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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 term ination. 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 in describable 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 inde pendence. 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