by Cat Porter
I took off my jewelry and tucked it into my cosmetics bag along with my makeup, went into the bathroom and quickly washed my face. As quietly as possible I took off my dress and rolled it up, tucking it in my small suitcase along with my hair brush and cosmetics bag. I changed into jeans and a T-shirt, my denim jacket, my Nikes, and then wrote a note to Alessio on an Allegra stationery pad and propped it up in front of the mirror so he’d be sure to see it.
Holding in my breath, I grabbed my Vuitton backpack and suitcase and silently slid out of the room. I needed to find Turo. Now.
High-pitched cries and moans filled the hallway. Luca was working out his evening his way. I lifted up my suitcase so it wouldn’t make any noise on the wood flooring and made it to the outside deck, finally gulping in the fresh sea air. Opening up my Blackberry, I made the call, whispering my request.
“Kanéna próvlema. Se déka leptá eíme’ki,” came the much hoped for reply.
Ten more minutes.
Glass crashed from the upper deck. Tucking my phone in my back pocket, securing my bags in a corner, I ran down the other end of the ship. A figure stood in the shadows behind the bar opening a bottle of liquor, broken glassware littered the counter. He brought the bottle to his lips and drank, drank. A thirst like no other. A thirst to erase, to numb. But the booze wouldn’t fill that hole. That I knew all too well.
He slammed the bottle down on the bar, swiping a hand across his mouth. He was still wired from the Russian extravaganza.
Two fierce, light-colored eyes bore into mine, his ragged breathing the only sound to accompany the sloshing of the water against the boat.
“Turo.”
“My bartending skills aren’t great, so I can’t make you a fancy cocktail. But I can open any bottle you like. He swept the broken glass with an arm and the pieces crashed to the floor. He planted his hands on the bar top. “What’ll it be, Miss Lavrentiou?”
I went to the bar. “I don’t want anything.”
“Your boyfriend have any coke on him in your room?” He slugged back the bottle again. Whisky.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know.” He made a sour face. “What the hell do you know?” His voice was an acidic mix of brittle and bitter, and he poured and served that cocktail with grim delight.
“I can’t begin to comprehend what you went through, but drinking or doing coke isn’t going to help.”
“It’s helping, baby.” Turo let out a dark laugh. “I brought some coke back from the Russian bathtub, but I finished it. Very nice quality. Of course, I expected nothing less. Luca must have a stash of something on board. You want to help me? Go get it.”
I went behind the bar. “I have something better.”
His eyes blazed and he prowled toward me. “That stash between your legs? Yeah, that I could definitely use.”
He fisted a hand in my hair and devoured my mouth. The warm caramel flavor of the whisky still on his tongue flared over mine. His teeth nipped and bit, his tongue demanded and burned a path through my mouth, my being.
His fingers dug into the sides of my face, his breath hot on my lips. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Your boyfriend too tired to get it up for you tonight? Is that why you came looking for me?”
He waited for me to react, to strike back. I only held his fierce gaze. The desperate clawing, the frenzied scratching. I knew it so well.
“We’re leaving,” I said. “You and me.”
A cruel, cold smirk lashed his weary features. “You and me, huh?”
I put a hand against his cold cheek, and his eyes narrowed, a muscle ticking under my touch. “I called a friend who owns a small restaurant on the island, a fisherman with his own boat. He’s out on the water now and coming here.”
His eyes searched mine.
“I’m getting off this boat. Come with me,” I whispered, my fingers curling in his shirt.
“To shack up at some hotel?”
“To leave Mykonos. He’ll take us to the port and we’ll get on the first ferry. There’s always a ferry by seven or eight in the morning.”
“And go back to Athens?”
“No. Not Athens. I don’t want anyone to know where we are.”
“Not even your man?”
“Come with me,” I repeated.
“Why?”
“Because I won’t be toyed with and used, not by Luca Aliberti, not by Evgeny Berezin. Not by anyone.”
“Good answer.”
“This once, let me do something for you,” I said.
His eyes narrowed at me, his movements stopped. Had he never heard that before?
For the first time in a very long time, I was going to trust my instinct. And that instinct had been right about Turo from the beginning. He’d been a rock, a rock where everything else around me felt like quicksand. Always felt like quicksand.
He was different from anyone I’d ever met. A brisk intelligence, a dry wit I really enjoyed. He treated me like a human being he actually liked and wanted to get to know. I could see it in his eyes, the way they lingered, in the words he used, the way he listened, the questions he asked me. It wasn’t only lust or desire or fascination or wanting to score entry into my realm. It was real interest, enjoyment, curiosity. In that piercing amber gaze of his I wasn’t Adriana Lavrentiou, I was a woman.
My own woman.
In the gold and lilac haze of dawn, that harsh gaze now softened, and that tide of heat that was us together washed through me afresh.
“Where to?” he breathed.
“Another island. We passed it on the way here. It’s quiet, not touristy or crowded like Mykonos. It takes a little over two hours from here on the ferry. ”
“And how will your boyfriend take the news when he discovers we’re gone together?” The angle of his jaw tightened again. “Won’t he come after us?”
“No, Alessio and I have an understanding.”
He let out a harsh laugh. “Isn’t that convenient?”
“He has a lot going on here this week, the store, dinner parties—he can’t leave Mykonos.”
Turo’s fingers dug into my neck, a thumb at my throat. “Doesn’t he need you for that?”
“No.”
He shoved me up against the glass wall of the bar, letting out a guttural noise. Pain radiated through my back, it hurt, but I welcomed the pain. We were alive.
Alive.
And I wanted to feel.
My gaze fell to his lips, tense lips, hostile, cruel, and I wanted them on me delivering their brand of punishment. I kissed him, and a groan heaved from his throat. He claimed my mouth in return with a crushing press of his heat. Warm whisky filled my senses, his taste, that unique blend of masculine perfection that I couldn’t define. A taste which my body recognized as right. The painful grip of his fingers on my neck, the press of the hard wall of his chest against mine—the world whirled, and I soared in the twist.
His fingers dug in my hair and fisted there, forehead sliding to mine, our damp lips a breath apart. “Don’t expect an apology for that.” He nipped at my lower lip with his teeth, sucking on the edge, and I gasped at the sting, the rawness.
“I don’t want one,” I breathed.
Sharp grunts rose from the lower deck. Luca was taking and getting what he wanted, celebrating his victory. Wincing, Turo stiffened in my hold and pulled away from me, a hand brushing down his face.
I wanted more than grappling in the dark amongst thieves. I wanted more from Turo DeMarco from America.
I said, “You have two minutes to pack your bag.”
That crooked grin slashed across those devastating lips. His head slanted, eyes burning. A conspirator.
“Sweetheart, I never unpacked.”
Andros
23
Turo
We’d gotten on the first ferry out of Mykonos. Next stop, Andros.
Adri and I sat on the deck of the ship drinking espressos and smoking cigarettes in the harsh wind, barely speaking, but we didn
’t have to speak. For the first time ever, I didn’t want to plan anything, I didn’t want to know the details and analyze them. I trusted her.
We kept close, sitting on a wooden bench, watching the deep blue water churn in the huge ship’s wake. I bought us a third round of espressos and stirred a packet of the dark sugar she favored in her cup then handed it to her. Her eyes gleamed at me, her leg pressing against mine as she sipped on the sweet, stiff brew. A little, simple thing, and it made her happy. Made me happy too.
She lit another cigarette for me, and it took her four tries because of the wind. We leaned in close together, our heads touching, our grins corroborating. I took her cold hand in mine and rubbed it, keeping it tucked between my side and my arm.
A curious sense of intimacy, wordless and gentle and quiet, had easily risen between us since we’d gotten off the Allegra and onto her friend’s fishing boat. Once on the ferry, the thick fog in my head lifted, the ache crushing my skull, the heaviness in my chest dissipating. We leaned back on the hard bench, taking in the slosh and slice of the big ship through the rough sea, moving us toward another island. She’d given this to me, this relief, this escape, and it was ours.
Two hours plus later, the ferry slowed its pace and backed into a small cove of a harbor surrounded by mountains.
This was Andros.
We made our way to the lower deck, got our bags, and disembarked from the bowels of the massive ship along with a line of cars and a small crowd of pedestrians.
“Our caretaker is meeting us with the car.” Adri scanned the people waiting in the harbor.
“Caretaker?”
“Of the family property here.”
“You own property here?”
“We have a house. My mother’s family is from Andros originally.”
The sight of the great white ferry heading off into the distance made me take in a deep breath. A deep breath of fresh sea air. We were here, just the two of us on this island in the Aegean, and nobody knew. Nobody.
I rubbed a hand down my chest the sunlight warming me. A huge grin broke her face. “Ah, there he is.” She waved.
An elderly grizzled man greeted us in a rush of Greek. They hugged. “Turo, this is Orésti. He’s been with the family ever since I can remember.”
We greeted one another, and he took our small rolling suitcases. Orésti led us to a rugged yet sleek black little Land Rover Defender SVX jeep where he loaded our bags. He headed for the driver’s seat.
“Stásou,” Adriana said, and he stopped. She gnawed on her lips and said something to him in Greek.
Orésti nodded, agreeing with her in a rush of Greek. He handed Adriana the keys, tilting his head at us. “Adío, despinís. Kírie.”
“Efxaristó, Kírie Orésti,” said Adri. A wistful thank you.
Orésti gave us a wave and strode off toward one of the many outdoor cafés at the port. Adriana stared at the keys in her hand.
I came up next to her. “What’s up, Lovely?”
“I haven’t driven in a long time.” She took in a small breath. “I have my own car in Athens, but I haven’t felt comfortable driving, being in a car by myself, moving through traffic, dealing with photographers who are on my trail. So I stopped, talked myself out of it. Got anxious about it.”
“Well, there’s no paparazzi or traffic here,” I said.
Her gaze found mine and a small smile grew on her face. “No, there isn’t.”
“Go for it.”
She flipped the car keys in her hand. “You don’t mind being driven by a woman?”
“Make it worth my while, baby.” I shot her my ladykiller grin.
“Hmm.” She grinned back, a blast of sexy hotter than the sun. “Are you hungry?” she asked.
“Starved.”
“Me too. I know just the place. Let’s go.”
She climbed into the driver’s seat of the jeep, and I got into the passenger side, and we took off. The cold air battered my face as we sped down the curvy shore road. Barely half an hour later, the road twisted and rose over a harbor town, the village of Batsí. Whitewashed homes with blue trim were stacked over the curved mountainside of the village. A postcard of a classic Greek island town—picturesque, charming, and all real.
The road descended through the town, and Adri parked in the port. Old-fashioned, black, wrought iron lamp posts dotted the crescent walkway along the water. A number of small fishing boats, sailboats, and catamarans were docked in the harbor which was lined with cafés, restaurants, and souvenir shops which were opening for the day. A hotel with a long strip of sandy beach complete with loungers and umbrellas filled the other side of the harbor.
Adri slid her arm in mine and led the way to a restaurant, Mastello. We sat on a raised veranda at a high, wooden table and bench, offering a sweeping view of the marina. Seashells, brightly colored walls, thick boat ropes and large cans as light fixtures worked together creating a fresh, rustic nautical feel. Small bottles of ouzo lined four shelves on top of the entrance to the interior of the restaurant. That was a selection I’d never seen before.
“It’s a little early, but I know the owner,” she said.
A tall man with curly hair pulled back in a ponytail came out. “Then to pistévo!”
“Believe it, it’s me.” Adri laughed. They hugged and kissed on both cheeks, Greek style. They spoke in a bustle of Greek and he nodded and gestured, agreeing to whatever she was saying.
She introduced us and asked, “Turo, do you have any aversions to seafood at this hour?”
“None whatsoever. No rules, no schedules for us.”
“I like that, yes. No rules, no schedules.” A small smile perked up her lips. “And ouzo?”
“Educate me.”
“I like you more and more, Mr. DeMarco.”
Under the table, my legs found hers and rubbed up against them. That urge to continually touch her wasn’t dying down anytime soon. Her tongue lashed at her bottom lip as she glanced at me then glanced back at the colorful tabletop, her face reddening.
No menus were needed, of course. A waitress came over with a pad and a pen and scribbled along to Adri’s long order in a vivid tumble of Greek. Something special was about to begin. Like when a very rare and fine bottle of wine was finally opened and I’d been offered the cork to smell; the scent extraordinary, the promise of the ruby liquid elating me, transporting me. Or when the curtain is about to rise on the stage of a play you’ve been dying to see.
My pulse kicked up, my mouth watered as she continued to order in that enthusiastic, colorful waterfall of words. Adri handed me a fork and knife from the bread basket the waitress had deposited on the table.
“You’re happy to be here, aren’t you?” I asked.
“Am I that obvious?”
“You’re relaxed, not tense, a smile on your face.”
“You too,” she said. “And it’s good to see.” She blushed again.
Fuck, she’s beautiful.
I could imagine her in high summer, skin bronzed and sleek, wet and salty from the sea, laughing as she ran over to me where I waited for her with a towel and a deep kiss. An incredible combination of girl and woman, naive yet wise. Innocent heart with the soul of a vixen.
Dangerous. A dangerous I’d never known before.
“I’m taking your advice seriously,” she said. “I’m determined to stop being moody and glum.”
“You be any way you want, Adri. I’ll be right here.”
Her gaze caught mine. Truth, my words, not offhand bullshitting.
Twisting off the cap on the large icy bottle of spring water, I filled our glasses and drank like the thirsty traveler I was. Water, relief flowed through me.
“When was the last time you were here?” I asked.
“A long time ago,” she murmured. “The past few years we’ve only been going to Mykonos where we have a vacation home. But Mykonos is so very different. All of the world goes to Mykonos for a holiday, to party, to shop, to be seen. It’s fun, but
—”
“Not much of a getaway if it’s the same people you see in Athens.”
“Exactly. Andros is not that. Here, things are not pretentious, extravagant, or flashy. Here, it’s simple and not so loud.” She bit off a piece of bread. “I like it very much.”
The Eurotrash heiress preferred simple and not so loud?
“You said that your mother’s family is from Andros?” I asked.
“Yes. I was very close to my grandfather. He lived here all year round the last ten years of his life. I would come here on my own as a child and stay with him all summer. I lived with him here for a while too.” Her lips twisted slightly. “He passed away four years ago. I suppose that’s when we stopped coming regularly. For me and my mother it was much too painful.” Her gaze darted to the sea.
The bright blue, wooden, louvered doors that led to the kitchen swung open on a squeal and two waiters brought out dish after dish for us. Butterflied roast sardines in a pool of olive oil, wine vinegar, and oregano, two long octopus tentacles on a bed of black lentil puree, a Greek salad like no other I’d seen before—a high mound of tomatoes, cucumbers, green bell pepper, and thinly sliced red onions topped with a creamy white cheese and a thick swirl of olive paste and oregano. Serious Mediterranean meze.
Adri dug into each platter with her fork and filled my plate. No serving spoons, no turn taking, just indulging and sharing that indulgence. Rich, simple flavors filled my mouth; my palate whirled on a Greek pinwheel. The sun shone brightly over our table warming us, glinting in the gold-green olive oil lacing the dishes.
She filled our small, slim glasses with ice cubes and poured a measure of ouzo and a dash of water in each. The liquid clouded immediately, the glass frosting. “This was my grandfather’s favorite.”
“I’ve had it once or twice before, but I must admit, I didn’t care for it much.”
“Well, ouzo in Chicago in some restaurant or this—” She waved her glass over the glistening-in-olive-oil colorful platters of fresh seafood and salads, and raised it toward the calm, blue bay before us, the mountains on the opposite shore. “This is how it should be enjoyed. Keep all this in your heart right this very second, so that every time you take a sip of ouzo after this, wherever else you may be, you’ll enjoy it the proper way.”