The warm night bred restlessness in Lena, too, and she began to feel she must escape from the company of others. With a murmured excuse she stood up and left the salon and hurried along the carpeted corridors…
'Helena, where are you going?' As she passed the door to the master-suite, Marcos was just emerging and his hand on her arm halted her.
'Up on deck.'
'Impossible. It is not safe.'
'I need some air,' she pleaded, 'a change of scenery. I'm tired of staring at the four walls of that salon, of the atmosphere in there.'
'We can at least provide the change of scenery.' Before she'd realised what he was about to do he had drawn her through the door into the foyer of his suite and thence into the vast sitting-room. The protest she was about to make died on her lips as she took in her surroundings.
The yacht was a large one, but even so it had not prepared her for the size or elegance of the owner's accommodation. The sitting-room's vaulted ceiling reached two decks to a skylight through which the troubled sky could be seen. The wide expanse of deep carpet led her eye to an archway which revealed a bedroom beyond, and before she dragged her unwillingly fascinated eyes away they had registered the size of the bed and its opulent coverings.
'Marcos,' she croaked. 'I can't stay. I'll…I'll go back to the salon. I…'
'Not yet.' He drew her towards a settee upholstered in a rich red brocade. 'Sit down!' It was said in a tone that brooked no denial.
As he sat beside her, she edged away.
'Well, just for a few minutes, then. I really ought…'
'Helena!' He sounded exasperated and his fingers seized her wrist in an iron grip. 'You have been alone with me before. Why this sudden nervousness, this unwillingness for my company?'
Despite his inference Lena was no coward. The time had come, she felt, for plain speaking.
'Yes, I've been alone with you before. But it shouldn't have happened, Marcos. It isn't right. I knew it then, but…'
'But you let me make love to you nevertheless?' His grasp had gentled and his thumb drew lazy, sensuous circles on her palm.
'It was wrong of me… wrong of you.' She tried to pull out of his grasp.
'Then why did you let me kiss you?' he demanded gently. 'Why did you kiss me in return?' He subjected her to an eye-contact she could not break.
In desperation, she shook her honey-coloured head from side to side.
'I don't know. I…'
'Oh, but you do, Helena.' His husky voice held her in thrall. 'I think we both know why. It is because we recognise something between us that cannot be denied. A chemistry that, despite all obstacles, draws us into each other's arms.'
At his words her body tightened and the primal force within her responded. She felt breathless. Chemistry, yes, that was all it was to him, while she… It wasn't easy to think, to be rational, when her every instinct was to give in to his seduction.
'But that's why we mustn't be alone,' she told him with a kind of desperation in her voice. 'Don't you see, if we can't fight it then we must avoid situations where…' The words trailed off as he moved impatiently towards her, and her body vibrated its alarm.
'I have no intention of avoiding you, or of avoiding occasions like this,' he said. His gaze swept over her, taking in the simple frock she had worn for dinner, and the firm thrust of her breasts beneath it, and she felt her nipples harden with excitement she could not quell. His sensual inspection moved down over the curves of her waist and hips as intimately as if he were touching her, took in her well-shaped legs, the delicate ankles. As his gaze returned to her face she felt as though she must drown in the liquid allure of his dark eyes. 'I want you, Helena, and you want me,' he said huskily. Moist heat in the most vulnerable part of her body made her shudder, and involuntarily her lips parted. Oh, if only he didn't exude this irresistible sexual magnetism that made nonsense of all her resolutions.
She wondered what it would be like to be beneath him, to have his hands run over her, easing this inner aching, bringing her to the fulfilment she craved. Unaware that she did so, she swayed towards him, and the next moment she was in his arms.
'You see, my Helena, you do not want to resist any more than I do,' he breathed triumphantly before his lips closed over hers. Never had she been so stirred by a man's kiss.
Oh, God! The prayerful thought sped through Lena's bemused brain, but it was ineffective. She had passed beyond redemption. Marcos buried his lips in the hollow of her neck, tasted the sweetness of her skin, and his hands began to move over her body, knowing the flare of her hips, the curved firmness of her buttocks, the straining fullness of her breasts.
She knew how aroused he was when he shuddered violently and pulled her to him almost roughly, adjusting their position so that they lay stretched the full length of the settee. She was aware of every ragged breath he took, aware too of the unashamed, vibrant masculinity that throbbed between them.
'Marcos!' She hardly recognised her own voice. Her utterance of his name was a plea, for him to be strong for both of them. But he misunderstood, taking it for want, for surrender. His kiss, his touch, became more and more erotic, his hands moving lower, seeking greater intimacy.
With a little gasp she gave into her own need to touch him, pressing against him, her hands finding their way beneath his shirt as she knew an aching void that craved to be filled. The skin of his back was warm and damp, and he drew in a long, shuddering breath as her fingers kneaded its muscular breadth.
'Helena!' The urgency of his voice, of his body, told her he'd reached the point where kissing and touching wasn't enough. 'Come into the bedroom,' he urged huskily. 'I want you in my bed—now.'
At his words, a fierce jolt of desire rippled through her. But they brought her also to a realisation of just what she was permitting, of what might happen. They reminded her, too, that she had no right in Marcos's bed. That privilege belonged to someone else, to a girl she liked, who didn't deserve to be betrayed this way. She began to struggle.
'No, Marcos!' she panted as he fought her attempts to be free of him. 'For God's sake, think what you're doing.' With the strength of sudden desperation, she wrenched herself out of his arms.
With trembling hands she began to adjust her dress, refastening with difficulty the buttons of which his fingers had made such light work. After one glance she dared not meet his eyes again, but that fleeting glance was enough to show them glazed and clouded with arousal. She was still trembling with reaction. She still wanted him, with as much ferocity as he wanted her, but it was impossible.
Say something, she begged him inwardly, say something to break this awful tension. But he was silent, and it was she who finally spoke again as she moved towards the door.
'I'm sorry, Marcos. I didn't intend… If you remember, I said we shouldn't be alone together. Oh, Marcos!' It was a plea from the heart, and now she did look at him where he lay still half sprawled across the settee. 'Please say you understand, that you agree with me.' He was staring at her with an intensity that unnerved her. 'We couldn't… Not when you and Marianthe are…' Her shifting gaze lowered once more, looking anywhere but at his face. Her stomach jolted violently, while a surge of heat suffused her body as her eyes encountered the evidence of his arousal which the taut material of his trousers revealed all too plainly. With a little inarticulate cry, she turned and fled before her resolution could waver.
It would be a relief when this voyage was over. The yacht, which had once seemed so large, was too small to contain both her and Marcos and the strength of the magnetism that sparked between them.
Another white-hot day, and there was Mykonos at last with its guardian windmills that converged on. the attractive port. Sundrenched bare hills rose from a deep blue sea, and the air was full of the tingling blend of ozone and pine scent that seemed to typify the Greek seashore.
Marcos planned only a short stay, just long enough to see his future in-laws. But he suggested his passengers came ashore with Marianthe to pay their
respects to her parents, and Lena confessed herself curious to see something of the island.
They landed by launch on the crescent of whitewashed shops and cafes. Fishing-boats and small yachts bobbed at anchor or were hauled up on the quay. Here again was the architecture peculiar to the Cyclades: chunky, cubist whitewashed houses with tall, fretted chimneys and pastel-coloured wedding-cake churches dotting the brown landscape. Many of these tiny chapels, Marianthe told Lena, had been built by supplicants who had recovered from a serious illness, or by sailors who had returned home after surviving dangers at sea.
'Thia Arietta,' she said, with a glance at the nun, 'built one of the chapels on Skiapelos in thanksgiving for her vocation.'
They walked up from the quayside, Lena and Marianthe a little ahead of the others. Mykonos was no ethnic Greek community struggling to make a living out of farming and fishing, Lena soon realised. On this island, the tourist trade was big business. The crowded, tortuous lanes of the town, as well as the waterfront, were lined with restaurants, bars and boutiques selling various improbable transformations of sponges and sea-shells.
'It's my home, but,' Marianthe said with a sigh, 'I wish it were not quite so popular with tourists. I'd like it to be more like Skiapelos, quiet and unspoiled.'
'You'll be glad when you go to live there permanently, then,' Lena said. It was an effort to hide her feelings and speak naturally, but she did like this Greek girl, very much, and not for the world would she cause her any pain.
'Oh, no!' Marianthe sounded quite aghast. 'I shan't be living on Skiapelos.'
Of course, silly of her, Lena realised. Marcos's business must keep him in Athens most of the year around. Marianthe would hardly wish to be separated from her husband. Lena knew that, much as she had loved his island home, if she were married to Marcos she wouldn't want to spend so much time apart from him. Her insides contracted. She wouldn't want to spend any time apart from him.
'But you'll go there quite often to visit, I expect?' she went on doggedly, torturing herself.
'No,' Marianthe said it with quiet regret, 'this was my last visit to the islands.'
'But I don't understand,' Lena puzzled. 'If you're going to marry Marcos…'
'I don't want to marry Marcos,' Marianthe muttered fiercely, with an uneasy glance over her shoulder.
Lena stared at her, incredulity mingling with flaring hope.
'But…'
'But I shall have to, unless I can get away.'
'Why don't you just tell him?'
The other girl's olive-skinned face blanched visibly.
'I couldn't do that. I couldn't hurt his feelings. Oh, Lena, will you help me?'
'How can I help you?'
'Marcos is going to see my parents today, and the next time he comes here it will be for our wedding. But if I'm not here there won't be any wedding. Lena, when the yacht leaves, will you hide me in your cabin? I must get away from my father and get to Athens.'
'Oh, Marianthe, do you think that's wise? Look what happened to Marcos's aunt. Her family disowned her.'
'My mother will be on my side. But even if she wasn't, I wouldn't care. I won't marry someone I don't love. Would you?'
'No, but…'
'Then please say you'll help me.'
'Suppose Marcos finds out you're on board?'
'He won't if we're careful.'
'But I share a cabin with Chryssanti.'
'She won't give me away. She doesn't like Marcos.'
'Don't you like him, Marianthe?'
'Yes,' was the surprising reply. 'I just don't want to marry him. He's too old for me. Besides…' She hesitated, then almost defiantly declared, 'There's someone else.'
Oh, dear, history was repeating itself. Lena looked at the other girl with concern, wondering if Marianthe knew what she was doing. After all, she was only the same age as Chryssanti. She felt she'd like to help the younger girl, but wondered whether she ought to. She couldn't be sure her motive wasn't just one of self-interest.
'Promise me you'll help,' Marianthe interrupted her reflections in an urgent whisper. 'Before the others catch up with us.'
'I'll try,' was as far as Lena would commit herself.
In the event, it was ridiculously easy. As soon as they arrived at the Lychnos's house, Marcos was closeted with his future father-in-law, while Arietta conversed politely with Mrs Lychnos. The three girls were left to their own devices.
'I'm going back on board now,' Marianthe told Lena and Chryssanti. By now Chryssanti had been let into the secret. 'My mother is bound to offer you some refreshments before you leave. If she asks where I am, say you don't know.'
'It was very impolite of Marianthe to disappear without a word of farewell,' Arietta said with displeasure as they made their way back to the yacht.
Lena pretended not to see Chryssanti's knowing look. Besides, she was more interested in Marcos's reaction than in that of his aunt. It was as well Marianthe had made herself scarce almost immediately, because Marcos had not remained long with her father. He had emerged grim-faced and had declined Mrs Lychnos's offer of refreshment.
As they walked back down the hill to the quayside, Lena stole furtive glances at Marcos's profile. He looked almost as angry as he had done after the quarrel with his grandfather. She was consumed by curiosity, and grateful when Arietta asked, 'Are all the arrangements in hand for the wedding?'
But she was not as gratified by Marcos's curt affirmative. But then, he did not know of Marianthe's plans. So why the anger, then?
On board, Lena made an excuse to go straight to her cabin, where a nervous Marianthe awaited her.
'I'll have to hide in the bathroom,' she told Lena.
'But suppose one of the stewards comes to clean up?'
In the end it was decided that Lena should feign an indisposition and keep to her cabin for the short time it would take them to sail back to Piraeus. Once back in the home port, Marianthe would stay in hiding until Marcos and his party were safely departed.
'What will you do then?' Lena asked.
'It's better you don't know too much. But don't worry. I have a friend in Athens. We were at school together in Paris. She'll help me.'
'Are you quite recovered?' Marcos asked Lena as the limousine bore them swiftly back towards Athens, and guiltily she nodded her thanks. 'If you come and see me at the office tomorrow, we will talk about a job for you.'
'Oh, no!' Lena exclaimed. 'I mean, it's very good of you, but you've obviously forgotten I have to go back to England with Chrys.'
'I forget nothing. Thia Arietta will accompany Chryssanti. She wishes to see Irini and perhaps bring her some religious comfort in her illness.'
'Oh, good!' Lena said impulsively. She turned to the nun. 'Do you have any messages for Irini from her father?'
Arietta shook her head.
'My brother was in no mood to send messages when we left Skiapelos. In any case, he does not forgive easily.'
'You won't tell Irini that?' Lena pleaded, and for a moment the nun's stern face softened.
'I believe you are a good-hearted girl, thespinis. No, you have my promise that I will be tactful.'
'So you see, Lena,' Marcos put in, 'there is no reason why you should not remain in Athens.'
Only one, perhaps—that to stay might mean getting hurt. But, even so, she could not bring herself to pass up this opportunity of seeing Marcos for a little longer.
'So I'm going to accept the job whatever it is,' she wrote to Sally in a long delayed letter that evening. 'I may be a fool, but I know he's sexually attracted to me, and with Marianthe determined not to marry him, perhaps there's a chance for me, after all.' Biting her pen in thought, she looked out across the roof garden towards the floodlit Acropolis, and wondered fancifully if the old gods and goddesses were on her side. A thought occurred to her, and she bent to her task once more. 'At least one good thing has come out of this. I'm totally over Petros. In fact, I can't think what I ever saw in him.' She ended with her best wishes to
Domenicos Theodopoulos and the message that she would be writing him a separate letter concerning her errand to Thalassios Mavroleon.
'As you have had office experience, I am putting you to work with my secretary,' Marcos told Lena next day. She had only volunteered the information that she could do shorthand and typing. 'We are in the middle of some very important negotiations at present, and Lydia is extremely busy. Though you know nothing about oil or shipping contracts, it is merely a matter of copy-typing and perhaps taking a few letters at my dictation.'
Lena hid a smile as she confirmed that she would be equal to such a task.
'The work need only be part-time, if you wish,' Marcos went on, 'so that you can continue with your sightseeing.'
But over the next few days she was kept too fully occupied. And she didn't really mind. Somehow the idea of sightseeing had palled. And there was a satisfaction, too, in being back in a world she knew so well, even though she was careful not to reveal the fact.
Chryssanti was tearful when Lena saw her and Arietta Mavroleon off at the airport. For a moment or two she clung to Lena.
'Write to me, won't you?' Then, 'I'm scared, Lena. Scared how I'll find Mum. And it's terrible to think I'll never see Christos again.'
'Chrys…' Lena hesitated. She didn't want to appear to preach, and Chryssanti would probably resent it. But perhaps, later on, when time had faded the hurt a little, the younger girl would remember Lena's advice and be glad of it. 'Chrys, you're still very young. You'll fall in love again some day. Meanwhile, why not carry on with your studies and think about a career? Try and forget about Christos,' she urged.
'It's all right for you,' Chryssanti retorted. 'Marianthe doesn't want to marry Marcos. You stand a chance, especially working with him.'
Lena hadn't realised her feelings were so transparently obvious, and if they were obvious to Chryssanti, what about Marcos himself?
But working for Marcos was not bringing Lena any closer to him. Since they had been back in Athens he had withdrawn into a reserve which both puzzled and piqued her. Any conversation between them was concerned purely with office routine.
Black Lion of Skiapelos Page 10