Aphrodite's Tears

by Hannah Fielding

  ‘Don’t think that I can’t see what you’re up to. Like all these women he carries on with, you want to marry him so you can have the run of this island.’

  ‘That’s enough, Helena,’ Damian said quietly, going to his cousin and laying a hand on her shoulder, which she sent flying off with a knock of her clenched fist.

  ‘Get off me!’ Her eyes flashed furiously. ‘You’re just a pawn that these women use to reach their goal.’ The words seemed to choke in her throat. ‘They know your weakness, they know you can’t keep your trousers on.’

  As he stood before her, Damian’s intense gaze burned brightly, caught between disgust and pity. Oriel could see that he was appalled by the naked anger in Helena’s eyes and the venomous words that had just rolled out like an irrepressible torrent, but his bearing had changed and he became taller, more distant and imposing. The shadow of Drákon Damian had returned.

  Helena looked up at him now with a submissive kind of fear. ‘Just like him. Lust, always lust. What is it with this family?’ Suddenly she threw her hands over her eyes and a cry of pain broke from her. ‘I can’t stand it, I can’t stand it!’ Then, pushing her head back, her features racked with some sort of anguish that tortured her, she turned her wheelchair and rolled out of the room.

  Although he didn’t go after her, Damian’s gaze was fixed upon Helena until she had disappeared into her apartment. The unmarked side of his face was turned to Oriel, tired lines etched deeply in his brown skin. He seemed to have aged ten years in a few seconds, and she could see behind his rigid expression that his heart was bleeding. Oriel wasn’t so much surprised by his concern for Helena, what startled her was the discovery that the exterior look of hardness he showed wasn’t necessarily proof that he was a hardened man. It was an armour, making him aloof, unapproachable. This realization made a nerve leap against her fingertips as she touched them to the skin of her throat. She inhaled sharply and he stole a quick glance at her, his gaze going down inside her, holding her as if on a steel hook.

  ‘You must forgive my cousin,’ he said, his voice low and even. ‘Being confined to a wheelchair, day in, day out, makes her mind wander sometimes. She has these turns, brought on by tension and nerves. It makes her behaviour … unpredictable at times.’ His intense gaze softened, and he sighed and shook his head.

  ‘This is my fault. I didn’t drop in and see her before we went out tonight, as I usually do. She had probably been waiting for me, hoping that I would have dinner with her. I didn’t even warn her that I was going out, my mind was on other things.’ His eyes bore into Oriel’s. ‘It’s totally my fault, and I hope you can forget her unfortunate outburst.’

  Oriel smiled reassuringly and stared up at him, standing there so dark and powerful, and evoking in her the wild despair of a creature that finds itself in a trap. She laid a hand on his arm, trying to push away her own feelings of shock and disturbance at what had just occurred. ‘It is already forgotten. Don’t give it another thought.’

  The glitter of steel showing through Damian’s lashes was soft but his gaze upon Oriel was still penetrating. ‘Thank you, agápi mou. I’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again.’ Intense emotions hung in the air between them and the look they exchanged was one of silent understanding: their moment of passion had been brutally crushed, and whatever individual demons they were both harbouring had reared up to prevent them from being together that night.

  As she went to turn the key to her apartment, Damian added with a tired smile: ‘It’s already the early hours. You’d better get some sleep. I think we’ll be too tired to dive tomorrow, I’ll tell Irini not to wake you. Perhaps I could show you around the island. Maybe take you to visit the Lekkas Press, we make the best olive oil around here.’

  She nodded quickly. ‘That sounds like a good plan. I’ll see you later then. Goodnight.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll send Hassan or Irini to fetch you at two o’clock, after lunch. Kalinýchta.’

  Oriel went into her room and, after watching his dark figure disappear down the corridor, closed the door behind her, leaning against it. From the outside no one could have guessed how upset she was, though inside she was still trembling. Thwarted desire, frustration, anger and a strange kind of relief all vied for prominence within her. This whole evening had been a roller-coaster ride, and now she felt as though she had been sent hurtling through the air only to come crashing to the ground in a bruised heap.

  Oriel had lied, of course, when she had said that the incident with Damian’s cousin was forgotten. She was dismayed and outraged by Helena’s accusations. This woman was clearly unbalanced, and she knew in that moment that getting involved with Damian Lekkas, tempting as it might seem, would be pure madness. Even if she could be sure of his feelings for her, she couldn’t shake off the uneasy feeling she had around this household, blighted by tragedy and scandal. Did she really want to get pulled into its shadowy grasp?

  She glanced over at the darkened windows. Beyond them it was still night but dawn would be breaking soon … Yet there would no dawn for the feelings that she could feel budding in the innermost recesses of her heart. If she were to protect it, Damian must remain forbidden to her.

  * * *

  Oriel didn’t wake up until she heard a light knock on the door. It was Irini bringing in a tray of food.

  ‘Kaliméra, Despinis.’ The maid smiled. ‘The Kyrios gave instructions not to wake you until lunchtime. Did you sleep well?’

  Oriel raised herself up on one elbow, rubbing her eyes. ‘Yes, thank you, Irini. I can’t believe I slept for so long.’

  ‘The Kyrios said to tell you he will come by to collect you at three o’clock, not at two. He said to give you this.’ Irini put down the tray on the little writing table under the window and removed a cream envelope from it, handing it to Oriel, who had propped herself up against her pillows. The maid lowered her voice confidentially. ‘That will give him time to have lunch with the Kyria, his cousin. She has had one of her bad turns and was awake most of the night. She’s been crying all morning and didn’t want to see anybody … not even Beshir.’

  Oriel didn’t respond, as her mind flashed back to the previous night and Helena’s vituperative comments. It was clear that Damian’s cousin, if it pleased her to do so, could wind herself up into such a state that the entire household was thrown into disarray. Evidently, the woman wasn’t quite right in the head but, even so, it was also plain that she could still muster the power to manipulate.

  Oriel sighed inwardly. Whatever Helena’s intention, her arrival last night, hysterical and unpleasant though it was, had in fact been timely, saving her from making a terrible mistake: she had come perilously close to giving in to the passion that Damian ignited in her. However, now it seemed he would have to spend his lunchtime dancing to Helena’s tune, calming her down, making things manageable again.

  ‘Has the Kyria always had these bad turns?’ asked Oriel, as she opened the envelope from Damian.

  Irini shook her head. ‘Den xéro, I don’t know. I have only been working here a few years but, from what I hear, she has always had these sudden changes of mood.’ The young woman shrugged her shoulders. ‘I have to go now, they’ll be wondering where I am in the kitchen. Eat your lunch, or it will get cold.’

  Irini went out of the room, leaving Oriel to read Damian’s note. It was a brisk missive, informing her that he had woken early and had flown straight to Corfu. He had decided to show the Alexander bronze to an archaeologist he knew who had retired on the island, a former professor at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. If anyone could say with confidence who had sculpted the bronze, it was he. Damian added that he would see Oriel in the afternoon for a trip to the olive press.

  Oriel put down the note and brought her lunch tray back to bed, settling herself once more against the pillows. She was too preoccupied to touch the food, her mind pensive and distracted. So, Damian had gone to Corfu this morning … he can’t have had much sleep. Her thoughts turned wistfully to
the night before. They had breathed and moved on that dancefloor as though meant for each other. Still, Helena had made every effort to let Oriel know she was merely one in a line of many, raising the spectre of other women Damian had presumably brought to the house, other women he’d no doubt carried on with in the same seductive way he had with her – and it wasn’t just Helena who cast him as a philanderer: Yorgos had called him a conqueror of women … Was Damian Lekkas really the man who had seemed so honest with her last night? Something twisted inside Oriel. Was he a womanizer, just a practised seducer who was toying with her?

  She looked down at the tray of food; she wasn’t really hungry. It was too hot to eat anyway; even the salad of baby artichokes and zucchini didn’t tempt her. Maybe some fruit? Oriel helped herself to a bunch of grapes and a slice of melon – sweet and refreshing. How sensitive her lips were, still a little bruised from the feel of his. She must get a grip now, before seeing him again.

  Oriel treated herself to a scented bath. The steam crept all over her – it was a delicious, soothing feeling and she soaked among the bubbles for ten minutes, her eyes closed, trying to make a void in her mind, allowing herself to do nothing more than appreciate the sheer physical comfort of the hot water as the bubbles broke around her, their sweet scent filling her senses.

  Afterwards she dressed quickly, revived by the relaxing heat of the bath. She chose a simple navy cotton mini dress, then swept her hair up into a high ponytail, slipped on a pair of flat golden sandals and studied herself in the mirror. She seemed a little pale, and her eyes were overly bright as though she were running a fever, so she added some blusher to her cheeks and gloss to her lips. There was still plenty of time before three o’clock.

  Oriel had already decided to do a little research of her own before Damian came to take her to see the olive press. There was a friend from her college days she planned to call, Cynthia Albright, who now worked at the Bodleian Library in Oxford. Her friend would be the ideal person to help her research the trader’s brand on the seal of the amphora she had brought up from the wreck. Walking downstairs with Cynthia’s phone number on a scrap of paper, she caught sight of Irini arranging a vase of flowers in the hall, and asked if it was possible to make a call.

  ‘I’ll take you to the Kyrios’s study. You can use the one in there. That way, you won’t be disturbed,’ the maid told her. Oriel was led down corridors to Damian’s wing and a set of tall doors. Inside, she found herself in a cool room, shaded by Venetian blinds, which smelled of wax polish and a hint of mustiness emanating from the shelves of leatherbound books that lined the walls.

  She settled herself at Damian’s large oak desk, feeling a little awkward inhabiting his space in that way. Stacks of papers were piled up neatly to one side and, opposite, was a single photo in a silver frame. Oriel peered closely at it and saw two grinning teenage boys with fishing rods squatting down, knee-to-knee, over a giant fish. Their faces were so similar – tanned and arrogantly youthful – there was no mistaking that they were brothers, Damian and Pericles. She gazed, fascinated, at this snapshot of Damian’s past self, looking so boyish and yet, even then, as she looked more closely, there appeared something more sombre in his smile than the wilder expression of his younger brother.

  Finally, she snapped her attention away from the photo and lifted the receiver, waiting patiently while she was connected to her friend.

  ‘Cynthia! Yes, it’s me, Oriel. I wonder if you can help me …’

  A few minutes later she put down the receiver with a feeling of satisfaction. Cynthia had said she would be on the case that very afternoon to unearth the information needed. Oriel had described the trident motif, with what looked like a snake curled round the shaft at its base, and the three letters – SES – inscribed beneath. Having told her friend that she would be out that afternoon, Oriel agreed that they should speak again at the weekend, probably Sunday morning when they were both most likely to be around.

  In the meantime, Oriel decided to make the most of the bookshelves in Damian’s study. Soon she was curled up on a red leather Chesterfield with a large book of photographs that charted the decades of dedicated work that archaeologist Arthur Evans put in to unearth the mysteries of the ancient city of Knossos in Crete. So engrossed was she that she was a little startled when there was a knock on the study door and Hassan appeared. She glanced at her watch, realizing it was already three o’clock. The servant gazed at her benignly and smiled, holding the door open in an unspoken message that she was expected elsewhere. She quickly replaced the book on the shelf and followed him.

  Damian was waiting for her in front of the Jeep, looking his usual handsome self in a pair of tight-fitting white jeans and a crisp white shirt. He must have just showered, because his raven-black hair was sleekly swept back, with only a single unruly lock caressing his wide forehead, giving him a roguish air. As he saw her, his gaze skimmed appreciatively down her figure, taking in her long shapely legs in the cotton mini dress.

  ‘Kaliméra, matia mou, did you sleep well?’

  Oriel smiled. ‘Yes, very well, thank you.’

  As Damian came to kiss her, she drew away from him. ‘No,’ she whispered.

  His brow knitted together. ‘What’s wrong?’ he murmured.

  ‘What almost happened yesterday would have been a grave mistake,’ she told him, glancing up at his enquiring frown. ‘We were under the influence of the romantic atmosphere of Santorini.’ She waved a hand self-consciously. ‘The wine, the music, the beautiful moonlit night.’ She hesitated, and added in a faltering voice: ‘Maybe it was the fate you always talk about … I mean, that Helena appeared to wake us up before we did something we would both regret.’

  He stared down into her eyes with a questioning look, his darkness filling her vision until everything else was blotted out and, for a moment, it was as if the sun had gone in. An invisible fist reached inside her, seizing her heart, for never before in her life had she been cruel to anyone. She hated cruelty, but she had to defend herself from the onslaught of feelings this man evoked. The seeds of something treacherously tender had already been germinating slowly inside her for six years, but she must not allow them to flourish.

  ‘Katalavaíno, I understand,’ Damian said, without emotion, and then, helping her into the Jeep, he climbed into the driver’s seat.

  They drove in silence for a while. Although the sun was smiling on this balmy day, Oriel’s heart felt cold, the flames that had warmed it the night before quashed by inhibitions and fear. She considered asking after Helena, but decided against it in case Damian thought she was prying.

  They progressed up the hillside through a series of hairpin bends, at times skimming the very edge of the steep drop down to the treetops and the sea. Then the road dipped down again, passing a double row of white cottages that clung precariously to the cliffside, bright with geraniums and vividly painted shutters. A group of men in rough working clothes sat together outside one building and followed the progression of the Jeep with lethargic interest, hands clasped about glasses of ouzo or retsina. There wasn’t a woman or child in sight, only a mangy ginger cat, licking itself lazily in the sun.

  ‘I went to Corfu early this morning to see a colleague of mine,’ Damian announced nonchalantly. ‘I took the bronze with me. I’m taking the whole team to Manoli’s tonight to celebrate what I think will be a significant find.’

  Oriel glanced at him with instant eagerness. ‘Of course, sorry, I almost forgot to ask. What did he say?’

  ‘Oh, once we’ve identified who owned the argosy the job of finding the provenance will be much easier. But he’ll need time to delve into the historical writings and shipment records of that era.’

  She nodded. ‘I’ve already got my friend, who works at the Bodleian, on the case. I rang her earlier.’ His eyes met hers as she spoke and she noticed the shadows under them. ‘You must have had virtually no sleep.’

  He smiled at her. ‘It wouldn’t do if I shirked my responsibilities just be
cause of one late night.’

  ‘You don’t spare yourself, do you?’

  ‘I enjoy what I do. I’m lucky, so many people in this world hate their jobs.’

  ‘True.’ She gave him a speculative glance. ‘Though I always think that we make our own luck.’

  ‘To a certain extent I agree. Anyway, it’s good that you’ve got your friend involved with the research.’ The side of Damian’s mouth curved upwards in amused approval. ‘I knew I wouldn’t regret bringing you in on this job.’

  Oriel bit back a pleased grin as her gaze followed the undulating landscape. ‘So, tell me, I’ve never known anyone who owned an olive press – certainly not another archaeologist. You seem to have many strings to your bow.’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s part of my family’s history. When my ancestor bought this island, there were already many olive trees growing on it, despite the devastation the volcano eruption had created. In those days, there was only a handful of monks living in the monastery and the surrounding olive trees were largely neglected. Gjergj decided to develop the existing groves into a commercial plantation, the produce of which he sold to the neighbouring islands.

  ‘By the time my grandfather took over the island, the last of the elderly monks had passed away, leaving the monastery empty, so he began work on the restoration. It seemed the perfect place to house the press and our estate offices. In those days, they worked with the same kind of olive presses the Greeks were using more than five thousand years ago. My father continued using this same process and started to market our olive oil further afield, to the Greek mainland and Italy. When I took over the island, the business passed to me.’

  He slowed the Jeep as they turned down a long dusty track with cypress trees on either side. ‘Archaeology is my passion but I need to make money for Helios to prosper. Plus, I enjoy the challenge. I’ve just found a very modern way to produce good oil. Cheaper to make, so it’s at a competitive price for the mass market, but still gives an excellent quality. We can maintain an expensive high-end artisanal product, still using the traditional methods, while distributing a mass-produced version to other global markets. The new machines will be delivered next month.’