Suddenly she didn’t feel so appallingly alone and vulnerable.
‘Thank you, Steph. I can’t tell you what it means to have your help.’ Emma blinked against the self-pitying tears prickling the back of her eyes.
She’d cried when she’d lost Papou. She refused to shed tears over a man who wasn’t fit to speak her grandfather’s name. A schemer who’d played upon the old man’s love and fear for his granddaughter’s future.
‘But you’ll have to be careful not to give me away.’ Emma frowned at her friend. ‘One look at your face and Christo will know you’re hiding something. He may be a louse but he’s smart.’
Silly how speaking of him like that sent a fillip of pleasure through her. It was a tiny thing compared with the wrong he’d done her, but it was a start.
Steph shook her head and put on the butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth expression that had fooled their teachers for years. ‘Don’t worry. He won’t suspect a thing. I’ll tell him you need a short rest. He’ll accept that. He knows this has been a whirlwind, plus you’re missing your grandfather.’
Steph’s words sent a shaft of longing through Emma for the old man who’d been bossy and difficult but always loving beneath his gruff exterior. She blinked, refusing to give in to grief now.
‘Great. You go upstairs while I get this veil off.’ There was no time to get out of the dress, but she couldn’t make her escape in trailing lace. ‘I’ll hide it in the cupboard here, if you can collect it later and look after it for me?’
‘Of course. I know it’s precious.’ Steph put her hand on Emma’s arm, squeezing gently. ‘Just one more thing. Where are you travelling to?’
Emma turned to the mirror and started searching for the multitude of pins that secured the veil. ‘The only place that’s still home.’ Her aunt and uncle, Maia’s parents, had inherited this house and Papou’s Australian assets. She’d got the commercial property in Athens that had then been signed over to her husband to manage. She’d have to do something about that, she realised. Plus, she’d inherited her grandparents’ old villa in Greece. The one where she’d gone each year on holiday with her parents till they’d died. ‘I’m going to Corfu.’
It was the perfect bolthole. She’d never mentioned it to Christo and, anyway, he would never look for her on his home turf of Greece.
She could take her time there, deciding what she planned to do. And how she’d end this farce of a marriage.
EMMA STEPPED THROUGH the wrought-iron gates and felt the past wash over her. She hadn’t been to Corfu for years, not since she was fifteen, when her grandmother had grown too frail for long-distance travel.
Seven years, yet it felt more like seven days as she took in the shaded avenue ahead curling towards the villa just out of sight. Ancient olive trees, their bodies twisted but their boughs healthy with new growth, drifted down the slope to the sea like a silvery green blanket. Nearby glossy citrus leaves clustered around creamy buds in the orchard.
Emma inhaled the rich scent of blossom from lemon, kumquat and orange trees. Her lips tightened. Orange blossom was traditional for brides. It had been in short supply in Melbourne during autumn, unlike Greece in spring.
She shivered as something dark and chilly skipped down her spine.
What a close shave she’d had. Imagine if she hadn’t learned of Christo’s real agenda! She cringed to think how much further under his spell she’d have fallen. Given his reputation, she had no doubt his skills at seduction were as excellent as his ability to feign attraction.
Swallowing down the writhing knot of hurt in her throat, she grabbed the handle of her suitcase, hitched her shoulder bag higher and set off towards the house.
She was sticky and tired and longing for a cold drink. Silly of her, perhaps, to have the taxi drop her further down the road, near a cluster of new luxury villas that had sprung up in the last few years. But she didn’t want to take the chance of anyone knowing she was staying here, in case word somehow got back to Christo.
She’d confront him in her own time, not his. For now she needed to regroup and lick her wounds.
Emma trudged down the drive, the crunch of her feet and her suitcase wheels on the gravel loud in the quiet. Yet, as she walked, her steps grew lighter as memories crowded close. Happy memories, for it was here her family had gathered year after year for a month’s vacation.
Drops of bright colour in the olive grove caught her eye and she remembered picking wildflowers there, plonking them in her grandmother’s priceless crystal vases, where they’d be displayed as proudly as if they were professional floral arrangements. Swimming with her parents down in the clear green waters of their private cove. Sitting under the shade of the colonnade that ran around three sides of the courtyard while Papou had taught her to play tavli, clicking the counters around the board so quickly his hand seemed to blur before her eyes.
They were gone now, all of them.
Emma stumbled to a halt, pain shearing through her middle, transfixing her.
She took a deep breath and forced herself to walk on. Yes, they’d died, but they’d taught her the value of living life to the full, and of love. Even now she felt that love as if the old estate that had been in Papou’s family for years wrapped her in its embrace.
Rounding the curve in the long drive, she caught sight of the villa. It showed its age, like a gracious old lady, still elegant despite the years. Its walls were a muted tone between blush-pink and palest orange that glowed softly in the afternoon light. The tall wooden window shutters gleamed with new forest-green paint but the ancient roof tiles had weathered to a grey that looked as ancient as the stone walls edging the olive grove. Despite being a couple of hundred years old, the place was well-maintained. Papou wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Nor would Emma. She was its owner now. She stood, looking at the fine old house and feeling a swell of pride and belonging she’d never felt for her grandparents’ Melbourne place. This was the home of her heart, she realised. With precious memories of her parents.
A tickle of an idea began to form in her tired brain. Maybe, just maybe, this could be more than a temporary refuge before she returned to Australia. Perhaps...
Her thoughts trailed off as the front door opened and a woman appeared, lifting her hand to shade her face.
‘Miss Emma?’
The familiar sound of Dora Panayiotis’s heavy accent peeled the years right back. Suddenly Emma was a scrawny kid again. She left her bag and hurried forward into sturdy, welcoming arms.
‘Dora!’ She hugged the housekeeper back, her exhaustion forgotten. ‘It’s so good to see you.’
‘And you, Miss Emma. Welcome home.’
* * *
Emma flicked her sodden hair off her face as she reached for the towel, rubbing briskly till her skin tingled. Early rain had cleared to a sparkling bright afternoon and she hadn’t been able to resist the lure of the white sand cove at the bottom of the garden. Turquoise shallows gave way to teal-green depths that enticed far more than the pool up beside the house.
Since arriving she’d sunk into the embrace of the villa’s familiarity, feeling that, after all, part of her old life remained. How precious that was.
For four days she’d let Dora feed her delicious food and done nothing more taxing than swim, sleep and eat.
Until today, when she’d