Rich as Sin

by Anne Mather

  ‘It is—at his disposal, whenever he wishes it,’ he said, after a lengthy hesitation, and Samantha, who had decided he was not going to answer her, caught her breath. ‘But, as he lives in England,’ Spiro Niarchos continued slowly, ‘I am employed most frequently by his mother.’

  Samantha gulped. ‘His mother!’

  ‘Ne. Kyria Putnam.’ He paused, and then added, politely, ‘You have met Mrs Putnam, have you not?’

  ‘No. No, I haven’t.’

  Samantha answered almost absently, her mind racing with the possibilities his casual words had created. Who was Matthew’s mother, if she used a helicopter to get around in? And why hadn’t he warned her that this was no ordinary family?

  It was her own fault, she thought miserably. She should have insisted on some answers before agreeing to this trip. But, although she had suspected that anyone who gave a party for fifty people had to be fairly well off, she had never imagined anything like this.

  The truth was, she had been so wrapped up with her own guilt at deceiving Paul that everything else had assumed a lesser importance. The only people who had figured strongly in her thoughts were herself and Matthew, and it wasn’t until Spiro Niarchos had spoken of Matthew’s mother that she had realised how naïve she had been.

  What was she doing here? she asked herself again. What gave her the right to play fast and loose with her relationship with Paul, which had lasted more than six years? If she had wanted a taste of excitement—and she could think of no other excuse for what she was doing—she should have chosen someone in her own league. Not allowed herself to get entangled with a man whose background became more intimidating by the minute.

  ‘We will be landing in less than fifteen minutes,’ Spiro told her a little while later, and Samantha curled her nails into her damp palms. What would he do, she wondered, if she asked him to turn round, and fly her back to Athens? Probably refuse, she decided glumly. And it didn’t matter anyway. She didn’t have the nerve to suggest it.

  They were flying diagonally into the sun now, and the light on the water was dazzling. Below the helicopter she could see the swell that ran before the bow of a gleaming schooner, and as they swept in lower she saw a man on water-skis, zigzagging in the wake of a launch.

  She stared, but the man wasn’t Matthew, even if he did have the same dark skin. He was older, too. Probably in his late forties, or early fifties, with a stocky, well-fed physique that spoke of too many liquid lunches. A relative, perhaps, she guessed tautly, having to abandon her theory that Matthew’s grandfather might be a fisherman. She drew her lower lip between her teeth, and bit down, hard. It served her right for telling lies, she thought unhappily. Nothing good ever came from trying to cheat fate.

  The island was beneath them now, and in spite of her misgivings Samantha gazed down at it intently. It wasn’t large, but it was bigger thán she had expected, with lush green slopes tapering down to the shimmering waters of the Aegean. At the northern end of the island a cluster of white-painted buildings hugged a narrow inlet, which was apparently the only means of access by sea. Samantha glimpsed several fishing boats moored in the harbour, and the bell-tower of a church, before the helicopter swept her south again, towards a broad, jutting peninsula.

  There was a house on the peninsula; or perhaps it was a hotel, she speculated nervously, no longer sure of anything in the present situation. It was painted white, too, a brilliant, blistering white that made her eyes ache, with turrets and arches, giving it the look of a medieval palace. Whatever it was, it seemed to spread in all directions, with flower-filled courtyards, tennis courts, and vine-hung terraces, above acres of coarse brown sand.

  It was evidently their destination, and her stomach clenched in sudden panic as Spiro lowered the helicopter on to a custom-build pad maybe a quarter of a mile from the house. If he was aware of her strained reaction to their arrival he was polite enough not to mention it, and in any case Samantha was immediately diverted by the sight of a man lounging on a stone wall, just yards from where the aircraft landed.

  It was Matthew. She recognised him instantly, and she didn’t know whether she felt angry or relieved. In all honesty, she didn’t know how she felt, and although she had to get out of the helicopter her legs felt ridiculously weak.

  She suspected it was seeing him again. She hadn’t laid eyes on him since the evening when he had persuaded her to come here, and although she had spoken to him once on the phone it wasn’t the same. And he wasn’t the same either, she fretted, as he pushed himself up from the pile of stones, and strolled, barefoot, towards the helicopter. In frayed denim shorts and nothing else, with the sun beating down on his exposed head and shoulders, he looked little like the man she remembered. Seeing him now, like this, she could quite believe he wasn’t wholly English. Indeed, he looked totally alien, and only the lazy smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth betrayed his identity.

  Perhaps she was wrong, she thought desperately. Perhaps, even now, she was making a mistake. It was always possible that his mother worked at the house—hotel—behind them. After all, he didn’t look anything like the wealthy playboy she had seen water-skiing …

  ‘Hi, Spiro!’ Matthew had reached the helicopter now, and was jerking open the door at her side. His gaze flicked swiftly over her tense face, and then he returned his attention to the pilot. ‘No problem?’

  ‘No. No problem.’

  Spiro responded with obvious warmth, and Samantha, covertly observing the exchange of looks between them, knew her worst fears were being realised. For, in spite of Spiro’s cordiality, there was a definite note of respect in his voice. The kind of respect he might have for his employer, she determined anxiously. Oh, lord, why hadn’t Matthew warned her?

  ‘Good!’ Matthew’s gaze moved back to her stiff form. ‘Sam,’ he added, in a low voice. ‘Do you need any help?’

  Not from you!

  The words trembled unspoken between them, and Samantha knew he was as conscious of her hostility as she was. That was why he hadn’t wasted any time in lengthy greetings. He must know as well as she did that she didn’t want to get out at all.

  But she couldn’t stay in the helicopter indefinitely. Spiro was apparently waiting to take off again, and she was obliged to make a move. Taking off the helmet, she placed it carefully on the console, and then, uncaring of how she looked, she swung her legs out of the aircraft.

  She narrowly missed winding Matthew by her unexpected action, but his fingers grasped her elbow when she dropped the few inches to the concrete apron.

  ‘I can manage,’ she snapped as soon as she had regained her balance, and Matthew merely raised his eyebrows before turning to help Spiro with her luggage.

  She had only brought one suitcase and a canvas flight bag, and Matthew hefted them easily. ’Tha idhothoume avrio,’ he nodded, after denying he needed Spiro’s help, and then, switching to English, he said, ‘Let’s go. Unless you want to be blown away by the propellers.’

  Samantha pressed her lips together, but the logic of his argument was undeniable. The landing pad was situated just a few yards from the beach. The air was still quivering with dust from the helicopter’s landing, and when it took off again …

  Besides which, she had no desire to stay outside in this hot sun. She was already feeling uncomfortably warm in her jacket, and the fine woollen trousers, which had seemed so suitable in England, were now clinging damply to her legs.

  The propellers began to pick up speed behind her, and she hurried the few feet to where Matthew was waiting, watching the aircraft take off. She concentrated on the helicopter in an effort to distract her gaze from Matthew’s muscled torso, but she was overpoweringly conscious of him standing there beside her. It was the first time she had seen him without his city clothes—practically without any clothes at all, she amended tensely—and she was sharply aware of the width of his chest, and the hair-roughened muscles of his thighs. He looked dark—and dangerous, she conceded uneasily. And unnervingly like a st
ranger; someone she’d never seen before …

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SAMANTHA stood at the open french doors, gazing out at the ocean. The scent of mimosa hung in the still afternoon air, and the scarlet petals of geraniums tumbled from a dozen tubs strewn about the courtyard. In the centre of the courtyard, a stone nymph spilled water from an urn she was holding into the marble basin at her feet. It meant Samantha could always hear the cooling sound of running water, and she already knew the fountain was spread with lilies at its base.

  Beyond the courtyard a walled garden gave on to a flagged terrace. And, beyond the terrace, steps led down to a sandy beach. From her position by the folding glass doors Samantha had a spectacular view of blue-green waters creaming along the shoreline, with the occasional glimpse of snow-white sails, nudging the horizon.

  It was all quite breathtaking, and unbelievably beautiful. And certainly nothing like she had expected. Oh, she had been prepared for the light and colour of Greece, particularly after an English winter, but the unashamed luxury of Matthew’s grandfather’s house had left her feeling numb and confused.

  She glanced round at her suitcase lying on the carved chest at the foot of the bed. Even her luggage looked lost in these surroundings. And as out of place as she was, she acknowledged with a sigh. She should never have come here. She should never have succumbed to Matthew’s sensual persuasion. How could someone who lived in this place ever require her assistance? It simply wasn’t credible. It had all been just a lie.

  And yet, she admitted, sliding a weary hand through her hair, she had known from the beginning that helping Matthew’s mother organise his grandfather’s birthday party had never been the whole reason for her trip. So why was she feeling so depressed now? Just because the circumstances were vastly different from what she had expected, why did she feel so empty, as if something precious had been taken away from her?

  She sighed, and, moving away from the windows, she surveyed the cream and rose splendour of her surroundings. When she had first been shown into these rooms she had been convinced someone had made a mistake. The richly furnished sitting-room, with its soft velvet sofas and carved cabinets, could not be for her. Any more than could the huge bed, in the room adjoining, with its exotically hanging draperies, or the lavishly equipped bathroom, sporting a step-in pool deep enough to swim in. These were not the apartments of someone who had come here under false pretences. And it was certainly not the kind of accommodation she had had in mind when she had agreed to come.

  Which was really what was wrong, she acknowledged dully. Until she had seen this place, she had been labouring under the not unnatural illusion that, despite Matthew’s involvement with Melissa Mainwaring, he was not so different from herself. It was difficult to make sense of what she had been thinking, but she knew that, deep down, she had entertained some notion that she and Matthew might—–

  She drew a breath. Might what? she asked herself bitterly. Might become friends? Lovers? Might fall in love?

  The naïveté of such thoughts appalled her now. No one who lived in a place like this could conceivably care about someone like her. Whatever he had brought her here for—and she knew now that helping his mother with anything was out of the question—it was not because he had any serious intentions towards her. He found her a diversion, and quite amusing, but apart from going to bed with her there was nothing else he wanted.

  It was almost feudal really, she brooded, flicking the strap of the nightgown that was hanging half-in, half-out of the case. She had been brought here to keep Matthew amused. No expense spared—so long as she didn’t get ideas above her station.

  If only she had had the chance to talk to Matthew before Spiro Niarchos took off for Athens. If only she had had the chance to talk to Matthew, period. But she hadn’t. No sooner had the helicopter lifted off than a smiling maid servant had appeared to escort her to her room. And, although Matthew had brought her suitcases into the house, another servant, a man this time, had relieved him of that duty too.

  He must have known how she was feeling, but he made no attempt to accompany her. Instead, it had been left to the maid to show her to her suite. And, although she might have expected him to join her for a late lunch, a tray of food had been waiting for her when she emerged from the bathroom.

  She supposed it was possible that he had thought she might be tired. After all, it had been very early when she’d left Northfleet, and she might have wanted to have a rest. But Samantha was too strung-up to rest, too apprehensive to sleep. Beautiful as this place undoubtedly was, she couldn’t relax here.

  And he must know it, she fretted, as resentment took the place of consternation. That was why he was keeping out of her way. He must know she couldn’t stay here, meeting his family, and joining his grandfather’s guests as if she were one of them. She wasn’t. She could never be. It was just another of his games, and she had been foolish enough to fall for it.

  Of course, she conceded tightly, glancing down at the chainstore-bought cotton trousers and vest-top she had changed into for coolness, he might have no intention of introducing her to his family. Just because she had been given a luxurious place to stay was no guarantee that she was to be treated like all the other guests. This might be as much of the villa as she was intended to see. Her own sitting-room; her own private courtyard! Why should she assume she’d be invited to join the family?

  She glanced down at her watch. It was four o’clock, she saw unhappily, taking a choked breath. If she hadn’t thought someone might see her, she’d have gone for a walk on the beach. Anything to get away from this gilded cage, and the disturbing images it created.

  Of course, she could always finish her unpacking, she thought bitterly, realising that, whatever happened, she wasn’t going to find it easy to get away from here before the party was over. But the party wasn’t until tomorrow night, and there were an awful lot of hours between.

  She heard a sound from the sitting-room next door, and her mouth went dry. But when no one called her name she expelled an uneven breath. No doubt someone had come to take away the untouched tray, she thought despairingly. But she hadn’t been able to eat a thing, not with God knew what hanging over her head.

  ‘Feeling better?’

  The softly spoken enquiry startled her, and Samantha swung round almost guiltily. Not that she had anything to be guilty of, she assured herself grimly. Not with these people, at least. And when she saw Matthew standing in the arched doorway to the sitting-room her most immediate feelings were those of frustration.

  All the same, she was instantly receptive to his dark sexuality, which was only enhanced by the narrow-fitting chinos he was wearing. They accentuated the powerful length of his legs, moulding his thighs, and stretching taut across his sex. Samantha looked once, and then away, forcing herself to concentrate on a point somewhere to the left of his right ear.

  And, ‘No,’ she said, in answer to his question. ‘I should never have come here.’

  ‘Why?’ Matthew moved further into the room, glancing round at the icon-hung walls, and digging the toe of his expensive loafers into the thick carpet. ‘Don’t you like it?’

  Samantha made a face. ‘No,’ she said, not altogether truthfully. ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘But why?’ Matthew pushed a hand through his hair, and allowed it to rest at the back of his neck. The action parted the lapels of his shirt, a hand-embroidered item that Samantha guessed must have cost a small fortune, and compressed the longer hair at the back of his head against his nape. ‘Aren’t you comfortable?’

  Samantha made a strangled sound. ‘Comfortable?’ she echoed. ‘I suppose it depends what you mean by comfortable, doesn’t it?’

  Matthew’s dark eyes came to rest on her agitated features. ‘I don’t understand.’ He frowned. ‘Has someone said something to you?’

  ‘No.’ Samantha wrapped her arms across her body, and pressed her palms against her elbows. ‘No,’ she repeated, turning away from his disturbing presence
, and moving towards the open doors again. ‘I haven’t spoken to anyone. I don’t speak Greek, do I?’

  She sensed him crossing the width of the room to stand beside her, but she held her ground, even if the urge to widen the gap again was strong inside her. They had to have this out, she thought tensely. Even if the idea of arguing with him here was somewhat reckless.

  ‘And that’s what’s wrong?’ he asked, his attractively hoarse voice only inches from her ear. He ran two fingers down her flushed cheek. ‘You think it’s important that you don’t speak the language?’

  ‘Oh, stop it!’ Samantha could bear it no longer. Dashing his hand away from her face, she smeared her fingers over the spot. ‘Of course that’s not what’s the matter, and you know it. For heaven’s sake, what do you think I am? Don’t you think I have any feelings? Oh—probably not. I’m only a—a waitress, after all!’

  ‘Hey!’ His hand on her shoulder was warm and possessive. It sent a wave of longing surging through her body that she couldn’t even begin to deny. ‘Don’t be angry because I didn’t tell you the whole truth—–’

  ‘The whole truth!’ She didn’t let him finish, but whirled away from him, grasping the still-warm frame of the french door, and gazing at him with wild, impassioned eyes. ‘The whole truth! I doubt if anything you’ve said to me bears the slightest resemblance to the truth!’

  Matthew exhaled slowly. ‘You don’t like this place,’ he said mildly. ‘Well, I have to admit, it is a little over the top—–’

  ‘I don’t care about this place!’ Samantha fairly yelled at him, and then, aware that her voice was probably audible from other parts of the villa, she toned it down. ‘Stop pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about. You let me think you worked for a computer company—–’