FOR the next few weeks, Sam was blissfully happy.
Demetrios was an incredible lover. She’d never known a man quite like him. He was fun, he was exciting, he was thoughtful and caring. Just when she thought she’d figured him out, he’d surprise her. He stopped the car to buy her a single rose from a street vendor; he spirited her to Florence for a weekend and bought her a tiny gold charm in the shape of a kitten with emerald eyes because, he said, it reminded him of her. Like her, he got as much pleasure out of spending the evening home as he did from going out.
And when they were alone and in each other’s arms, he made her forget the world and everything in it.
They never talked about the future.
That should have been fine. Sam had always liked living that way. There was a kick in not knowing what you’d be doing a month from now, whether you’d be working in a thatched hut or in a suite at the Georges V. Life wasn’t supposed to be a road map you could read. Living from day to day was far more exciting than having a master plan.
If you knew too much about the future, things would grow dull.
That was what Sam had always thought. Now, she discovered that it wasn’t true.
She loved knowing she’d go to sleep in Demetrios’s arms and wake to his kisses. She adored the sweet predictability of knowing they’d have their first cups of coffee while he shaved and she put on her makeup, that at night they’d talk over the day’s events, that curling up together to read or watch a movie on the VCR made her every bit as content as going out to a party. More content, maybe, because being alone with him was wonderful.
The only danger was her fear that one of those nights she’d turn to him and blurt out the truth, that she loved him more each day.
Sam knew she must never do anything so foolish.
Demetrios had been brutally honest. He’d told her how he felt about love and what he expected of her, and those expectations surely didn’t include finding himself with a lovestruck woman on his hands. There was a world of difference between being a man’s lover and his beloved.
Or in being his mistress.
The funny thing was that she’d never thought of herself as his mistress until one night, when he took her to the opening of a new restaurant.
“I don’t really want to go,” he said, as they drove along a narrow, twisting road on the rocky hillside overlooking Athens, “but an old friend owns the place. We won’t stay long, sweetheart.”
“Don’t be silly,” Sam said. “We’ll stay as long as you like. It’ll be fun.”
It was, until Demetrios stepped away for a moment and a stunning blonde wearing a dress that left nothing to the imagination wandered up to Sam.
“How nice to finally get a look at you,” she’d said in a throaty purr.
Sam had offered a puzzled smile. “Sorry?”
“Some of us have been wondering what you look like,” the blonde said. “You are Demetrios’s new mistress, aren’t you?”
Demetrios had come back just then, put his arm around Sam’s waist, introduced her to the blonde in a way that made it clear, at least, that there’d never been anything between them. The blonde wandered off and Sam got through the evening even though she felt as if everyone was watching her and talking about her. She’d never told Demetrios what had happened, but she couldn’t forget it—and yet, it was true. That was what she was, wasn’t she? His mistress?
She lived with him. He paid for the roof over her head and the food she ate; he wanted to do more than that, to buy her clothes and jewels. She wouldn’t let him, but that didn’t change the facts. She was his mistress.
The word itself had an old-fashioned feel to it, probably a certain sexy charm in the circles in which he moved. It had a less exalted meaning in Sam’s world. Well, so what? She’d never given a damn for convention. People could call her what they wished. What did words matter, when two people belonged together?
A lot, or so it seemed.
The answer she’d come up with, that all that counted was that she belonged with Demetrios and he belonged with her, began to seem more and more facile as the four months she’d agreed to work for him rushed towards their inevitable conclusion. Mistresses, by definition, lived uncertain lives. A mistress never knew where she’d be or what man she’d be with next year or even next month, and Sam knew exactly where she wanted to be. She’d found a man, the man, who was the other half of her.
Sometimes, in the late hours of the night, she’d lie in his arms after they made love and think how amazing it was that she’d never even known she was searching for him…and wonder when she was going to lose him. The role of mistress came with a beginning and an end. You didn’t have to be a genius to understand that—and if she was foolish enough to harbor any doubts, she had only to recall how bluntly Demetrios had told her he’d had other mistresses before her.
She might be the only one he’d ever asked to live with him, but that didn’t change the basics. There had been women before her; there would be women after her. It was a simple fact of life—and the more she tried not to dwell on it, the more she did.
She began noticing a change in him, too. Was it her imagination, or was he treating her differently? Was he more formal? More removed? Did he spend more time in his study at night and less with her?
As the days passed, she could hardly think about anything else. It didn’t help that she wasn’t feeling well. A nasty flu had gone around Piraeus and Athens; for weeks, people had coughed and sneezed and been nauseous. Everyone was over it—everyone but Sam.
Her body felt heavy; she was tired all the time. Her stomach did a delicate dance, especially in the mornings. Or maybe it wasn’t flu. Maybe she was already reacting to what was going to happen in less than two weeks, when her term of employment ended.
She was going to leave Greece, and Demetrios. Her job was ending, and so would their affair.
By the last week of her contract, all the parties had agreed to the deal in principle. The lawyers would step in now and put things in language that would be binding. On Friday, Sam sat in the conference room at Karas Lines, listening to the buzz of conversation around her, trying to concentrate on her job—and failing miserably.
For days, she’d waited for Demetrios to talk about what would happen when the contracts were signed. In moments of painful honesty, she knew that she’d waited for him to ask her to stay with him.
He hadn’t.
For the thousandth time, she told herself it was for the best. It eliminated lots of problems. She couldn’t have said yes, even if he’d asked her. She had a life in the States. She had a career. She couldn’t just give it all up and go on being his mistress—could she?
Sam looked down at her notepad, stared blindly at the scribbled words. How could she, of all women, have been reduced to this? She was waiting for a man to ask her a question that would decide her future. No. This was impossible. She couldn’t have put herself in such a humiliating position.
“…doesn’t seem possible, does it?”
She blinked, looked up. The Italian translator was leaning in close, obviously waiting for an answer to whatever question she’d asked. The formal meeting had ended, though Sam had never noticed. Demetrios and the others had risen from their chairs; they stood in a loose circle, the Frenchman and the Italian chatting…
The hair rose on the back of her neck. Demetrios was staring at her, his eyes as cold as she’d ever seen them.
Sam forced herself to look at her Italian counterpart. “Sorry,” she said, “I missed that.”
“I said it seems hard to believe this is almost over and I’ll be in Rome in a few days.” The woman frowned. “Samantha? Are you all right?”
Did her despair show on her face? That would be the ultimate humiliation.
“I’m fine,” Sam said quickly, “just a little tired.” She reached for her briefcase, opened it and began putting her pads and pencils away. “I think I’m coming down with that flu that was going around.”
“Better late than never,” the woman said, smiling, “although ‘never’ is probably the best time to come down with a bug. Here’s hoping you’re over it before you fly home.” She paused. “Or were you planning to stay on for a while?”
The other translator’s smile was bland but her eyes were bright with questions. It was easy to see what she was thinking. For months, Demetrios had given Sam private little smiles. Those smiles had all but vanished. Sam had been painfully aware of it but she hadn’t considered the others might have noticed. Now she knew that they had, that they might even have whispered about it behind her back.
She jammed another few pieces of paper into the briefcase and snapped the clasp shut. “I’m not sure,” she said briskly. “I’m still trying to decide what to do next.”
Damn you, Demetrios, she thought. Damn you for doing this to me!
And yet, she couldn’t blame it all on him. If he held such power over her, she’d given it to him. She’d never been stupid enough to put herself in a man’s hands before. She’d run her own life, made her own rules, and gone from that to all but groveling to a man who hardly noticed her anymore, except in bed—and not even there lately.
When had that happened? When had he stopped turning to her the last thing at night and the first thing in the morning? He still made love to her but it wasn’t the same. She could feel him holding something back and it hurt, so much so that she felt herself holding back, too.
She didn’t come up behind him when he was shaving anymore, slip her arms around him and touch him the way she once had. In the beginning, she’d been completely uninhibited with him. Not anymore. She’d turn into his arms, reach for him—and wonder, suddenly, if he were only accommodating her, if his response to her was only of the body and not of the heart.
What heart? That part of his anatomy had never been involved in what went on between them.
Sam felt herself tremble with barely suppressed anger. At Demetrios. At herself. She wanted to fly across the room and beat her fists against his chest. Even if she did, what would be the point? Nothing would change. He didn’t love her. He never had and he never would.
She shoved back her chair and rose to her feet. Her vision blurred; the room grayed. She put out a hand, clasped the table edge for support.
“Mademoiselle? Are you ill?”
Sam took a shuddering breath. “I’m okay.” She shook her head, cleared her vision and smiled shakily at the Frenchman. “Well, maybe not. I seem to be coming down with the flu.”
“So late in the season?” The Frenchman’s eyes narrowed. “Why not let me help you to that little settee in Monsieur Karas’s private office? You can lie down, put your feet up—”
“If Miss Brewster needs help,” Demetrios said, “I will provide it.” Hadn’t he made the same kind of ridiculous statement once before? he thought furiously, as he shouldered past the Frenchman and put his arm around Sam’s waist. Why did he keep making a spectacle of himself over this woman? “Thank you for your assistance,” he said, in a tone that made it obvious that wasn’t what he meant at all. “I am here now.”
The Frenchman shot Sam a sympathetic look. “But of course. Mademoiselle, I hope you feel better soon.”
Sam waited until the room cleared. Then she pulled loose of Demetrios’s embrace and turned her flushed face up to his.
“That was incredibly rude!”
“What happened to you? Are you ill?”
“I’m getting the flu. He was only trying to help me.”
“Help you?” Demetrios snorted. “The man has spent four months trying to get you into bed.”
“That’s so ridiculous it doesn’t deserve a response.”
“Do you think our relationship grants you the right to treat me with disrespect? To let another man put his hands on you while I watch?”
Sam stared at him. Then she grabbed her briefcase and strode towards the door.
“Samantha? Samantha! Come back here. I did not say you could leave!”
She didn’t stop. Demetrios cursed and went after her as she disappeared down the hall. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins like a river in flood. He’d been angry with her for days. Angry? Hell, he’d been furious. How dare she treat him as she’d been doing? The silence. The moodiness. The way she got into bed at night and turned her back to him.
Now she’d made him look like a fool. Why had he ever gotten involved with a woman who didn’t know her place?
He caught her at the foot of the steps and wrapped his hand around her wrist.
“Are you deaf?” he snarled. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“I heard you.” Sam glared at him. “If you think we’re going back to the days of sit, stay and heel, you can think again.”
“Crazy, as well as deaf. What the hell are you talking about?”
“Let go of me.”
“I will, when you start to make sense.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Something is wrong with you lately.”
“You’re what’s wrong with me,” she snapped. “And I’m tired of putting up with it.”
A muscle knotted in his cheek. “This is hardly the place for such a discussion. What I wish to say to you should be said in privacy.”
Sam wanted to weep. Instead, she lifted her chin. “This is private enough.”
“A doorway in my office building is hardly private.” His hand closed on her elbow. Grimly, he marched her out to the street and to his car. He had taken the Ferrari today and he held on to her while he unlocked the door. “Get in.”
“Do you ever say ‘please’?”
“Not often, no. Get in, dammit—or did you intend to wander the streets alone? Perhaps you’ve forgotten what happened the last time you did that.”
“Oh, I remember, all right.” Tears burned in her eyes but she’d sooner have died than let them flow. It was bad enough he thought he could treat her this way, go from days of indifference to out and out hostility. She would never let him steal what little remained of her pride. “How could I forget when I’ve wished that night, and everything that came after it, never happened?”
Demetrios stared at her, his eyes cold and flat. “Get in the car,” he said softly.
What would she gain by not complying? Sam pulled free of his hand and got into the Ferrari. They didn’t exchange a word all the way to the heliport, or to Astra.
The house was unusually quiet. Cosimia was away on a long weekend and it was the cook’s day off. Sam had forgotten that, just as she’d forgotten how much she’d foolishly looked forward to being completely alone with Demetrios. She’d imagined puttering in the kitchen, cooking for him, making him scrambled eggs and cheese the way she had late one night. He’d acted as if he’d never eaten anything better. Ambrosia, he’d said, fit for the gods, and then he’d kissed her.
Now, she wished Cosimia were present, if only to break the heavy silence.
Demetrios took off his suit jacket and tossed it on a chair. His tie went next. Then he undid the top buttons of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. It was a break from routine. Normally, they went upstairs, showered together. Sometimes, an hour or more slipped by before they thought about anything but each other.
“I’m going to have a drink.” He walked past her to his study. “Scotch, on the rocks. Do you want one?”
That, too, was different. She’d never seen him drink anything but wine.
“No,” she said carefully, “I don’t.”
Demetrios went to the breakfront and poured an inch of whiskey into a Baccarat tumbler, and knew right away that he’d made a mistake. He was in no hurry to have this talk with Samantha. Wine would have made a better diversion. Choosing a bottle, uncorking it, pouring it would all have taken time. On the other hand, wine would not numb his growing anger, once the discussion ended.
Discussion? That was an amazing word to use for a conversation he was certain would leave him empty.
Demetrios looked at the tumbler of Scotch. To hell with it, he thought, and tossed the whiskey down his throat, let it burn its fiery way into his belly, but it did nothing to dispel the chill that had been with him for days now, for weeks, ever since he’d realized the days were rushing past and Samantha clearly didn’t give a damn that their time together was ending.
He reached for the bottle and thought better of it. There was a delicate balance between the amount of alcohol a man needed to calm him and the amount it took to make his temper explode. He concentrated instead on how he’d felt when he saw the Frenchman standing with his arm curved protectively around Sam’s shoulders, his face a study in false concern, and the way she’d been looking at him, as if he were Lancelot and she Queen Guinevere.
Demetrios put down the tumbler, took a few seconds to compose himself, and turned to the woman who had shared his bed and his life the past three months. She was standing just inside the door to the study, her posture stiff with removal. Her face was pale and her eyes blazed with anger, though for one incredibly foolish minute, he almost thought that what he saw glittering in her eyes were tears.
She was so beautiful. More beautiful than ever, if that were possible. She had changed, in some subtle way he couldn’t put his finger on. Her body seemed more lush, her breasts still small but with a new roundness, her belly gently convex. Perhaps it was simply that he noticed things differently, now that she’d stopped offering herself to him with such heart-stopping eagerness.
When he made love to her lately, it was he who did the asking with a touch, a kiss, a whisper, and even though she still responded, he knew she held back. That killed him. She had never held anything back, not at the beginning. She’d been open to whatever they did in bed, open to life with an infectious joy that had made him feel renewed. He had never known a woman like her. She could weep at Aida and laugh at a children’s cartoon. She could take as much joy in a seashell as in a jewel, and kiss him with tenderness as well as passion.
Most of all, he’d never known a woman who could make him forget the world and want only her.
How could she leave him, without so much as a backward glance?
He’d never considered what would happen when her four month contract ended. Why should he? Surely, she’d want to stay with him. That was what he’d assumed.
How could he have been so damn stupid?
What they’d had was only an interlude in her pursuit of freedom. She was ready to move on. He could tell by the way she behaved. She was withdrawing from the life they shared, and there was nothing he could do about it except beg her to tell him why she wanted to leave him…and he’d sooner have suffered the tortures of Tantalus than do something as stupid as that.
Hell, he thought, and turned back to the whiskey and poured another inch in the glass.
Why was he being so maudlin? How long could an affair last? Maybe the trouble was that he’d let Samantha get the upper hand. He should be the one who was ending things, not she.
He put down the whiskey and turned towards her again. “Samantha…”
She shook her head, silenced him with an upheld hand. “You don’t have to say it.” Her voice was husky. “I know.”
“It’s over,” he said flatly.
“Yes. It is.”
“You are eager to return to your own life.”
He was putting words into her mouth. Was he being gallant, or was he only hoping to avoid a scene? He didn’t have to worry. She’d sooner have died than let him know the truth.
“Yes.”
He cleared his throat. “When will you leave?”
Did he want her gone right away? “Next week. When my contract ends.”
“There’s no rush. I mean, if you wanted to stay on for a while…”
He could afford to be polite, now that she’d said she was leaving. For the second time that day, she wanted to strike him.
“Thank you,” she said, and managed to smile. “But I think it would be better, all around, if I left next week just as we’d planned. I have—I have some interviews lined up.”
A hot throb of anger beat in his blood. He could feel his composure slipping. As they’d planned? They had planned no such thing. They had never talked of when she would leave him, but it was obvious she had thought about it. She’d even arranged for job interviews. All the times he’d been holding her, trying to figure out how he’d lived without her in his life, she’d been thinking ahead, arranging her future—a future that didn’t involve him.
“Really,” he said, very calmly. “You have job interviews lined up?”
She nodded. It was a lie, but she needed to cloak herself in falsehoods if she were going to get through this.
“Well, one or two.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You are going to work for the Frenchman.”
“For God’s sake, Demetrios—” Sam took a breath. “No. Not for him. I, uh, I sent out some e-mails a couple of weeks ago.”
“A couple of weeks ago,” he said softly, ominously. “While you were still in my—in my employ.”
“Well, yes.” She forced a laugh. “But I did it on my own time.”
“Your time belongs to me. All of it.” He came towards her; she took a step back. “Until the day you walk out of this house, you are mine.”
“Do you have any idea how silly that sounds?” She wanted to try another laugh but she was afraid it would come out a sob. “You don’t own me.”
“I have owned you for the past three months,” he said roughly. He reached for her, pulled her into his arms. “You have been mine.”
“That might play well in your country, Demetrios, but not—”
He cupped her face and crushed her mouth beneath his. Sam told herself she wouldn’t let this happen. It was over. What had existed between them was done…but she felt the race of his heart against hers, the hardness of his erect flesh against her belly, and knew that she would take this one last night before leaving him.
She put her arms around him and kissed him back. He lifted her and carried her up the stairs to his bedroom, undressed her slowly, savoring the taste of her mouth, her skin, the nectar that he sought out and found between her thighs. When he entered her, it was with a slowness that almost killed him, but he wanted all of it, all of her, to see the darkness fill her eyes, the color flood her face, to hear the sounds she made, the whispers and sighs that told him how much she wanted him here, if no place else.
“Look at me,” he demanded, when he knew she was nearing climax. He caught her hands, linked their fingers together. “Look at me,” he said again, and when she did he pressed deep inside her, pulled back, rocked into her again and again until she was frantic, bucking against him, begging him for release. “Now,” he whispered, and she convulsed around him as he let go of everything that anchored him to the world and lost himself in this woman who had changed him, forever.
He buried his face in her throat, absorbing her smell, her shudders. Once, he’d always held her like this, after they made love; lately, he’d used every excuse not to, but the time for excuses was over. With Sam in his arms, with their flesh still joined, he knew he’d left her because he was afraid to stay with her, afraid to look into himself and face what she had come to mean to him.
Was it possible she cared for him? That she was only waiting for some sign? He took a deep breath, rolled to his side and scooped her against him. “Sam,” he said softly, “kitten…”
She was asleep. That was just as well. He wasn’t sure of what he really wanted to tell her. Perhaps it would be clear, in the morning.
But when he awoke, she was gone. All she’d left behind was a note that said she hadn’t known how to tell him that she’d already accepted one of those job offers. She thought it best if she left now, instead of next week. The deal was concluded. He didn’t actually need her services anymore.
He felt himself turn hot with fury. He shot from the bed, pulled on his clothes and went after his helicopter pilot. White-faced, the man said Miss Brewster had requested transport to the Athens airport. Was there a reason he should have turned her down?
Demetrios stared at the pilot. “No,” he said, after a moment, “none.”
Samantha was gone. The night in his arms had meant nothing to her. And, now that he thought about it, it hadn’t meant anything to him, either. Whatever stupid, sentimental crap had oozed through his veins had been the result of good whiskey and good sex, and the world was full of bottles and women who could provide the same thing.
He smiled at the pilot. Women were unpredictable creatures, he said, and clapped the man on the back. Then he returned to the house, dug out the address book he had not looked at since the night he’d first set eyes on Samantha, and placed a call to a brunette in London. He woke her—it was very early in the morning—but she squealed with delight when she heard his voice.
They made plans for what was surely going to be a memorable weekend.
Hours later, as Demetrios was en route to England, a worried housekeeper in Texas awoke Marta Brewster Baron with a soft knock on the bedroom door and then a whisper.
“Thank you, Carmen,” Marta said. She threw on a robe and hurried down to the big kitchen of the Texas mansion known as Espada. “Sam?” she said to the trembling young woman seated at the kitchen table.
Sam looked up. “Mom,” she said shakily. “I should have phoned first, but—”
“No, no, darling, don’t be silly.” Marta sat down next to her daughter and gently clasped her hand. “What’s happened, sweetie? Are you all right? I thought you were supposed to be in Greece until—”
Sam shot to her feet. “Oh God,” she said, and raced to the powder room down the hall.
Marta rose and hurried after her. “Make some tea,” she called back to Carmen.
Sam was bent over the toilet. Marta held her shoulders while she retched. When the spasms ended, she sat Sam down on the closed commode and sponged her face with cool water while she took in what had just happened, combined it with the subtle changes she saw in her daughter’s face and body and with the experience that came with years of living.
Marta knelt down and took Sam’s icy hands in hers.
“Sam, darling,” she said, very gently, “when were you going to let us know that you were pregnant?”