Black Lion of Skiapelos

by Annabel Murray

  Lena believed her. There was a lot of Irini Forster in her daughter, even though Chryssanti had inherited her father's bright hair. Lena had spent a few days in Irini's household getting to know the boy and girl with whom she was to be entrusted. She had conceived a deep admiration for the older woman, and not only for her bravery in the face of her illness. Conversant with Greek tradition, Lena knew it must have taken a very special courage to stand out against tradition and her parents' wishes, to leave home for a very different culture and way of life.

  As the plane swiftly lost height, the Bay of Athens sparkled with the brilliance of an artist's watercolour, and beyond into the distance, Lena could see a scattering of seemingly endless islands.

  Athens airport, and they exchanged the air-conditioned interior of the aeroplane for the hottest country in Europe, for sun-baked tarmac and a dazzling impression of white buildings backed by green hillsides.

  They encountered no difficulty at Customs. The limousine that Domenicos Theodopoulos kept in Athens was there to meet them. From the airport the road followed the coastline, affording wonderful views of the sea, blue as flax, with glimpses of the islands of Salamis and Aegina. In Athens itself Lena craned her neck for her first view of the Acropolis but, disappointingly, it was screened from view by tall blocks of offices and apartment buildings.

  One of these buildings was owned by Domenicos Theodopoulos, and his own penthouse suite was at Lena's disposal for the duration of her stay. From this base she was to make contact with the Mavroleon family.

  'I take it they don't have a London branch?' she'd asked.

  'No,' he said shortly, and Lena, used to Domenicos's ways, sensed something underlying the curt negative.

  'Isn't that a little… unusual?'

  But Domenicos's only answer was a noncommittal shrug. Whatever his thoughts on the subject, he was obviously not prepared to share them with her. Accustomed during her years of employment to being in full receipt of the elderly Greek's confidence, Lena was a little hurt by his reticence. But then, she reminded herself, by her own choice she was no longer his personal assistant.

  Perhaps Domenicos recognised her chagrin.

  'I do not know where my old friend Thalassios can be found these days,' he had explained, and to her surprise, 'To tell you the truth, the last time we parted it was not as friends. And since his retirement his company is run by his grandsons, of whom I know little or nothing.'

  Lena hadn't liked to ask the cause of the disagreement between Domenicos and Thalassios Mavroleon, and she was a little disconcerted when the elderly Greek added, 'It would be better not to mention my involvement in Irini's affairs. It might be misunderstood.'

  'But then how do I explain my involvement?' she'd asked.

  'You will think of a reason. I have great faith in you, my dear Lena.' Which was flattering, but unhelpful.

  Lena slept badly that first night in Athens. Despite all her brave efforts to put her charges' interests before her own, she was still bitterly unhappy. For a while after Petros had ended their relationship there had been the hope that he would contact her, tell her it had all been a dreadful mistake. But gradually that hope had faded and, with its fading, the iron had entered into her soul. She'd left England fiercely determined in future to erect a protective shell about her emotions and to put the young Greek out of her thoughts. But it wasn't easy.

  Like Sally, some people might think that it was the loss of her career, the wealthy life-style that marriage to Petros would have provided, that mattered to Lena. But she'd loved him for himself, not the material prospects he offered. And there was the gnawing physical deprivation, too. Though she and Petros had never made love in the full physical sense, his kisses and caresses had aroused her to a need that their marriage would have satisfied. It was a need that could not be lulled to sleep as easily as it had been awoken.

  At first light she gave up the struggle for sleep, pulled a negligee around her slender shoulders and wandered out on to the rooftop terrace, a very acceptable substitute for a garden, and gave her thoughts full rein. Oh, Petros!

  It was so early that the dust and fumes from traffic had not yet begun to rise. The air was still cool and sweet. A lemon and honey light cast a spell over the surrounding mundane buildings. And—Lena caught her breath—there was the view that had eluded her last night. Rising serenely above its modern neighbours was the Acropolis, its pale classic lines reflecting the dawn in blushing pink. She stood there for a long time allowing the vision to work its ancient magic. When she finally moved, it was with a new energy. Somehow the sight of the timeless beauty which had survived centuries of man's tribulations had rendered her problems trivial and transient, bringing with it an uplifting of her spirits. Her lethargy vanished. Some time, very soon, she vowed, she would make the tourist's obligatory pilgrimage to the 'Ancient City on the Hill', which was what 'Acropolis' meant. But first she had a duty to perform.

  She went inside, showered briskly and put on the simple blue summer dress she planned to wear for her encounter with the younger generation of Mavroleons.

  She roused a still sleepy Stephen and the reluctant Chryssanti and ordered breakfast for the three of them— coffee, rolls and delicious Hymettus honey.

  'I don't care what the Mavroleons think of me,' the girl protested as Lena urged her to make the most of her appearance for her meeting with her cousins.

  'Nevertheless!' Lena was firm as she brushed out the younger girl's red-gold tresses.

  The sun was already too warm to be comfortable when they set out. Domenicos Theodopoulos had given Lena directions to the Athens office of the Mavroleon Shipping Company, and she elected to walk the short distance to the Plateia Syntagma.

  Stephen was inclined to loiter. The small boy was enchanted by the many cake and sweet shops, their windows dressed with every shape and size of chocolate, Turkish delight, almond paste and nougat and an amazing variety of iced pastries. Lena hurried the child on, promising him a treat later.

  Syntagma, or Constitution Square, lay on a slight slope. One side of the square faced the Parliament building where the Evzones, or Presidential guards, in their long white socks and shoes, kept guard, their pleated fustanellas swirling as they wheeled in front of the simple but impressive War Memorial.

  The other three sides of the square were given over to cafes, office blocks, banks and stately hotels. Hidden away behind an airline building, and opening into an unexpected patio far from traffic noises, was the imposing suite of offices which housed the Mavroleon corporation.

  Lena ushered her charges through chrome and plate-glass doors which opened into an impressive foyer with thick carpets and expensive modern furniture. It was welcomingly cool after the breathless air outside. She made enquiries of a receptionist who directed them to a private lift which carried them noiselessly to the sixth floor.

  The little trio stepped out into a corridor whose carpeting seemed even thicker and more luxurious than that of the ground floor. Confronted by an impressive array of solid-looking doors, Lena paused. Then, attracted by the muffled sounds of typewriters, she selected a door, knocked and entered.

  This was evidently the typing pool. An older woman, the supervisor, asked Lena's business.

  'I'd like to see Mr Mavroleon.'

  'Kyrios Marcos, Kyrios Christos, Kyrios Dimitri or Kyrios Manoli?'

  Lena hesitated. Her information about the Mavroleon family was very sketchy. The decision was made for her.

  'In any case, Kyrios Marcos and Kyrios Dimitri are out. I will ask Kyrios Christos's secretary if he can see you. What is your business?'

  'It's personal,' Lena said firmly.

  A moment or two later a statuesque brunette ushered them into a large, luxuriously appointed office.

  'Thespinis?' A tall, dark young man of lean build rose from behind a large desk. 'How may I help you?' Keen eyes took in Chryssanti's red-gold youth, Stephen, dark and sturdy, and rested in thoughtful appreciation on Lena herself, petite, blonde and
lissomely lovely. His mouth widened into a sparkling white smile.

  'It's really Mr Thalassios Mavroleon I want to see,' Lena explained.

  'My grandfather?' The smile faded and dark eyebrows rose enquiringly. 'My grandfather no longer takes an active part in business.'

  'I realise that. Mr Theo…' Just in time, she remembered Domenicos's injunction. 'Someone told me he'd retired. But this is personal. It concerns his daughter, Irini.'

  'Aunt Irini?' Christos Mavroleon's expression was wary now. 'Her name is not spoken in my grandfather's home.'

  Chryssanti drew breath in a sharp hiss.

  'Irini is ill,' Lena said quickly, forestalling any outburst the girl might have contemplated. 'These are her children.' She introduced the stolid, solemn-eyed Stephen and the slightly sulky-looking Chryssanti.

  'You are a Mavroleon?' Christos said wonderingly, looking again at her bright head.

  'My name is Chrys Forster,' the girl corrected defiantly. 'I prefer to be called Chrys. It sounds more English. I'm only half-Greek.' She made it sound as if she regretted even that half.

  'Why have you brought Irini's children here?' Christos Mavroleon asked Lena, and as she hesitated, unwilling to speak more plainly in front of Stephen, Chryssanti again rushed into speech.

  'She's brought us here because my mother is probably going to die and wants us to meet our grandfather. I can't think why.' She choked on a sob. 'I didn't want to come and I don't care if I don't meet him. He sounds a horrid old man.' The girl was crying now, tears cascading down her cheeks. She pulled at Lena's arm. 'Let's go home.' Her voice rose an octave and Stephen's lower lip began to tremble ominously. 'They don't want us here.'

  'Chrys!' Lena protested.

  'Thespinis Thomas, I think it would be best…' Christos was beginning, his voice raised to make itself heard, when there was an interruption which silenced them all, even Chryssanti's noisy sobs.

  'Theos mou! Silence! All of you! Christos, explain this uproar.'

  The man who erupted out of the adjoining office was an older, more striking counterpart of Christos Mavroleon. But he was taller, broader, his cleft chin was squarer, his full-lipped mouth firmer—a hint of passion warring now with impatience. Christos seemed relieved to see him.

  'Marcos! I didn't know you were back.'

  'Evidently!' Marcos Mavroleon's deep, rather attractive voice had a cutting edge to it. Arms akimbo, legs straddled, he filled the doorway. Lena couldn't help noticing how the excellent cut of his suit accentuated his very masculine attributes, the heavy cream linen setting off the olive texture of his skin, the long-lashed dark eyes.

  'Thespinis Thomas,' Christos introduced hurriedly, 'this is my cousin Marcos, the senior partner of our corporation.'

  Gleaming black eyes assessed Lena, missing nothing of her appearance, from the top of her wavy blonde head to the tips of her strappy white sandals. There was nothing overtly offensive in his scrutiny. Yet, with an unusual loss of her normal poise, Lena felt that the black eyes, idly contemplative, were denuding her of the peacock-blue dress with its demure white collar.

  'Marcos,' his cousin went on, 'Thespinis Thomas had brought to us the children of our Aunt Irini. Irini…' He paused, with an almost imperceptible glance at Stephen and Chryssanti. 'Irini is sick.'

  The disconcerting black eyes snapped into focus.

  'Irini's children? These?' He turned his attention first to Stephen, the child still uncertain whether to join in his sister's noisy grief, then to Chryssanti's tear-stained, mutinous beauty. 'Epiph!' he breathed the curse. Then, 'You, Miss Thomas, come into my office. You…' his gaze commanded Stephen and Chryssanti'… will remain here!' He turned on his heel, a man who called the tune and expected others to dance to it.

  Oddly shaken by this whirlwind encounter, Lena cast an appealing glance at Christos, but there was no help from that quarter. A nod of his dark head indicated that she should follow his cousin. On legs become suddenly tremulous, she did so. It was anger at Marcos Mavroleon's high-handed peremptory manner that was making her tremble so, she told herself.

  Even from the rear he contrived to intimidate. Thick, black curly hair grew low on his strong neck. Broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, long-legged, his very walk was a statement of arrogance.

  Deliberately Lena dragged her eyes away from their compulsive assessment, concentrating instead on her surroundings.

  As befitted his status, the senior partner's office was even more magnificently appointed than that of his cousin. The carpet was thicker, the desk larger. Lena often thought that if she had not taken a degree in business studies she might have chosen to do fine arts. As it was, in her spare time, she had made a study of the history of art and she could swear that the French Impressionist paintings on the far wall were originals.

  'Miss Thomas!' Marcos spun a swivel chair to face her. One hand remained steadying his chair, the other gestured her to take a seat.

  Reluctantly Lena lowered herself into the soft leather depths. Instead of moving away as she had hoped, his overpowering presence continued to dominate her. She was forced to tilt her head a long way to look up at his as he loomed, very large and silently inscrutable, his eyes continuing their assessment of her.

  'I'm sorry if you were disturbed,' she said, seeking to gain the initiative. 'Chrys is a very sensitive girl, and naturally she's very worried about her mother.'

  'Yes—her mother,' Marcos interrupted. 'I presume you have proof that these are Irini's children?'

  'Of course.' Lena opened her handbag and took out an envelope containing the relevant birth certificates. She watched as he subjected them to an intent scrutiny. Without comment, he returned them to her. Slightly needled by his attitude, Lena enquired 'Satisfied?'

  'Thank you, yes. A wealthy family has to protect itself against impostors.' And, with scarcely a pause for breath, 'What is your connection with my aunt?'

  Lena's fair skin coloured easily. She flushed now from neck to brow, taking his words as an implication that she might be a fortune hunter.

  'I'm a paid employee,' she told him crisply. 'My task is to deliver Irini's children to her father. My interest ends there.'

  'You are not an English relation?' he persisted. 'Of Irini's husband, perhaps?'

  'No.'

  He relaxed a little, she thought.

  'How serious is Irini's illness?'

  'I'm told she's unlikely to recover.'

  'Who has told you this? Her husband?'

  'No, her husband's dead. A friend of the family told me.' She was relieved when he did not demand further details. Instead he continued to study her in a way that did nothing to dispel her high colour, originally that of indignation, now that of embarrassment.

  'You look very young to act as escort in a foreign country,' he said just as his scrutiny was becoming unbearable.

  Lena's chin tilted. She was used to countering remarks like that.

  'I'm twenty-five, older than I look.'

  He made an incomprehensible sound and Lena stiffened as he said, 'In any event, your responsibility is ended. You have delivered your charges.'

  'No!' At his enquiring look, she went on, 'My brief is to deliver Stephen and Chrys to their grandfather, no one else. Irini was very specific about that.'

  His heavy brows drew together in a frown.

  'Impossible!'

  'I don't see why. Your grandfather is still alive?'

  He gave a brief crack of laughter. 'Very much so.'

  'Well, then!'

  'My grandfather is a very private man these days. He doesn't receive visitors.'

  'Visitors! Surely family doesn't come under that heading?' And, as he remained silent, 'Can't you at least get in touch and ask him?' She gestured towards the telephone.

  'There is no telephone in my grandfather's home. I told you, he likes his privacy.'

  'Mr Mavroleon, I suspect, for some reason of your own—goodness knows what—you're being deliberately obstructive. Can you really take it upon yourself,
' she challenged him, 'to deny Irini's children access to their grandfather? If he heard of it when it was too late, are you sure he'd approve of your actions?'

  'Miss Thomas,' he sounded a little weary now, 'my grandfather is not in Athens.'

  'That doesn't matter. I'm prepared to go anywhere.'

  'Really?' he drawled. 'But perhaps you don't realise just what that entails?'

  'Mr Mavroleon!' Lena was becoming irritated. She stood up. 'When someone gives me a job to do, I do it properly, whatever inconvenience it causes.' Then, indignantly, 'What's so funny?'

  CHAPTER TWO

  If anyone had asked her, Lena would have said that right now she was far from being susceptible to any man's charms. Petros's image was still too vivid, herself too determinedly impervious to any further risk of hurt. Yet, when she wrote the first letter to Sally that evening, her friend might have been forgiven for thinking otherwise.

  'Marcos Mavroleon is tall and dark,' she wrote, 'with thick blue-black hair, very strong, rugged features, not handsome exactly, but very compelling all the same. He's got the most penetrating eyes and the deep husky kind of voice that makes your toes curl. At first sight he's a bit alarming, and he's certainly used to having his own way. I hadn't known him more than ten minutes before he was organising me! But when he smiles his whole face changes and you feel he might be a likeable man after all.' There was a final throw-away line, too, that perhaps revealed more than Lena realised. 'Of course his cousin Christos is very attractive, too.'

  Yet, at first, when Marcos seemed to be laughing at her, Lena was angry.

  'What's so funny?' she repeated. 'I meant what I said.'

  'I'm sure you did, Miss Thomas. I was merely reflecting that the inconvenience you mention will be mine rather than yours.'

  'I don't understand.'

  To her relief he finally moved away from her chair and leaned instead against his desk, arms folded, legs crossed. The attitude drew the light-coloured material of his trousers taut across long, muscular thighs that were on a level with Lena's eyes. She found this exaggeration of his masculinity disconcerting, but in averting her gaze she met his amused one, and she was uncomfortably aware that he had noticed the hurried jerk of her head and correctly interpreted the reason for it.