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Authors: Lucy Gordon
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her say things she afterwards regretted. She’d fought to overcome it and had succeeded in dampening it down to the point when few people ever detected its existence. But it was still there, ready to undermine her without warning.
In the final months of her marriage it had made her say things that would have made a reconciliation impossible, even if she’d wanted one. Right now it was probably a good thing that Lysandros wasn’t there to hear the thoughts that were bouncing around like Furies in her brain, demanding expression.
One evening Nikator returned home suddenly and locked himself in his room, refusing to open to anyone, even Petra.
‘Perhaps Debra will come to see him,’ she suggested to Aminta, the housekeeper.
‘No, she’s gone back to America,’ Aminta said hurriedly.
‘I thought she was here until next week.’
‘She had to leave suddenly. I should be getting on with my work.’
She scuttled away.
It might mean anything or nothing, Petra thought, and she would probably never know. But for a while Aminta avoided her.
Nikator finally emerged, with a slight swelling on his lips which he refused to discuss beyond saying he’d had a fall. Petra didn’t feel like pursuing the subject, but she made a mental note to spend as much time out of the house as possible.
Since the evening of the wedding she’d seen Lysandros only once and that was by chance at a grand banquet given by the city authorities. He’d made his way over to her and said courteously that he hoped she was enjoying Athens. He’dmentioned contacting her again in the next few days, but made no specific plans.
He seemed to be alone. No lady had been invited to accompany him to this occasion, just as her own invitation had made no mention of a guest. She was left wondering at whose behest she had been invited.
After their evening together she had been in turmoil. Behind Lysandros’s civilised veneer she sensed a man who was frighteningly alone, locked in a prison of isolation, seeking a way out, yet reluctant to take it. It didn’t matter that their first meeting had been so long ago. It had left them both with the sense that they knew each other, and under its influence he’d begun the first tentative movements of reaching out to her. Yet he’d been able only to go so far, then no further. Try as he might, the prison bars had always slammed shut at the last moment.
Her heart ached for him. The pain he couldn’t fight had affected her, and she would have rescued him if she could. But in the end it was his own nature that stood in the way, and she knew she could never get past that unless he allowed her.
At night she would relive the brief kiss that he’d given her. Any other man would have seized her in his arms and kissed her breathless, which, truth to tell, she’d half hoped he would do. Instead, he’d behaved with an almost Victorian propriety, caressing her lips in a way that called back that other time when he’d thought only of protecting her. And in doing so he’d touched her heart more than passion would ever do.
But there was passion, she knew that. She couldn’t be so close to him without reading the promise of his tall, hard body, the easy movements, the power held in check, ready to be unleashed. Nor could she misunderstand the look in his eyes when they rested on her, thinking her unaware. Some day—and that day must come soon—she would break his control and tempt him beyond endurance.
But gradually her despondency gave way to annoyance. Now she could hear the strange woman at the wedding again, warning her that she was one of many and would yield as easily as the others.
‘No way,’ she muttered. ‘If you think that, boy, have you got a shock coming!’
Briskly she informed the household that she would be away for few days, and was in her room packing a light bag when her phone rang and Lysandros’s voice said, ‘I’d like to see you this evening.’
She took a moment to stop herself
In the final months of her marriage it had made her say things that would have made a reconciliation impossible, even if she’d wanted one. Right now it was probably a good thing that Lysandros wasn’t there to hear the thoughts that were bouncing around like Furies in her brain, demanding expression.
One evening Nikator returned home suddenly and locked himself in his room, refusing to open to anyone, even Petra.
‘Perhaps Debra will come to see him,’ she suggested to Aminta, the housekeeper.
‘No, she’s gone back to America,’ Aminta said hurriedly.
‘I thought she was here until next week.’
‘She had to leave suddenly. I should be getting on with my work.’
She scuttled away.
It might mean anything or nothing, Petra thought, and she would probably never know. But for a while Aminta avoided her.
Nikator finally emerged, with a slight swelling on his lips which he refused to discuss beyond saying he’d had a fall. Petra didn’t feel like pursuing the subject, but she made a mental note to spend as much time out of the house as possible.
Since the evening of the wedding she’d seen Lysandros only once and that was by chance at a grand banquet given by the city authorities. He’d made his way over to her and said courteously that he hoped she was enjoying Athens. He’dmentioned contacting her again in the next few days, but made no specific plans.
He seemed to be alone. No lady had been invited to accompany him to this occasion, just as her own invitation had made no mention of a guest. She was left wondering at whose behest she had been invited.
After their evening together she had been in turmoil. Behind Lysandros’s civilised veneer she sensed a man who was frighteningly alone, locked in a prison of isolation, seeking a way out, yet reluctant to take it. It didn’t matter that their first meeting had been so long ago. It had left them both with the sense that they knew each other, and under its influence he’d begun the first tentative movements of reaching out to her. Yet he’d been able only to go so far, then no further. Try as he might, the prison bars had always slammed shut at the last moment.
Her heart ached for him. The pain he couldn’t fight had affected her, and she would have rescued him if she could. But in the end it was his own nature that stood in the way, and she knew she could never get past that unless he allowed her.
At night she would relive the brief kiss that he’d given her. Any other man would have seized her in his arms and kissed her breathless, which, truth to tell, she’d half hoped he would do. Instead, he’d behaved with an almost Victorian propriety, caressing her lips in a way that called back that other time when he’d thought only of protecting her. And in doing so he’d touched her heart more than passion would ever do.
But there was passion, she knew that. She couldn’t be so close to him without reading the promise of his tall, hard body, the easy movements, the power held in check, ready to be unleashed. Nor could she misunderstand the look in his eyes when they rested on her, thinking her unaware. Some day—and that day must come soon—she would break his control and tempt him beyond endurance.
But gradually her despondency gave way to annoyance. Now she could hear the strange woman at the wedding again, warning her that she was one of many and would yield as easily as the others.
‘No way,’ she muttered. ‘If you think that, boy, have you got a shock coming!’
Briskly she informed the household that she would be away for few days, and was in her room packing a light bag when her phone rang and Lysandros’s voice said, ‘I’d like to see you this evening.’
She took a moment to stop herself
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