Читать книгу Dark Apollo - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 7

CAMILLA brought the scooter gingerly to a halt on the stony verge, and wiped the sweat from her forehead.

Much further, and she would run out of road. Already the surface had dwindled to the status of a track, yet there was still no sign of the Villa Apollo. Had Andonis deliberately sent her to a dead end?

She eased the base of her spine with a faint grimace. He’d certainly given her the maverick of his scooter collection. The steering had a mind of its own, and the brakes barely existed. If she had to do an emergency stop…

Not that there seemed much chance of that. So far she hadn’t passed another living thing, except for a donkey, a couple of tethered goats, and a dog on a chain who’d barked at her.

The road, rising steeply, was lined on each side with olive groves, and their silvery canopy had protected her from the worst of the sun. Some of the trees, with their gnarled and twisted trunks, seemed incredibly old, but they were still bearing fruit. The netting spread on the ground beneath to catch the olives bore witness to that.

Camilla turned and looked behind her, as if to remind herself that civilisation did exist. Below her, in the distance, glimpsed in the gaps between the clustering olives, were the multicoloured roofs and white walls of Karthos town, topped by the vivid blue dome of a church. And beyond that again, azure, jade and amethyst, was the sea.

I could be on a beach now, she thought wistfully, if I weren’t riding this two-wheeled deathtrap up the side of a mountain.

She sighed, as she eased the clinging top away from the damp heat of her body, imagining herself sliding down from some convenient rock into cool, deep water, salty and cleansing against her skin.

One more bend in the road, she told herself. Then I go back.

She coaxed the scooter back to life, and set off, trying to correct its ferocious wobble on corners. In doing so, she nearly missed the Villa Apollo altogether.

She came to a halt, dirt and gravel flying under the tyres, and stared at the letters carved into the two stone gateposts ahead of her. And beneath them the emblem of the sun—the sign of the god Apollo himself, who each day, according to legend, drove his fiery chariot through the heavens.

Camilla dismounted with care, propping her machine against the rocky bank. With luck, someone terminally insane with a death wish might just steal it.

Beyond the gateway, more olive trees shadowed a steeply lifting driveway.

Right, she thought, tilting her chin. Let’s see this irresistible Adonis who causes such havoc in people’s lives. Hands in pockets, she set off up the gradient, moving with a brisk, confident stride that totally masked her inner unease. Knowing she had right on her side did little to calm her nerves, she discovered.

And when the man stepped out in front of her, she only just managed to stifle a yell of sheer fright.

One glance told her that he wasn’t the one she’d come to find. He was stocky and grizzled, with a walkie-talkie in his hand, and a gun, she noted, swallowing, in a holster on his hip. His face was unwelcoming, his stance aggressive as he barked a question at her in Greek.

Camilla stood her ground. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘My name is Dryden, and I have come from England to see Mr Xandreou.’

An armed security man, she thought. What am I getting into here?

The man stared at her for a moment, then spoke into his radio. He listened, then jerked his head at Camilla, indicating that she should follow.

The drive curved away to the right and Camilla saw that the olives gave way to lawns of coarse grass, and flowerbeds bright with colour.

And beyond them was the house itself, the Villa Apollo, large and sprawling, its white walls dazzling in the sunshine. It was surrounded by a colonnaded terrace, festooned in purple and crimson bougainvillaea, and a smoky pink flowering vine.

Camilla slowed, staring round her. What did a waiter in an Athens restaurant have to do with this frankly glamorous background? she asked herself. Unless Spiro Xandreou was merely an employee, and she was being shown to the tradesman’s entrance.

The security man looked back, gesturing impatiently, and she moved forward reluctantly. Ahead of her, she saw the clear turquoise sparkle of a large swimming-pool. Around the edge were tiles in an intricate mosaic pattern, and loungers and chairs stood waiting under fringed sun umbrellas. There was a table with a tray of drinks, and on the edge of the pool a twin of the radio device carried by the security man.

Otherwise, the place seemed deserted.

As she stared round her in bewilderment, a man’s dark head suddenly broke the surface of the water. Camilla felt her heart beating slowly and unevenly as he pulled himself athletically from the pool, and stood for a moment, shaking the excess water from his mane of black curling hair.

He was well above average height, she saw, broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, his bronzed body lean, muscular and perfectly proportioned.

He was good-looking too, she recognised dazedly, his almost classical beauty of feature redeemed by the inherent toughness and strength of his mouth and chin. A man to be reckoned with.

‘Like a Greek god.’ She’d heard the phrase many times, but never expected to see it brought to life in front of her.

Especially as, like most of the ancient classical statues of the Olympians and heroes, he was completely naked.

Moving with the lithe grace of a jungle animal, he walked over to one of the loungers, picked up a waiting towel, and began to dry himself, casually and without haste, ignoring the presence of the new arrivals.

Camilla knew that displaying himself like this in front of her—a woman, and a stranger—was a calculated insult. But if he expected her to blush or faint, or run off screaming like some frightened nymph from mythology, he’d be disappointed, she told herself, and stood waiting in stony silence, refusing to let the deliberate affront get to her.

Eventually, he draped the damp towel round his hips, securing it with a knot. He reached for the thin, elegant platinum watch on the table, and clasped the bracelet on to his wrist, allowing his gaze, at last, to rest coolly and dispassionately on Camilla. His eyes were dark, long-lashed, holding an odd glitter.

Like cold fire, she thought.

He said, ‘Who are you, and what do you want here?’

His voice was low and drawling, the accent only slightly marked. But then Katie had told her his English was excellent.

Katie, she thought with a kind of despair. No wonder she’d fallen for him hook, line and sinker. But why should a sophisticated man of the world like this have encouraged her inexperienced sister, even for a moment? It made no sense at all. Unless he still wasn’t the one she sought.

‘Well?’ His voice prodded at her impatiently. ‘You have forced your way in here. Why don’t you speak?’

She said slowly, gauging his reaction, ‘I want to talk about—Xandreou’s woman.’

He filled a glass with mineral water from one of the bottles, and drank. The security man, she realised, had discreetly faded away.

He said, ‘I think you flatter yourself, Kyria…?’

‘Dryden,’ she supplied again. ‘Please don’t pretend you’ve forgotten the name.’

He shrugged. ‘It is vaguely familiar.’ He sounded bored. The brilliant eyes went over her, lingering on her breasts and thighs and long, slim legs, making her uneasily aware that the heat had made her scanty garments into a second skin.

His gaze met hers again. ‘So, what do you want, Kyria Dryden? Or do you plan to spend the whole afternoon staring at me in silence?’

‘I’m sorry.’ What am I apologising for? she asked herself in disbelief. She pulled herself together with determination. ‘You aren’t exactly what I expected, Kyrios Xandreou.’

‘Nor are you. But it isn’t important.’ His tone was dismissive. ‘Say what you must, and go.’

All her worst forebodings were confirmed. He didn’t care about Katie, or the baby. Her sister’s sole attraction for him had been her innocence. Now it was gone, he didn’t want to know. Katie was just another notch on a welldented bedpost.

She said stonily. ‘You know why I’m here. I think some kind of—reparation is called for.’

‘For what? A pleasant interlude like so many of your countrywomen expect to enjoy in Greece?’ The contempt in his voice lashed her.

Just because other girls might behave like sex-crazed idiots, there was no need to tar Katie with the same brush, she thought in furious anguish. Hadn’t he realised that she was different—that she’d actually believed whatever corny seduction line he’d handed her?

‘Unfortunately, this particular interlude has had consequences.’ She hated the smile which twisted his mouth. ‘Or had you forgotten there’s a baby on the way?’

‘There is nothing wrong with my memory,’ he said. ‘It is more a question of credulity, perhaps. A child with Xandreou blood might have a claim on Xandreou money. Is that what you think?’ He shook his head. ‘I am not a fool, Kyria Dryden. I am prepared to subject the paternity of this child to every test available to medical science. But can you afford to fight me?’ The studied insolence of his gaze scorched her again. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘No,’ she said curtly. ‘Nor would I dream of it. Obviously your responsibilities mean very little to you.’

‘You are wrong. They mean a great deal. Which is why I will not submit to pressure from a girl who has behaved like a slut, and now wishes to benefit from her indiscretion.’ His drawl intensified. ‘Perhaps you are not aware that in Greek the name Catherine means “purity”. It is something to consider—for the future, ne?’

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, and her voice shook a little.

‘You’ve more than made your point, Mr Xandreou. I’d hoped you might have some shred of decency in you, but clearly I was mistaken. However, you won’t be troubled again. The baby may not be brought up in the lap of this kind of luxury——’ she gestured scornfully round her ‘—but it will be welcomed, looked after and loved, and that’s far more important. It wasn’t money I came for, but something more fundamental. Something you wouldn’t understand.’

She paused, struggling to control her voice. ‘And, hopefully, although the baby will be illegitimate, it will grow up without knowing what a complete bastard its father was.’ She drew a deep and shuddering breath. ‘I wonder how many more lives will be ruined before you get your well-deserved come-uppance?’

‘You have the insolence to talk about ruined lives?’ He flung his head back, and she felt his anger touch her like a blast of lightning. ‘How dare you say such a thing—speak to me like this?’

‘It’s quite simple,’ she said. ‘I just tell the truth.’

She turned and walked away from him, back rigidly straight, fighting the storm of angry tears which threatened to overwhelm her.

Of all the hateful, disgusting things he’d said, it was the gibe about Katie’s name which, ridiculously, had got to her most.

He must have known she was untouched, yet he’d set out deliberately to deflower and destroy, using all the potent virility and sexual charisma he possessed in such abundance to undermine her resistance.

My God, I was aware of it myself, she thought, shame mingling with anger. And I was only with him for a few minutes. If I’d met him in different circumstances—if he’d been charming, or even marginally polite…

She blotted out that line of thinking instantly. Spiro Xandreou clearly regarded himself as some latter-day Apollo, a sun god to whom every woman was a potential victim for conquest, and she disgraced herself by even acknowledging his attraction.

But what had he been doing, working in that restaurant? she asked herself. Waiting on tables for a bet—or some other kind of sick joke?

If so, why go on with the pretence once Katie had returned to England? Promising to come over—claiming they were going to be married. All those letters—all those lies.

Unforgivable, she thought as she dragged the despised scooter upright, and kicked it into grumbling life. She wanted to get away from the Villa Apollo, and its owner, as fast as she could—breathe some untainted air.

And decide what she could possibly tell Katie, she thought despondently as she steadied her temperamental machine for the first bend.

The open-topped sports car was upon her instantly, racing up the hill on the wrong side of the road. Camilla caught a stunned glimpse of a girl’s face, olive-skinned and pretty behind the designer sunglasses but transfixed by sheer horror. Then she pulled the bike over in a kind of desperation, striving to avoid the inevitable collision.

The scooter hit the loose stones on the verge, and went out of control, running up the bank. Camilla was thrown off, landing painfully on her side. She lay still for a moment, feeling sick and dizzy with shock.

She heard the sound of running feet, and the girl bent over her. ‘O Theos.’ There was panic in her voice. ‘You are hurt. Are you broken anywhere?’

Into several pieces by the feel of it, Camilla thought, as she pulled herself to her feet. There were no actual fractures, she was sure, but there was a deep graze on her bare leg, and another on her arm, blood mingling with the dirt on her torn blouse.

‘I did not expect anyone else on this road.’ The girl was practically wringing her hands.

‘So I gathered,’ Camilla forced from her dry throat.

‘You need a doctor.’ The girl took her uninjured arm, urging her towards the car. ‘With me, please. Come.’

Camilla shook her head. ‘It’s all right.’ Her voice sounded very small and far-away suddenly. ‘I—I’ll be fine.’ She saw the road, the car, and the newcomer’s anxious face dip and sway, then everything descended into a dark and swirling void.

Somewhere, a storm must be raging. Camilla could feel the splash of rain on her face and hear a distant rumble of thunder. But she herself seemed to be floating on some kind of cloud.

She opened unwilling eyes, and stared up at a face she’d never seen before, female, elderly and wrinkled with concern. Nor was it raining. She was simply having her face bathed with cool water.

I hurt, she thought, wincing, as she looked around her. She was in a large room, lying on a vast luxurious sofa the colour of rich maize.

And the sound of the storm was Spiro Xandreou, who was standing a few feet away conducting a low-voiced but furious argument with the girl from the car.

Oh, my God, Camilla thought with horrified alarm. She’s brought me back here—to his house. I can’t bear it.

She tried to sit up, only to be vociferously restrained by the old woman attending to her.

Spiro Xandreou swung round, frowning, and came striding over. He’d exchanged the towel, Camilla noticed, for a pair of white shorts almost equally revealing. Still competing for the Stud of the Year award, no doubt, she thought, hating him.

‘My sister has told me what happened,’ he said harshly. ‘You must remain where you are—keep still until the doctor has made his examination.’

‘I’ll do nothing of the kind.’ Camilla’s head swam as she put her feet gingerly to the floor. But she was becoming more aware of her surroundings. One entire wall of the room was made from glass, a series of sliding doors pushed open to admit the sunlight, and a breeze bringing a hint of flowers and citrus.

The floor was tiled in creamy marble, veined in blue and gold, and the same blue was echoed in the colour of the walls, which were bare except for a few modern abstract paintings, clearly original and probably valuable.

Ironically, the one thing Spiro Xandreou hadn’t lied about was his wealth, Camilla thought sourly. She was in the lap of luxury here. The sofa she was lying on was one of a pair flanking a wide marble fireplace, which was presumably for use in the winter months but was now screened by a large bronze sculpture of a sunburst.

The whole effect was airy and spacious, yet somehow welcoming, so presumably the owner had had no hand in the décor.

She glared up at him. ‘There’s no need for all this fuss. I want nothing from you, Mr. Xandreou. I thought I’d made that clear.’

‘Unfortunately, neither of us has a choice. You are not leaving here, thespinis, without medical attention.’

‘What are you afraid of? That I’ll sue?’ His autocratic tone needled her. She tried to smile past him at the girl, who was standing looking sullen, her arms crossed defensively in front of her. ‘I shan’t. I’ve a few grazes, that’s all.’

‘You cannot know that. And in the circumstances we can afford to take no risks,’ he said grimly. He issued some low-voiced instructions to the old woman who left the room instantly.

‘Arianna tells me you were riding a scooter,’ he went on. ‘Are you quite crazy?’

‘Only on a part-time basis,’ Camilla said wearily. ‘Look—just get me a taxi, and I’ll go back to my hotel. My sister will be wondering where I am, and I don’t want to cause her unnecessary worry,’ she added pointedly.

‘She knows of your activities, then—and she permitted them?’ Spiro Xandreou raised clenched fists towards the ceiling. ‘Unbelievable.’

‘No,’ Camilla said, with a sigh. ‘This was all my own idea. And clearly a bad one.’

‘At least we agree on something,’ he said silkily.

The old woman in her black dress and snowy apron came back into the room, carrying a bowl of steaming water, a bottle of antiseptic, and some cotton wool.

Camilla eyed them with misgiving. ‘There’s no need…’

‘There is every need,’ he contradicted flatly. ‘This is not England, Kyria Dryden. Grazes such as this carry a risk of infection, and need immediate attention.’

He knelt beside the sofa, his face coolly intent, soaking a swab of cotton wool in the antiseptic solution.

Camilla wanted to draw away. He was altogether too close for comfort, she thought, dry-mouthed, as she absorbed the clean, fresh scent of his sun-warmed skin. His bare shoulder brushed against her knee, and she felt a sharp pang deep inside her that had nothing to do with pain.

She said huskily, ‘No—please…’

He gave her a look of withering contempt and began to swab the dirt and grains of gravel from her leg. She bit her lip, her body tautening instinctively at his touch.

He looked up at her, his mouth slanting sardonically. ‘If it’s only a graze, thespinis, you’re not being very brave about it.’

She said between her teeth, ‘Maybe I’d prefer to wait for the doctor.’

He shrugged. ‘The Hippocratic oath is not needed for simple first aid,’ he returned. ‘I am not enjoying this either, Kyria Dryden.’

The oath, she thought, that the medical profession still used. ‘I swear by Apollo…’ And Apollo himself was here, or so it seemed, kneeling at her feet.

He was deft enough, and even quite gentle, she was forced to admit, but some of the dirt was deeply embedded, and there were tears in her eyes before he’d finished, although she kept her teeth firmly fastened in her bottom lip.

But the smarting was only part of it, she realised. The truth was she didn’t want to accept this kind of intimate service from him.

When he had cleaned her arm, he hesitated. ‘The shirt is already ruined, I think, so…’ He put two fingers in the jagged tear at the side, and ripped it completely down to the hem.

Camilla gasped, dragging the torn edges together. ‘How dare you…?’ Her voice was unsteady. For one brief instant, his fingers had brushed the curve of her bare breast, and his touch had scalded her.

‘So modest?’ His voice taunted. ‘Your fellow-tourists show more on our beaches every day.’

‘But I don’t,’ she said huskily.

The old woman stepped forward, gesturing him imperatively out of the way. With another shrug, he got to his feet, and walked to the window, turning his back while Camilla’s scraped ribs were bathed.

‘Arianna,’ he tossed over his shoulder, ‘you will provide Kyria Dryden with a blouse from your wardrobe as a temporary measure.’

‘Of course, I shall be pleased. She can come upstairs to my room, and choose. Petros can examine her there too.’

He frowned. ‘Is that necessary?’

‘But of course.’ Arianna Xandreou looked scandalised. ‘Such a procedure requires privacy.’

His frown deepened. ‘Then stay with her—all the time, you understand?’

He’d spoken in English, so presumably Camilla wasn’t to be left in any doubt either.

‘What the hell are you implying?’ she demanded.

‘I intend to ensure you do not turn this accident to your advantage, thespinis.’

‘What do you think I’m going to do—steal something?’ Camilla pulled away from the old woman’s restraining hand, her eyes blazing. ‘God, you’ve an almighty nerve.’

‘And I think the same of you, thespinis. You will play no tricks in this house.’

Her lips were parting to tell him unequivocally what she thought of him, when the door opened and a young man, swarthy and stockily built, wearing glasses, walked in. He paused, surveying the tableau in front of him.

‘I understand I have a new patient,’ he remarked. ‘A road accident, ne? Thank you, Eleni.’ The old woman stepped back, and he inspected her handiwork critically, and nodded. ‘You are lucky, thespinis. I have known similar incidents where skin grafts have been needed. But you, I think, will be left without a scar. A shot, maybe, to protect against infection and you will be as good as new.’

Spiro Xandreou took him to one side, and said something softly in Greek.

‘Po, po, po.’ The doctor’s brows lifted sharply. ‘Then I should examine without delay. Eleni can act as chaperon.’

‘This is ridiculous,’ Camilla protested. ‘I’m fine.’

The doctor smiled at her. ‘I’m sure that is true. You seem a perfectly healthy young woman. But your pregnancy is in its early stages. We need to establish that all is well.’

‘Pregnancy?’ Camilla stared at him stupidly. ‘What are you talking about? I’m not pregnant.’

‘So you lied.’ Spiro Xandreou’s voice was almost gloating. ‘I knew it.’ He walked to the door of the saloni, and threw it wide, his face a mask of icy anger. ‘You will leave my house, thespinis, and not come back.’

His voice dropped to pure menace. ‘And you will never trouble me or mine again. That is, if you know what’s good for you. Now go.’