by Robyn Grady
Then he disappeared down a hallway—the one where he’d taken the figurine hours ago—and the beating of a pulse at the apex of her thighs dropped away. A couple of minutes later, he returned carrying a plate laden with food that was apparently all for her.
“Simple fare.” He set the plate on the table then pulled out a heavy chair.
She wanted to know whether a boat had been organized but the aroma stole her attention—grilled eggplant, zucchini, and potato filled with tomato and peppers. Her mouth began to water.
“Did you make this yourself?” she asked, taking the seat.
“I put together some ingredients and slid them in the oven. That was a couple of hours ago.” He brought over a carafe and two glasses. “But this dish is even tastier cold.”
After taking a seat, he poured wine. Helene swallowed two mouthfuls. Trying to hide her flinch, she apologized.
“I’m told traditional Greek wine is an acquired taste.”
The bouquet was pine but the taste reminded her a little of her turpentine.
She polished off some eggplant and potato while Darius sipped his wine and surveyed the silver-ribboned sea beyond the balcony doors. When she’d eaten her fill, she dabbed the corners of her mouth with a linen napkin.
He eyed her plate. “Had enough?”
“I was thinking you must have had enough of me.” She flicked a glance down the hallway. “Is your goddess safely tucked away?”
He gave her a knowing look. “She’s safe.”
“Then next week you’ll be able to take her home. Before you know it, she’ll have worked her magic and you’ll be married with your very own happy little family.”
“A family. Yes.” He studied his wine. “I have every faith.”
She arched a brow. “Maybe you already have a lady waiting in the wings?”
He shook his head then sat straighter. “Although there was a girl once, but she expected too much.”
“A new palace?”
“A kiss. I was eight and wise enough not to succumb,” he smiled across at her, “even if she could bait a hook faster than any boy I’d known.”
“So you were the one who got away.” As her grin softened, she glanced at the royal portrait and thought of broken hearts. “Your parents must have been very much in love.” Hers had been, too. When he didn’t comment, she prodded. “You said your mother died of a broken heart.”
“I meant that was how her death was reported. A good story for the press, I suppose. Actually, she’d had an aneurism from birth. It was simply her time.”
She studied the portrait again. Everyone looked so happy.
“My mother was a princess from the Middle-East,” Darius went on. “When she and my father met at a state dinner, he knew they were well-suited. A marriage was arranged. Even before she became queen, she stole the hearts of the people. She was refined and gentle and kind.”
“And your father?”
“He was a strong leader. Duty always came first.”
From a child’s or wife’s point of view, Helene wasn’t sure that was a good thing.
“Will you marry out of obligation, too?”
Sometimes she wondered whether that right someone for her was really out there. One thing she did know, though—she would never marry unless she was convinced they would be happy together for the rest of their lives.
Darius’s reply was good humored. “You don’t need to concern yourself with my love life, Helene.”
“I only meant that arranging to marry someone you don’t love would be hard.”
“Not as hard as putting your country’s peace at risk.”
“You’re talking about that rebellion all those years ago?”
“In history’s eyes, not that long ago. The king had married a woman who was rumored to be carrying another man’s child. No images of her remain, but she was reputed to be extremely beautiful as well as shy or perhaps haughty. She rarely went out in public. After the child was born, unrest bubbled over. The palace was attacked. People died.”
“Still—a hundred years…”
“My uncle made a similar mistake. The woman he fell for had been married before.”
Helene deadpanned. “How shocking.”
He shrugged. “There were protests. My uncle abdicated and my father, the younger brother, was forced to step up.”
But this was a different time. She was about to point out that even kings could marry whomever they liked nowadays, but Darius changed the subject.
“You mentioned you finished a degree.” He slid his glass away. “What university?”
After she’d supplied the name of the institution and spoke a little about her experience there, he pushed to his feet.
“I need some sleep,” he said. “You’ll find suitable quarters down that hall.” He gestured to a separate hallway and said goodnight.
Then, without a word about tomorrow, he disappeared again, and she was left alone in the soft yellow light with the people in that portrait peering down at her like a band of ghosts.
…
Arriving back from his morning walk, Darius found Helene in the kitchen beating eggs. Oil, crushed walnuts, milk, sugar, and half a dozen other ingredients lined the counter. When she glanced up, he hid a grin at the pat of flour on her cheek.
“You’re back.” She glanced down at the simple white shirt she wore that, given her height, served more as a dress. “Hope you don’t mind. I borrowed this from the wardrobe.”
He preferred her in a bikini and sarong, but he wouldn’t tell her that.
“That room’s usually used by domestic help,” he said, strolling over. “You’d have found something different hanging in the closet if you’d stayed in my sister’s room. She’s a fan of jeans, the rattier the better.”
“We’d get along then.” She reached for a sifter. “I wasn’t sure when you organized for my lift back. I wanted to repay you for last night’s late supper.”
When he’d put together a quick breakfast this morning before heading out, he’d noticed the dishes were done and bits and pieces had been put away. Now Helene was cooking.
After evaluating the ingredients, he nodded at the cake pan. “Karidopitda?”
“Gia, Alexio’s wife, taught me.” She added sugar, milk, and oil to the bowl of beaten eggs.
“You’re a good cook?”
“I try.”
Earlier, Darius had learned that her story regarding college also checked out. After finishing high school, she’d worked as a junior assistant in a travel agency. Two years on, she’d enrolled and completed a four-year degree. Helene Masters wasn’t a reporter. She was an ordinary woman caught up in his change of plans. He’d thought about their situation all morning. Now he wondered if he ought to make another change.
He came to stand beside her. Her hair, freshly washed, was fragrant with a lavender scent. Lower down, her bare feet were clean of yesterday’s grime. Each toenail was painted iridescent pink.
“You mentioned that you work for your friend Alexio at his tarverna,” he said.
“I serve meals and drinks, wipe down tables, sometimes mop floors.”
“You like that kind of work?”
“More than painting gutters.” Holding the sifter, she squeezed repeatedly, and a mist of flour drifted into the bowl. “I love being with people, hearing them talk and laugh while they enjoy good food.”
“Would you like to work for me?”
She stopped sifting. “Work for you how?”
“This week. Preparing meals. Tidying up.”
She stared at him before a wry grin kicked up one side of her mouth. “You said yourself—no one is supposed to be here now but you.”
“Nevertheless, you are here. And after some consideration, I’ve decided I could use the help.” He eyed the bowl and pretended to frown. “Or perhaps I should wait to taste your cake.”
Dazed, she leaned a hip against the counter. “You want me to stay after all the trouble I caused?”
“But not with you right there, dodging rocks.”
“Perhaps it was a good thing I was there. More rock could fall before I can organize to have it reinforced. If I hadn’t gotten her out then, she may have been smashed, lost forever.”
Absently, she touched first her chin then her cheek. She looked so funny, mulling over his offer, her face patted with white dust. He supposed he should let her know.
He indicated his own chin and cheek. “Flour,” he explained.
She smeared away the patch on her cheek but kept missing the dab on her chin.
“A little higher,” he said.
Looking at his face as if it were a mirror, she tried again.
Lifting her jaw with a finger, he stroked the spot with the pad of his thumb. As he brushed, he felt her gaze roaming his face—his chin, his mouth. Then he recognized a telltale stirring in his blood, the kind of pleasant steady pull that left him wanting to lift her chin higher and graze that spot with his lips.
After taking longer than was strictly necessary, his hand fell away. Her eyes were wide and her voice husky when she thanked him.
“Guess I’m messy in the kitchen, too,” she joked.
“We can deal with that. What’s your answer?”
“Let’s see. Start on my journey back to California and reality, or stay on a beautiful isolated Mediterranean island doing light duties for a prince?” She laughed. “I think I’d have to pay you.”
“Then we have a deal?”
She hesitated only a moment before she stuck out her hand, and they shook on it. When his hand came away covered in flour, Helene’s eyes rounded again, and those same fingers covered her opened mouth.
“It’s not too late to change your mind,” she said.
He went to the sink, brushed off his palm, then headed straight out. He didn’t want to stand there contemplating the best way to brush the flour off her lips.
Chapter Five
On the third day, Darius returned late to the villa to find the main room and kitchen empty. The sound of water pipes told him that Helene was running a bath. Having walked around the island for hours, freshening up sounded like a fine idea.
After a cool shower, he wrapped the towel around his hips and strolled out into his bedroom. Automatically, his gaze landed on the vault. Every day he brought the figurine out and enclosed her again before leaving his quarters. Back at the palace, she would also be safely locked away. By the time he needed to return her here to this island, that cave would have been cleared and reinforced.
But more and more, Darius balked at leaving the figurine alone in that chamber again.
He could have workers sign confidentiality agreements, but he feared the cave’s location would be leaked. Suspicion behind the reason for the reinforcement would no doubt spread. Perhaps the press would pick up on rumors, sniff around, ask questions. Despite a regular sea patrol to keep the island safe, it was a miracle the cave and its hidden treasure had remained a secret this long.
Stepping into trousers, Darius recalled what Helene had said days before. These were, indeed, different times. His people enjoyed modern conveniences, modern points of view. They were well-educated and aware of the world. Society had evolved.
But traditions were valued and maintained because they provided some sense of stability in an unpredictable world. Customs and beliefs were central to identity. To national pride.
The mystery surrounding the goddess and her powers, which were linked to harmony and longevity, was important to his heritage. Still, was it time to tweak logistics and perhaps release the figurine from her confinement like Helene had suggested?
Darius’s father had taught his eldest never to underestimate lessons from the past, though. The riot that had cost so many lives a hundred years ago was a perfect example. When he’d told Yanni Kostas of his decision to keep Helene on the island, his friend and advisor had subtly reminded him of expected tradition, too. Darius had acknowledged Yanni’s concern, but he had no regrets where Helene was concerned. He still spent the majority of his time here alone in reflection and appreciated her help with chores like meals. And, yes, he appreciated her company during those clocked-off intervals too.
Hiring some help during this time didn’t compare with altering what his father had insisted was an essential step in maintaining the throne. Would his conscience ever allow him to remove the fertility figurine from this island forever?
Then again, the figurine and her powers were myth as far as the masses were concerned. Only four people in this world knew for certain she actually existed. In essence, he was the only one who stood between what had always been and change; between listening to common sense or bowing to superstition.
The goddess might not be able to spin a spell, but she was a treasure that deserved to be protected and preserved in a twenty-first century kind of way.
He felt sure his father would have agreed.
Closing the door, he moved to the main room. Helene was still in her quarters, so he put on a CD. In the kitchen he found the platter of olives, cheese, bread, and meat, as well as karpoozi—watermelon—she’d prepared. On the balcony, he placed the platter between the settings she’d arranged on the table. Balcony torches were lit. In the middle of seeing to wine, he caught a movement and turned. He almost fumbled the carafe.
A woman stood framed by a high arched doorway, looking for all the world like a Grecian goddess. Her abundance of flaxen hair was swept up in a classic style off the elegant column of her throat. Her dress could tempt a priest to break his vows. The ankle-length silk gown lay draped expertly around her breasts and fell from the high-cinched waist in perfect folds to her dainty, unadorned feet. A glittering, palm-sized pin in the shape of a dolphin secured the fabric at one side while the other shoulder remained delectably bare. He didn’t care where Helene had found that outfit; he was only glad she had.
Blindly he set the carafe down as the vision moved toward him. With each step, the split in her gown parted enough for a tantalizing glimpse of shapely leg to be revealed.
“I found these bits and pieces in a drawer. I guess maids like to dress up, too. I hope no one minds.” She lifted and dropped a bare shoulder. “I was sick of shorts and baggy shirts.”
He tried to speak. Instead he cleared the knot from his throat at the same time she spotted the food.
“You didn’t have to bring that out,” she said, coming nearer.
“I’d have to do more if you weren’t here.”
She popped a plump olive in her mouth but rather than take a seat, she moved to the balcony rail. He followed.
“I like that music,” she said.
“It’s a Cretan lyra.”
“I recognize it. A man sometimes plays one in Alexio’s taverna.” She faced the sea. “I wish I could play an instrument. I’m hopeless at reading those black dots and squiggles. Reading history was always much more fun.” Leaning on the rail, her attention shifted from the view to meet his gaze again. “What did you study in college?”
He’d been examining her profile—pert nose, dimpled chin, the slender slope of her neck. Now he refocused.
“I went to university in England. Studied business. Economics. History too. The palace library on the main island has some interesting volumes about these parts.”
She nodded but didn’t presume to ask if that was an invitation to inspect the library books firsthand, which was good because, seeing her in this moonlight in that dress, his thoughts were a little scrambled; he might have said yes. He had enjoyed their evenings together, listening to the sea and hearing her chat on about her life in America and how fascinating she found this part of the world.
Darius found her fascinating, and it was more than the outfit. She was easy to talk to. She made him laugh. She helped him relax. He simply liked her being around.
If Helene knew, she might blame his interest in her on the godde
ss and her seductive powers. She was familiar with the legend: should it serve her purpose, the goddess was able to inspire deep—even mindless—desire between a couple, particularly here on this island. But he had no intention of losing his heart, even though he had speculated on testing the more physical waters. Tonight, the idea of bringing Helene close was beyond tempting.
“I picked some fruit from the orchard this afternoon,” she was saying. “Then I found a book in the study. A classic written in English.”
“My mother liked to read.”
She quickly added, “I was careful to put it back exactly where I found it.”
“You’re welcome to anything here, Helene.”
“You’re not worried I’ll destroy something?”
He gave her a censuring look. The only thing he was concerned about—the goddess—was safely locked away.
She gazed out over the slopes. “I recognize the olive trees and pines. And all the fruit trees in the orchard. What kind is that big green one over there?”
She nodded at the nearby monster.
“A hickory.” Darius leaned both forearms on the rail. “An early Greek myth surrounds them. The story grew over time but the original version involves a woman named Carya.”
“Who was she?”
“Among other things, Carya was a virgin.”
“Not the sacrificial type, I hope.”
“Dionysus, son of Apollo, visited King Leon and fell passionately in love with one of his three daughters,” he explained.
“Carya.”
He nodded. “Dionysus left the court but when he returned for her, Carya’s sisters tried to stop her from leaving with him. As punishment for their jealousy, he drove the sisters mad. Then he and Carya escaped together. Later, when she died, Dionysus turned his beloved into a tree.”
“Why?”
As Helene gazed out at the hickory, he became more aware of the rise and fall of silk draped over her breasts.
“I suppose a tree can still breathe,” he said. “Can still feel.”
A breeze picked up. Nearby, a torch threw sparks and Helene moved back. To shield her, Darius skirted around to stand close on her other side—closer than he had been to her before.