Читать книгу Her Greek Groom: The Tycoon's Mistress / Smokescreen Marriage / His Forbidden Bride - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 7

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.