Passion Becomes You

by Michelle Reid

‘Oh, yes,’ she confirmed. ‘You can read it if you want,’ she invited, popping the pills into her mouth and swallowing them down with the water. She did it all without really thinking about it now. It had become a ritual she had grown used to over the weeks. If it wasn’t Leon following her around making sure she took her daily dose of iron, it was one of his stewards.

  ‘You do not mind?’

  Jemma just shrugged. ‘There’s nothing in it I wouldn’t want you to read. Just Trina going on about weddings and flats that are too small...’ She fell into contemplative silence, unaware that Leon studied her clouded face for a few moments before hitching his hips on to the nearby table and bending his dark head to read.

  ‘Your friend sounds happy, agape mou,’ Leon muttered quietly after reading the letter.

  ‘Mmm,’ Jemma replied absently, sitting up to hug her arms around her bent knees.

  ‘So, what has she said to—upset you?’

  ‘Upset?’ she echoed. ‘I’m not upset,’ she denied. ‘Just...’ A sigh broke from her and she went silent.

  Leon frowned, his dark eyes fixed thoughtfully on her. ‘You wished you had attended her wedding?’ he persisted despite her denial.

  Jemma shook her head. ‘It wasn’t that kind of wedding, was it?’ A romantic beach wedding in the Caribbean was not the kind you invited all your friends to!

  Leon glanced at the hurriedly written sheet of paper in his hand, his puzzled frown darkening his face as he quickly scanned the chatty but pretty innocuous sentences searching for a clue to what had put that gloomy expression on her face.

  ‘She closed the lease on our flat,’ Jemma murmured suddenly. ‘I spent four of the happiest years of my life there. It was my home, and I know it sounds silly, but it’s suddenly hit me that I no longer have one. No home. No place in England I can actually call my own.’

  ‘But we have a home in London,’ Leon pointed out. ‘I don’t see the problem.’

  ‘Your home.’ She glanced at him over the top of her knees. ‘Yes, I know. But it isn’t—’ The same, she had been going to say, but could see from his expression that he didn’t understand. Couldn’t understand what it felt like to be made suddenly aware that you had nothing—nothing you could call your absolute own, even if it was only a silly little flat on the cheap side of London with draughty windows and a bath-tap that leaked. She didn’t even have a best friend any more. Trina belonged to Frew now, just, she supposed heavily, as she belonged to Leon.

  Glancing thoughtfully at him, she wondered if he would understand if she tried to explain, then decided it was at least worth a try. ‘I spent most of my younger years moving from house to house, town to town with two parents who were constantly unfaithful to each other. One would find him or herself a lover and go off for a month or two then they would come back and the other would be off.’ She shrugged, knowing that really did not explain anything more than that she had two faithless parents. ‘I never knew from one week to the next which one of them I would be living with. And I never got a chance to develop long-term friendships with any children of my own age because I was constantly being shunted around. Fresh starts, they called it,’ she mocked. ‘Which meant different towns, different schools, different parents—different homes.’ She shrugged again, her blue eyes bleak. ‘When they died and I moved to London to work I answered an advert in the paper for a flatmate, which was how I met Trina. She, and that little flat, gave me the first taste of real stability I had ever known. Four years,’ she murmured softly. ‘Belonging to someone and somewhere. And now it’s gone again.’

  ‘And you do not believe that I can give you all of that and for much longer?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I?’ she shrugged, twisting to put her feet to the sun-heated deck. ‘We married because of our baby, not because it was what either of us particularly wanted to do—not the best of foundations to build a stable relationship on. Still,’ she concluded as she came to her feet, ‘that was not the point I was actually trying to make. I was trying to explain to you why the flat and Trina had been so important to me, and why therefore I was suddenly feeling their loss.’

  She went to turn away, but Leon stopped her by catching her hand. ‘They have not been taken from you, Jemma,’ he said quietly. ‘They have just been replaced, that’s all.’

  With what? she wondered, and gained no comfort at all from his words. ‘It’s time for my rest,’ she said, and sent him a small hollow smile before slipping her hand out of his and walking away.

  When she awoke again, it was to the sound of the yacht’s engines throbbing steadily beneath her.

  She got up, dressed quickly in a simple pair of white calf-length baggy trousers made of a lightweight cotton, and a pale blue cotton over-shirt, then went in search of Leon, eager to find out where they were going.

  She found him sitting at the table beneath the shaded awning on the sun-deck, reading business papers over a tall pot of Greek coffee. Like her, he had changed into lightweight trousers and had pulled a short-sleeved white shirt on to cover his darkly tanned chest.

  He looked up and smiled as she approached, getting up to pull out a chair for her and seeing her seated.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘One moment and I will answer,’ he said, striding off to order her some refreshment. It was a task he had made a habit of while they’d been on the yacht. The boat might need a sizeable complement of crew to keep it running as smoothly and efficiently as it did, but Jemma rarely ever saw any of them. As with his home in London, Leon liked to be alone to relax. Servants, staff, crew—call them what you like, they irritated him. And she had a suspicion that, if it were possible, he would have sailed this yacht single-handed just to maintain his desire for privacy.

  He came back carrying a tray bearing her usual jug of freshly squeezed orange juice and a tall frosted glass, but by then Jemma was over at the rail, gazing out at the scenery going by them.

  ‘I thought you might enjoy a change,’ he answered her question as he came to lean beside her. ‘So, we are making for a small fishing village called Fiskárdho on the northern tip of Kefallinía—the largest island in the Ionian group,’ he explained informatively, ‘where I think we will spend what is left of the day doing what any normal tourist would do and browse around the shops, maybe eat dinner in one of the local tavernas—would you like that, agape mou?’

  ‘Sounds great!’ She lifted smiling eyes to him.

  ‘Good,’ he nodded, and drew her attention to the view.

  They were moving smoothly through a narrow stretch of deep blue water between two huge misted blocks of land.

  ‘What are they?’ she asked, curious because, other than that rushed journey from Corfu airport to pick up the yacht three weeks ago, they had steered well clear of the bigger islands in the group, calling only at the smallest mainly uninhabited islands where tourists rarely went.

  ‘Kefallinía on the left and Ithaki—you might know it as Ithaca—to our right,’ he informed her.

  ‘Ithaca?’ she cried. ‘The island of Homer and the Odyssey. How wonderful!’ She turned a wistful gaze on the man beside her. ‘You’re so lucky to be a part of all of this! The legends, the sheer romance of it! I’m jealous,’ she confessed.

  ‘Then dare I make another admission?’ Leon mused out loud. ‘This is my homeland,’ he announced. ‘I was born here.’

  ‘On Ithaca?’ she gasped out enviously.

  ‘No.’ Ruefully he shook his dark head. ‘I am afraid I cannot make that particularly romantic claim. I am Kefallinían,’ he explained. ‘And remember how I said that,’ he warned. ‘Because when we land there Kefalliníans do not like to be called Greek!’

  ‘But the island belongs to Greece!’ she protested.

  He nodded in agreement. ‘But the Irish are Irish, the Scots are Scots and the Welsh are Welsh,’ he made the comparison. ‘I am Kefallinían.’

  ‘Not Greek,’ she said mock-solemnly but her eyes were twinkling.

&nbs
p; ‘Not Greek,’ he confirmed with equal mock-solemnity.

  ‘So I didn’t marry a Greek tycoon.’

  ‘You married a Kefallinían tycoon,’ he corrected.

  ‘Leon Stephanades, the Kefallinían tycoon,’ she said frowningly, trying the words out for taste. ‘It doesn’t have quite as good a ring to it, does it?’

  He was trying not to smile. ‘Wondering if you’d made a bad mistake marrying me?’

  ‘Well...’ Jemma turned to lean her elbows against the rail behind her, totally unconscious of the curving grace of her swollen body ‘...a girl has to consider her social standing, doesn’t she? How much is a Kefallinían tycoon worth?’ she quizzed.

  ‘This one is worth—enough,’ he answered with a smile.

  ‘Enough for what?’ she enquired provocatively.

  He laughed, the sound warm and huskily alive. He lifted his hand so that he could take hold of her chin, giving it a playful shake. ‘Enough to keep you in luxury for the rest of your beautiful life,’ he said, and kissed her.

  It was a surprise—enough of a surprise to keep her own mouth still beneath his, her eyes wide and startled when he drew away to look into them. ‘You are happier now?’ he asked. ‘The feelings of homesickness have faded?’

  ‘Yes,’ she assured him, smiling apologetically. ‘It was a few moments’ silliness, that’s all, gone before I woke up from my rest.’

  His eyes glinted darkly in the sunlight while he explored her face for a few moments longer, then he said quietly, ‘You must trust me, Jemma, to do what is right for us. I am both your home and your family now. I do not intend to desert you or play you false.’

  ‘I do trust you,’ she said, and surprised herself because she meant it. ‘And I’m sorry if my mood upset you.’

  ‘Not upset exactly, but concerned me rather.’ He lifted a hand to her hair, gently touching the silky roots at her temple. ‘We may have embarked on this marriage because of the coming child, but I never stopped caring for you, Jemma; you must also remember that.’

  His words warmed a special place inside her, and she smiled up at him. ‘I remember,’ she confirmed.

  And he had cared, cared enough to ask her to go live with him in New York. Cared enough to marry her when he came back to find her pregnant with his child. And he had cared enough to spend the last few weeks personally supervising her recovery to good health in the most luxurious and pleasurable way he could think of. But—

  But what? she asked herself impatiently as she turned her attention back to the view slipping lazily by them.

  But caring wasn’t enough, she answered herself bleakly. Not any more—not ever, probably. But perhaps more so now because she had become so wholly dependent on him for everything.

  CHAPTER NINE

  FISKÁRDHO sat at the end of a narrow inlet, its rich blue waters protected by mountains on either side. Because of the size of the yacht, they had to anchor just outside the tiny harbour itself, and within minutes the crew had launched the small speed-boat, Leon had helped her climb down into it and they were speeding across the water towards a pretty hamlet of whitewashed buildings with red-tiled roofs.

  It was a busy little place; sailing yachts of all shapes and sizes floated side by side along the two-sided harbour wall. Leon nudged them in between a tall-masted sailing yacht and an expensive-looking motor cruiser, then called out to a small white-haired man who came ambling across to catch the rope Leon threw to him. The two men chatted amiably in Greek while they made the boat safe, then, with an ease that surprised her, Leon picked her up and placed her neatly on the quay before making the two-foot leap to the quayside himself.

  Jemma pushed her sunhat off her head so that it hung down her back on its strings and she could look interestedly around her. The little Greek man looked at her hair and said something to Leon who grinned and answered and the man gave a nod of approval and shook Leon’s hand.

  ‘What did he say?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘He was complimenting me on my taste,’ Leon replied.

  ‘And what did you say to him?’

  ‘I told him I was Kefallinían,’ he shrugged. ‘Of course I had good taste.’

  ‘Conceited devil,’ she said.

  He just grinned carelessly. ‘What would you like to do first?’ he asked.

  ‘Stop my body from floating,’ she said ruefully. ‘I feel as if I’m still on water!’

  ‘It will take a while to get your balance,’ he warned. ‘Would you rather we sit down and have a drink or something, while you get your land legs back?’

  ‘No.’ Jemma’s eyes were already darting eagerly around her. ‘I haven’t seen a shop in weeks, and I want to browse.’

  ‘I thought you might say that,’ he sighed. ‘Come on, we will begin at one end and work our way to the other. Oh,’ he added belatedly, ‘this is for you.’ He pulled a thick roll of banknotes from his pocket and handed them to her. ‘Drachmas,’ he explained. ‘You will need them if you want to buy anything.’

  Jemma bit pensively down on her bottom lip, her reluctance to take the money showing in the expression she could not keep off her face.

  ‘Good grief!’ Leon sighed, reading the expression for exactly what it was. ‘I have never known a woman like you who will not even accept the simplest offering from her own husband! Take it—take it!’ he insisted impatiently, thrusting it into her hands.

  ‘But how much is here?’ she demanded suspiciously. It looked an awful lot of money to her.

  ‘The equivalent of a few English pounds only,’ he dismissed, watching her grudgingly push the roll into the pocket of her baggy white trousers. ‘Now can we go?’ he mocked.

  She let him lead the way through the crush of people packing the quayside towards the little shops lined up on the other side of the quay, where she soon forgot to be uncomfortable about him giving her money as her eyes began to feast on the array of interesting touristy goods for sale.

  They explored the tiny hamlet together, moving in and out of shops which were little more than the front rooms of private houses that had been converted for the season and would, Leon told her, revert back to their original use for the winter months. It was an enchantingly pretty place, and, Jemma realised, rather an up-market one, going by the quality of the produce on show. She went into raptures when they happened to stroll through the narrow door of one shop and she found herself literally tented in the most beautiful hand-made lacework, crochetwork, and exquisite embroidery. She lost Leon almost immediately, becoming immersed in a veritable maze of hung linen. When he eventually found her, she was standing fingering a beautifully crocheted baby shawl. He recognised what it was immediately and she blushed because, although they had married because of the child she carried, other than discussing her own health they rarely mentioned the child itself.

  ‘You want it?’ Leon asked her softly.

  Jemma nodded, her eyes unknowingly vulnerable when she lifted them to him. ‘Do I have enough drachmas to buy it?’ she asked uncertainly. ‘Only it’s hand-made and looks very expensive...’

  But Leon was already reaching for the delicate garment, his hands appearing big and dark against the soft white lacework as he unhooked it from its hanger then gravely presented it to her, draping it over her arms—carefully, as though their baby were already wrapped inside it, then stood back, something so intense about the look in his eyes that it caught at Jemma’s breath and made their child kick out in protest at the flurry of emotion that rippled through her.

  ‘You are beautiful, do you know that?’ he murmured huskily, and bent to kiss her.

  He paid for the shawl with his Visa card and had it wrapped in tissue paper and placed in a plastic carrier bag which he then solemnly presented to Jemma. She took it blushingly, feeling unaccountably shy all of a sudden.

  A new intimacy seemed to grow between them after that. Leon rarely let go of her hand as they continued to wander from shop to shop, and Jemma felt a dire need always to have her body within brushing
distance with his. Her senses began to buzz, and she knew by the new darkened look in his eyes when he looked at her that Leon was feeling the same thing too.

  Darkness came around eight o’clock and they decided to make for one of the busy harbourside tavernas, sitting at a rickety old table on severely uncomfortable chairs. And Jemma found herself studying him curiously as he ordered some freshly caught snapper fish and the usual Greek salad to share. He couldn’t often put himself into situations like this one, mingling, eating with tourists, yet, despite the unmistakable air of class about him, he blended in quite comfortably.

  The meal came with a basket of fresh crusty bread and a large bowl of salad topped with rich feta cheese anointed with oil and herbs from which Leon broke off bits with his fingers and fed them to her as if it was the most natural thing in the world for him to do. They shared a bottle of wine—well, Jemma was allowed one glass; Leon had the rest. They talked quietly, she asking questions about the island, he answering them with a quiet depth of pride that held her more fascinated than the knowledgeable words he spoke. They watched the endless passage of holidaymakers taking an evening stroll along the harbour wall, and the way the lights danced on the silk dark waters in the harbour. They listened in to other people’s conversations, smiling with them when someone made a joke, and Leon translating if the language was strange to her, his knowledge of French, Italian, and even a smattering of Danish both surprising and impressing her.

  People talked sailing mostly because Fiskárdho, it seemed, was predominantly a sailing resort. And most remarked at some point or other during the evening on the big luxury yacht anchored just outside the bay, making Jemma blush and Leon grin as they speculated on who owned it, their suggestions ranging from Arab sheikhs to the Italian Mafia.

  And through it all Leon was unusually attentive towards her, his fingers hardly ever out of contact with her own where they lay on the table, and his eyes warm and slumbrous on her face.

  By the time they’d finished their long, leisurely meal, it was getting late. Leon suggested they return to the yacht, the look in his eyes promising that this new intimacy they were sharing was not going to end on their return. Trembling a little in anticipation, she let him help her to her feet. Their eyes met, and they kissed gently, then his arm was about her shoulders and her hand slid around his waist as they strolled silently back to where they had left the small boat.