Page 29 of Vows of Revenge

I’m having a dress fitted...a nineteen-thirties-style dress. That’s all, she told herself.

But that was not all at all...

Damos stood gazing out of the window of his suite at the Viscari. The rooftops of St James’s were beyond, the royal palace was just visible, and there were glimpses of St James’s Park as well in the early-evening light. One hand was curved around a whisky glass, the other was plunged into the pocket of his trousers. They were a slightly wider cut than he was used to, and the jacket felt and looked different as well—more waisted, with a satin shawl collar, and it was worn over a white backless waistcoat with a vee-shaped notch. His cufflinks were gold—a new purchase for the occasion—and the wings of his shirt points stiff with starch.

But his thoughts were not on his thirties-style evening dress. They were on Kassia’s.

It was just perfect that this affair tonight was Art Deco styled—it provided the perfect reason why Kassia should not be in charge of her appearance...the perfect opportunity to indulge her with a makeover.

Anticipation edged in him and he took a mouthful of his whisky, enjoying the fiery warmth of the choice single malt. He did not have long to wait now. The stylist had phoned through to say she was on her way.

He clinked the ice in his glass, suddenly tensing. He had plans for tonight—plans that would bring to fruition what he had set out to achieve since first getting wind of Yorgos Andrakis’s intentions for Cosmo Palandrou—and for his daughter. By tomorrow morning those intentions would be ashes. Because by then Kassia Andrakis would not be anyone Cosmo Palandrou could ever want as his bride.

He felt his fingers grip the whisky glass more tightly. Into his head came the words that had come to him over dinner at the Oxford college.

Tell her—tell her how her father wants to use her for his own interests.

And yet again came his negation.

It was too risky...her reaction too uncertain. Not just for her father’s plans for her. For his own.

His expression stilled for a moment, becoming shadowed.

There was one risk above all that he knew he was not prepared to take. Not any more.

I don’t want her thinking I only want to make her mine to thwart her father’s plans.

That might have been true once—but no longer.

I can’t have her thinking that.

The certainty that that was not something he could risk filled him. And that, he knew with equal certainty, was why he wanted...needed...her to think differently about herself. To see herself differently. So that his seduction of her—his wooing of her—would be accepted by her for its own sake...for hers and his.

The shadow left his expression. Soon—any moment now—he would have his proof that that was not just possible but irrefutable. Being styled, gowned and adorned the way she would be tonight must show her, once and for all, that she had no need at all to accept the self-imposed limitations which she felt so unnecessarily she had to live by.

I will change all that for her—so that she can know without doubt or any reason not to believe it that I desire her... And that is all that will be needed for us to be the lovers we shall be...

He felt himself relax, easing his shoulders, taking another mouthful of whisky. He turned his head to the rosewood pier table set opposite the sideboard in the suite’s reception room, his eyes going to the thin, flat box delivered by secure courier a short while ago.

The final touch for the evening.

His phone pinged and he glanced at it. It was a text from the driver of the car collecting Kassia, telling him she had just arrived. He knocked back the last of his whisky, setting the empty glass on the sideboard, putting away his phone.

In moments, Kassia would be here.

Hungry anticipation speared through him.

He could not wait to see her...

Kassia edged cautiously along the wide back seat of the car that was pulled up outside the Viscari and carefully—very carefully indeed—stepped out. Behind her, the chauffeur touched his cap politely, shut the car door, and got back into the driving seat to pull away again. Kassia realised the doorman was also touching his top hat to her, instructing a bellboy to fetch her bag and convey it to her room, and holding open the wide glass front door of the hotel for her to enter.

Carefully—very carefully indeed—she walked into the foyer.

She was in shock, she knew. Had been in shock since the stylist, surrounded by the bevy of assorted specialists who had been at work on her for three endless hours, had gently turned her around to face the floor-length mirror in the private changing room.

Kassia had stared. Somuchhad been done to her. Way before the dress fitting itself. She’d been whisked into a salon to have her hair washed, and a colour rinse put in, then skilfully snipped—not to shorten it, but to trim and shape it. Then some kind of rich product had been smoothed into it, so that now it had been blow-dried it felt no longer lank and limp, but lush and glossy, glowing a deep chestnut.

And it hadn’t stopped at her hair. All sorts of peels and wraps and heaven knew what had been applied to her face and throat, until her skin had felt like satin. Her eyebrows had been shaped, her lashes tinted, and then the manicurist had started work on her hands, smoothing in velvety creams and applying nail extensions and dark red varnish. Then had come the face make-up—and finally had come the gown.

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