by Mandy Baggot
He shrugged. ‘Tell Harry I will come by after my meeting here.’
It was the final straw. In one swift move she picked up the painter’s pot, launched the contents at him, and watched the white emulsion coat Panos from head to foot. And all the while, as the paint slopped, Panos didn’t move.
‘Is that clear enough?’ she shouted, desperate for a response.
She hadn’t expected this. She had expected flailing and shouting and cursing her to the Greek gods, but Panos was just standing there like being doused in paint was the most natural thing in the world.
Finally, he shifted. Bringing his arms up, he put both hands to his face. His fingers met the emulsion and he clawed two handfuls of the substance and then, it hit her. Spatters of paint slapped her cheeks and her t-shirt, then more of her, as she watched Panos flicking the liquid from his body straight at her.
She turned her body away and tried to shield her face. ‘Stop it!’
‘You don’t like it?’ Panos scraped more of the paint from his clothes and flicked it at her.
She screamed again as another stream of paint hit her face. She pulled the hem of her t-shirt up and rubbed her cheeks with it. ‘Elpida told me what you do for a business!’ she yelled. ‘You’re one of those property developers who destroys small towns for their own gain. You lie your way into other people’s trust and profit from their misfortune. You break communities and you… you suck the soul out of everything.’
* * *
His cheeks, underneath the thick, white paste, flamed at her words. Was that what his grandmother had told her? He increased his pace, scooping off another palm full of paint and flicking it at Imogen.
‘That is not true,’ he retorted.
‘Stop it!’ Imogen exclaimed, breaking into a jog. She stepped off the road and onto the sand, where her pace slowed as her flip-flops failed to compete with the terrain.
‘You are the one making a war with paint! All because I am trying to help you!’ He grabbed her then, his soaking wet white hand clamping down on her forearm. It was all oozing down from his every part, globules of alabaster pigment sullying the sand as he moved along it.
‘Don’t touch me!’ Imogen exclaimed, still trying to escape up the beach.
‘Don’t touch you?! You embarrass me in front of the village, throw this stuff all over me! What do you expect me to do? I am here to do business. I have bought Tomas’ Taverna and I will be buying Avalon too! It’s only a matter of time before you are begging for me at Halloumi.’ He tugged her towards him until their bodies were touching. ‘Now is the time to change your mind!’
‘Never!’
‘Are you quite sure about that?’
‘You’re making me wet!’
Her choice of words had his whole body reacting. His core tightened as he tried to maintain some sort of control. What was it with this woman? She had attacked him in the street and still he wanted to… what? What exactly did he want to do?
She was looking directly at him now, still backing away over the sand and tugging at his arm, her blonde hair falling over her face, covered in specks of white. He wanted to reach out and brush those loose, straw-like strands away, touch a fingertip to her jaw and…
Before he could think further he was falling forward. There was nothing he could do to stop himself, and he landed right on top of Imogen.
* * *
Grains of the shoreline flew up into the air around them and Imogen let out a gasp. Panos Dimitriou was on top of her! And although he looked like a human Flump – without the pink bits – he was still ridiculously attractive.
Paint from his body was seeping onto her clothes, drips slipped from his neck onto hers and the sand was sticking to them both. She knew she ought to move, but the only thing she seemed to be able to focus on was his heartbeat echoing through her chest and the visible throb at the base of his neck.
She stilled further as he raised a hand, paint spiralling down from his wrist as he cupped the side of her face. The delicate trace of his fingertips felt like the most expensive silk gently trailing over her skin. Those full lips were mere centimetres away from hers. The sun was warming her exposed skin, his closeness heating up everything else. It was almost surreal. She just had to let it happen…
She snapped herself forward, almost knocking heads with him as he fell to her left and down onto the sand. What was she thinking? Again! This was not the message she was supposed to be conveying. How was he supposed to take her outrage seriously if she kept wanting to kiss him?
She got up, hands furiously brushing paint and sand from her clothes. It was a wasted effort. She was like a dirty salmon-and-white-spotted Dalmatian.
‘Imogen…’ Panos began, standing himself and making no effort to rid himself of the mess he was in.
She shook her head. ‘No. I said what I came to say and I want you to stay away from the restaurant.’
She turned away from him and, with her head held high, she began a march back towards the roadside, a small piece of driftwood caught up in her hair.
29
Halloumi, Acharavi Beachfront
‘Harry,’ she breathed. ‘We need to find out who owns that piece of land next to here.’
Imogen pointed in the direction of the manicured patch of land adjoining Halloumi as paint dripped from her face, down onto her t-shirt and onto the partially cleaned floor.
‘Ai! What has happened to you?!’ Elpida exclaimed.
‘Imogen? What’s going on?’ Harry asked.
‘Elpida, Panos has bought Tomas’ Taverna and he’s going to buy the Avalon restaurant too. There’s only that patch of land in between those restaurants and Halloumi. If he gets that too, he could build one of his nightclub things right next to our restaurant.’
Elpida shook her head. ‘No, I do not believe it. This cannot be true.’
‘It is true. He told me himself.’
‘And he threw paint over you!’ Harry exclaimed.
‘No,’ Imogen said. ‘I actually threw paint over him but… we need to find out who owns that land… quickly.’
Elpida took Imogen’s arm and pulled her into the restaurant building. ‘Come, my car is out the back. We will get you cleaned up.’
‘Harry, I’m sorry,’ Imogen said as she moved with Elpida’s pace. ‘I left our car up the road.’
* * *
Elpida Dimitriou’s Home, Agios Martinos
‘I really should be helping Harry, Elpida. We need to do everything we can to get the restaurant open and get it successful before Panos… Will he really knock everything down? Is that really what he does?’
She let herself be steered through Elpida’s front door and into the kitchen. She still had paint and sand in her hair and on her clothes and a growing concern that her brother’s dream was about to be flattened like an irritating cicada sitting somewhere it shouldn’t.
‘Yes, it is what he does,’ Elpida answered, moving to the line of olive wood cupboards on the farthest wall. ‘But I really did not think when he got back here that he would keep pursuing this. Acharavi is part of our family, our traditions.’ She sighed. ‘This is what happened with my son, Christos, Pano’s father. He was divided. Between family and traditions and modern business. It does not mix well.’ Elpida stood on tip-toes, reaching down packets from the highest shelf.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ Imogen admitted. ‘I thought maybe, with a lot of blood, sweat and tears, it could work. Now…’ She shook her head, fear of demolition and development churning up her insides. ‘Now I just don’t know.’
‘Pfft! I know,’ Elpida said confidently, reaching down more packets and lining them up along the worktop.
‘You do?’ Imogen said, looking at her wide-eyed.
Elpida turned from her frenzied emptying of the cupboards and beamed at Imogen. ‘We will make baklava!’ she announced as if it was a solution to world peace.
‘What? I can’t make food now!’ Imogen replied, throwing her hands up in the air. ‘I
haven’t got time! I have to find the owner of the parcel of land next to the restaurant and beg him not to sell it… or sell it to me… so Panos can’t ruin my brother’s plans. How much is land in Corfu?’
‘Stop!’ Elpida ordered roughly. ‘We make baklava,’ Elpida repeated, softer. ‘Repeat this, Imogen.’ She closed her eyes and breathed like the leader of a meditation class. ‘We make baklava.’
What was this? Some sort of Greek hypnotism? Imogen attempted to copy Elpida’s long, lung-loosening breath. ‘We make baklava…’ She let the breath go.
‘We will need this too,’ Elpida announced. She grabbed at something nestled between two lower cupboards. As Elpida snapped it out, Imogen saw it was a small, collapsible stool. The woman leapt onto it and reached up onto the very top of the cabinet, fingertips just able to grab a thick, brown leather book. Dust came down along with the bound tome and Elpida started to cough.
‘Are you alright?’ Imogen asked, reaching out an arm to steady the woman’s descent.
‘Cutting down on smoking is doing nothing for my cough and everything to make me more miserable,’ Elpida grumbled as she returned to ground level.
‘Maybe I should take up smoking,’ Imogen mused.
‘No,’ Elpida said. ‘You will take up more Greek cooking instead.’ She put the book to one side. ‘Later I will show you my recipes but, for now, I will get the pastry ready and you will melt the butter.’
30
Imogen melted butter then crushed walnuts and pistachios. She spread the mixture onto the filo pastry-coated trays under her Greek teacher’s supervision. If making baklava had been Elpida’s idea of therapy then it was working.
‘Good!’ Elpida exclaimed. ‘Now, very carefully we must put more layers of the pastry on top.’
Imogen looked at the wafer-thin pastry. It seemed like an impossible task. Pastry had always been her downfall. She hovered her fingers over it then slowly dropped them to the corners of the flat tracing paper-like substance.
‘Be careful not to break it,’ Elpida chipped in, leaning over Imogen.
The sound of an internal door closing and the fragrance of lemon, soap and something musky piqued Imogen’s nose. She looked from the pastry to the door that led into the rest of the house just as Panos entered the room.
Showered and dressed in another pristine white shirt and dark trousers, his hair and skin still damp, Imogen tensed, her fingers pulling away and separating the pastry.
‘Pfft! You must pay attention!’ Elpida exclaimed. She then looked up at the slow clock above the range. ‘Ai! I have to go!’
‘Go?’ Imogen stated. ‘Go where? I thought we were making baklava. The kind that heals everything!’
‘I have a pie to take to Nico’s mother and biscuits for Mrs Rokas.’ Elpida began to move dishes around, pulling forward foil-wrapped porcelain bowls.
‘But, I’m not sure what I’m doing here,’ Imogen said, her eyes going to her nut and butter-encrusted hands. ‘I’m going to waste all these ingredients.’
‘Pfft! No,’ Elpida said, arms laden with items. ‘Pano can help you.’
‘What?’ he barked.
Imogen watched him spin around from his laptop on the table, face like thunder yet still remarkably attractive. They were two people at war at the moment and she no more wanted to spend time in the kitchen with him than she wanted to invite Hannibal Lecter to Halloumi’s opening night.
‘Pano, you have been making baklava for years. Help Imogen,’ Elpida ordered.
‘Yiayia, I have work to do,’ he responded.
‘And I have deliveries to make,’ Elpida replied quickly. ‘Perhaps making something together will help settle differences, no?’ She sniffed. ‘And when I get back I expect perfect baklava and no blood on the floor.’ Elpida scurried towards the kitchen door, plates piled high and her handbag swinging from her arm. ‘And just in case you were wondering, when I say the blood on the floor, I mean meteorologically.’
‘Metaphorically,’ Imogen corrected.
‘Pfft! No blood on my floor… or paint… or baklava… or anything,’ Elpida threatened, narrowing her eyes at both of them. ‘Antio!’ She waved a hand and was gone.
* * *
‘So,’ Panos said, draping the super-fine filo pastry over the second tray. ‘Should we call a truce for the sake of the baklava?’
Her shoulders shrugged with a lack of conviction.
He took a breath. ‘Whatever you might think, Imogen, this is not personal.’
‘Of course it is!’ she snapped.
‘It is just business.’
‘And what you’re doing is going to impact on my brother’s business.’
‘He has no business yet. You have been here only a few days.’
‘You have no idea what this means to Harry… or what Harry means to me.’
He looked directly at her then, saw the fire in her eyes had been replaced with something much rawer.
‘Why don’t you tell me?’ he offered gently.
‘Why? So you can dissect it and work out the best attack to make him change his mind and sell the restaurant to you?’
He smiled, shaking his head.
‘Maybe you could tell me why you need to build a nightclub complex in Acharavi when you have Euro millions already?’ she asked. ‘My brother just wants to make a living and a new start for himself and his family.’
Why was it so important for him to build his next entertainment complex here? Was it because of that stupid hotel a few miles up the road haunting him like a spectre? Panos had to wonder.
He focussed his attention on the pastry, carefully easing it up off the board and placing it on top of the previous layer. He sighed. ‘Corfu was where my father started his business,’ he answered simply.
‘So Dimitriou Enterprises is really your father’s business?’
‘No,’ he said, selecting the next strip of pastry. He didn’t need to look at her to know she would be wearing a confused expression. ‘My father started Dimitriou Hotels. A very different business.’
‘Hotels,’ Imogen stated. ‘So how many does he have?’
‘None now. But when the business was doing well he had six.’
‘What happened?’ Imogen asked. ‘Did he try to build one on Acharavi seafront?’
‘No,’ Panos stated. ‘He died.’
He opened and shut his eyes and pretended to himself it was the cardamom in the nuts that was causing the stinging in his eyes. He pulled too quickly at the pastry and it split apart.
‘I’m sorry,’ Imogen said softly. ‘I didn’t know. Elpida said something about tradition and modern business not mixing but I didn’t know your father had… Well, that he wasn’t here anymore.’
He shrugged. ‘It was a long time ago. Time moves on.’
Imogen picked up the long-handled spoon in the bowl of baklava filling and stirred the sweet nuts, lemon, sugar and butter around. ‘If it’s any consolation my father’s dead too.’
He caught the edge to her voice and looked at her. ‘I am sorry for your loss.’
‘Like with your father, it was a long time ago. Not that that makes it any easier, does it? I guess it’s possible my father might have stayed in one of your father’s hotels once.’ She paused. ‘Although I don’t have a pen.’ She mixed the baklava ingredients again. ‘My dad travelled a lot with his job. He sold linen… expensive linen, all over the world,’ she said. ‘He loved what he did. The only irony was he worked hard, travelled far, so we could go on holidays together.’ She sighed. ‘And we only just managed Spain before he died.’
* * *
She had no idea why she was telling him all this. Perhaps, after the email from the Wyatt Group, her dad was in her thoughts more than usual. She carried on stirring the mixture, getting the syrupy mix on her fingers.
‘Your mother is alive?’ Panos asked her.
‘Yes, currently spending her time sitting in her dressing gown watching Gogglebox and Grantchester.’
�
�What?’
‘She’s a bit down at the moment. She recently lost a close friend and… I think when you get to that age and you’re widowed, you start questioning your own mortality. I think she feels like everyone is leaving her,’ Imogen said.
He nodded. ‘We need some more mixture in here.’ He indicated the baking tray on the counter in front of them.
‘How about your mother?’ Imogen asked, lifting the spoon again and depositing the sticky stuff into the container.
‘She is fine,’ Panos answered abruptly. ‘She lives a lot of the time in England now. With her new husband.’
The way he had fired out the response told her his mother having a new husband wasn’t something he particularly liked.
‘He wins awards for business every week and makes his money taking over companies,’ Panos continued.
‘Oh, a bit like you?’
‘No,’ he responded tartly. ‘Not like me.’ He flattened out the nut mixture with the flat side of a knife. ‘I work hard. Things do not just fall into my lap.’
‘I’m glad you’re realising that,’ Imogen stated, a half smile on her face.
He sighed and put down the knife. ‘Imogen, I want that restaurant.’
‘You’ve made that quite clear.’
‘So what do I have to do to make you give it to me?’ He turned his body towards her, leaning slightly closer, his dark eyes capturing hers.
He was utterly, crazily gorgeous, but he wanted to take away something Harry had his heart set on. It was like wanting to get passionate with the Devil and she couldn’t let it happen.
‘There’s nothing you can do,’ she stated.
‘Nothing?’ he said again, leaning closer still.
She could smell dewy lemon and sweet syrup and she wasn’t sure if it was coming from the baklava or him.
‘Imogen. Don’t make me beg.’
She edged slightly forward. ‘For what?’ she whispered, the words almost catching on her tongue.