“Your father is very proud of what you’ve done with the ship’s interior.” There, that was a start.
She blinked.
“So am I,” he added. Not that he had a right to be proud of her. “I mean…it’s a pleasure and an honor to command a ship this beautiful.”
“Thank you. I wish I could take credit, but all I did was transfer my mother’s tastes.”
“That’s a bit modest, don’t you think? You did a tremendous amount of work and communicated her vision artistically—I saw the design boards, you know. Each with a tiny, scrawled H.S. in the corner. They were lovely. Little paintings and collages.”
He didn’t mention that one hung in his stateroom, and that he’d matted and framed it himself. He also didn’t mention that he had another “painting” of hers framed, at his rarely used apartment in Athens. A bit of silliness, really. He’d cut the cover off a London theater program that featured a costume rendering of hers.
“Thank you.” Helena looked a bit uncomfortable, focusing on spinning the gold bangles on her thin wrists round and round. She noticed him watching her and stopped.
Again silence descended upon them.
Nick, for pity’s sake. You spend your life making small talk….
“You know about the legend of Corfu?” he asked.
“Poseidon and the nymph,” she said lightly, looking far too much like a nymph herself. “Yes, of course. He decided he had to have her, and stole her away for his pleasure.”
Her hair blew back from her cheeks and her soft lips curved. She looked mysterious, alluring and sensual, her skin glowing bronze under the sun. Poseidon may have had the right idea. Nick couldn’t help but think of stealing Helena away for his pleasure…and hers, too.
Get your head together, you idiot.
“Which castle do you like the best?” he asked, making a sweeping gesture toward both. “The Old Citadel—the Palaio Frourio—or the Palaia Anaktora with her lush gardens?”
“I like them both,” she said, “for different reasons. The Frourio is stark and crude but also dramatic and melancholy. The Anaktora is magnificent, so civilized and beautiful. They are rather like male and female, don’t you think?”
Does that mean you think I’m stark and crude? But Nick didn’t say it out loud. A very different question burned within him. One that he’d wondered about for years.
Instead he asked, “Aren’t you going ashore?”
“Are you offering to escort me, Nikolas?” She tilted her head at him, but he couldn’t tell anything about her expression behind the huge dark glasses.
“I wish I could,” he said, surprised to discover that it was true and not just a formality. Stay away from her, Nick. What has really changed over fifteen years? So you’re captain of a floating hotel—she’ll own a fleet of them one day. In the scheme of her world, you are insignificant….
Her chin went up a notch; her lips flattened ever so slightly. But that was the only indication she gave to him that she cared about having his company.
“I have a mountain of work waiting for me,” he said by way of apology.
“Of course. Well, perhaps I’ll join one of the shore excursions and have a ramble by myself. Care for a T-shirt, a mug or a snow globe?”
“I’m trying to cut down,” he said wryly. “But thanks.”
“Well, I’m off to lie in the sun for a bit. Have a nice day, Nikolas.”
He had to ask her now or he never would. He touched her arm. “Helena…”
She stopped immediately at the physical contact. “Yes?”
Damn it, he wished she would take those sunglasses off so he could see her face properly. “Why did you never respond to my letters?”
Her mouth parted slightly and she stared at him. “What letters?”
“I wrote to you twice after I left that morning.”
“You wrote to me?” She put a hand up to her glasses and finally took them off. Her eyes reflected genuine puzzlement. “Where did you send the letters?”
“To your home.”
She knit her brows. “My father’s house?”
“Yes.”
Her mouth twisted. “Nick, I never got any letters. I had no idea you’d ever tried to get in touch with me again.” She looked troubled. “I’m sorry. I just assumed…”
“That I was an uncaring bastard.”
She looked miserable and stayed silent.
“Well, perhaps I got the address wrong,” Nick said lightly, but he knew damn well that he hadn’t. “Enjoy the sun. Won’t you join me at the captain’s table for the second seating of dinner this evening?”
Judging from the way her lips parted, she was a bit taken aback. But after a small pause she said, “Why not? Thank you. I’d like that.”
He nodded. “Good. Then I’ll look forward to seeing you.” How troubling that again his words weren’t simply a formality.
Nick watched Helena glide away in the bikini, which showcased a lithe body that hadn’t changed at all, as far as he could see. The rest of her had been gilded and polished to a sheen, making her seem untouchable.
Don’t ogle her, man. It’s unseemly and inappropriate. Nick’s eyes went to the bridge, a reminder of a desk groaning under the weight of all he had to do. He started for the elevator, forcing himself not to look back at her.
GIORGIO TZEKAS NEEDED TO TALK to Mike O’Connor and he needed to talk to him now. He found him ensconced in the library as usual, finishing up one of his pseudo-erudite lectures on Greek antiquities as the charming Father Patrick Connelly.
“Now, as I said, the end of the second millennium B.C. saw the last of the Bronze Age. During this time more and more Greek-speaking tribes appeared in what we now know as the Greek isles. Thus the sub-mycenaean style gave way to the protogeometric, which you can see on this terra-cotta figurine of a centaur from Lefkandi.”
Mike O’Connor, a man with a shadowy past and superb acting abilities, had a pleasantly weathered face and so much natural charm that people trusted him on sight—fools that they were. No one would ever have guessed that he’d lived in a hippie commune in Oregon, possessed a Screen Actors Guild card and loved women more than whiskey.
Today, those bright blue eyes above the snowy-white collar at his neck expressed nothing but earnest scholarship.
Giorgio had difficulty restraining a snort, since he knew that the “good father” had been downloading information from the Internet and then memorizing it, complete with dramatic pauses and facial expressions.
“You will note more sophistication of technique in terms of representation,” the charlatan continued, using a pointer as if he’d been born with it in his hand, “as well as more elegant and difficult contours in the vases and pots themselves. The old nature-based decorative motifs give way to abstract ones.”
Tzekas tried to stop his eyes from rolling back in his skull. He didn’t give a damn about all this crap, and neither did Mike—er, Father Connelly. All they cared about was the amount of cash these dusty pieces of history would bring on the black market.
“You see triangles, rectangles, cross-hatching and concentric circles. All of these emphasize the rigidly defined contours that are characteristic of Greek ceramics.”
Giorgio looked at his watch.
“Have any of you ladies and gentlemen ever tried to throw a pot on the wheel? It’s very difficult.”
“I threw a pot at my ex-husband once, Father,” quipped an elderly lady, grinning like a monkey. “I thought it was pretty easy.”
Several people in the group laughed.
Mike touched his priest’s collar and cleared his throat, but his eyes twinkled. “Yes, well. We all know the blessed state of matrimony can be challenging at times.” As a teenage girl stared at him in curiosity, he added, “From what I hear.” He smiled broadly.
Yes, better not to mention your two ex-wives, Father. Giorgio waited impatiently while O’Connor nodded indulgently at the passengers’ silly questions.
He seemed to
be encouraging them, when he knew damned well that Giorgio needed to speak with him.
Finally all of the idiots left the ship’s library and they were alone.
“Shall I forgive you?” Mike asked, the sacrilegious bastard. “For there is no doubt that you have sinned.”
“I’ve sinned? Are you crazy? It’s you that people are gossiping about!”
“Me? I’m a holy man. Why would anyone talk about a priest?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Tzekas with heavy sarcasm. “Perhaps if the priest were seen without his collar in a bar on shore, tipping back a healthy amount of whiskey.”
Mike lost some of his mocking assurance, but quickly recovered. “Clearly, they were mistaken. Father Connelly would never go to a bar or drink whiskey. It was dark. Whoever saw him was probably under the influence.”
“Oh, yes? And how does Father Connelly explain why he’s been flirting in a very unpriestly way with that California widow on board?”
Mike reddened. “Ah. Well. Let us keep in mind that the good Father would never act upon any…base urges…he might have in that direction.”
Giorgio folded his arms. “He’d better not, or he’ll endanger the whole smuggling operation.”
“Keep your voice down! And speaking of our entrepreneurial forays, you’ve been busy, Officer Tzekas. Busy doing things that you shouldn’t. Did you think I wouldn’t hear of it?”
“What are you talking about?” Giorgio avoided Mike’s gaze. He couldn’t possibly know!
“The amphora you tried to purchase? From the dig in Naples?”
Giorgio leaned his head back and cracked his neck to alleviate tension. “So? What of it?”
“The boss gave us very clear roles, Tzekas. I make the buys. You ensure they are properly hidden on board the ship.”
“Yes, and you’re doing such a good job helping with that, Father, bringing them into plain sight in the library and mixing them with the reproductions! You must be crazy.”
“And you did better, did you? The captain was mighty pleased when they discovered those stolen antiquities in the potted plants on our very first cruise. Brilliant hiding place. You almost cost us the whole scheme.”
Giorgio clenched his fists. “The captain.” He spat. “I hate that man. He’s such a tight-ass, so morally superior. As if he’s better than we are.” He snorted. “I’d like to see him turn down this kind of money.”
“He would, you know. But you’ll just have to keep your mouth shut and deal with him, because he’s not going anywhere, and he is your boss.”
“I don’t answer to that piece of sh—”
Mike clamped a hand around his forearm. “You do answer to him, Tzekas. So you’d better watch your step. Keep your pride in your pocket and your drinking under control. And don’t try to make any more buys on your own, you stupid bugger. Do you hear me?”
Tzekas glared at him. “I don’t answer to you, either, O’Connor. And instead of lecturing me, you’d best keep your pecker in your pocket and your ass out of bars.”
CHAPTER SIX
DINNER WAS A FORMAL affair on Alexandra’s Dream, an opportunity for the ladies to shine. And they did—but to Nick’s eyes Helena Stamos outshone them all. She was, quite simply, dazzling.
She put even the elegance of the Empire Room to shame, difficult to do with its silk wall-hangings, fine china and glittering crystal.
The low-cut, green-silk gown she wore clung to every curve of her body. The color set off her dark hair and her tanned skin glowed in the low, romantic lighting. Emerald drop earrings dangled from her lobes, bronze sandals lent her stature and she looked like some kind of woodland goddess. She was beyond beautiful.
But since the gentleman on her right held her attention, Nick was forced to make polite conversation with the lady to his left, the wife of a former U.S. ambassador who enjoyed dropping the name of every important person whose hand she’d ever shaken.
“I had the pleasure of meeting Camilla Parker Bowles before she and Prince Charles tied the knot, Capitano. I thought she was just lovely, couldn’t have been nicer. Rather a pity that we’ll never see a Queen Camilla….”
Nick smiled and nodded while consuming his lamb. He had an endless supply of stories and amusing anecdotes at his disposal, but this woman rendered them moot.
“And when I was in Italy years ago, do you know whom I ran into at a cocktail party? Gianni Agnelli himself. Now wasn’t he the dapper don? Such a loss when he died. He had some fascinating stories to tell!” She launched into one of them with gusto while Nick tried to pay attention, but he couldn’t help being distracted by Helena.
He remembered in unfortunate detail the first “date” they’d ever shared, standing at the stern of the Greek freighter he worked on. A freighter owned by Elias Stamos, coincidentally. Nick had brought her a bottle of Pelegrino and a smile, not knowing that Helena’s other boyfriends probably supplied champagne, four-star menus and impossibly expensive jet-fueled junkets.
HE HAD ARRIVED first at the meeting point, but she was prompt, looking a little sleepy and carrying his jacket over one arm. “Hi,” she said.
Nick was on a high—just by looking at her. “Hello. May I interest you in some warm Pellegrino from my pocket?”
She’d looked up at him and laughed, the curves of her beautiful mouth reaching for her eyes and lighting them. “Best offer I’ve had all day—except, of course, for your jacket.” She handed it to him, but as he took it, she shivered.
Over her protests, he wrapped her up in it once more, shaking his head sadly. “I’m never going to get it back, am I? This is all a feminine plot to rob me of my clothing.”
When he thought of it now, he cringed. As if the daughter of a billionaire would want to snake his crummy canvas coat. But she’d never let on, the girl with the silver dolphins in her ears. Not once.
“You’re on to me.” She nodded, her lips quirking saucily. “I just thought your jacket would look divine with a pair of stolen midshipman’s pants I have.”
Nick raised his eyebrows. “I don’t think I want to hear the story of how you got those. I might become jealous.”
She’d blushed. “I was kidding. Besides, you can’t be jealous over someone you’ve only just met.”
“If it’s you, I can.” Nick restrained his urge to smooth her hair out of her face and shoved his hands into his pockets instead. “I don’t let just anyone wear my coat.”
HELENA’S LAUGH RANG OUT as the old gentleman on her other side said something amusing, and Nick did feel jealous, which was silly. But he couldn’t help wondering if she’d ever laugh like that again for him.
Ridiculous. He needed to banish such notions. He’d given up any claim to Helena Stamos fifteen years ago, and nothing had changed.
But as he chatted and chuckled and charmed the rest of the table, he continued to be acutely aware of her, drinking in her smallest gesture.
At the end of the meal, strains of traditional Greek music began in the Polaris Lounge above them on the Bacchus deck, and Nick took that as a welcome cue to perform a last social duty or two before departing for the peace of his stateroom. He touched his mouth with his napkin and then laid it on the table before turning to the lady and gentleman on Helena’s right.
“Sir,” Nick asked, “may I steal your lovely wife away for a dance?” If he danced with a couple of other women first, he could fit it into protocol to lead Helena onto the floor—assuming she’d allow it.
The gentleman rubbed his beard thoughtfully, while his wife blushed like a girl. “I don’t know, Captain. What are your intentions?” His eyes twinkled and his wife smacked him lightly on the arm.
Nick’s lips twitched. “Strictly honorable, sir, I promise.”
“Well, now, isn’t that a bore. I won’t be able to challenge you to a duel?” His wife gasped and broke into laughter and he waved his hand at Nick. “I think you’d best have someone else’s wife to dance with, Captain. Or even a single lady,” he added slyly, looking
straight at Helena. “What do you think?”
Had the older man noticed Nick watching her during dinner? He’d thought he’d been discreet.
“Oh, I’m not much of a dancer,” Helena said quickly, her color rising.
Nick decided to accept the old man’s help, unexpected though it was. “I’d be so very honored,” Nick told Helena, “if you would join me.”
Faced with no graceful way out, she allowed him to draw out her chair and take her hand, which quivered slightly in his. Interesting.
“Thank you all very much for joining me this evening,” Nick said to the table at large. “The pleasure has been all mine.” There was a chorus of similar responses, and he smiled easily and wished them good-night.
Then he drew Helena toward him, took one glance at her skyscraper heels and led her from the dining room to the elevator. He finally had her to himself, though she remained expressionless and politely aloof as they walked out of the elevator and onto the Bacchus deck.
Her elbow felt so delicate in his big palm. Nick slowed to allow her to keep pace with him, and caught a whiff of her exotic perfume—a floral that wasn’t overpoweringly sweet. Gardenias? Jasmine? Honeysuckle. It reminded him of honeysuckle.
This was a different perfume from the one she’d worn at eighteen. Then she’d smelled of a soft soap and…the name escaped him. It flashed into his subconscious. “Chanel No. 19,” he said out loud.
She stopped, looked up at him, her expression arrested.
“The scent you wore when we met.” He smiled.
“Yes. I can’t believe you’d remember that.”
“I remember everything about you.”
“Surely not everything,” she said with a skeptical laugh.
“No? Your favorite music, opera. Specifically, The Magic Flute and Aida. Your favorite book, The Odyssey. Favorite food, French profiteroles. Favorite wine, a chilled Pinot Grigio. Favorite place to relax, Santorini.”
“Be still my heart,” Helena said lightly after a small, stunned pause.
They had reached the Polaris Lounge, and Nick slid his right arm around her waist and took her hand in his. He looked down into her upturned face, fell into those dark eyes of hers and got lost.
Karen Kendall - An Affair to Remember Page 5