The Giannakis Bride

by Spencer, Catherine

  Her plan hit a snag when, with the sun casting long shadows over the garden, a white limousine purred up the drive and drew to a stop not far from where she and Dimitrios stood waving goodbye to the last of the departing guests. Noelle had been called back to the hospital just after five o’clock. Now it was almost seven, and well past the time for latecomers to show up.

  Disappointed, because she desperately wanted to be alone with him and set a few things straight, Brianna said, “Are you expecting someone, Dimitrios?”

  “Neh. I have a surprise for you. We’ll be three for dinner tonight. Hermione is joining us.”

  “Your mother?”

  “That’s right. I called her this morning.” He linked his fingers in hers. His eyes caressed her. His smile bathed her in warmth. “You see, calli mou, I do listen when you speak. I do try to please you every way I know how.”

  He was doing it again. Ambushing her with his compassion; disarming her when she was in battle mode. He was worse than a chameleon, she thought helplessly. One part of him was all about power and success and pride and ambition; the other, a testament to the generosity and kindness he shared only with a few select individuals, including her. How was she supposed to combat that?

  “Well?” he said, nudging her gently. “Do we invite her in, or do I send her away again?”

  She swung her gaze to the woman hovering beside the open door of the car, as though uncertain of her welcome. Brianna could only imagine the courage it had taken for her to get this far. “We ask her in, of course. And Dimitrios? Thank you.”

  “Efharisto,” Hermione murmured in an aside to Brianna, as Dimitrios attended to predinner drinks. “I know I am here only because of your intercession with my son.”

  They sat on the west-facing verandah in comfortable wicker armchairs, with a tray of mezedes on the table in front of them, the olives, chunks of ripe red tomatoes drizzled in oil, slivers of octopus in wine, tzatziki and deep-fried calamari a meal in themselves.

  Candles flickered in brass hurricane lamps strung among the vines overheard and nested at the base of the potted hibiscus shrubs fringing the perimeter of the terra-cotta-tiled floor. Hidden somewhere out of sight in the garden, a lemon tree in bloom perfumed the air. Below the verandah, the lawns dropped down in a series of manicured terraces to the shore. The sun sat low on the horizon, its dying rays staining the sky pink and orange and mauve.

  An idyllic setting for a family reunion long overdue, some might have thought, but it was spoiled by the nervous tension simmering in the atmosphere. Hermione’s fingers lay knotted in her lap. Her foot in its expensive suede pump tapped an anxious tattoo on the terra-cotta tiles. Her eyes flitted from Dimitrios to the glass doors opening into the house, as though she was unsure whether she should stay and face whatever the evening brought, or leave now, while she still had the chance.

  Brianna felt terribly sorry for her. “I’m glad he asked you here, and so glad you came, Hermione. I’m sure it wasn’t easy for you to accept his invitation.”

  “Mihalis doesn’t know I’m here,” she said, with another furtive glance around. “He thinks I’m visiting a friend.”

  It was on the tip of Brianna’s tongue to say she was surprised the poor woman was allowed to have friends. Luckily, Dimitrios returned to the table just then and spared her having to think of a more suitable reply.

  “An occasion such as this calls for a special toast,” he announced, plucking a bottle of Krug from a silver ice bucket and pouring into three spun-glass flutes. “Kherete, Mother. Welcome. I can’t recall the last time you and I sat down together and enjoyed a glass of wine.”

  “I can,” she said. “It was the day you came home with an honors degree from the London School of Economics. I was so proud of you. I still am, Dimitrios. I always will be. Not that it matters to you one way or the other, I suppose.”

  He cleared his throat and studied the bubbles rising in his glass as if they were the most fascinating things he’d ever come across. “It matters, Mother, and I’m proud of you, too. I know it wasn’t easy for you to come here tonight. I can’t imagine Mihalis was any too pleased when he heard.”

  “Well, he hasn’t heard, at least not yet, although I suppose I can’t keep it from him indefinitely. But whatever the price I have to pay, it won’t compare to what it’s cost me to be alienated from my son and grandchild. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to propose a toast, as well.” Eyes shining with suppressed tears, she raised her glass. “To the future. May it bring you both all the happiness you deserve. And to my dear granddaughter, that she may soon be well again and back home where she belongs.”

  Regaining his composure, he clinked the rim of his flute against hers. “Better yet, how about, to all four of us?”

  I’m going to cry, Brianna thought, barely able to swallow her wine.

  Across the table Dimitrios caught her eye. “And most especially to my beautiful fiancée, for her wisdom and patience. I’m a better man because of you, Brianna, calli mou.”

  Dear heaven, what a talent he had for laying claim to her heart! What an abundance of charm! He knew exactly the right buttons to push to make her cast aside her doubts and think only of how lucky they were to have found each other again.

  Hermione beamed through her tears. “So when is the marriage to take place?”

  “As soon as possible. Yesterday, if it was up to me,” Dimitrios said. “I lost this beautiful woman once already. I won’t risk losing her again.”

  “I can see that you love her very much.”

  Reaching for Brianna’s hand, he brushed his mouth over her knuckles. “She is my life,” he declared, piercing her with a glance of such unbridled hunger that she blushed. “Even now, with things about as grim as they can get with Poppy, Brianna gives me hope of better times to come. With her by my side, I can face whatever the future holds.”

  “Which is exactly as it should be.” Hermione blinked away a fresh onslaught of happy tears. “If you’ll let me, I’d love to help with the wedding—unless your parents, Brianna…?”

  “My father died when I was a baby, and my mother when I was nineteen,” she said. “As for a wedding, I really haven’t given it much thought. It doesn’t seem terribly important in the greater scheme of things.”

  “Because of Poppy,” Hermione said gently. “I understand. But, pethi mou, your wedding day is important, too. You should be able to look back on it with pleasure for the happy memories it holds, not regret that it passed by without your noticing.”

  “Let’s not forget whose wedding this is, Hermione,” Dimitrios warned, all the old reserve back in his voice. “It’s up to Brianna to decide what she wants.”

  “Well, yes…I didn’t mean to push my way in where I don’t belong.”

  She shrank back in her chair, looking so crestfallen that Brianna rushed to reassure her. “As mother of the groom, of course you belong, Hermione. And once we set a date, I’ll be glad of your input.”

  Erika came to remove the appetizers just then, and a short time later brought in the main course. Conversation resumed on a more general note after that, easing the tension and lending an almost festive air to the occasion. But it all came to an abrupt end when a fracas at the front door heralded the uninvited and decidedly unwelcome arrival of a fourth member to the party.

  Recognizing her husband’s raised voice, Hermione turned ashen and froze with her fork halfway to her mouth. As for Dimitrios…Brianna cringed at the murderous expression on his face. Iron-jawed, he rose from the table, his eyes blazing, his fists clenched.

  A moment later Mihalis Poulos erupted onto the scene, with Alexio trailing behind in a fruitless attempt to stop him. Ignoring him, Mihalis adjusted his heavy gold cuff links and tugged the lapels of his cream linen jacket in place. “What happened, son?” he drawled. “Did my invitation get lost in the mail?”

  Dimitrios impaled him in a feral, unblinking stare. “Brianna,” he said softly, “please take my mother inside and wait there for
me.”

  She hesitated, torn about how she should respond. Instinct told her to throw herself between him and his father; to stop the inevitable and violent confrontation she knew was coming. Years of bitterness and resentment had finally come to a head. Tonight it would end, and only one man would emerge the winner.

  She had little doubt who that would be. Mihalis was big, but Dimitrios was bigger. Stronger. Younger by almost thirty years.

  “Brianna,” he said again.

  “No.” She edged around the table to grasp his arm. “Dimitrios, don’t play into his hands. Don’t let him goad you into doing something you’ll regret.”

  He shook her off as easily, as casually as if she were a fly. “Now, Brianna.

  This is between Mihalis and me. We don’t need an audience.”

  “You might need a lawyer, though. Hurt him badly enough, and you could wind up spending the next twenty-five years behind bars. How much use will you be as a father, then?”

  Just briefly she thought she’d reached him. She felt, rather than heard his indrawn breath. Sensed rather than saw the sudden doubt assailing him.

  But Mihalis hadn’t missed a thing. “Now, there’s the difference between you and me, yios,” he sneered. “I’ve never felt the need to hide behind a woman’s skirts. No wonder your first wife ran around on you. She probably grew tired of having to fight your battles.”

  At that, Dimitrios let out a roar and lunged. The table flew over, smashing dishes and spreading a mess of orzo and olive-stuffed breast of pheasant everywhere. Shards of crystal glittered on the terra-cotta tiles.

  Alexio yelped and ran back inside the house. And because she was too late to stop the carnage, Brianna did as she’d been asked in the first place and hurried Hermione away from the scene.

  Erika met them in the hall. “Take her to the sitting room, Brianna,” she ordered calmly. “This is not something either of you need to see.”

  “Is Alexio calling the police?”

  Erika laughed grimly. “If you think Dimitrios can’t deal with that man by himself, pethi mou, you still have much to learn about him.”

  Outside, something else fell with a crash. Wincing, Brianna said, “How about an ambulance, then? At this rate, they’re both going to need one.”

  “Go.” Erika ushered them firmly toward the big, formal sitting room, as serenely elegant with its ivory walls and silk-upholstered sofas as the terrace currently was in a shambles. “You don’t care for brandy, I know, but I will bring you coffee, which you will sit and enjoy until Dimitrios joins you.”

  “This is my fault,” Hermione whispered, shaking so badly Brianna was afraid she might collapse.

  “No, Kyria, this is not about you,” Erika declared. “This is between your husband and your son. It’s been a long time coming and there’s nothing you or the police or anyone else can do but let them settle their differences, once and for all.”

  She paused and tilted her head, listening. “And it would seem,” she finished, “that they have done just that. I’ll bring coffee for three, and a decanter of Morello cherry liqueur. Dimitrios enjoys it once in a while, as a change from Metaxa.”

  Brianna realized then that silence reigned outside, and the only sound was the inner thudding of her heart.

  Chapter 10

  He brushed one hand against the other. It was done.

  He should have felt vindicated. Purged. He didn’t.

  Grimacing, he turned back to the house. To the villa he’d built as a monument to his success. Twilight dusted its walls. Lights streamed from the windows, warm and yellow. But he felt only the coldness of another in a long list of empty victories. At the end of the day, what did any of them matter compared to a home, a wife, a healthy child. A family living in harmony and bound together by love. Ordinary, everyday pleasures which most people took for granted, but which he had never known.

  The front door opened and the woman who’d been both mother, mentor and servant to him for the last nine years stepped out. “Coffee’s waiting,” she said, as if nothing untoward had occurred.

  When he didn’t reply, she came down the steps to stand next to him. “No point in brooding, Dimitrios. You did what had to be done. He left you with no choice. Now it’s over.”

  “Yes,” he said, but he’d seen the horror in Brianna’s eyes before she took his mother away, and knew it wasn’t quite over, not yet. “Where are they?”

  “Waiting for you in the sitting room.”

  He nodded and touched her shoulder. “I’m glad you’re on my side, Erika.”

  She slapped at his hand with rough affection. “Which other side is there, dolt? Get inside and speak with your women.”

  He found Brianna standing at the window, her fingers drumming lightly on the sill, her face unreadable. His mother huddled in the corner of one of the two settees facing each other in front of the fireplace, and she…

  She was only fifty-eight, but underneath the expensive clothes, the stylish hairdo, and all that estheticians and cosmetics could do to preserve the illusion of youth, she looked old, beaten down, afraid, and he felt a pang of guilt that he’d stood by and done nothing to help her until now.

  “He’s gone and he won’t be back, Mother,” he told her, advancing into the room.

  She regarded him anxiously. “Is he all right?”

  “He didn’t leave with a smile on his face, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I must go to him.”

  “No, you must not. You must stay here.”

  “Overnight, you mean?”

  “For as many nights as it takes him to come to his senses.” He helped himself to one of the demitasses on the library table and drained it in one gulp. Erika had made metrios, medium-sweet coffee, and for once he was glad of the sugar. He needed something to chase away the sour taste in his mouth.

  “Dimitrios is right,” Brianna said, coming forward. “At least here you’ll be safe.”

  “Safe?” Hermione stared at them as though they were both certifiably insane. “Mihalis would never hit me. He’s never lifted a hand against me in his life.”

  “Abuse doesn’t have to be a physical thing, Mother,” Dimitrios said wearily. “There are other, more subtle ways to wear a person down.”

  She raised a few more feeble objections—she’d be putting them out, his father would be worried, she had no change of clothes, no makeup, not even a toothbrush. But in the end he overcame her objections and she allowed Erika to take her upstairs.

  “Well,” he said, as the door closed behind them and left him alone with Brianna, “no broken bones or blood, as you can see.”

  “Your shirt’s torn,” she said frostily.

  He shrugged. “Shirts can be replaced.”

  “And husbands, fathers?” Her light-blue eyes bored into him, laser beams of disgust. “Are they disposable items, too?”

  “I didn’t kill or maim him, if that’s what’s worrying you, Brianna. I kicked him out. Sent him packing with his tail between his legs. His pride’s badly dented, he’s a little dusty, and his suit won’t be fit to wear again, but he’s in one piece otherwise.”

  “I see. And do you settle all your differences with your fists?”

  “What the hell would you have had me do?” he inquired irascibly. “Stand idly by and let him terrorize my mother? Insult you—again?”

  “Of course not. But couldn’t you have reasoned with him? Did you have to be so violent?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I did. Because reason is only effective if the other party’s willing to listen. And my father hears only his own voice. And because there comes a time when a man has to take a stand. For me, that time came tonight. He invaded my home. He threatened my household staff. He intimidated you and my mother. He behaved like a thug. Don’t ask me to reason with a man like that.”

  “You could have called the police.”

  “And give him the satisfaction of thinking I couldn’t deal with him myself?” Frustrated, he shook his hea
d and, lifting the decanter of cherry liqueur parked on the tray next to the coffee cups, poured himself a hefty measure. “No, Brianna, this was between him and me, no one else.”

  “What if he charges you with assault?”

  “His pride won’t let him.”

  “Like father, like son,” she muttered, her lovely mouth set in obstinate disapproval.

  He downed his drink and poured another. He was tired and spattered with food. His body felt as if it had gone ten rounds with a sumo wrestler. His right hand was bruised, the knuckles scraped raw. “I don’t have to defend myself to you, Brianna.”

  “No, you don’t,” she agreed loftily. “You can get drunk, instead. Excuse me for not wanting to stand here and watch.”

  She went to stalk past him, but he caught her and swung her round to face him, his fingers spanning her slender wrist in an iron grip. “Don’t you dare walk out on me again.”

  She glared at him, outraged. “Don’t you dare manhandle me. Ever!”

  Aghast, ashamed, he released her and raised both hands in surrender. “Forgive me. I’m not at my best right now. Believe it or not, I don’t make a habit of brawling.”

  She sighed and lowered her gaze. “I know that.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes,” she said. “You were in an impossible situation. Most men would probably have reacted as you did.”

  “The point is, I’m not most men. I’m his son. That he’s finally been called to account for his actions is something only I could accomplish. It’s the old law of the jungle, Brianna. A case of the aging lion accepting someone younger and more powerful has taken over as king.”

  “You really believe he understands that?”

  Dimitrios thought of the last look his father had turned on him, before he crawled into his car and was driven away. He’d seen a lurking respect in those black, indomitable eyes; a certain sick satisfaction, even, as though he’d finally proved to himself and the rest of the world that the man he professed to hate was worthy of being called his son. “Yes, I do. For all his faults, Mihalis is no fool. He knows when he’s beaten.”