The Highest Stakes of All by Sara Craven Page A

with the prospect of being possessed completely? Used by a man for his casual pleasure then discarded?
    She could feel a knot of misery tightening in her chest. She was more alone than she had ever been in her life and tears were not far away.
    But she would not allow herself to shed them, she thought, as she scrambled up from the floor.
    She was damned if she was going to behave like a victim, she told herself with stormy resolution. When Vassos Gordanis eventually decided to put in an appearance, she’d be on her feet and facing him with the contempt and disgust he deserved.
    Because, whatever happened with the other women who crossed his path, he would fail with her. He might have won her at cards, but that would be his only victory. He wouldn’t even have the satisfaction of hearing her plead. Instead, she would confront him with her total indifference.
    And when he realised he was wasting his time and let her go, she would approach Monsieur Levaux and ask him to ring her uncle and arrange for her father and herself to return to England.
    Where she would pretend that nothing had happened to her. That the outcome of the game had merely been another kind of bluff.
    Only it wasn’t, of course, she thought slowly. Looking back, she had the odd conviction that the entire evening had been planned to end exactly in that way. As if Vassos Gordanis knew her father’s weaknesses as a gambler and had deliberately exploited them.
    But that’s not possible, she told herself. Neither of us has ever set eyes on him before yesterday. I know that. My God, if we’d met before I’d have remembered—and made sure I avoided any second encounter.
    At the same time, she found her mind being drawn unwillingly back to the scruffy pirate who’d sent her that laughing salute from his deck some lifetime ago, trying to equate him with the hard-mouthed man who’d looked at her in cold triumph as he put down the winning card, but failing totally.
    If he was still the pirate, she thought, maybe I could talk to him. Because, however aggravating, he’d seemed—almost human.
    And halted, her mouth twisting in self-derision.
    Are you crazy? she asked herself. We’re not talking about some nicer twin brother here. Vassos Gordanis is one person, not two. And if he had an atom of decency or humanity about him you wouldn’t be in this situation.
    The room suddenly felt airless and she went over to the French windows, pulling the blue drapes aside and opening one of the glazed doors.
    The night was cooler now, she discovered as she leaned against the doorframe. She drew several deep breaths, trying to calm herself, but it wasn’t easy with Persephone there, right bang in front of her.
    She bit her lip. There seemed to be nowhere she could go to escape its owner, either mentally or physically, she thought bitterly.
    And although the story of the girl being carried off to Hell was only a legend, invented thousands of years ago, in Joanna’s own mind right now it was beginning to take on a kind of dreadful reality.
    Like Persephone of ancient days, she was being taken from everything and everyone she knew and loved, by a man of whom she knew nothing except that he had the money and power to do pretty much as he chose.
    I wanted my life to change, she thought, swallowing. Wanted to escape. But not like this. Never like this.
    Then, in the stillness, she heard the rattle of the door handle and knew that her temporary reprieve had come to an end. That she was no longer alone.
    Hands clenched into fists at her sides, she made herself turn slowly and look at him.
    He came forward slowly, tossing his dinner jacket and black tie across the dressing stool, and halted to regard her in turn, hands on hips, his gaze almost dispassionate.
    He said, ‘You were told to wash your face, but I see that you have not done so.’
    Joanna lifted her chin. ‘I don’t take orders from strangers.’
    ‘But we are not destined to remain strangers, you and I.’ He began