The Highest Stakes of All

by Sara Craven

  ‘I never want to see them again.’ Or anything else I’m wearing.

  It was cooler under the canopy of trees, and Joanna took a deep breath of pine-scented air.

  The track was just as rough as Stavros had warned, with stones and tree roots half-buried in the sandy soil, and she picked her way carefully, Stavros walking beside her.

  ‘The Villa Kore is a fine house,’ he commented eventually. ‘It is where Kyrios Vassos was born, and he comes here to relax and enjoy his privacy.’

  ‘I can imagine how,’ Joanna returned coldly.

  ‘The kyrie likes also to live simply,’ Stavros went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘So while there is a generator for electricity, communication is by radio, and there is no telephone on the island.’ He added, ‘He desires you to know this so that you will not waste time searching.’

  Joanna, who’d planned to do exactly that, felt her heart sink.

  ‘He also wishes for you to have every comfort, thespinis. It is safe to swim from the beach, or there is a pool at the house, if you prefer. Whatever else you require, you have but to ask.’

  ‘I want only one thing,’ she said swiftly. ‘To be as far away from your Kyrios Vassos as it’s possible to get on this earth.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You are thinking of Australia, perhaps.’

  Joanna, flushing, subsided. Of course Stavros would know the reason behind his master’s pursuit of an insignificant girl, she thought. But instinct warned her it would be futile to ask him. That the information would come only from Vassos Gordanis—if at all.

  They turned a corner and Joanna saw a dazzle of sunlight ahead. Fifty yards later and she was taking her first good look at the Villa Kore.

  It was larger than she’d realised—massive, even—but her first thought was, it looks cold. An impression reinforced by the blue shutters at all the windows like so many closed eyes.

  The surrounding gardens were oddly formal, too, with their clipped lawns kept a vivid green by sprinklers, and the flowerbeds bright with blooms that appeared to have been planted by numbers.

  After the unspoilt beach and the clustering trees, it was like crossing some barrier into a different world, Joanna thought, wondering if anyone had ever run on that grass or kicked a ball there.

  Aware that she was being watched, she glanced back at the house and saw that a burly man, neat in dark trousers and a grey linen jacket, had emerged from the main entrance.

  ‘Andonis Leftanou, thespinis,’ Stavros informed her. ‘He is major-domo for Kyrios Vassos and waits to welcome you. You should reply efharisto, which is Greek for thank you.’

  ‘Except I don’t feel very grateful.’ Joanna gave him an icy look. ‘Maybe I should tell him instead that, when I get out of here, I’m going to have your mutual employer charged with kidnapping, and the pair of you arrested as accessories and see how welcoming he is then.’

  ‘Say what you wish, thespinis.’ Stavros shrugged. ‘It will change nothing. To him you remain the guest of Kyrios Vassos, to be received with courtesy.’

  Andonis Leftanou’s greeting was indeed polite, accompanied by a slight, dignified inclination of the head. But there was no warmth in his voice, or in his brief smile. And, once again, his eyes seemed to slide past her.

  After the brilliance of the sun, the house seemed full of shadows, and as she looked round the wide hallway Joanna stiffened, aware of someone—a figure—standing in an alcove at one side, watching, motionless and in silence.

  She caught her breath. ‘Who is that?’

  Stavros followed the direction of her gaze. ‘It is Kore, thespinis.’ He sounded almost amused. ‘Nothing more. Come, look.’

  It was the life-size statue of a girl, carved in white marble, the face remote and lovely, the mouth curved in a half-moon smile. She wore the classic Greek chiton, falling in folds to her bare feet, and one hand was extended, palm upwards, offering a piece of fruit.

  For a moment Joanna thought she was holding an apple, then she looked more closely and saw that it was actually a pomegranate.

  Persephone, she thought. The Maiden Goddess. Trapped here, too, at the pleasure of the Dark Lord, with the fruit of her own betrayal in her hand.

  ‘It is beautiful, ne?‘ Stavros prompted.

  Joanna shrugged as she turned away, feeling oddly disturbed. ‘If you like that kind of thing.’ She paused. ‘Now, perhaps you’ll show me where I’m to be kept until your master arrives.’

  He nodded curtly. ‘Hara will take you there.’ He signalled to the far end of the hall and a grey-haired woman in a dark dress, and wearing a starched apron, came forward.

  She was built on impressively generous lines, with a plump face that looked as if it should have been merry, yet her expression was set and dourly unfriendly as she indicated wordlessly that Joanna should follow her to the wide flight of marble stairs.

  She led the way along the gallery to a door at the end and flung it wide, gesturing to Joanna to precede her into the room.

  Lifting her chin, Joanna obeyed, and paused, her eyes widening as she surveyed her new surroundings.

  As rooms went, this one was pretty breathtaking, she admitted reluctantly. The gleaming satin bedspread covering the wide divan was patterned in green and gold, and those colours were repeated in the luxuriously quilted headboard, and the curtains that hung at the long windows.

  The floor was tiled in ivory, and the range of fitted wardrobes and drawers that occupied an entire wall had been constructed from wood the colour of warm honey.

  Hara crossed the room, still unsmiling, and opened a door revealing a cream marble bathroom, with a shower as well as a deep tub. Joanna swallowed deeply as she absorbed its perfection, from the gold-framed mirrors above the twin washbasins to the array of expensive toiletries and piles of fluffy towels waiting in mute invitation.

  She supposed now, if ever, was the moment to use the efharisto word, but when she turned to speak the older woman had silently vanished, and she was alone.

  Her first act was to check the wardrobes for male clothing, but they were empty, indicating to her relief that Vassos Gordanis usually spent his nights elsewhere. Or had done so in the past.

  She walked across to the bed and tested the mattress with an experimental hand. Was it only yesterday that she’d longed to sleep on something even half as comfortable as this promised to be?

  Yet now she would have given anything she possessed to be back at the hotel, facing another night on that penance of a sofa.

  And even the knowledge that for the time being she would be sleeping alone was no consolation.

  Green and gold, she thought. Springtime colours. Yet every minute she’d be forced to spend in this house would be harshest winter. As cold and unforgiving as the man who would ultimately claim her in that bed. She sat down on the edge of the bed and began to unfasten the trench coat. She was too tired to think any more and too angry to cry.

  She dropped the rest of her clothes to the floor, and slid naked under the covers.

  Persephone didn’t have to stay in the Underworld, she thought drowsily. But she ruined her chance to leave and go back to her old life when she succumbed to temptation and ate those pomegranate seeds.

  But nothing and no one will ever distract me, she vowed grimly. Somehow, some day, I’m going to escape—and when I do, it will be for ever.

  After three days, Joanna was reluctantly familiar with her new environment. She had begun by exploring the villa itself.

  It was beautiful, with its wide marble floors and pale, unadorned walls, but everything she saw seemed to confirm her initial impression that it was cold—even austere.

  The main living room, or saloni, offered the most comfort, with a large fireplace, where logs were clearly burned during the winter months, fronted by a fur rug, and flanked by two massive cream leather sofas, deeply and luxuriously cushioned. The presence of a hi-fi system and a television set added a kind of normality, too, as did the glass-fronted bookcase crammed with titl
es in Greek, French and English.

  Elsewhere, the furnishings, although elegant, had been kept to a minimum, and there were few ornaments, bowls of flowers or any of the individual touches that might give a hint of the owner’s tastes. Yet this was his family home, so perhaps he was accustomed to this impersonal grandeur. But it seemed the last place where a man who sometimes looked like a pirate would come to relax.

  There seemed no trace of him anywhere, she thought with faint bewilderment, nor, more tellingly, any mementoes of the woman who had been his wife.

  Joanna looked in vain for a portrait on one of the walls, or even a photograph like the silver-framed picture of her mother that Denys always kept on the table beside his bed.

  But perhaps Vassos Gordanis confined the poignant souvenirs of his marriage to his bedroom—the one place she had been careful to avoid.

  And maybe, too, it wasn’t the house, she thought, but the attitude of the staff which gave her such a sense of chill.

  Because, she’d soon discovered, the men on the beach who’d ignored her had apparently established a precedent. There were, she’d learned from Stavros, over fifty people employed at the house, and in the olive groves and citrus orchards around it, most of whom lived on Thaliki and were ferried across on a daily basis.

  But she rarely caught a glimpse of any of them, apart from Andonis, who served her meals with a kind of studied if monosyllabic courtesy, and of course Hara, who had radiated ungracious hostility from the first morning.

  Although that did not prevent her from doing her job, Joanna admitted wryly. The hated mini-dress and other garments had been removed from the floor, never to return, while she slept. Her case had been unpacked, and its inadequate contents stowed in a mere fraction of the wardrobe space. And she was woken in grim silence each morning with coffee and the freshly laundered clothes from the day before.

  Surely, she thought, if she had to be waited on, there must be someone younger and more cheerful among all these people.

  But she soon discovered her mistake the first time she encountered one of the young maids upstairs and smiled, only to find the girl looking away and spitting three times.

  When Joanna went to Stavros to express her indignation, he’d only shrugged. ‘She cannot be blamed, thespinis. She was warding off the evil eye.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous,’ Joanna said hotly. ‘There’s no such thing.’

  ‘Not in your country, perhaps. Here—is different. It is a strong belief,’ he added drily. ‘Be glad you do not have blue eyes.’

  ‘Is that what they all think?’ she demanded. ‘That I’m some kind of witch?’

  ‘Ne, thespinis. Having learned from Hara a little of the harm you have done, that is indeed what they believe.’

  ‘From Hara?’ Joanna drew a furious breath. ‘Well, that settles it. Please find her something else to do. Because I don’t want her hanging round me any more, like some—geriatric Medusa.’

  ‘Hara is the sister of Andonis Leftanou, and she has served the Gordanis family faithfully for many years.’ His eyes snapped at her. ‘I advise you do not speak of her again without respect.’ He paused ominously. ‘If you know what is good for you.’

  ‘Good for me?’ Joanna echoed in derision. ‘What in this whole ghastly situation could possibly be described as good for me?’

  ‘You are fortunate that things have not been very much worse.’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ she threw back at him bitterly. ‘And no doubt it’s also an honour for me to be forced to belong, as you put it, to your disgusting employer. Well, I hope he rots in hell—and you with him! ‘

  Stavros looked at her with distaste. ‘I suggest you keep such thoughts to yourself, thespinis. Or when Kyrios Gordanis arrives here he may teach you a much-needed lesson,’ he added grimly, and walked away.

  In an attempt to keep occupied and fight her sense of isolation, she swam each day in the pool, then lay on the cushioned lounger under its parasol provided daily for her use by unseen hands. She ate her solitary though delicious meals, provided by Andonis’ wife Penelope, in a vine-covered arbour at one end of the terrace, rested in her room with the shutters closed for an hour or so each afternoon and spent her evenings alone in the saloni.

  She didn’t dare touch the state-of-the-art music system, in spite of the mouth-watering record collection in its well-filled racks, and there were few English language programmes to tempt her on television. There was also a video machine, with a number of pre-recorded cassettes, but these were labelled in Greek, and she wasn’t sure how to operate the player anyway.

  And all hell would freeze before she asked for help of any kind.

  But if her days were difficult, the nights were far worse, when she woke with a start from disturbing restless dreams, convinced that a man’s hand had stroked her face. Touched her body. And that he was there, lying beside her, his skin hot with desire.

  Sometimes it was Peter Mansell who pressed his mouth suffocatingly on hers as she tried to fight him away. But invariably the dream would change at some point, when her oppressor would become Vassos Gordanis, his ruthless kisses stifling her pleas for help. Or for mercy.

  It was all so terribly real. Too real. Because she awoke each morning drained and on edge, a feeling of dread never far from the pit of her stomach, wondering if this would be the day when she would be made to pay for the past.

  Knowing that this brief respite could not last, and that, for her, time was running out.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  JOANNA blew her nose vigorously, swallowing back the threatened tears. The last thing she wanted was someone to see her crying and misinterpret the reason, she thought, as she closed Watership Down and slipped the paperback into her bag together with her hankie.

  During the past week, she’d devoured a Raymond Chandler and discovered Ernest Hemingway from the bookshelves in the saloni, but had hesitated to begin the book that Julie had given her, knowing that it would revive memories of the quiet evenings with baby Matthew—and a time when all she had to trouble her was shortage of money.

  I didn’t realise how lucky I was, she thought bitterly.

  Suddenly restless, she got up from the lounger, putting on her hat and slinging her bag over her shoulder. Lunch would not be served for another hour or more, so she could fill in some time with a walk.

  She’d explored most of the immediate vicinity, and all that remained was the unexciting prospect of the olive groves, where Stavros had assured her almost vehemently that there was nothing to see, and it would be better to go to the beach instead. He was probably right, she thought, but at least the trees would provide some shade, and less chance of running into an armed guard.

  And it was pleasant to wander along, her espadrilles making no sound on the loose soil of the path winding between the trees, listening to the faint rustling of the silver leaves above her. There were nets spread on the ground beneath the branches, presumably to catch the fruit when it was harvested, in the way it had been done since the first olives were grown.

  She recalled reading that the trees could live for hundreds of years, and, judging by the gnarled and twisted trunks she saw around her, some of these were very old indeed. Just being among them was an oddly peaceful experience.

  And then she paused, frowning a little, as that peace was suddenly disturbed by the sound, not far away, of a child crying.

  Except there were no children on the island. The only residents at the villa were Hara, who was a childless widow, and Andonis and Penelope, whose two sons were grown up and working on the mainland.

  Puzzled, she followed the direction of the crying, and found herself on the edge of the grove, looking at a neat two-storey house fronted by its own fenced garden.

  Yet Stavros had implied that the Villa Kore was the only house on the island.

  And the house had occupants. A very small girl, incongruously clad in a pink taffeta dress, with a number of lace-edged underskirts, plus white shoes and socks, was standing at the g
ate, sobbing, her gaze fixed on a blue ball lying on the other side and well beyond her reach.

  Joanna said gently, ‘Oh, dear.’ She picked up the ball and walked towards the gate, and saw the child retreat a couple of steps, her thumb in her mouth.

  ‘Yours, I think.’ Joanna pushed the ball carefully though the bars of the gate so that it bounced gently at the little girl’s feet. ‘And now you should say efharisto,’ she prompted.

  But the thumb stayed firmly and silently in place. Big dark eyes surveyed Joanna solemnly.

  She was not, Joanna thought as she straightened, a very pretty child. But that was hardly her fault. Her black hair was pulled back into stiff braids, and the dress did nothing for her, either, being the wrong colour, and far too elaborate for playing in. What could her mother be thinking of?

  She gave the little girl a swift, reassuring smile, then started back the way she’d come.

  She heard a slight noise behind her and, turning, saw the ball was outside again, and the child back at the gate, watching hopefully. She said softly, ‘So it’s a game, is it?’

  Retracing her steps, she returned the ball, but this time she only managed a couple of paces before she heard it bounce back again. She picked it up and walked to the gate, hunkering down so that she and the child were level.

  Pointing to herself, she said, ‘Joanna.’

  But the child simply stared back unwinkingly and said nothing, her small face serious.

  From inside the house, a female voice called sharply, ‘Eleni,’ and a young woman came out, shading her eyes from the sun. Olive-skinned and sloe-eyed, she had a full-lipped, sulky mouth, while a dark red dress made the most of a figure that bordered on the voluptuous.

  As she caught sight of Joanna, her brows snapped together in a sharp frown and she marched down towards the gate, firing off a series of shrill questions in Greek.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Joanna straightened awkwardly, passing the ball over the gate. ‘I don’t understand.’

  The other halted, hands on hips, clearly taken aback. ‘Anglitha?’