about restlessly, her mind filled with a sense of dread.
It was a beautiful room, as were all the rooms she had seen so far, with its soft goatskin couches covered with attractively embroidered cushions. A wall cabinet revealed a collection of wood carvings which seemed strangely alien to this en vironment, but which nevertheless blended into the scheme of things. The jasmine-covered trellis cunningly concealed loudspeakers from another hi-fi system, and remembering their ubiquitous presence at the London apartment, she couldn't help but wonder what kind of music Alex enjoyed.
When he at last came back he found her standing hesitantly beside the tray of bottles, pondering the advisability of taking something for her nerves. His suede-booted feet had made little sound, but still she swung round, sensing his presence.
"I apologise for taking so long," he said, leaning against the framework of the doorway, watching her. "Sophia has unpacked your suitcases now, though, and you can go to bed when you like." His lips tightened as he took in her wary alertness. "What are you doing? Thinking of getting drunk to face the ordeal?"
His voice was harsh, and Charlotte quickly put some space between her and the alcohol. "I - no," she denied abruptly. Then, rather ludicrously, she realized: "I've noticed you like music. Who are your favourite composers?"
Alex stared at her as if she had suddenly taken leave of her senses. Then he straightened away from the wall, shaking his head. "Would you believe - Brahms and Liszt?" he de manded savagely. "Oh - go to bed, Charlotte. Get out of my sight ! Before I decide to really give you something to stare at me like that about !"
Charlotte sustained his cold gaze for perhaps thirty seconds, fighting the desire to run from this place. But finally it was too much for her, and with a muffled sob, she brushed past him and out of the door, walking jerkily up the steps from the hall and down the corridor to her room.
Once she was there, the painful humiliating tears would not be denied, and she sank down on to the bed and sobbed until her whole body felt drained and aching. Then she dragged herself up- again and stared about her. Her suitcases had dis appeared, but inside the huge wardrobe the row of her clothes almost filled the empty space. A nightgown had been ten tatively laid across the bed where the silken coverlet had been folded back to reveal real satin sheets.
Her breathing ragged, Charlotte slowly undressed, alert to every sound outside the door. But no one came as she washed and cleaned her teeth, and then put on the flimsy garment. Fortunately it was not transparent, but its clinging folds left little to the imagination. She ran a swift brush through her hair, and careless of which side she slept, climbed between the sheets of the huge bed.
She hesitated a long while over turning out the light, but eventually decided that she did not want to see him come into her room. If she closed her eyes very tightly, he might even believe that she was asleep and allow her twenty-four hours' grace. She thought it was strange that his pyjamas had not been laid out on the bed, too. After all, everyone expected him to sleep with her.
Then she closed her eyes, too tired to think any more, too weary of her own cowardice and his brutality to care what happened to her. And when she opened her eyes again, sun light was streaming brightly through the green silk curtains.
CHAPTER FOUR
Charlotte had bathed, and was dressing in white cotton pants and a sleeveless yellow shirt, when Tina brought her breakfast on a tray. The Greek girl greeted her politely as she had the night before, but her prohing eyes sought the scarcely-tumbled covers of the bed. Charlotte guessed that within a very short time everyone at the villa would know that the master of the house had not spent the night in his wife's bed.
She took the tray and dismissed the girl rather abruptly, irritated by her knowing stare. After she
It was a beautiful room, as were all the rooms she had seen so far, with its soft goatskin couches covered with attractively embroidered cushions. A wall cabinet revealed a collection of wood carvings which seemed strangely alien to this en vironment, but which nevertheless blended into the scheme of things. The jasmine-covered trellis cunningly concealed loudspeakers from another hi-fi system, and remembering their ubiquitous presence at the London apartment, she couldn't help but wonder what kind of music Alex enjoyed.
When he at last came back he found her standing hesitantly beside the tray of bottles, pondering the advisability of taking something for her nerves. His suede-booted feet had made little sound, but still she swung round, sensing his presence.
"I apologise for taking so long," he said, leaning against the framework of the doorway, watching her. "Sophia has unpacked your suitcases now, though, and you can go to bed when you like." His lips tightened as he took in her wary alertness. "What are you doing? Thinking of getting drunk to face the ordeal?"
His voice was harsh, and Charlotte quickly put some space between her and the alcohol. "I - no," she denied abruptly. Then, rather ludicrously, she realized: "I've noticed you like music. Who are your favourite composers?"
Alex stared at her as if she had suddenly taken leave of her senses. Then he straightened away from the wall, shaking his head. "Would you believe - Brahms and Liszt?" he de manded savagely. "Oh - go to bed, Charlotte. Get out of my sight ! Before I decide to really give you something to stare at me like that about !"
Charlotte sustained his cold gaze for perhaps thirty seconds, fighting the desire to run from this place. But finally it was too much for her, and with a muffled sob, she brushed past him and out of the door, walking jerkily up the steps from the hall and down the corridor to her room.
Once she was there, the painful humiliating tears would not be denied, and she sank down on to the bed and sobbed until her whole body felt drained and aching. Then she dragged herself up- again and stared about her. Her suitcases had dis appeared, but inside the huge wardrobe the row of her clothes almost filled the empty space. A nightgown had been ten tatively laid across the bed where the silken coverlet had been folded back to reveal real satin sheets.
Her breathing ragged, Charlotte slowly undressed, alert to every sound outside the door. But no one came as she washed and cleaned her teeth, and then put on the flimsy garment. Fortunately it was not transparent, but its clinging folds left little to the imagination. She ran a swift brush through her hair, and careless of which side she slept, climbed between the sheets of the huge bed.
She hesitated a long while over turning out the light, but eventually decided that she did not want to see him come into her room. If she closed her eyes very tightly, he might even believe that she was asleep and allow her twenty-four hours' grace. She thought it was strange that his pyjamas had not been laid out on the bed, too. After all, everyone expected him to sleep with her.
Then she closed her eyes, too tired to think any more, too weary of her own cowardice and his brutality to care what happened to her. And when she opened her eyes again, sun light was streaming brightly through the green silk curtains.
CHAPTER FOUR
Charlotte had bathed, and was dressing in white cotton pants and a sleeveless yellow shirt, when Tina brought her breakfast on a tray. The Greek girl greeted her politely as she had the night before, but her prohing eyes sought the scarcely-tumbled covers of the bed. Charlotte guessed that within a very short time everyone at the villa would know that the master of the house had not spent the night in his wife's bed.
She took the tray and dismissed the girl rather abruptly, irritated by her knowing stare. After she
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