The Summer of Aphrodite

by Viva Jones

  Title Page

  THE SUMMER OF APHRODITE

  The Magus Meets Desperate Housewives

  By

  Viva Jones

  Publisher Information

  The Summer of Aphrodite

  published in 2014 by House of Erotica

  www.houseoferoticabooks.com

  An imprint of Andrews UK Limited

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright © Viva Jones 2014

  The right of Viva Jones to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Prologue

  It was what her French mother would call a nuit blanche. Unable to sleep, Nathalie climbed out of bed, wrapped herself up in an oversized towel and stole outside towards the sea. The air felt clammy against her skin, and her hair clung to the back of her neck. Arriving at the shore, she let the towel fall, hid her room-key within it and walked, naked, into the waves. It was nearly a full moon. God only knew what new madness might grip her in a day or so.

  She swam out slowly, relishing the taste of salt water on her lips, and the feel of the sea massaging her skin. Once she was far out enough not to be able to hear any noise from the road or the sea-front night clubs, she flipped onto her back and floated, instantly achieving the kind of relaxation that had evaded her in bed. Her eyes closed and ears submerged, she was aware only of the sound of her own breathing, and of the slight breeze that fluttered across her body.

  She could drown like this, she thought dreamily; exposing herself to the elements, to the gods of the sea, and quite possibly, a passing plane or two.

  She’d only come to Cyprus to allow her newly-ex husband time to get his belongings out of their house. Earlier that day he’d texted her with the words: ‘carriage clock mother’s wedding present?’ and she’d laughed out loud. If he thought she’d ever wanted it in the first place then he hadn’t known her at all. How many times had she felt like smashing the damned thing? ‘Yours,’ she’d texted back. Just take what you want.

  Maybe she’d been born in water? It was certainly where she felt most at home. The swimming baths near their house in London weren’t a patch on the Mediterranean, however. Nathalie was aware of her nipples, firm and brown, peeking up towards the sky, full of the stars she’d rarely ever seen in town, and of her mound of pubic hair, surfacing like an island in the water. She let one hand glide down between her legs and slip between her folds. This was her new life, she thought, stroking herself languidly. She’d swim here every day, and eat seafood and fresh, Mediterranean vegetables, and visit Lebanon and Jordan, and practise her massage and work with the essential oils she’d studied in evening classes.

  As the water lapped against her pussy, Nathalie kept her eyes on the stars, the brightest of which she knew to be Venus. Was it Venus or Aphrodite guiding her today, she wondered, as she made the decision that would alter the course of her life? She applied more pressure to her clit now, imaging that a man, or indeed a woman, was lapping at her, feasting off her. A woman, she decided in her fantasy, with blonde hair and a pink, generous tongue. The woman’s fingers were sliding inside her, reaching for her g-spot, while her tongue kept up its rhythmic pace. Then the woman turned over, so that her pussy was above Nathalie’s own face, and Nathalie ate her hungrily, recognising something that had been missing in her life. Twelve years of marriage and fidelity, and no pussy. She really had missed it. In Cyprus, she decided, she could be whoever she wanted.

  The thought of eating and being eaten herself was enough to tip Nathalie over the edge and she came, there under the night sky, not bothering to stifle her cries as she thrashed gently in the water.

  Once her orgasm had subsided, Nathalie opened her eyes and flipped back over onto her stomach, realising that she was drifting out with the tide, towards Egypt, she presumed. The water was feeling cooler, and she started swimming back, a little more urgently now. A group of girls had gathered on the beach, five or six of them, probably having just stumbled out of a night club. As she got nearer, though, Nathalie heard raised voices speaking a language she didn’t recognise. Russian, perhaps, or something Slavic. Prostitutes, by the looks of them, with their overly short dresses and ludicrously high heels. Taking a break between clients, no doubt. They were getting closer to her towel and Nathalie felt a slight panic rise in her chest. Neither towel nor key were irreplaceable, but life would certainly be awkward without them.

  There was a sudden skirmish, and one girl lunged at another, grabbing her hair and yanking her head back sharply. Their screams became angrier, and they attacked each other with their nails, jabbing claw-like at each other’s faces. Although Nathalie couldn’t understand what they were yelling, she could guess what it was about. One had strayed onto another’s patch, she imagined; she’d wandered a street too far, and stepped into alien territory.

  They were lurching perilously close to her towel now, and as Nathalie glided towards them, careful to avoid being seen under the moonlight, two men in uniform appeared and set about breaking them up. Police or security guards, she couldn’t make out which. Nathalie could touch the sand with her toes now, as, keeping her face partly submerged, she watched the fray. Some of the other girls, no doubt remembering old squabbles and grievances, started getting involved now – a punch here, a slap there, a yank of the hair for good measure – but finally the men separated them, yelling out in a mixture of English and Greek.

  As they escorted them towards the road, Nathalie emerged from the sea and darted towards her towel. Noticing the sudden movement, one of the men turned back to look at her, and for a second Nathalie froze, naked before him, before stooping to pick it up and cover herself.

  What madness had gripped her today, she wondered as she made her way back to her room. She’d only taken a villa, after all, paying a year’s rent in advance with some of her divorce settlement. The income she’d get from letting the London place would more than cover her new life.

  No wonder she couldn’t sleep. After twelve conservative years of management and marriage, Nathalie was becoming impulsive again. She’d almost forgotten what that felt like.

  It was as if she was reborn.

  Chapter One

  Loukas Ioannou wasn’t convinced he’d get his van up the narrow lane, but just about made it, scraping its rear left wheel against a low wall. But that, he realised, had been the easy part; now he and Kristos would have to carry furniture the length of the nine house complex, negotiating a swimming pool and several oleander bushes along the way.

  He stopped to mop his forehead - it was the second week of July, and the heat was stifling. How he longed to be at home, sitting under the shade of his olive tree, sipping a glass of ouzo as his wife Maria made supper - but that delight was many hours away yet. Who were all these foreigners who insisted on moving to the island during the hottest months of the year? Did they know nothing about Mediterranean life? He looked up irritably as a woman approached and felt his entire body jolt, for what a woman she was. Any resentment he’d borne lifted like leaves in a breeze, fluttering off in the distance. For she wasn’t just a woman - she was the woman - a goddess, born of some bountiful deity wishing to send beauty itself to t
his earth. Her hair was lustrous and chestnut coloured, cut in a bob that met her well-defined jaw, her eyes were almond-shaped and green and looked as if they could see into his very soul, her cheekbones were as high as the Troodos mountains and her lips as full as a waxing moon. Loukas’ breath caught in his chest.

  ‘I’m Nathalie,’ she told him, outstretching her hand.

  Loukas introduced himself, clasping that softness in his own. What spell was he under now?

  ‘I’m in number nine; I’m sorry, it’s the furthest away.’ She looked concerned. ‘Can I get you some water?’

  He shook his head. Would he ever speak again? Kristos had already opened the back of the van and was beginning to unload some boxes. Loukas went to join him, cursing himself for not having at least chosen a clean shirt that morning.

  ‘I’ll show you the lay of the land,’ Nathalie said with a skip that emphasised her trim figure and toned legs. She was wearing a white sleeveless shirt over beige shorts and had a pair of tortoise-shell sunglasses perched on the top of her head. Such understated elegance, he marvelled. He was, indeed, in the presence of someone remarkable.

  For a second, Loukas remembered himself and turned away to take in his surroundings. Maria liked full descriptions of any new housing estates in the area, and this one was more attractive than most. Called Fig Tree Villas, it was tucked away in the hills to the north of Paphos, the town situated the nearest to the birthplace of Aphrodite, for which the island was renowned. The houses were less than five years old, and had been built in the style of a haphazard Mediterranean village, with no two exactly the same, but each possessing a forceful personality of its own. As new estates went, this one had some style, he thought admiringly. But it was too discreet for his liking; like many Cypriots, Loukas preferred his house to be on a main road, where it could be seen and admired. What was the point in shelling out all that money for something that no one else could covet?

  ‘Here we are,’ Nathalie told him proudly, leading him through a pretty shrub-filled terrace into a light, bright space which reminded him of the freshly whisked egg whites Maria would turn into meringues for their grandchildren. ‘This is the living room, obviously, and the kitchen’s over there to the right.’ She started walking up the open staircase and he paused to admire the quick step of her legs before following her. ‘Then up the stairs we’ve got a master bedroom here,’ she opened the door to show him, ‘and a spare one over there. The bathroom’s in between. Now, what do you have there?’

  ‘Master bedroom,’ he told her meekly.

  ‘In here,’ she said, leaning towards him to study the box’s label. She smelt of jasmine and tuberose, of sandalwood and frangipani, and wasn’t there just a hint of rosemary in her hair? ‘And take a look at my terrace while you’re at it,’ she continued enthusiastically, ‘and the view.’

  He placed the box in a corner and joined her on the terrace, which wrapped around the bedroom and opened out to the left, leading back onto the landing. It was, indeed, a spectacular view of the sea, with Paphos in the distance.

  ‘I love the sea,’ she said with a sudden passion. ‘I’ve lived without it for too long. I’ll have the bed over there, directly facing it. I want it to be the first thing I see in the morning, and the last thing I see at night. I want to swim every day; even in the winter, and even in the pouring rain,’ she continued. ‘If I drowned I think I’d die happy.’ She turned to him. ‘Don’t you love the sea?’

  Loukas shrugged. He didn’t like to admit that he couldn’t even swim. ‘I hope you will enjoy many happy moments in this room,’ he croaked, before realising what he’d just implied.

  Nathalie just smiled mischievously, clearly warming to the idea. ‘So do I,’ she told him. ‘So do I.’

  ***

  ‘It’s a good job you’ve already been to the market.’ Over in number five, Sheila was peering out of an upstairs window. ‘Because there’s a great big van blocking everyone’s way.’

  ‘Number nine moving in,’ her husband Barry called out from the kitchen, where he was threading some chunks of lamb on a skewer.

  ‘Honestly, moving here at this time of year!’ Sheila said hurrying downstairs. ‘Some people will never learn, will they?’ She couldn’t bear the heat, and this year had insisted they rented a cottage in the Lake District for the summer. Tonight they were throwing a small party for their neighbours to say goodbye.

  ‘Hadn’t we better invite her, too?’ Barry suggested. ‘Be a nice welcome, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ agreed a doubtful Sheila, who treated all newcomers with suspicion.

  ‘Divorcee, apparently, Tanya told me,’ Barry continued. ‘She arranged the letting. Paid a whole year up front, she did.’

  Sheila tutted. ‘No staying power, the younger generation. Had an affair, did he?’

  Barry smiled ruefully. ‘Now, now, love, let’s not leap to conclusions.’

  ‘Ooh, is that her?’ Sheila had suddenly got a good view. ‘Late thirties, I’d say, or early forties, hard to tell these days. Attractive, I’ll give her that. What is she going to do down here?’

  ‘Well, let’s pop over there, shall we? I’ll take her a pot of last year’s fig jam,’ he added, dusting down a jar from the top of a cupboard.

  They left their house and introduced themselves to Nathalie, who was guiding her removals men and a taupe-coloured sofa around the pool.

  ‘We do hope your move’s going well,’ Barry started, his face reddening. She had to be one of the most striking women he’d ever seen. They just didn’t make them like that in Slough. ‘Welcome, or efprosdektos, as our Greek friends would put it.’

  ‘Yes, that great big van,’ Sheila interjected. ‘We didn’t think it would make it up this lane. I hope it’s not going to be there all day?’

  ‘And we thought you might like some fig jam,’ Barry went on, hurriedly, offering the jar to her. ‘I make it every year, from the trees around this complex.’

  ‘How very kind, thank you!’ Nathalie admired the jar. ‘I’m sure it’ll be delicious.’

  ‘Have a guess at my special ingredient? Cinnamon,’ he then added, before she could. ‘Look, we’re actually off later this week,’ he went on. ‘Going back to old Blighty for some bad weather, and we’re throwing a little party this evening for everyone here. Just some drinks and a barbecue. Do join us, won’t you? It’ll be a good way of meeting the gang.’

  He was already beginning to regret his enforced absence that summer.

  ‘What a lovely idea,’ Nathalie said. ‘I’ll be ready for a drink by then, and I’ve got nothing to eat in the house.’

  ‘Good, that’s settled then. Endaxi. We’re starting around six-thirty. Well, we must let you get on. Bye bye, or should I say, yassas.’

  ***

  From the upstairs bedroom window, Anna was cautiously studying her new neighbour. She’d been alerted by the noise of the delivery men, and curious, had peeked through the lacy curtains (she refused to call them nets) to see who was moving in next door. It had been empty for a while now, the Cypriot couple who’d rented it before having moved into their own, newly-built place closer to the town centre.

  A single woman, she mused, sensing danger. An attractive single woman, with a slim build and lustrous, shiny hair. Anna hated her own, that frizzed in the heat, frizzed in air-con, and frizzed when wet. Sometimes she was tempted just to shave the lot off and have done with it. She studied some of the woman’s belongings: tasteful, in muted shades of cream and taupe, with what appeared to be smatterings of Asian and Middle Eastern influences. That much at least boded well. Could she be friends with this woman? Or might she end up losing her husband to her instead?

  Why would a single woman move to Cyprus, Anna wondered. Why not Paris, or Rome, if you had the means to support yourself? Why Cyprus? She caught another glimpse of her new neighbour,
offering instructions to a clearly love-struck delivery man. Those slender, tanned legs, that softly golden skin, the shiny hair - she couldn’t really be English, could she? Yet that was what Tanya, their resident estate agent, had told her. Anna tried to remember all the details. Nathalie, that was her name. A divorcee, taking a year off from London. Rebuilding her life, Anna presumed, thinking defensively about her husband, before dismissing him. A woman like that couldn’t possibly fancy Richard.

  Her husband had become chubby and middle-aged in the last four years since they’d moved over. Something had gone wrong, though Anna still hadn’t a clue what, and was rebuked every time she tried to find out. The well-meaning, positive man she’d married had morphed into someone she barely recognised, becoming moody and introspective, and drinking a lot more. Cyprus, Anna had convinced herself, was doing them no good, although the truth was that he’d changed before they’d even left England. Looking back, in fact, she realised that he’d changed just as they were getting married.

  They hadn’t seen each other for a few days before the ceremony, but as she walked down the aisle on her father’s arm, on what should have been the happiest day of her life, Anna was sure there was something different about Richard’s eyes as he greeted her. She’d put it down to nerves, but that night, as they tumbled onto the hotel’s four-poster, his love-making was clumsy and unsure, and he’d come way too quickly. She’d put that down to booze. In fact, Anna reflected, she’d made excuses pretty much for all his mood changes over the years, without ever actually confronting him about any of them.

  There was every chance that the problem was with her, which of course made matters even harder to face up to. It was easier to live out a quietly miserable but familiar existence than to break it all up, and plunge yourself into the unknown.

  Now there was the prison that was Aphrodite’s Island to resent Richard for, not to mention their dull lifestyle and far-from-high-flying ways, and Anna’s bitterness only served to push her husband even further away, and so they were stuck in a cycle of regret, failure and antipathy.