Pagan Adversary

Gently his hand freed the blouse from her waistband, and his warm fingers moved caressingly on her back, tracing the length of her spine with a featherlight touch that had her arching against him in unspoken delight.

For the first time in her life, Harriet knew need, knew the simple and unequivocal ache for fulfilment. And knew how easy it would be to release the last hold on sanity and let herself drift inevitably on this warm tide of pleasure.

And then from the corner, behind the sheltering screen she heard a small whimpering cry, ‘Harry!’

Nicky was awake, and suddenly so was she—jolted out of her dangerous dream and back in reality.

Alex Marcos had heard the child too. He was no longer holding her so tightly, and she was able to sit up and draw away from him, combing shaking fingers through her fair hair.

Her legs were trembling, but she made herself stand up, nervously ramming her disordered blouse back into the waist of her skirt. She stole a sidelong glance at him, biting her lip.

He was leaning back watching her. His tie was loosened, and the black hair was dishevelled. His dark eyes were brilliant, not with thwarted passion, but with stinging, cynical mockery.

He said softly, ‘You were saying something about your immunity, I think.’

Hot colour flooded her face, and she lifted her hands, pressing them almost helplessly to her burning cheeks. Then, as Nicky’s whimper threatened to develop into a wail, she walked across the room and lifted him out of his cot. Thumb in his mouth, still half asleep, he hitched a chubby arm round her neck as she carried him towards the centre of the room. Alex Marcos stood waiting, hands on hips. Nicky lifted his head and stared at him.

Harriet said gently, ‘This is your uncle Alex, Nicky. Say hello.’

He wasn’t good with strangers. He didn’t always oblige. Perhaps in her secret heart, Harriet hoped this would be one of those times, and that he would either become silent and clinging or—which was more likely—roar with temper.

But he did neither. He summoned a shy engaging smile and said, ‘ ’Lo,’ before burying his face in Harriet’s shoulder.

Alex spoke to him in Greek, and Harriet felt the little body in her arms stiffen as if the soft words had sparked off an association, an elusive memory he was trying to recapture. Eventually a small muffled voice said uncertainly, ‘Papa?’

Harriet felt tears prick at her eyes.

‘Did you have to do that?’ she demanded.

‘He is half Greek,’ Alex said flatly. ‘It is right he should remember and learn to speak his father’s tongue.’

‘You heard what he said. He thinks you’re his father.’ Harriet spoke fiercely.

‘As far as he is concerned, that is what I shall be. Explanations can wait until he is old enough to understand.’

‘And the succession of surrogate “mothers” in his life? How old will he be before you explain them?’

He said silkily, ‘Guard your tongue, my little English wasp, or you may have cause to regret it. Yes, I enjoy the company of women, in bed and out of it. Why should I deny it? Perhaps you have forgotten that if Nicos had not woken when he did I might well have persuaded you to share some of that—enjoyment.’

Harriet’s lips parted in impetuous denial—and closed again in silence.

Alex smiled faintly. ‘Very wise,’ he approved. ‘I hope you behave with equal wisdom during the rest of our dealings together.’

Harriet stared at the floor. She said, ‘I would prefer to deal with Mr Philippides.’

‘I’m sure you would,’ he said sardonically. ‘Now, I wish to get to know my nephew, and preferably without your sheltering arms around him. Would it be convenient for him to spend the weekend with me?’

She glanced up. ‘You have a house in London?’

‘I have a hotel suite.’

‘And you’re going to look after him?’ Harriet shook her head. ‘He—he still wears nappies a lot of the time….’

‘I’ve brought a nursemaid with me from Greece,’ he said impatiently. ‘She will deal with such matters, not I.’

‘I see.’ She did see too. She saw his power, and the certainty and arrogance which that power bestowed, and she hated it. So sure of his ultimate victory that he’d even brought a nanny, she thought. ‘And if I refuse?’

He lifted his brows. ‘Are you sure that you can? You may resist my claim to total rights, but as his uncle surely I can demand rights that are equal to yours at least.’ He paused. ‘I give you my word I will not attempt to take the boy out of the country. Will that satisfy you?’

Harriet moved her shoulders wearily. ‘I doubt if I could stop you, whatever you wanted to do,’ she said. ‘When would you want to collect him? Tomorrow afternoon? If you give me a time, I’ll have his things ready.’

‘Shall we say three o’clock? And I’ll return him to you on Sunday evening.’

‘Very well,’ she agreed dully. It was the beginning of the end, she knew. He wouldn’t snatch Nicky away as she’d first thought, but detach the child from her by degrees. And there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.

He said, ‘Until tomorrow, then.’ He put out a hand and ruffled Nicky’s curls, then ran a finger down his cheek. For a shocked moment, Harriet wondered if he was going to try the same caress on her, because she wasn’t at all confident that her reaction would have the necessary cool, but he made no attempt to touch her again.

He said, ‘Herete’, and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Harriet stood holding Nicky, her arms tightening round him until he wriggled in protest, demanding to be set down and given his tea. Toast, he wanted, and Marmite and ‘ronge’.

‘Yes, darling,’ she promised penitently, because usually he’d been fed by now at Manda’s. But she didn’t put him down at once. She carried him over to the window and pulled back the shrouding net curtain, looking into the street below.

Alex Marcos was just about to get into the car. As she watched, he turned and looked up at the window, lifting a hand in mocking acknowledgment of her presence. Furious with herself, Harriet let the curtain fall hurriedly into place, and moved away, wishing that she’d been strong-minded enough to ignore his departure—and wondering why she had failed….

Friday was a miserable day. Harriet had phoned the personnel officer at work first thing and received a sympathetic response when she gave family troubles as the reason for her hasty departure the previous day, and for her continued absence. Then she phoned Manda and told her what had happened, or at least an edited version.

She still found it hard to believe that she had behaved as she did. She had let a man who was almost a stranger, and certainly her enemy, kiss her and arouse feelings within her which had kept her awake and restless most of the night. The warm, airless atmosphere of the room hadn’t helped either, and more than once Harriet had found herself wishing wryly for the cliché comfort of a cold shower. But it was only people with money and private bathrooms who could afford such luxuries, she thought regretfully. The bathroom she shared had nothing so sophisticated as a shower in any temperature, and the old-fashioned plumbing made such an infernal din that except in cases of emergency the residents tried to use it as little as possible at night.

Manda heard her explanation of why Nicky would not be spending the day with her without much comment. When Harriet had finished she merely asked, ‘And what’s he like—Alex Marcos?’

Even in her own ears, Harriet’s laugh sounded artificial and she hoped fervently that Manda would assume it was some distortion on the line. ‘Oh—just as you’d imagine, I suppose. The answer to the maiden’s prayer.’

‘Depending, of course,’ Manda said gravely, ‘on what the maiden happened to be praying for. See you, love. Take care now.’

As she replaced the receiver, Harriet pondered on the real note of warning in Manda’s voice, and reflected rather despondently that it was no use trying to fool her, even at a distance.

She tidied and cleaned the flat again almost compulsively, then tucked Nicky into the buggy and took him to the nearby shops which he loved. The sun was shining, and the Italian greengrocer gave him an orange, and Harriet, in a moment of weakness, bought him some sweets. While she was in the newsagents’ she treated herself to a daily paper, and some magazines, because she had a whole weekend to fill for once.

Of course she didn’t have to stay in the flat, she told herself robustly. She had always promised herself that one day she would do the whole tourist bit—go to the British Museum, or the Zoo, or take a boat down to Greenwich—but she had always put the idea to the back of her mind, telling herself it could wait till Nicky was older and could enjoy it with her. Well, there seemed little point in delaying any longer, she thought, with a kind of unhappy resolution.

She cooked Nicky’s favourite food for lunch—fish fingers, baked beans and oven chips. Manda, who believed in wholefoods and a balanced diet, would have frowned a little, but Nicky was jubilant and ate every scrap, including the ice cream which followed.

Harriet tried to explain to him that he was going to have a little holiday with his uncle, but wasn’t sure how much she’d got through to him, because he seemed far more interested in his toy cars than in the fact that she was packing his night things and the best of his clothes in a small case.

He’s only a baby, she thought as she watched him play, quite oblivious to her own mental and emotional turmoil. He’s too little to be taken from all the security he knows, and be made to speak Greek, and all the other things he’ll have to learn.

Yet on the other hand there was the very real danger that out of love and inexperience she might keep him a baby too long, might try too hard to protect him from the world which he was as much a part of as she was herself. A man’s influence in his life was probably essential, Harriet thought—but what would be the effect of someone like Alex Marcos, wealthy, cynical and amoral, on the mind of an impressionable child?