, and the way they hold his fork, his winegla.s.s, makes me want to watch, to look ...

So she did-just looked. Gazed.

He didn't seem to mind that she was not responding very intelligently to his conversation, even though she was aware that her comments seemed disjointed, abstracted. Every now and then she saw a flicker of his eyes, and it intrigued her. She wanted to watch for it. It came again, and she felt, deep in her body, an answering flicker.

'Shall we go next door?'

She blinked, his dark, deep voice catching her unawares. She glanced at the table and realised that dinner was over. She got to her feet and for the briefest moment felt very dizzy. Then the feeling pa.s.sed and she shook her head slightly. She saw there was still some apple juice left in her gla.s.s-Johann had refilled it, she recalled, during dinner-and drained it to clear her head. There would be coffee next door, set out, as always, by the staff, who then went off duty for the remainder of the evening, retiring to their quarters in the s.p.a.cious chalet.

In the lounge she curled up, as she always did, at one end of the deep sofa, Angelos at the far end. But this night the cus.h.i.+ons seemed softer, it seemed, her limbs more relaxed, the warmth of the fire more embracing. Everything seemed softer, slower, with a kind of glow about it all. A sense of well-being pervaded her, of being enclosed and safe, the outer world so far away, nothing more than a dream. Only here was real, only now was real, and everything was at once both bathed in a strange soft focus, and incredibly, wondrously vivid. It was a feeling she had never had before.

She reached forward to pour the coffee. The pot seemed heavier than usual, the flow of liquid slower, and her wrist dipped slightly as she handed his cup to him. He set it down on his end of the coffee table with a murmur of thanks, then poured himself his customary cognac, leaning back to swirl it slowly, contemplatively, in its balloon gla.s.s. She found herself watching it, eyes drawn to its slow swirl as he lifted the gla.s.s to his nose, but did not drink. She found herself wondering why.

The fire was burning low, and he got to his feet, kneeling down beside the hearth to add more logs. Thea's eyes followed him. He was wearing one of his cashmere sweaters, and she had a sudden yearning to feel the extreme softness of the wool under her hand. She watched him cross to the alcove which contained the ferociously high-tech music equipment, and while she watched, thinking again how tall and lithe his powerful frame was, her eyes caught the cognac gla.s.s perched on the table. Strangely curious, she reached to pick it up, holding it as he did, swirling the contents slowly. Then she dipped her nose to catch the fragrance.

It was heady stuff! She inhaled again, feeling a strange light-headedness, and inhaled once more, even more deeply. It was an extraordinary scent-complex and evocative. She inhaled again, face over the gla.s.s, experiencing again that buoyant light-headedness that seemed so very pleasant. Then, as Angelos returned to his seat, she hastily put the gla.s.s back, her attention diverted by the music now filling the room.

Her eyes lit, pleasure filling her-Rachmaninov, his variations on a theme of Paganini, lush and poignant, pouring out over her, making her heart lift with emotion. The music swelled in its ecstatic melody, sweepingly beautiful. As the crescendo came, and the main theme soared, her breath caught, lips parted. She was filled with emotion-powerful and uplifting. Her eyes went instinctively, irresistibly, to Angelos.

He met her gaze full-on, dark eyes holding hers, and she was completely incapable-of breaking away from his. She saw them flare, a sudden blaze in them, and emotion seized her, overwhelming her. She could not break her gaze, could only let him hold it as effortlessly as the orchestra held the sweeping melody. She listened, rapt, enraptured. Filled with an emotion that swelled within her even as the music swelled.