The Tycoon's Mistress
Sara Craven
Cressy was astonished when Draco Viannis proposed. From the moment she'd met the gorgeous Greek, Cressy couldn't get him out of her mind. The passion between them was mind-blowing but had it just been a holiday affair?Draco had other ideas. He knew Cressy's family was in crisis, and he knew he was the only one who could help for a price. He wanted Cressy as his wife, and he was determined to have her….
“You will pay. But not with money.”
Cressy swallowed. “You mean—in spite of everything—you’re going to marry me?”
Draco’s laugh was harsh. “No, not marriage, my sweet. I will not be caught again. This time I’m offering a less formal arrangement.”
“You’re saying that if I—sleep with you—you won’t enforce my father’s debts. Draco, if you loved me, you wouldn’t…”
“I said that I wanted you, Cressida mou. I did not mention love.”
They’re the men who have everything—except a bride….
Wealth, power, charm—what else could a heart-stoppingly handsome tycoon need? In the GREEK TYCOONS miniseries you have already been introduced to some gorgeous Greek multimillionaires who are in need of wives.
Now it’s the turn of favorite
Harlequin Presents
author Sara Craven, with her passionate and compelling romance THE TYCOON’S MISTRESS
This tycoon has met his match and he’s decided he has to have her…whatever that takes!
The Tycoon’s Mistress
Sara Craven
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Endpage (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
CRESSIDA FIELDING turned her Fiat between the two stone pillars and drummed it up the long, curving drive to the house.
She brought the car to a halt on the wide gravel sweep outside the main entrance and sat for a moment, her hands still tensely gripping the steering wheel, staring up at the house.
The journey from the hospital had seemed endless, through all the narrow, winding lanes with the glare of the evening sun in her eyes, but she’d have gladly faced it again rather than the situation that now awaited her.
Her mind was still full of the image of her father in the intensive care unit, his skin grey under the bright lights and his bulky body strangely shrunken.
Lips tightening, Cressida shook herself mentally. She was not going to think like that. Her father’s heart attack had been severe, but he was now making good progress. And when his condition was sufficiently stable, the surgeons would operate. And he would be fine again—in health at least.
And if it was up to her to ensure that he had a life to come back to, then—so be it.
With a sudden lift of the heart, she noticed her uncle’s Range Rover was parked by the rhododendrons. At least she wasn’t going to be alone.
As she went up the short flight of steps the front door opened to reveal the anxious figure of the housekeeper.
‘Oh, Miss Cressy.’ The older woman’s relief was obvious. ‘You’re here at last.’
‘Yes, Berry, dear.’ Cressida put a comforting hand on Mrs Berryman’s arm. ‘I’m back.’ She paused in the hall, looking round at the closed doors. She drew a deep breath. ‘Is Sir Robert in the drawing room?’
‘Yes, Miss Cressy. And Lady Kenny’s with him. A tower of strength he’s been. I don’t know what I’d have done without them.’ She paused. ‘Can I bring you anything?’
‘Some coffee, perhaps—and a few sandwiches, please. I couldn’t eat on the plane.’
She watched Berry hurry away, then, with a sigh, walked across the hall. For a moment she halted, staring at herself in the big mirror which hung above the pretty crescent-shaped antique table.
She was a cool lady. Her boss said it with admiration, her friends with rueful smiles, and would-be lovers with exasperation bordering on hostility.
It was a persona she’d carefully and deliberately constructed. That she believed in.
But tonight there were cracks in the façade. Shadows of strain under the long-lashed grey-green eyes. Lines of tension tautening the self-contained mouth and emphasising the classic cheekbones.
It was the first time she’d had the chance to take a good look at herself, and the emotional roller-coaster of the past few weeks had left its mark.
Her clothes were creased from travel, and her pale blonde hair seemed to be sticking to her scalp, she thought, grimacing as she ran her fingers through it. She stopped for one deep, calming breath, then went into the drawing room.
She halted for a moment, assimilating with shock the over-stuffed sofas, with their heavy brocade covers, and matching drapes, which managed to be expensive and charmless at the same time—all new since her last visit.
The lovely old Persian rugs had been replaced by a white fitted carpet, and there were gilt and crystal chandeliers instead of the graceful lamps she remembered, and mirrors everywhere.
It all looked like a stage setting, which had probably been exactly the intention, with Eloise playing the leading part—the nearest she’d ever come to it in her entire career. Only she’d quit before the end of the run…
Sir Robert, perched uneasily on the edge of a chair amid all this splendour, sprang to his feet with open relief when he saw Cressida.
‘My dear child. This is a bad business.’ He hugged her awkwardly. ‘I still can’t believe it.’
‘Nor can I.’ Cressida shook her head as she bent to kiss her aunt. ‘Has there been any word from Eloise?’
‘None,’ Sir Robert said shortly. ‘And we shouldn’t expect any. She practically ransacked the house before she left.’ He frowned. ‘Berry says she’s taken all your mother’s jewellery, my dear.’
‘Dad gave it to her when they were married,’ Cressida reminded him evenly. ‘She was entitled. And as least we’re rid of her.’
‘But at a terrible price.’ Sir Robert pursed his lips. ‘Of course, I could never understand what James saw in her.’
‘Which makes you quite unique, darling,’ his wife told him drily, drawing Cressida down to sit beside her.
‘Eloise was a very beautiful, very sexy young woman and she took my unfortunate brother by storm. He was besotted by her from the moment they met, and probably still is.’
‘Good God, Barbara, she’s ruined him—she and her—paramour.’
‘That’s the trouble with love,’ Cressida said slowly. ‘It blinds you—drives you crazy…’
I never understood before, she thought painfully. But I do now. Oh, God, I do now…
She pulled herself together and looked at her uncle. ‘Is it really true? It’s not just some terrible mistake?’
Sir Robert shook his head soberly. ‘The mistake was your father’s, I’m afraid. It seems he met this Caravas man when he and Eloise were in Barbados two years ago. He claimed to be a financial adviser, produced adequate credentials, and gave them a few bits of advice which were perfectly sound.’ His mouth tightened. ‘I think they call it salting the mine.’
‘When did he first mention the Paradise Grove development?’
‘Several months later,’ her uncle said grimly. ‘They happened to run into him at the ballet, it seems, except there was nothing random about the encounter. There were a couple of other meetings—dinner, an evening at Glyndebourne which he paid for—then he started talking about this exclusive hotel and leisure complex, and what an investment opportunity it was. He said it would make them millionaires many times over, but only a really high investment would bring a high return.’
Cressy drew a painful breath. ‘So Dad put all his money into it? And remortgaged this house? Everything?’
Sir Robert’s nod was heavy. ‘If only James had told me what he was planning, I might have been able to talk him out of it. But by the time I found out what was troubling him, it was too late.’
‘And, of course, it was a sting.’ Cressy looked down at her clasped hands. Her voice was level. ‘Paradise Grove was a mangrove swamp in the middle of nowhere. No one was ever going to build anything there.’
‘Yes. But it was clever. I’ve seen the plans—the architects’ drawings—the documentation. Including the apparent government licences and permissions. It all looked very professional—very official.’
‘Like all the best confidence tricks.’ Cressy shook her head. ‘And the clever Mr Caravas? When did he and Eloise get together?’
‘I imagine quite early on. There’s no doubt she pushed James into the scheme for all she was worth. And now she and Caravas have completely vanished. The police say that they’ll have new identities and the money safely laundered into a numbered account somewhere. Their plans were carefully made.’ He paused. ‘Your father wasn’t the only victim, of course.’
Cressy closed her eyes. She said, ‘How on earth could Dad have taken such an appalling risk?’
Sir Robert cleared his throat. ‘My dear, he was always a gambler. That was part of his success in business. But he’d had some stockmarket losses, and—other problems. He saw it as a way of ensuring his long-term security in one big deal. He’s never taken kindly to retirement. He wanted to be a key player again.’ He paused. ‘Quite apart from the personal pressure.’
‘Yes,’ Cressida said bitterly. ‘And now I have to see if there’s anything that can be saved from this ghastly mess.’ She looked around her. ‘I suppose this house will have to go.’
‘It seems so,’ Barbara Kenny said unhappily. ‘I doubt if James will have much left apart from his company pension.’
Cressy nodded, her face set. ‘I’ve brought my laptop down with me. Tomorrow I’ll start looking—finding out how bad things really are.’
There was a tap on the door and Mrs Berryman came in with a tray. The scent of the coffee, and the sight of the pile of ham sandwiches, the plate of home-made shortbread and the rich Dundee cake accompanying them, reminded Cressy how long it was since she’d eaten.
She said warmly, ‘Berry—that looks wonderful.’
‘You look as if you need it.’ The housekeeper’s glance was searching as well as affectionate. ‘You’ve lost weight.’
‘Berry’s right,’ her aunt commented when they were alone again. ‘You are thinner.’
Cressy was pouring coffee. ‘I expect it’s an illusion created by my Greek suntan. Although I did do a lot of walking while I was out there.’ And swimming. And dancing…
‘My dear, I’m so sorry that your holiday had to be interrupted like this,’ Sir Robert said heavily. ‘But I felt you had to be told—even before James collapsed.’
Cressy forced a smile. ‘It was time I came back anyway.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘You can have—too much of a good thing.’ She handed round the coffee and offered the plate of sandwiches. ‘I’d have been here sooner, but of course it’s the height of the holiday season and I couldn’t get a flight straight away. I had to spend a whole day in Athens.’
It had been a nervy, edgy day—a day she’d spent looking behind her constantly to see if she was being followed. She’d joined a guided tour of the Acropolis, mingled with the crowds in the Plaka, done everything she could to lose herself in sheer numbers. And all the time she had been waiting—waiting for a hand on her shoulder—a voice speaking her name…
‘Cressy, I worry about you,’ Lady Kenny said forth-rightly. ‘You don’t have enough fun. You shouldn’t have your nose stuck to a computer screen all the time, solving other people’s tax problems. You should find yourself a young man. Start living.’
‘I like my job,’ Cressy said mildly. ‘And if by “living” you mean I should be swept away by some grand passion, I think we’ve seen enough of that in this family.’ Her face hardened. ‘Watching my father make a fool of himself over someone as worthless as Eloise taught me a valuable lesson. I’ve seen at first hand the damage that sex can do.’
‘He was lonely for a long time,’ her aunt said quietly. ‘Your mother’s death hit him hard. And Eloise was very clever—very manipulative. Don’t be too hard on him, darling.’
‘No,’ Cressy said with sudden bitterness. ‘I’ve no right to judge anybody. It’s all too easy to succumb to that particular madness.’ As I know now.
For a moment she saw a cobalt sea and a strip of dazzling white sand, fringed with rocks as bleached as bones. And she saw dark eyes with laughter in their depths that glittered at her from a face of sculpted bronze. Laughter, she thought, that could, in an instant, change to hunger…
Suddenly breathless, she drove that particular image back into the recesses of her memory and slammed the door on it.
She would not think of him, she told herself savagely. She could not…
She saw her aunt and uncle looking faintly surprised, and went on hurriedly, ‘But I shouldn’t have let my dislike of Eloise keep me away. Maybe if I’d been around I could have done something. Persuaded Dad, somehow, that Paradise Grove was a scam. And he might not be in Intensive Care now,’ she added, biting her lip hard as tears stung her eyes.
Sir Robert patted her shoulder. ‘Cressy, you’re the last person who could possibly be blamed for all this. And the doctor told me that James’s heart attack could have happened at any time. He had warning signs over a year ago. But he wanted to pretend he was still young and strong.’
‘For Eloise,’ Cressy said bitterly. ‘Oh, why did he have to meet her?’
Lady Kenny said gently, ‘Sometimes fate works in strange ways, Cressy.’ She paused. ‘I’ve prepared a room at our house if you’d like to come back and stay. You shouldn’t be on your own at a time like this.’
‘It’s sweet of you,’ Cressy said gratefully. ‘But I must remain here. I told the hospital it was where I’d be. And I shan’t be alone with Berry to look after me.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Sir Robert sighed. ‘I’m afraid Berry may be another casualty of this debacle.’
‘Oh, surely not,’ Cressy said in swift distress. ‘She’s always been part of this family.’ One change that Eloise had not been allowed to make, she added silently.
Sir Robert finished his coffee and put down his cup.
‘My dear.’ His tone was sober. ‘I think you must accept that nothing is ever going to be the same again.’
He was right, Cressy thought as she stood on the steps an hour later, waving her aunt and uncle an approximation of a cheerful goodbye.
Everything had changed quite momentously. Beginning with herself.
She shook herself mentally as she went back into the house.
She had to forget about those days of golden, sunlit madness on Myros, and how near she too had come to making a disastrous mistake.
That urgent summons back to England, although devastating, had been in another way a lifeline, dragging her back to reality. Waking her from the dangerous seductive dream which had enthralled her and could have led her to total ruin.
A holiday romance—that was all it had been. As trivial and tawdry as these things always were, with a handsome Greek on one side and a bored tourist on the other. Just for a while she’d allowed herself to indulge a risky fantasy, and then real life had intervened, just in time, returning her to sanity.
For a moment she found herself wondering what would have happened if her uncle’s message had not been waiting at the hotel. If she’d actually called Draco’s bluff and gone back to Myros…
She stopped herself right there. Speculation of that kind was forbidden territory now. Myros, and all that had happened there, was in the past, where it belonged. A memory that one day, in years to come, she might take out, dust down and smile over.
The memory of desire and being desired…
But not now. And maybe not ever, she thought, straightening her shoulders.
Now she had to look to the immediate future, and its problems. She’d have an early night, and tomorrow she would start to sift through the wreckage, see if anything could be salvaged.
And tonight, she told herself with determination, she would sleep without dreaming.
But that was more easily said than done. Cressida’s night was restless. She woke several times, her body damp with perspiration, haunted by images that left no trace in her memory. Nothing that she could rationalise, and then dismiss.
Perhaps it was simply coming back to this house, where she’d been a stranger for so long, and finding herself in her old room again. The past playing tricks with her unconscious mind.
At least this room hadn’t undergone the high-priced makeover inflicted on the rest of the house.
Eloise had been determined to erase every trace of her predecessor, Cressy thought, more with sorrow than with anger. And no expense had been spared in the process—which could explain how James Fielding might have found himself strapped for cash and been tempted to recklessness.
Although, in fairness, this wasn’t the first time her father had sailed close to the wind. Only this time his instinct for disaster seemed to have deserted him.
But that, she thought, can happen to the best of us.
She pushed back the covers and got out of bed, wandering across to the window. Light was just beginning to stain the eastern sky, and the cool morning air made her shiver in her thin cotton nightgown and reach for a robe.
She’d never needed one in Greece, she thought. The nights had been too hot except in the hotel, which had had air-conditioning. Each evening the chambermaid had arranged her flimsy confection of silk and lace in a fan shape on the bed, with a rose on the bodice and a hand-made chocolate on the pillow.
Later, in the taverna on Myros, she’d slept naked, kicking away even the thin sheet to the foot of the bed, her body grateful for the faint breeze sighing from the Aegean sea through the open window.
Moving quietly, she went downstairs to the kitchen and made herself a pot of coffee which she carried to the study.
She’d brought in the computer and set it up the night before, and if she couldn’t sleep then she might as well start work. Begin to probe the real extent of the financial disaster facing her father.
Because it could be faced. She was convinced of that. James Fielding was a survivor. He would get over this heart attack, and the ensuing operation, and take up his life again. And somehow she had to salvage something from the wreckage—make sure there was something to give him hope.
She’d done some preliminary calculations of her own on the plane, partly to prevent herself thinking of other things, she realised, her mouth twisting, and had worked out how much she could afford to contribute. But the outlook was bleak. Even if she sold her London flat, and worked from this house, she’d struggle to pay the new mortgage.
Besides, she wasn’t sure whether she could endure to live under this roof again for any length of time. There were too many bad memories.
Cressida had been a teenager, still mourning her mother, when she had learned of her father’s decision to remarry. And her sense of shock, almost betrayal, had doubled when she’d discovered his choice of wife.
Looking back, she could see that she’d responded intolerantly to the newcomer, staring at her with resentful eyes.
Eloise had been a bit-part actress, her chief claim to fame as hostess on a second-rate TV quiz show. She was tall and full-breasted, her lips permanently set in a beguiling pout, her violet eyes wide, almost childlike.
Until she was crossed, Cressida thought wryly. And then they would narrow like a rattlesnake’s.
As they’d done when she first met her new stepdaughter. The hostility had not been one-sided by any means. Eloise had made it plain that she had little time for other women, and especially for a young girl just beginning to blossom out of gawkiness, although there was no way Cressy could ever have rivalled her voluptuous charms.
Chalk and cheese, Cressy thought with sadness. And I was just a nuisance, someone to be sidelined, if not totally ignored.
And even when, urged by her father, she’d tried a few awkward overtures, she’d found herself completely rebuffed. Eventually she had acquired a reputation for being ‘tricky’, if not downright difficult. And James Fielding, unable to see he was being manipulated, had made his displeasure known to his daughter, creating a rift that had widened slowly but surely over the years.
Cressida had soon realised she was no longer welcome in her own home. Even at Christmas Eloise had usually organised a ski-ing holiday for her husband and herself.
‘Darling,’ she’d said coaxingly when the first one was mooted. ‘Cressida doesn’t want to spend her vacations with a couple of old fogies. She has her own friends. Her own life.’ Her steely gaze had fixed her stepdaughter. ‘Isn’t that right?’
It had been easier to swallow her hurt and bewilderment and agree. She had had friends she could go to, and Uncle Robert and Aunt Barbara had always been there for her, their comfortable, untidy house a second home.
For a long time Cressida had convinced herself that the scales would eventually fall from her father’s eyes and that he’d see Eloise’s greed and self-absorption. But it had never happened. He’d been carried away by his passion for her—a passion that she had been careful to feed.
As for Eloise herself, Cressida was sure she’d looked at James Fielding and seen only a successful businessman, with a settled background and an attractive Georgian house not too far from London.
What she hadn’t understood was that James’s company had struggled to recover from the big recession of the eighties, or that James himself had faltered more than once as chairman, and was being encouraged to take early retirement.
Eloise had been too busy entertaining, enjoying weekend parties with amusing people, and being seen in all the right places.
Even after James’s actual retirement she’d seen no need to scale down their style of living or their expenditure.
Alec Caravas had been a younger man with a foolproof scheme for making them both instantly wealthy. Cressida could see how easily Eloise would have been seduced.
After all, she thought, I was planning to give up my job, my lifestyle, my independence. I shouldn’t judge anyone else.
Her own meetings with her father over the past two years had been mainly confined to lunches in London, with the conversation constrained.
Perhaps I should have made more of an effort, Cressida thought as she drank her coffee. Perhaps I should have played the hypocrite and pretended to like her. Even looked for her good points. Told myself that, whatever my personal feelings, she loved Dad and was making him happy.
Only, I never believed that. I just didn’t want to be proved right quite so comprehensively.
She sighed, and turned resolutely to the computer screen. It was little use rehashing the past, she told herself forcibly. She had to try and salvage something from the present to ensure her father had a future.
She worked steadily for a couple of hours, but found little to comfort her.
Her father’s company pension was indeed all that was left. All his other assets had been liquidised to make him a major shareholder in Paradise Grove. And he’d borrowed heavily too.
If he recovered from his heart attack, it would be to find himself insolvent, she realised unhappily.
His whole way of life would have to be downsized. She’d have to rent a larger flat, she thought, or even a house. Make a home for him—and Berry, who’d be needed more than ever. But how could she afford it?
I won’t worry about that now, she told herself, glancing at her watch.
It was time she took a shower and dressed, and got over to the hospital again.
As she pushed back her chair, she noticed for the first time the small icon at the bottom of the screen indicating there was an e-mail message for her.
Someone else believes in an early start, Cressida thought wryly, as she clicked on to the little envelope and watched the message scroll down.
I am waiting for you.
The words were brief, almost laconic, but they had the power to make her stiffen in shock and disbelief.
She twisted suddenly in her chair, staring over her shoulder with frightened eyes.
The room was empty. And yet she felt Draco’s presence as surely as if he was standing behind her, his hand touching her shoulder.
She said, ‘No,’ and again, more fiercely, ‘No. It’s not true. It can’t be…’
And heard the raw panic that shook her voice.
CHAPTER TWO
THERE was a rational explanation. There had to be.
Someone, somewhere, must be playing a trick on her, and had accidentally scored a bullseye.
All the way to the hospital Cressy kept telling herself feverishly that this was the way it had to be. That it must be one of her colleagues…
Except that they were all under the impression that she was still sunning herself on an island in the Aegean. She hadn’t told anyone from work that she was back.
And, anyway, the message was too pointed—too personal to have come from anyone else but Draco. Wasn’t it?
But how the hell did a Greek fisherman with one small, shabby boat and a half-built house manage to gain access to a computer, let alone have the technical know-how to send electronic mail halfway across Europe?
It made no sense.
Besides, he only knew my first name, she reminded herself with bewilderment. He can’t possibly have traced me with that alone.
Her mind was still going round in ever decreasing circles as she went up in the lift to the Intensive Care Unit. But she steadied herself when the sister in charge met her with the good news that her father’s condition had greatly improved.
‘He’s asleep at the moment, but you may sit with him.’ Calm eyes looked squarely into Cressida’s. ‘You can be relied on not to make emotional scenes, Miss Fielding? He really doesn’t need that kind of disturbance.’
‘Of course not.’ Cressy said steadily. ‘I just want him to get better.’
She fetched some coffee from the machine in the corridor, then quietly took up her vigil, forcing herself to composure. She couldn’t afford to send out any negative vibrations.
And she hadn’t time to worry about mysterious e-mail messages or who might have generated them. Her father was her priority now, and nothing else could be allowed to matter.
That worrying grey tinge seemed to have gone from James Fielding’s face. He looked more his old self again, she thought, surreptitiously crossing her fingers.
If he continued to make good progress he could soon be moved to a private room, she told herself. The premiums on his private health insurance had been allowed to lapse, but she would pay.
She said under her breath. ‘I’ll look after you, Daddy—whatever it takes. I’ll make sure you’re all right.’
He woke up once, gave her a faint smile, and fell asleep again. But it was enough.
Apart from the hum of the various machines, the unit was quite peaceful. And very hot, Cressy thought, undoing another button on her cream cotton shirt.
Almost as hot as it had been in Greece.
For a moment she could feel the beat of the sun on her head, see its dazzle on the water and hear the slap of the small waves against the bow of the caique as it took her to Myros.
Myros…
She noticed it the day she arrived, when she walked across the cool marble floor of her hotel bedroom, out on to the balcony, and looked across the sparkle of the sea at the indigo smudge on the horizon.
As she tipped the porter who’d brought up her luggage, she asked, ‘What is that island?’
‘That, thespinis, is Myros.’
‘Myros.’ She repeated the name softly under her breath.
She stayed where she was, fingers lightly splayed on the balustrade, lifting her face to the sun, listening to the distant wash of the sea and the rasp of the cicadas in the vast gardens below.
She could feel the worries and tensions of the past months sliding away from her.
She thought, with bewilderment and growing content, I really need this holiday. I didn’t realize it, but Martin was quite right.
Her work was always meticulous, but she’d made a couple of mistakes in the last few weeks. Nothing too dire, and nothing that couldn’t be swiftly put right without inconvenience to the client, but disturbing just the same.
Martin had looked at her over his glasses. ‘When was the last time you took a break, Cress? And I don’t mean Christmas and the usual Bank Holidays. I mean a real, live, away-from-it-all, lie-in-the-sun break. The sort that ordinary people have.’
‘I have time off,’ she had said. ‘Last time I decorated my sitting room at the flat.’
‘Exactly.’ He’d sat back in his chair, his gaze inflexible. ‘So you take the rest of the afternoon off, you visit a travel agent and you book yourself at least three weeks of total relaxation in some bit of the Mediterranean. Then get yourself some sun cream and a selection of pulp fiction and go. And that’s an order,’ he had added as Cressy had begun to protest pressure of work.
She’d obeyed mutinously, agreeing to the travel company’s first suggestion of an all-inclusive trip to the latest in the Hellenic Imperial hotel chain.
‘They’re all the last word in luxury,’ the travel clerk had enthused. ‘And there’s a full programme of sport and entertainment on offer. This one only opened recently, which is why there are still a few rooms available.’
‘Anything,’ Cressy had said, and had put down her gold card.
She might have arrived under protest, but she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t impressed.
For the first few days she simply relaxed under an umbrella on one of the sun terraces, swam in each of the three pools, had a couple of tennis lessons, and tried her hand, gingerly, at windsurfing. She also sampled all of the restaurants on the complex.
For once the brochure had spoken nothing but the truth, she thought wryly. The Hellenic Imperial was the height of opulence. The service was excellent, and no element of comfort had been overlooked.
But by the end of the first week Cressy was beginning to feel that it was all too perfect.
Most of the other guests seemed perfectly content to stay on the complex and be waited on hand and foot, but Cressy was restless. She rented a car, and took in the sights. The island’s capital, with its harbour full of glamorous yachts and its sophisticated shopping facilities, left her cold. She much preferred driving up throat-tightening mountain roads to see a church with famous frescoes, sampling dark, spicy wine in a local vineyard, or drinking tiny cups of thick, sweet coffee in kafeneions in remote villages.
But, more and more, she found herself looking across the glittering sapphire of the Aegean and wondering exactly what lay there on the horizon.
One morning, when she was changing some money at Reception, she said casually, ‘How do I get to Myros?’
The clerk could not have looked more astonished if she’d asked what time the next space ship left for the moon.
‘Myros, thespinis?’ he repeated carefully.
Cressy nodded. ‘It’s not that far away. I presume there’s a ferry.’
He pursed his lips. ‘There are boats,’ he said discouragingly. ‘But tourists do not go there, Kyria Fielding.’
‘Why not?’
He shrugged. ‘Because everything they want is here,’ he returned with unshakeable logic.
‘Nevertheless,’ Cressy said equably, biting back a smile, ‘I’d like to know where the boats leave from.’
The clerk looked almost distressed. ‘You don’t like this hotel, thespinis? You find it lacking in some way?’
‘Not at all,’ she assured him. ‘I’d just like a change.’
‘But there is nothing on Myros, kyria. It has no hotels, no facilities. It is a place for farmers and fishermen.’
‘It sounds perfect,’ Cressy said, and left him in mid-protest.
She was aware of curious glances as she sat in the bow of the caique watching Myros turn from an indistinct blur into a tall, mountainous ridge, the lower slopes softened by patches of greenery. She was without question the only foreigner on the boat, and the skipper, who looked like an amiable pirate, had initially demurred over accepting her fare.
As the caique traversed the shoreline, Cressy saw long stretches of pale sand, sheltered by jagged rocks.
The fishermen and the farmers have been lucky so far, she thought. Because this place looks ripe for exploitation to me.
The harbour was only tiny, with no smart boats among the battered caiques. Row upon row of small white houses seemed to be tumbling headlong towards the narrow waterfront where fishing nets were spread to dry.
Somewhere a church bell was ringing, its sound cool and sonorous in the hot, shimmering air.
Cressy found her heart clenching in sudden excitement and pleasure.
Her canvas beach bag slung over her shoulder, she scrambled ashore.
There was a sprinkling of tavernas and coffee shops on the harbourside, most of them frequented by elderly men playing a very fast and intense form of backgammon.
Cressy chose a table under an awning at the largest, waiting while the proprietor, a stocky man in jeans and a white shirt, finished hosing down the flagstones.
‘Thespinis?’ His smile was cordial enough, but the black eyes were shrewdly assessing.
Cressy asked for an iced Coke, and, when he brought it, enquired if there was anywhere she could hire a car.
The smile broadened regretfully. The only vehicles on Myros, she was told, were Jeeps and pick-up trucks, and none were for rent. The roads, the kyria must understand, were not good.
Well, I knew they didn’t cater for tourists, Cressy reminded herself philosophically. But it was a setback.
She said, ‘I saw beaches, kyrie. Can I reach them on foot?’
He nodded. ‘It is possible, thespinis. Our finest beach is only a kilometre from here.’ He paused thoughtfully, fingering his heavy black moustache. ‘But there is a better way.’ From a storeroom at the back of the taverna, he produced an ancient bicycle. ‘It belonged to my sister,’ he explained. ‘But she is in Athens.’
‘And you’ll lend it to me?’ Cressy raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s very kind.’
He shrugged. ‘She will be happy for you to use it. It is an honour for her.’
‘But how do you know I’ll bring it back?’
The smile became almost indulgent. ‘When the kyria wishes to leave Myros, she must return here. Also, she must eat, and my taverna has good fish. The best.’ He nodded. ‘You will come back, thespinis.’
Cressy hadn’t ridden a bicycle for years. She waited while the proprietor, whose name was Yannis, ceremoniously dusted the saddle for her, then mounted awkwardly.
She said, ‘I hope it lasts the distance, kyrie.’
‘A kilometre is not too far.’ He paused. ‘I do not recommend that you go further than that, thespinis.’
‘We’ll see,’ Cressy said cheerfully. ‘Once I get the hang of it, I may do the grand tour.’
Yannis’s face was suddenly serious. ‘Go to the beach only, thespinis. I advise it. Beyond it the road is bad. Very bad.’
Now, why did she get the feeling that Yannis was warning her about more than the state of the road? Cressy wondered, as she wobbled away.
But he hadn’t been exaggerating. Outside the small town, the road soon deteriorated into a dirt track, with olive groves on one side and the sea on the other, and Cressy had to concentrate hard on keeping her eccentric machine upright, and avoiding the largest stones and deepest potholes.
Apart from the whisper of the sea, and the faint breeze rustling the silver leaves of the olive trees, Cressy felt as if she was enclosed in a silent, shimmering landscape. She was glad of the broad straw hat protecting her blonde hair.
The beach was soon reached, but, she saw with disappointment, it was only a narrow strip of sand with a lot of pebbles and little shade.
The others I saw were much better, she thought. Yannis can’t have meant this one.
In spite of the road, she was beginning, against all odds, to enjoy her unexpected cycle ride, and decided to press on to one of the secluded coves she’d glimpsed from the ferry.
Ten minutes later, she was beginning to regret her decision. The gradient on her route had taken a sharp upward turn, and her elderly bone-shaker was no mountain bike.
This must have been what Yannis meant, she thought grimly. Certainly it warranted a warning.
She halted, to have a drink from the bottle of water which he’d pressed on her and consider what to do next.
Myros was only a small island, she argued inwardly, and the next beach couldn’t be too far away. So, it might be better to leave the bike at the side of the track—after all, no one in his right mind would steal it—and proceed on foot.
She laid the ancient machine tenderly on its side in the shade of an olive tree, blew it a kiss, and walked on.
She’d gone about five hundred yards when she first heard the music, only faint, but unmistakably Greek, with its strong underlying rhythm. Cressy paused, breathless from her continued climb, and listened, her brows drawing together.
She swore softly under her breath. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she muttered. ‘I’ve come all this way in this heat, only to find someone else’s beach party.’
She was going to walk on, but then sudden curiosity got the better of her, and, letting the music guide her, she moved quietly through the scrub and stones to the edge of the cliff. There was a track of sorts leading down to the pale crescent of sand below, but Cressy ignored that, moving to slightly higher ground where she could get an overall view of the beach.
The first thing she saw was a small caique, with faded blue paint and its sails furled, moored just offshore. But that appeared to be deserted.
Then she looked down, and the breath caught in her throat.
Below her, alone on the sand, a man was dancing.
Arms flung wide, head back, his face lifted to the sun, he swayed, and dipped to the ground, and leapt, his entire body given over to the sheer joy of living—and the raw power of the music.
And totally absorbed in his response to it, thought Cressy. Clearly nothing else existed for him at this moment.
She dropped to her knees in the shelter of a dried and spindly shrub and watched, amused at first, but gradually becoming more entranced.
She’d seen demonstrations of syrtaki at the hotel, of course, but never performed with this wild, elemental force.
This man seemed completely at home in his solitary environment, Cressy told herself in bewilderment, as if he was somehow part of the sea, and the rocks, and the harsh brilliant sunlight, and shared their common spirit. Or the reincarnation of some pagan god…
She halted right there.
Now she was just being fanciful, she thought with self-derision.
He might be a wonderful dancer, but what she was actually seeing was a waiter from one of the hotels on the other island, practising his after-dinner routine for the tourists.
But not from my hotel, she thought. Or I’d have remembered…
Because he wasn’t just a beautiful dancer. He was beautiful in other ways, too.
He was taller than average, and magnificently built, with broad, muscular shoulders, narrow hips and endless legs, his only covering a pair of ragged denim shorts which left little to the imagination.
The thick, dark hair, curling down on to the nape of his neck, gleamed like silk in the sunshine, and his skin was like burnished bronze.
To her shock, Cressy found her mouth was suddenly dry, her pulses drumming in unaccustomed and unwelcome excitement. She realised, too, there was an odd, trembling ache deep within her.
What the hell am I doing? she asked frantically, as she lifted herself cautiously to her feet and backed away. I’m an intelligent woman. I go for brains, not brawn. Or I would if I was interested in any kind of involvement, she reminded herself hastily.
Besides, this brand of obvious physicality leaves me cold. I’m not in the market for—holiday bait.
She was being unfair, and she knew it as she walked on, her pace quickening perceptibly.
After all, the lone dancer could have no idea he had an audience. He’d created his own private world of passion and movement, and if its intrinsic sensuality had sent her into meltdown then that was her problem, not his.
All the same, she was glad when the music faded from earshot. Although the image in her mind might not be so easy to dismiss, she realised ruefully.
‘I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I don’t like it,’ she said under her breath, lengthening her stride.
A further five minutes’ walk brought her to another cove, and this one was deserted, she noted as she scrambled thankfully down to the sand.
She stood for a moment, listening to the silence, then spread her towel in the shade of a rock, kicked off her canvas shoes, and slipped out of her navy cotton trousers and shirt to reveal the simple matching bikini beneath.
The sea was like cooling balm against her overheated skin. She waded out until the water was waist-high, then slid gently forward into its embrace, breaking into her strong, easy crawl.
When she eventually got tired, she turned on her back and floated, her eyes closed against the dazzle of the sun.
She felt completely at peace. London, the office and its problems seemed a lifetime away. Even the rift with her father no longer seemed quite so hurtful—or so insoluble. Eloise had driven a wedge between them, but—with care—wedges could be removed. Maybe she’d needed to distance herself in order to see that.
Back under her rock, she towelled herself down, applied sun cream with a lavish hand, drank some more water, then lay down on her front. She reached behind her and undid the clip of her bikini top. A suntan might not be fashionable, but it was inevitable that she would gain a little colour in this heat, and she didn’t want any unsightly marks to spoil the effect in the low-backed dresses she’d brought.
She felt bonelessly relaxed, even a little drowsy, as she pillowed her cheek on her folded arms.
There’s nothing I can’t handle, she told herself with satisfaction as she drifted off to sleep.
She would never be certain what woke her. There was just an odd feeling of disquiet—a sudden chill, as if a cloud had covered the sun—that permeated her pleasant dream and broke its spell.
Cressy forced open her unwilling eyelids. For a moment she could see nothing, because the dazzle of the sun was too strong.
Then, slowly, she realised that she was no longer alone.
That there was someone lying on the sand beside her, only a few feet away. Someone tall and bronzed in denim shorts, who was—dear God—smiling at her.
She wanted to scream, but her throat muscles seemed suddenly paralysed. And she couldn’t move either because she’d undone her top.
When she found her voice, it sounded small and husky. ‘What do you want?’
His smile widened. His mouth, she saw, was firm, although his lower lip had a betrayingly sensuous curve, and his teeth were very white. For the rest of him, he had a straight nose, just fractionally too long for classical beauty, strongly accented cheekbones, and deepset eyes the colour of agate flecked with gold.
He also needed a shave.
He said, ‘Why did you not come down and dance with me?’ His voice was deep, with a distinct undercurrent of amusement, and he spoke in English.
It was the last thing she’d expected him to say, and for a moment she was stunned. Then she rallied.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Ah, no.’ He shook his head reprovingly. ‘You should not tell lies—especially when you are so bad at it. Your eyes will always give you away.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Cressy said with hostility. ‘And also impertinent. You know nothing about me.’
‘I know that you were watching me from the cliff, and then you ran away.’ The return was imperturbable.
‘I didn’t run,’ Cressy said with as much dignity as she could evoke when she was lying, prone, wearing only the bottom half of a bikini. ‘I just wanted to find some peace and quiet. And I didn’t mean to disturb you. Please go back to your—rehearsal.’
‘That is finished for the day. Now it is time to eat.’ He reached behind him and produced a small rucksack.
Cressy groaned inwardly. How on earth was she going to get rid of him, she wondered wildly, without insulting his Greek machismo? She was uneasily aware of how isolated this little beach was. And that they were both almost naked. The last thing she needed to do was provoke him in any way. Even to anger.
She made a business of looking at her watch. ‘So, it is. Well, I must get back to the village. Yannis is expecting me to eat at his taverna.’
‘But not in the middle of the day,’ he said. ‘In the middle of the day he likes to drink coffee and play tavli. He’ll cook for you tonight.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Cressy made a discreet effort to fasten the hook on her bikini top. ‘I have to get the evening ferry back to Alakos.’
Her unwanted neighbour watched her struggles with interest, but didn’t volunteer his assistance as she’d been half afraid he might. ‘You are staying in a hotel on Alakos?’
‘Yes.’ At the third attempt, Cressy managed the hook, and felt marginally more secure. ‘At the Hellenic Imperial.’
‘The Imperial? Po po po.’ His dark brows lifted. ‘You would need to be very rich to stay at such a place.’
‘Not at all,’ Cressy said with a certain crispness, wondering if he was planning to kidnap her and hold her to ransom. ‘I work for my living like everyone else.’
‘Ah—you are a model, perhaps—or an actress?’ He produced a paper bag from his rucksack and opened it. Cressy saw that it contained pitta bread with some kind of filling.
‘Of course not,’ she denied swiftly. ‘I work in an office—as a taxation accountant.’ She reached for her shirt. ‘And now I must be going.’
‘It is a long time until evening—and your ferry.’ He divided the envelope of pitta bread into two and held out half to her, using the paper bag as a plate.
‘No,’ Cressy said. ‘It’s very kind of you, but I couldn’t—possibly.’
He leaned across and put the improvised plate on the corner of her towel.
‘Why are you frightened?’ He sounded as if he was merely expressing a friendly interest.
‘I’m not.’
He sighed. ‘You are lying again, matia mou. Now eat, and tell me about your work in England, and later we will swim. And do not tell me you cannot swim,’ he added, as her lips parted in negation, ‘because I too was watching.’
Cressy sat very upright. She said, quietly and coldly. ‘Does it occur to you, kyrie, that I might not want to spend the afternoon with you? That I prefer to be alone?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But that will change when you know me better. And no one so young and so lovely should wish to be alone. It is a sad thing.’
There was lamb tucked into the pitta bread. The scent of it was making her mouth water.
She glared at him. ‘I’ve no taste for meaningless compliments, kyrie.’
He said, ‘Nor do I, thespinis. You know that you are young, so accept that you are also beautiful. And my name is Draco.’ He smiled at her. ‘Now eat your food, and don’t be afraid any more.’
But that, thought Cressy, looking down at the pattern on the towel—or anywhere rather than at him—that was easier said than done.
CHAPTER THREE
IN SPITE of all Cressy’s misgivings about the risks of her situation—and they were many and various—she supposed she had better accept Draco’s offer of food. One placatory gesture, she told herself, and then she would go.
If she was allowed to, said a small, unpleasant voice in her head. She’d seen his athleticism when he was dancing. She might be able to out-think him, but did she really imagine she could outrun him up that lethal track?
So much for striking out and being independent, she derided herself. She should have stayed safely in the hotel precincts.
She had expected she would have to force a few mouthfuls past the unremitting tightness of her throat, but to her astonishment the lamb, which had been roasted with herbs and was served with a light lemon dressing and sliced black olives, tasted absolutely wonderful, and she finished every bite.
‘It was good?’ Draco asked as Cressy wiped her lips and fingers on a tissue.
‘It was terrific,’ she admitted. She gave him a taut smile. ‘You speak English very well.’
His own smile was slow, touched with overt reminiscence. ‘I had good teachers.’
‘Women, no doubt,’ Cressy heard herself saying tartly, and could have bitten her tongue in half. The last thing she needed to do was antagonise him, and his personal life was none of her business anyway, so what had possessed her to make such a comment?
She saw his face harden, the firm mouth suddenly compressed. For a moment she felt the crackle of tension in the air between them like live electricity, then, totally unexpectedly, he began to laugh.
‘You are astute, thespinis.’ Propped on one elbow, he gave her a long and leisurely assessment, missing nothing, making her feel naked under his agate gaze. ‘But my grammar—my pronunciation—are not perfect. I am sure there is room for improvement—with the right help.’
Cressy was burning from head to foot, and it had nothing to do with the sun.
She said, ‘I’m afraid that you’ll have to find another tutor, kyrie. I’m not in the market.’
‘Life has taught me that most things are for sale, kyria—if the price is right.’
There was real danger here. Every instinct she possessed was screaming it at her.
She said coolly and clearly, ‘But I am not. And now I think I’d better go.’
‘As you wish.’ The powerful shoulders lifted in a negligent shrug. ‘But understand this. I take only what is freely given. Nothing more. And, in any case, you are the stranger within my gates, and you have eaten my bread, so you have nothing to fear.’
He lifted himself lithely to his feet. ‘Now I am going to swim. Naturally, I hope you will still be here when I return, but the choice is yours, kyria.’
For a moment he stood looking down at her. He said softly, ‘So beautiful, and such a sharp tongue. And yet so afraid of life. What a pity.’
The damned nerve of him, Cressy seethed, watching him lope down the sand. Translating her natural caution into cowardice.
And, for all his assurances, it was quite obvious that he was just another good-looking Greek on the make. She’d seen it happening at the hotel. Watched them targeting the single women, the divorcees, the ones with hunger in their eyes.
Cressy had avoided their attentions by being busy and absorbed.
But I should have known I couldn’t escape for ever, she thought angrily.
Except that she could. Draco was swimming strongly away from the beach. She could see the darkness of his head against the glitter of the sea.
All she had to do was grab her things, put on her shoes, and she would be free.
Free to go back to the village and wait for the evening ferry, at any rate, she reminded herself with an inward groan. Where Draco would know exactly where to find her…
She was caught in a trap of her own making, it seemed. And to sneak away as if she was genuinely scared appeared oddly demeaning anyway.
It would certainly be more dignified to stay where she was. To treat any overtures he might make with cool and dismissive courtesy. And then return to the village in time for a meal at the taverna and her homeward boat trip exactly as she’d planned.
Maybe Draco needed to learn that, for all his good looks and sexual charisma, not all tourists were pushovers.
And he’d virtually guaranteed that she was safe with him, that traditional Greek hospitality would remain paramount, and, in a strange way, she believed him.
Unless, of course, she chose differently. And there was no chance of that.
So she would stay—for a while. Because she was in control of the situation.
But only because he’s allowing you to be, niggled the small, irritating voice.
Ignoring it, Cressy reapplied her sun cream, put on her dark glasses and reached for the book she’d brought with her.
When Draco came back he’d find her composed and occupied, and not prepared to be involved in any more verbal tangles.
Distance was the thing, she told herself. And this beach was quite big enough for both of them.
She did not hear his return up the beach—he moved with the noiseless, feline grace of a panther—but she sensed that he was there, just the same. She kept her shoulder slightly turned and her eyes fixed rigidly on the printed page, a silent indication that the story was too gripping to brook interruption.
At the same time she’d expected her signals to be ignored. That he’d at least make some comment about her decision to remain. But as the soundless minutes passed Cressy realised she might be mistaken.
She ventured a swift sideways look, and saw with unreasoning annoyance that Draco was lying face down on his towel, his eyes closed, apparently fast asleep.
She bit her lip, and turned her page with a snap.
But it was all to no avail, she realised five minutes later. She simply couldn’t concentrate. She was far too conscious of the man stretched out beside her.
She closed her book and studied him instead. She wondered how old he was. At least thirty, she surmised. Probably slightly more. He wore no jewellery—no medallions, earrings or other gifts from grateful ladies. Just an inexpensive wristwatch, she noted. And no wedding ring either, although that probably meant nothing. If part of his livelihood involved charming foreign woman holidaymakers, he would hardly want to advertise the fact that he was married.
And she could just imagine his poor wife, she thought with asperity, staring up at the sky. Dressed in the ubiquitous black, cooking, cleaning and working in the fields and olive groves while her husband pursued his other interests on the beaches and beside the swimming pools on Alakos—and nice work if you could get it.
‘So what have you decided about me?’
Cressy, starting violently, turned her head and found Draco watching her, his mouth twisted in amusement and all signs of slumber fled.
There was no point in pretending or prevaricating. She said flatly, ‘I don’t have enough evidence to make a judgement.’
His brows lifted. ‘What can I tell you?’
‘Nothing.’ Cressy shrugged. ‘After all, it’s unlikely that we’ll meet again. Let’s be content to remain strangers.’
‘That is truly what you want?’ His tone was curious.
‘I’ve just said so.’
‘Then why did you stare at me as if you were trying to see into my heart?’
‘Is that what I was doing?’ Cressy made a business of applying more sun cream to her legs. ‘I—I didn’t realise.’
He shook his head reprovingly. ‘Another foolish lie, matia mou.’
Cressy replaced the cap on the sun cream as if she was wringing someone’s neck.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘If you want to play silly games. What do you do for a living, kyrie?’
He lifted a shoulder. ‘A little of this. A little of that.’
I can imagine. Aloud, she said, ‘That’s hardly an answer. I suppose the caique moored in the next cove is yours, and I’ve seen you dance, so I’d guess you’re primarily a fisherman but you also do hotel work entertaining the guests. Am I right?’
‘I said you were astute, thespinis,’ he murmured. ‘You read me as you would a balance sheet.’
‘It really wasn’t that difficult.’
‘Truly?’ There was slight mockery in his tone. ‘Now, shall I tell you about you, I wonder?’
‘There’s very little to say,’ Cressy said swiftly. ‘You already know what my work is.’
‘Ah.’ The dark eyes held hers steadily for a moment. ‘But I was not thinking of work.’ He got to his feet, dusting sand from his legs. ‘However, you have reminded me, thespinis, that I cannot enjoy the sun and your company any longer. I have to prepare for this evening’s performance.’ He slung his towel over his shoulder and picked up his rucksack.
He smiled down at her. ‘Kalispera, matia mou.’
‘You keep calling me that, kyrie,’ Cressy said with a snap, angrily aware of an odd disappointment at his departure. ‘What does it mean?’
For one fleeting moment his hand brushed her cheek, pushing back an errant strand of silky hair.
He said softly, ‘It means “my eyes”. And my name, if you recall, is Draco. Until we meet again.’
He’d hardly touched her, Cressy repeated to herself for the fourth or fifth time. There was nothing to get upset about. He’d pushed her hair behind her ear, and that was all. He hadn’t touched her breast or any of her exposed skin, as he could so easily have done.
All that time she’d carefully kept her distance. Built the usual invisible wall around herself.
And then, with one brief, casual gesture, he’d invaded her most personal space. And there hadn’t been a damned thing she could do about it.
Oh, there’d been nothing overtly sexual in his touch—she couldn’t accuse him of that—yet she’d felt the tingle of her body’s response in the innermost core of her being. Known a strange, draining languor as he had walked away. And a sharp, almost primitive need to call him back again.
And that was what she couldn’t accept—couldn’t come to terms with. That sudden dangerous weakness. The unexpected vulnerability.
God knows what I’d have done if he’d really come on to me, she brooded unhappily.
But the most galling aspect of all was that he’d been the one who’d chosen to leave, and not herself.
I should have gone the moment I woke up and saw him there, Cressy told herself in bitter recrimination. I should have been very English and very outraged at having my privacy disturbed. End of story.
For that matter, the story was over now, she admitted with an inward shrug. She just hadn’t been the one to write Finis, that was all. And, while she might regret it, there was no need to eat her heart out either.
When she’d heard the thrum of the caique’s engine as it passed the cove she’d tried hard to keep her attention fixed on her book. When she’d finally risked a quick glance she had found, to her fury, that he was waving to her from the tiller.
But at least he had been sailing in the opposite direction to the harbour, and she wouldn’t run the risk of bumping into him there while she was waiting for the ferry.
And now she had the cove to herself again, just as she’d wanted. Except that it was no longer the peaceful sanctuary that she’d discovered a few hours before. Because she felt restless, suddenly, and strangely dissatisfied.
She wanted to cry out, It’s all spoiled, like an angry, thwarted child.
But there was nothing to be gained by sitting about counting her wrongs, she thought with a saving grace of humour.
She went for a last swim, relishing the freshness of the water now a slight breeze had risen, hoping wryly that it would cool her imagination as well as her body.
She collected the bicycle and stood for a moment, debating what to do next. It was too early for dinner and, now that the searing afternoon heat had abated, she decided she might as well see what remained of Myros. It was only a small island, and the circular tour would probably take no more than an hour.
It was very much a working island, she soon realised. The interior might be rocky and inhospitable, but on the lower slopes fields had been ploughed and vines and olives were being cultivated, along with orchards of citrus fruits. The scattered hamlets she passed through seemed prosperous enough, and the few people she encountered offered friendly smiles and greetings.
And, contrary to what Yannis had suggested, the road to the north of the island even had some sort of surface.
So Cressy was disconcerted to find her path suddenly blocked by tall wrought-iron gates and a stone wall.
It seemed that the public road had suddenly become private.
Cressy dismounted and tried the gates, but they were securely locked and she could only rattle them in mild frustration. Beyond them she could see a drive winding upwards between olive groves, then, intriguingly, curving away out of sight, making it impossible to guess what lay further on.
She walked along the side of the wall for a while, but it seemed to stretch for ever, and eventually she was forced to retrace her steps.
Apparently, a whole section of the island had been turned into a no-go area. And all she could do was turn back.
After that disappointment, the puncture was almost inevitable.
Cressy brought her untrustworthy steed to a juddering halt and surveyed the damage, cursing herself mentally for having been lured into such an extensive trip.
Now she was faced with a long walk back to the port, pushing the bicycle.
The breeze had strengthened, whipping up the dust from the road and sending irritating particles into her eyes and mouth. She’d finished her water some time before, and she felt hot, thirsty and out of sorts. What was more, she suspected she was getting a blister on her foot.
From now on, she promised herself, she’d confine her activities to the grounds of the Hellenic Imperial.
She’d limped on for another quarter of a mile when she heard the sound of a vehicle on the road behind her.
‘More dust,’ she muttered, dragging herself and the bicycle on to the stony verge.
A battered pick-up truck roared past, but not before Cressy had managed to catch a glimpse of the driver.
She said a despairing, ‘Oh, no—it can’t be…’ as the truck braked sharply and began to reverse back to where she was standing.
He said, ‘How good to meet again so soon. I did not expect it.’
She said crisply, ‘Nor I. You were on board a boat, kyrie. Now you’re driving a truck. What next, I wonder?’
‘Probably my own two feet, thespinis—like you.’ Draco slanted a smile at her through the open window. ‘Get in, and I will drive you back to the port.’
‘I’m enjoying the walk,’ Cressy said regally, and he sighed.
‘More lies, matia mou. When will you learn?’ He swung himself down from the truck, picked up the bicycle and tossed it onto a pile of sacks in the back of the vehicle, then gave Cressy a measuring look. ‘You wish to travel like that, or with me?’
Glaring at him, Cressy scrambled into the passenger seat. ‘Do you always get your own way?’
He shrugged. ‘Why not?’
She could think of a hundred reasons without repeating herself, but she said nothing, sitting beside him in mutinous silence as the pick-up lurched down the track.
At least he’d changed out of those appalling shorts, she thought, stealing a lightning glance from under her lashes. He was now wearing clean but faded jeans and a white shirt, open at the neck with the sleeves turned back over his tanned forearms. And he seemed to have shaved.
All ready for the evening conquests, no doubt.
After a while, he said, ‘You are not in a very good mood after your day on the beach.’
Cressy shrugged. ‘It started well,’ she said stonily. ‘Then went downhill fast.’
‘As you tried to do on Yannis’s bicycle?’ He was grinning. ‘Not wise.’
‘So I discovered,’ she admitted tautly. ‘Now all I want is to get back to Alakos.’
‘You don’t like my island?’
‘It isn’t that at all,’ she denied swiftly. ‘But I’m hot, dusty, and my hair’s full of salt. I need a shower, a cold drink and a meal.’
‘Katavaleno. I understand.’ He swerved to avoid a major pothole. ‘So, tell me what you think of Myros?’
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