Beware the Beast Page 4

  During those moments, as he looked at her, Charlotte felt the strength of his love for the island, and the faintest glimmer of anticipation stirred within her. She had never been to Greece, never been further than Brittany in the summer, and Switzerland in the winter. The picture he had painted of his home was very attractive, and she found herself wondering what it would be like to swim in a warm sea.

  But then he moved, and all eager sense of anticipation fled. Her eyes dropped down over the hard muscular length of his body, and a terrifying numbness gripped her. To see and experience the delights of the island, she was expected to accept whatever this man chose to do with her. She had never slept with anyone before, much less a man, and to picture him sharing her bed was to picture indignities too great to be borne. And even then, if she could endure the humiliation of being used, she had nine months more, nine months when her body would swell out of all proportions with all the agonies of childbirth before she could make her escape....

  CHAPTER THREE

  They flew to Athens in the executive jet owned by the Faulkner corporation. Charlotte had never flown in a private plane before, and the difference between this high-priced luxury and the tourist accommodation she was used to was quite staggering. The main cabin resembled a comfortable lounge, with a thick carpet on the floor, and deep armchairs for relaxation. Adjoining the lounge was a bathroom, with bath and shower, while beyond this was a small bedroom where Alex told her he snatched a few hours' sleep on an overnight flight. The Santos brothers travelled with them, and another man whom Charlotte had met for the first time the day before. He was George Constandis, Alex's personal assistant, an older man, about sixty, Charlotte surmised, and it was obvious that Alex valued his opinion. What any of the men thought of her, she had no way of knowing. They were all extremely polite to her, but their faces revealed little.

  Charlotte for her part spent the journey dreading its term­ination. The wide gold band which Alex had slid on to her finger that morning in the registrar's office at Caxton Hall weighed heavily on her hand, and her other fingers constantly sought the reality of its presence there, twisting it round and round. She felt different somehow, changed in some in­describable way, as though just by becoming his wife she had submerged her whole identity.

  Of course, there were differences, physical differences. Alex did not like the coppery gold of her hair confined in any way, so now it fell in a heavy curtain about her shoulders. It was far too long, she thought, and she had intended to have it cut now that she had left school and acquired some inde­pendence. But Alex had been very explicit when it came to her appearance, and what he wanted of her.

  Her clothes, too, had been chosen by him. Or at least, on his instructions she had presented herself at a certain salon in | the West End where a woman who wore the most garish make-up Charlotte had ever seen produced a wardrobe for her which must have cost the earth. It seemed an unnecessary indulgence to acquire so many gowns which, if his plans came to fruition, within a few months would no longer fit her. But he was making the decisions, and she was feminine enough to enjoy possessing so many beautiful things.

  Mrs. Laurence, the woman she had worked for at Bebe's Boutique, had been astounded to learn that Charlotte was getting married, and even more astounded when she learned who the bridegroom was. Very few people would actually recognize Alex Faulkner in the street, but almost everyone had heard of Faulkner International.

  "Lucky girl !" had been Mrs. Laurence's comment, and for lucky Charlotte had read clever. Mrs. Laurence was a widow who had had a struggle to bring up her two daughters. She envied anyone to whom money was no longer going to be an anxiety. Charlotte had wished she could see things so simply.

  Only Laura, of the people she had told, had expressed any doubts about her good fortune. But then Laura had been present at that first fateful meeting, and Charlotte could not convince her that she was doing the right thing. Charlotte had arranged that Laura should look after the house for her, but this had only increased Laura's suspicions. She could see no reason why Charlotte should want to retain such an expensive dwelling when she would be living thousands of miles away. In addition, as Alex had his own apartment in London, there would be no future need for the house in Glebe Square.

  Charlotte had made some excuse about keeping it on for sentimental reasons, and Laura eventually had to accept it. But she had no way of knowing that Charlotte saw the house as a lifeline, a bolt-hole where, if things became too impossible, she could snatch a few days' freedom.

  They landed in Athens in the late afternoon. A fugitive sun was escaping with confidence from the clouds, gilding the white-painted buildings of the airport, and lengthening the shadows across the tarmac. The tension of the landing gave Charlotte some excuse for her suddenly pale cheeks, but still she thought the men with her husband were regarding her rather strangely. Did they know what she was doing here? she wondered, rather hysterically. Had they been informed of her primary function? Did they see nothing unusual in their employer's sudden entry into matrimony? Or was that how things were done here? She had heard that women did not have the same standing in Greece as they did in England, but were they all treated so casually?

  The plane taxied to a halt, and Alex unfastened his safety belt. Standing up, he approached Charlotte's seat. She wondered in dismay whether he was about to tell her that they were breaking their journey here. Somehow the idea of spending her first night with him in an hotel seemed worse than the prospect of spending it at his home. Hotels were big, impersonal places, full of strangers. How could she go through with it there? How could she face anyone after ... after... ?

  Her anxiety showed in her face, and Alex's tone was im­patient as he said: "Stage one completed. Stage two is by helicopter."

  Charlotte's lips trembled. "What am I?" she whispered. "Stage three?"

  "I'll let you know," he retorted smoothly, and turned away.

  Charlotte undipped the safety belt with burning cheeks. Was this how it was always to be? A continual battle of words? And who was to blame? She seldom spoke civilly to him, but then how could she? In the circumstances? How could she let him think, even for a moment, that she was getting anything out of this?

  Outside the air was warm, increasingly so as they left the shadow of the plane. Charlotte walked behind her husband as he strode ahead with George Constandis, clutching her shoulder bag and vanity case with nervous fingers.

  Airport formalities were kept to a minimum. The author­ities called Alex by his name, and he spoke to them with the ease of long, experience. There was a brief interchange when he introduced his wife and Charlotte was subjected to the admiring glances from half a dozen pairs of dark eyes. For the first time she was glad of the elegance of her appearance in the cream suede slack suit she had worn to travel in, the wedges at her heels giving her extra height. The wife of a man like Alex Faulkner could not be seen in shabby jeans and a cotton tee-shirt even if they were the things she felt most comfortable in.

  A black limousine driven by yet another chauffeur appeared to take them to the heliport, and Charlotte had her first few moments alone with her husband in the back of the car. George Constandis accompanied them, but he sat in front with the chauffeur, and a glass screen separated the compart­ments. The Santos brothers were not around, and Charlotte, needing something to break the uneasy silence between them, said: "What - what about the others?"

  Alex, who had been staring broodingly through the smoked glass of the car window, turned his attention to her. "Vittorio and Dimitrios?" He shrugged. "They will follow by sea with the luggage. It is not too long a trip from Piraeus in a power launch."

  "Oh, I see." Charlotte massaged the leather of the vanity case.

  "You'll have your belongings before it's time for bed, if that's what you're concerned about," Alex assured her dryly, and Charlotte, who had been thinking of this, felt furious that he could read her thoughts so well.

  "I was — curious, that's all," she replied shortly, and turned
her own attention to the scenes outside the car.

  When his hand descended on her knee, she almost jumped out of her skin, and her head jerked round so that she could stare at him with horrified eyes. "Charlotte," he said heavily, “don’t be so - frightened of me."

  “I’m not frightened of you," she lied chokingly.

  “God - you are!" he muttered exasperatedly. "And lying it isn't going to make it any easier for you."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  “Yes, you do." His fingers were hard through the fine material of her pants. "Charlotte, you're my wife now. That's in indisputable fact. And as I'm not going to allow you to get an annulment or anything, I suggest you start behaving a normal human being. All this - this jumping around when I lay a hand on you, the fear in your eyes when you thought we might be staying the night in Athens, worrying about whether your nightgowns will arrive in time ! My God, what am I? A monster or something?"

  “What do you expect me to do? Welcome the knowledge that you're my husband? Be transported by delight at the thought of bearing your child? I hate you, Alex Faulkner, and I refuse to make things easy for you!"

  "Easy for me? My Godl" He released her and sank back hi his seat. "All right, Charlotte, have it your own way. But on your head be it."

  Charlotte felt a twinge of remorse. "I - what do you mean I" "You want to keep everything on a business footing, that's okay by me."

  Charlotte caught her breath. "I -! don't know I said that." He turned his head sideways against the soft upholstery, looking at her. "You can't have it both ways, Charlotte. Either we can pretend, and make things easier. Or we can keep to the terms of the contract. Either way, it's all the same to me."

  "What do you mean — pretend?" His eyes narrowed. "Now what do you think I mean?" Charlotte could feel the hot colour burning her cheeks. "Oh - oh, no!" she gasped. "How - how dare you suggest such a thing?"

  He shrugged and looked away from her, staring straight ahead. "I was only thinking of you, believe me. But if that's not the way you want it. ..." He paused. "At least behave civilly in public. That's one thing I insist upon, do you under­stand?"

  Charlotte did not answer him.

  She had never flown in a helicopter before, and in other circumstances she would have been delighted by the trip out over the blue green waters of the Aegean, south-east over dozens of small islands each shimmering beneath a haze of heat. To Charlotte's astonishment, Alex piloted the heli­copter himself, and she sat between him and George Con-standis, her thigh wedged against the hardness of his. It was hot in the helicopter, and Alex had loosened the top buttons of his shirt and pulled down his tie. He was sweating freely and the scent of his hot body came to her nostrils. She turned her head away, not wanting to be any more aware of him than she already was in this confined space, but she could not sup­press the thought that later tonight his hard powerful body would take possession of hers.

  The back of her own neck was wet, and the coppery hair clung in damp strands to her jacket. She longed for a shower and a change of clothes. The cream suit which had seemed so suitable in the coolness of London was far too thick for this climate. But until her suitcases arrived, she would have to content herself with what she was wearing. Even so, pushing more disturbing thoughts aside, she contemplated the con­tents of her wardrobe with increasing pleasure, realizing that the flimsy garments she had felt so unnecessary at the time of their purchase would no doubt find a use in conditions like these. She had not realized it would be so hot.

  During the short flight, Alex and George Constandis spoke

  to one another through headphones. There were only two sets

  of these and although George had offered a set to Charlotte,

  she had refused, knowing that he would have more to say to

  her husband than she would herself.

  About half an hour after take-off, the helicopter began to descend over an island situated on the rim of the group and shaped not unlike the letter C. Two curved headlands sheltered a bay which was almost landlocked, with only the narrowest of channels between the two. Charlotte could see now how impossible it was for any boat to land on the island, except perhaps a launch piloted by someone who knew the rocky channel and the currents present there.

  The helicopter came in low over the bay and ahead of them Charlotte could see a sickle-shaped beach with sand that was bleached white by the sun. Tussocky grass surmounted shallow cliffs and then lying directly below them she saw the house. She guessed it was Alex's house. It was much bigger than the several cottages that clung about the headland at this side of the island, and its long low lines looked cool and inviting. There were trees close by, firs and cypress and olive trees, and beyond the immediate environs of the house came the sharp scent of a lemon grove.

  The helicopter landed on wide lawns out back of the house, and the distinctive roar of its motor and the whine of its propellers brought several people out of doors to greet them. Three women in white aprons and a man dressed entirely in black stood shading their eyes against the glare of the sun, and Charlotte felt a tightening knot of nervousness inside her. Of course, these people looked after the house. Foolishly, she had not considered servants.

  The propellers slowed, and Alex took off his earphones and unfastened his seat straps. Then he slid back his door and climbed out, extending a hand to assist Charlotte to alight. She accepted his help reluctantly, putting her-hand into his with some misgivings, but the pressure he exerted was cool and indifferent.

  To her relief it was slightly cooler here, the breeze off the water giving the air a deliriously salty tang. She looked away to her left where the gentle undulation of the land gave way to deeper water and couldn't suppress a surge of pleasure at her surroundings. She had never seen anywhere more delight­ful, and the island at least lived up to her every expectation.

  Then Alex was walking forward towards the small group gathered on the terrace beneath cool white columns of stone, and his expressive backward glance sent Charlotte hurrying after him. Of the women, two were young and one was elderly, while the man was of middle years. They greeted Alex warmly, shaking his hands and chattering away in their own tongue. Nevertheless, their eyes, particularly those of the younger women, strayed often in Charlotte's direction and embarrass­ment swept over her again.

  Then Alex drew her forward, his hand firm at her elbow. "Charlotte, I'd like you to meet our staff here at the Villa Lydros." To her surprise he turned to the man first, standing to attention before them. "This is Cristof, our - chef de cuisine." The man bowed and he turned to the three women, the oldest first. "And this is Maria - and Sophia and Tina." The younger women bobbed and Charlotte glanced helplessly at Alex, but he was not looking at her.

  "Er - how do you do?" she managed awkwardly, and the two girls exchanged giggles.

  Maria, probably the housekeeper, Charlotte thought, gave them a quelling glare. Then she extended her hand to Char­lotte. "Kalispera, Kyria Faulkner," she welcomed her politely. "Parakalo. Embros."

  Charlotte glanced at Alex once more and this time he encountered her gaze. "Maria is asking you to enter the house," he told her quietly. "Go ahead. I must-Speak to Constandis before he leaves."

  "He's leaving?" Charlotte's mouth was dry.

  "This is supposed to be our honeymoon," remarked Alex ' dryly. Then he shook his head. "Go with Maria. You'll find she speaks quite reasonable English. They all do - I taught them myself."

  With slightly nervous steps, Charlotte followed the old woman across the cool terrace and into the house through sliding glass doors. The coolness inside was almost chilling, and she realized that although the walls of the building were thick, this coolness was the result of a very efficient air-conditioning system.

  A cool stone hall extended through to the front of the house, widening here to run the length of the terrace. Arched doorways opened off the hall giving tantalizing glimpses of white-walled rooms which relied for their colour on hand-woven tapestries
and pottery in brilliant shades and designs. Couches and chairs were mostly of leather or sheep and goat­skin, and self-coloured rugs were strewn across the polished wood-blocked floors. Beyond the terrace at the front of the house, Charlotte could see the cliffs and the curve of the bay, and through the open doors she could hear the murmur of the sea as it curled along the rock-strewn headland. The beach she had seen from the air was hidden below the cliffs, but she guessed there would be a path down to it.

  Shallow steps out of the hall brought them to a slightly higher level where a circular table and chairs with curved arms pronounced this to be the dining area. Although all the furnish­ings Charlotte had seen so far were plain arid functional, they had a certain style and elegance, fitting accoutrements to this spacious split-level bungalow that far surpassed anything she had imagined.

  The old servant Maria said little, merely indicating a particular tapestry here or a pottery urn spilling over with exotic blossoms there; small evidence of her own pride in her surroundings.

  Beyond the dining area, another hall extended into the west wing of the house. Here several doors were closed against them, but Maria led the way confidently to the last of these, and turning the handle ushered Charlotte into what she guessed correctly to be the master bedroom.