by Sara Craven
She gasped when she saw the small but comfortable cinema, and was entirely lost for words when she realised that another room had been fitted out as a children’s play area.
‘A lot of Alex’s friends have kids,’ Mac said as she turned to him, her eyes widening incredulously. ‘He’s godfather to quite a few of them. And sometimes his business contacts are invited to bring their families too. He reckons it makes for a more relaxed atmosphere outside working hours when the meetings are over.’
Natasha tried to imagine Stavros and Andonis and their wives, not to mention Irini, as the Selene’s guests, enjoying all this laidback luxury, but failed totally.
Each of the elegant staterooms and their glamorous bathrooms had been individually designed, and obvious thought had gone into the provision of the crew’s quarters, while the galleys, where she’d been greeted by Yannis, the beaming chef, were an immaculate and efficient dazzle of stainless steel.
An hour later as they sat beside the swimming pool, sipping the iced lemonade Kostas had brought them, he said, ‘So, what do you think?’
Natasha drew a deep breath. ‘Amazing,’ she said. ‘And also stunningly beautiful. A floating palace.’
But not exactly a home perhaps, she thought, although that might partly account for Alex’s restlessness, and his reluctance to settle down. It was just too simple for him to up anchor and sail away when the mood took him.
She hesitated. ‘It’s strange that his father’s remained a widower all this time. You’d have thought he’d have remarried and provided Alex with a more stable background and some brothers and sisters.’
‘Well, Kyrios Petros isn’t exactly in the best of health,’ Mac said slowly. ‘Years ago he was involved in a bad car accident and ended pretty smashed up. He’s had a few operations since then, particularly on his back, but he still walks with a stick.’
‘Oh.’ Natasha’s brows lifted. ‘I—I had no idea.’ And that was no more than the truth, she thought in bewilderment. There’d never been the least mention of any past accident, or injury to Basilis’s hated rival. The perceived wisdom at the Villa Demeter had always represented Petros Mandrakis as the devil incarnate, the strong, all-powerful enemy.
Certainly not with the human face of a man no longer young, perhaps living his life in pain, who needed to lean on a cane when he walked.
‘Alex doesn’t talk about it much,’ Mac was saying. ‘But I guess that’s why he persuaded Kyrios Petros to let him take the strain over the companies earlier than he wanted, maybe, in order to give the old man a chance to get some rest, and more treatment. In fact, he’s in Switzerland seeing a new specialist right now.’
She said quietly, ‘It must be worrying for Alex.’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘He and his dad have become pretty close these past few years. If the Papadimos bunch want to keep the feud going, they’ll find they have a real fight on their hands.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m sure they will.’ She took a deep breath, then smiled at him brightly. ‘You mentioned earlier that you were engaged. Please tell me about your fiancée.’
He was clearly delighted to do so, producing a photograph of a pretty brunette with candid eyes and a curving mouth.
‘We’re planning to get married next year,’ he told her, ‘and settle down in Oz.’
‘You’re giving up the sea?’
‘Hell, no. We’re planning to start our own boat-charter service.’ He looked around him. ‘I’ll miss the Selene, of course, but there’s no guarantee she’ll be around for much longer—not if Alex finally decides to please his dad and bite the bullet by settling down too, once a suitable heiress appears.’
She said steadily, ‘Is that likely?’
He looked uncomfortable, clearly regretting his frankness. ‘Pretty inevitable, I’d say. Kyrios Petros wants the dynasty made secure, and now Alex is heading up the Mandrakis business empire, he’ll have less time anyway for—for…’
‘Diversions like me?’ Natasha supplied. ‘It’s all right,’ she added reassuringly as his face reddened even further in embarrassment. ‘I’m under no illusions about my place in his life, and when the time comes, I’ll go quietly.’
She paused. ‘So, what time will we get to Alyssos?’
‘Around mid-afternoon.’ He snatched with relief at the change of topic. ‘Josefina’s started packing for you now. And she’ll be going ashore with you too. So you’ll have a familiar face about you from day one.’
‘Oh.’ Natasha digested this. ‘Doesn’t she mind?’
‘Far from it. It’s a bit of a homecoming for her as her dad, Zeno, is major-domo at the villa, and her mother, Toula, is the housekeeper.’ He added, still with faint awkwardness, ‘You’ll be well looked after, Miss Kirby. Alex has seen to that.’
After he’d excused himself, and gone back to the bridge, Natasha sat for a long time, lost in thought, as ideas, questions, impressions and snatches of conversation jostled each other in her mind.
She felt as if she’d been presented with an inextricably knotted skein of wool to disentangle, or a jigsaw with innumerable missing pieces. That the past, present and future were somehow a jumble of events that could make sense if only she knew where to begin.
But maybe it would be simpler if that was all she had to deal with, she thought with irony.
Instead, she found her thoughts dominated—haunted—by the prospect of Alex, the dutiful son. Alex, the husband. Alex, the father.
And could only hope that when it—the inevitable, the unbearable—happened, some merciful providence would ensure that she was long gone and far away.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE beach below the house on Alyssos wasn’t large—just a crescent of pale sand shelving gently into the Aegean, reduced even further by a large boathouse and a wooden jetty on one side—but it had become Natasha’s chosen refuge during the long days she’d spent waiting for Alex.
She was not, she thought drily, the only one. The whole household seemed aquiver with anticipation, waiting almost on tiptoe for the master’s return. Although he seemed in no hurry to oblige them. Or herself.
In his absence, she seemed to have entered a kind of limbo, trapped there between unease and loneliness, as one baking day succeeded another. And the nights were worse, as she lay in the darkness, tense and shivering with a need that only Alex could satisfy.
Not that there was any guarantee that he intended to do so. This time her clothes and belongings had not been placed with his in the master bedroom, but taken to a guest room at the far end of a long corridor, and when Josefina, surprised into indiscretion, had queried the arrangement she had been quickly silenced by a look from her father.
Zeno was a tall, grizzled man whose behaviour, while totally correct, was nevertheless faintly aloof, an attitude echoed by his plump, bustling wife. In addition, neither of them seemed to speak much English, which made her all the more glad of Josefina’s generally uncomplicated cheerfulness. And she could not deny that the food and service at the villa were impeccable. All the same there was—something.
And when Natasha, puzzled, asked Josefina if she hadn’t been expected, the Greek girl admitted with some embarrassment that her parents had always believed that the first girl brought by Kyrios Alexandros to his Alyssos home would be his bride.
Making me a very downmarket substitute, Natasha told herself in self-derision. No wonder they don’t approve. And it’s my own fault. He asked me about islands. I happened to mention this one.
And she could understand why Thia Theodosia had loved Alyssos, having always suspected that her foster mother found the noise and hurly-burly of Athens oppressive.
At the same time, she found herself wondering where Madame Papdimos’s house was situated and who occupied it now. And how much it had cost her to give it up—a sacrifice, she supposed, to the god of marriage.
And another reason, she thought, why I decided to leave three years ago—in case I became another one.
Although i
f I’d stayed and done what Thio Basilis saw as my duty, I wouldn’t be in this mess now.
She toyed briefly with the idea of asking Zeno, but soon abandoned it. He was a Mandrakis man, she acknowledged ruefully. Any mention of the name Papadimos would probably be like waving a red rag in front of a bull.
In the meantime, she decided it would be good to touch base with Molly. Find out how business was going, and assure her that she’d be back soon. Try and resume something approaching normality, she thought drily, in preparation for her eventual return to London and the real world.
But her request for the use of a telephone or access to a computer had been politely parried. Such facilities, she was given to understand, were in the remit of Kyrios Alexandros only, who would no doubt be glad to assist her on his return.
What did they imagine she was planning? she wondered as she turned away, defeated. To send a scream for help so that the SAS would drop out of the sky and snatch her away?
Being denied contact with the outside world really did make her feel like a prisoner, yet she could not pretend she was completely unhappy in her surroundings.
Alyssos was indeed a very small island, with a rocky interior that made no attempt to aspire to be a mountain. It possessed a tiny port bearing the same name, where the chief excitement, it seemed, was the daily arrival of the one ferry.
Not that she was allowed to observe it at first-hand in case, she supposed, she decided to hop on board, and be gone. But how far would she get without her passport, which she’d discovered was missing the first day on the Selene? And which was still, presumably, in Alex’s possession. Which meant she was going nowhere.
And, apart from the ferry, it seemed that watching the olives and other fruit ripen appeared to be the island’s main pastime. And, in different circumstances, probably a perfect way to de-stress.
As was lying in the shallows of the Aegean, letting slow gentle wavelets wash slowly over her body as tiny fish darted unafraid among the fronds of weed around her.
It could, she thought, be paradise. If only…
The Villa Elena itself, named, Josefina told her, for Kyrios Alexandros’s late mother, was a large single-storey residence, painted white with a green-tiled roof. Its rather stark lines were softened by the masses of pink and purple bougainvillea sprawling over its walls. There were two substantial wings jutting out like strong arms reaching to the sea, one containing the lavish bedroom accommodation, and the other holding the kitchens, store rooms and staff quarters.
The floors were pale marble, the décor muted and the furniture sleek and modern, apart from the deeply cushioned and gloriously comfortable sofas and chairs in the saloni.
And all of it, according to the all-knowing Josefina, designed by Kyrios Alexandros himself.
In the lawned gardens there was a large freshwater swimming pool, surrounded by a tiled sunbathing terrace with changing cabins, and screened by tall hibiscus hedges.
Natasha found it a little daunting for solitary use and preferred the simple privacy of the beach two hundred yards away. And once this had been established, unseen hands set out a sun lounger and parasol for her use each morning together with a cold box containing bottled water.
There was a small dinghy moored at the jetty and further out in the bay an elderly caique painted brown, its tan sails neatly furled, rode sedately at anchor.
The Selene, however, had sailed almost as soon as Natasha had come ashore, giving her the uncomfortable feeling that she’d been marooned. It also meant that Mac, the one person who might have been privy to Alex’s plans, had gone too. Nor could she ask him any of the questions still teeming in her brain.
Now, as she finished her careful application of sunblock to her exposed skin, and stretched out on her lounger for another solitary day, she found herself wondering once more why and where the yacht had gone. Certainly not to fetch Alex because, according to the helpful Josefina, he invariably flew in by helicopter.
She had even been shown the area at the side of the villa where he would land. So she could be waiting, no doubt, with a posy of flowers and a curtsy for the visiting celebrity, she thought with faint bitterness, then paused with an impatient sigh. What was the earthly use in pretending she wasn’t living for the moment when she would see him again?
Not that he appeared to share her sentiments. Not when ten whole days had now passed without a solitary word from him. Ten! And her pride would not allow her to enquire if anyone at all knew when he would be arriving.
Nor could she prevent herself from speculating where he might be. And, more damagingly, with whom…
Not that it took much working out, she thought, a fist clenching in her chest. He’d even mentioned her rival’s name. Domenica.
‘His latest squeeze’, she recalled, had been Molly’s description just before she’d set off for Athens, but Domenica was far more than that. She was the Italian rock chick whose first album sizzling with dark sexuality had taken the charts by storm only a few months before, helped along by the inevitable demands that it should be banned.
And the album cover, where only that beautiful, sultry little face had been highlighted, leaving the rest of her obviously naked body in shadow, had been advertised everywhere.
My rival, Natasha told herself, grimacing. And another golden opportunity for Alex to practise his language skills.
And stopped abruptly, knowing that such flippancy was out of place. That she must not let herself think like that ever again, even for a moment, because it hurt her to the point of destruction.
She could only hope that by the time she did return to London, there would be some new sensation in the music world, so she wouldn’t be haunted by the image of all that sensual allure purring her pleasure in Alex’s bed.
Sighing, she picked up the book she was reading, one from the box of recent bestsellers which Mac had arranged to be sent ashore with her, and tried to revive her interest in the story, knowing just the same that she was too restless and on edge today to allow it the concentration it deserved.
If and when Alex returned he would probably find her on the verge of a nervous breakdown, she thought wryly, and paused as she heard in the distance the unmistakable sound of an approaching helicopter.
She sat up abruptly, shading her eyes as she looked up into the cloudless sky, peering to see the direction it was coming from. It might not be Alex, she reminded herself. After all, there were other millionaires with hideaways on Alyssos, who probably used similar forms of transport.
But that would not explain why, in spite of the heat, she was suddenly shivering with excitement. With desire. And—with fear. That possibly most of all when she remembered how they’d parted, and the fact that there’d been silence between them ever since, she thought, sinking back on her cushions.
The helicopter appeared, flying low over the adjoining headland, then turning inland.
Natasha stared down at her book, the printed words swimming before her gaze, as she told herself that she would not—not—under any circumstances look up.
Neither look up, get up, nor walk to the house. Instead, she would stay exactly where she was and wait until he sent for her.
It turned out to be a very long wait, and she spent much of it in the sea, trying to ease her tension and frustration by swimming up and down as if she were practising for the next Olympics.
In the end, her summons came only from the prosaic and distant beating of the gong with which Zeno announced mealtimes.
Lunch, it seemed, was served.
She picked up her sarong and tied it over her damp bikini, then stood for a moment running her fingers through her tangled, salty hair to loosen it a little. God forbid that she should look as if she was trying too hard, she thought with irony as she found a colour-less lip salve in her beach bag and applied a little to her mouth. Then, swallowing past the hard knot in her throat, she started up the track back to the villa.
She usually ate outside on the wide paved terrace, and saw tha
t the table had been set as usual under the awning outside the saloni.
But for one place only.
Her steps faltered, and she was suddenly far more breathless than could be justified by that relatively gentle climb up from the beach.
As she reached the terrace, Zeno emerged through the double glass doors, carrying a carafe of water and a plate of salad.
Natasha couldn’t pretend indifference any longer. She said, ‘I—I thought Kyrios Mandrakis would be here.’
‘He has a meeting of business, thespinis,’ Zeno informed her with faint hauteur. ‘Therefore he eats in his dining room with his guests.’
She said, ‘I see.’ And so she did. She was being quietly but definitely shown her place in the scheme of things. And that was not as any kind of hostess. At best, her role would be as the provider of his after-hours amusement.
So she sat alone and ate her salad, and the grilled lamb chops that followed, and told herself she should be glad that Alex had no longer any wish to exhibit his trophy mistress to his visitors.
But the real shock came with the coffee, when Zeno placed an envelope on the table beside her cup and silently departed.
She picked it up with fingers that shook.
What’s this? she wondered, feeling a bubble of hysteria rising inside her. Dismissal? A month’s salary in lieu of notice?
But instead she found another envelope with her name scrawled across it in Molly’s distinctive writing.
She tore it open, and began scanning the letter inside.
‘Nat, darling,’ it began.
‘I hate to drop this on you when you clearly have problems of your own, but I don’t have much choice, because my life is about to change hugely. You see, Craig has had a terrific offer to stay on in Seattle for the next two years, and he wants us to bring the wedding forward so that I move out there as his wife. And obviously I want this too, although it’s the last thing I expected. I thought we’d settle in the UK and life would go on as usual.