Joanna wished she could feel as confident. She wasn’t used to any of this, not to Constantine’s wealth, or his influence, or the feeling that every other person she met thought she was a fortune-hunter. She wasn’t. She wasn’t interested in Constantine’s money. But she’d also realised that the doubts she’d had in England had been justified. Indeed, they were rapidly developing into a full-blown belief that she shouldn’t be here.
‘Do you think they believe we’re lovers?’ she asked in a low voice, and Constantine grinned with a little of his old arrogance.
‘Oh, yes. They believe it,’ he said, permitting himself a brief glance in his son’s direction. ‘And do you know what?’ He arched a teasing brow. ‘I am beginning to enjoy it.’
Dinner was served in what Constantine told her was the family dining salon, but it seemed awfully big to Joanna. She was sure her whole apartment back in London would have fitted into this one room, and she thought it was just as well that the Greek islands didn’t suffer the extremes of temperature that England did. Heating this place would be a nightmare, she reflected, glancing round the high-ceilinged room with its imposing furniture and marble floor.
Last evening she and Constantine had dined in his suite, and that hadn’t been half so intimidating. Although it had been her first evening, and the assiduous attention of the servants had been a little unnerving, she had enjoyed the meal. She had still been entranced by the beauty of her surroundings, and she’d managed to persuade herself that this wasn’t going to be as bad as she’d thought.
How wrong she’d been!
Nevertheless, Olivia’s claws had been sheathed at that first meeting. With Alex away at her fiancé’s home in Athens, and Demetri meeting with bankers in Geneva, Olivia had been alone and unprepared for Joanna’s arrival. Joanna had wondered if Constantine had really warned his family of his guest’s identity. He’d insisted he had, but there’d been no doubt that Olivia had been shocked by their relationship.
Joanna sighed. She had spent most of the day avoiding the other woman’s questions and now she had Demetrios to contend with as well. She wondered if Constantine had realised how hostile his family would be. Despite his reassurances about Alex, she thought that was little consolation now.
The food, as she’d already discovered, was exquisitely prepared. There were dolmades—lamb and spiced rice wrapped in vine leaves, and souvlakia—which were tiny chunks of pork grilled on skewers. There were tomatoes stuffed with goat’s cheese, cold meats and salads, and retsina, the clean aromatic wine of the region, which was flavoured with pine resin and was, to Joanna, an acquired taste.
As well as Constantine’s son and daughter, and Spiro Stavros, of course, they were joined at the table by three other people. They were Nikolas Poros and his wife, who Constantine had introduced her to earlier, and an old uncle of Constantine’s second wife, who also lived at the villa. Panos Petronides was in his eighties, but he seemed years younger. He was still as alert and spry as he’d been when he’d first left his native Salonika.
Conversation during the meal was, to Joanna’s relief, sporadic. She suspected that for all his assertions to the contrary Constantine was tired, and she found herself watching him anxiously, ready for any sign that he needed to escape. Demetrios had been more right than he knew when he’d questioned his father’s return to the island. Constantine was very weak, and Joanna hoped he could keep up the pretence until the wedding was over.
Coffee, strong and black, was served in the adjoining drawing room. Joanna had hoped that Constantine might make their excuses and allow them both to escape to their own apartments. But, instead, he settled himself on a silk-cushioned sofa, drawing her down beside him to prevent Olivia from taking her place.
He indicated the silver dishes of sticky sugar-coated pastries on the low table close by. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Help yourself.’
Joanna, who had eaten little of her dinner, shook her head. ‘I don’t want anything else,’ she said, aware of Demetrios hovering close by, ostensibly studying the rich desserts. She waited until he had chosen a cheese-filled pastry dusted with cinnamon sugar and then retired to the nearest armchair before she felt able to continue. ‘May I get you something instead?’
‘Not to eat,’ murmured Constantine archly, provoking a scowling look from his son. Then, to Demetrios, ‘We will talk in the morning. You can brief me on all that has happened since I have been away. For instance, I understand from Nikolas Poros that two of our tankers are lying idle at Piraeus. I hope you have an explanation for that.’
‘They are not lying idle,’ retorted Demetrios, hot colour filling his angry face. ‘Did not Poros explain that—?’
‘Tomorrow, Demetri,’ said his father finally. Then, to Joanna’s relief, he turned to her. ‘I am a little tired, agapi mou. Are you finished?’
‘I—yes, of course.’
‘But surely you are not going to deprive us of Mrs Manning’s company also?’ Demetrios broke in, earning his father’s displeasure yet again. Joanna felt Constantine stiffen beside her.
‘You have something else in mind, agori?’ he asked, and Demetrios offered a courteous smile.
‘I wondered if Mrs Manning might enjoy a stroll in the gardens,’ he suggested mildly, but Joanna detected the look that passed between him and Spiro Stavros as he spoke. ‘I believe the English are very fond of gardening. Am I not right, Mrs Manning?’
‘I’m afraid I live in a high-rise, Mr Kastro,’ Joanna returned carefully, but Constantine intervened before she could say anything more.
‘Joanna is tired, too,’ he declared, but Demetrios was determined to have the last word.
‘Are you sure, Papa? Dare I say it? She is—considerably younger than you are.’
‘You overstep yourself, Demetri.’ There was no mistaking Constantine’s anger now, and Joanna wished she could warn the younger man to back off.
‘Perhaps you should let Mrs Manning decide for herself,’ he persisted smoothly, and Joanna heaved a heavy sigh.
‘I fear your father is right,’ she told him coolly, aware that he probably thought she was taking the easy way out. ‘I am tired. It has been a—demanding day.’
Demetrios’s lips twisted. ‘I am sure it must have been,’ he remarked, and although his words were polite enough his meaning was plain. He got abruptly to his feet. ‘Then, if you will excuse me…’ And without waiting for his father’s permission he stalked out of the room.
DESPITE the heat in the early-morning air, the pool was cold. Later in the day, when the sun had done its work, the temperature of the water would rise. But right now it was decidedly chilly, and Demetri welcomed its cooling surge against his hot skin.
He had not slept well. Indeed, he had slept exceedingly badly, tormented by dreams the nature of which he preferred not to dwell on now that he was awake. In fact, he was frustrated by his own inability to control his subconscious mind, and only several vigorous lengths of the pool offered some escape from his tortured senses.
He swam swiftly from one end of the pool to the other, somersaulting beneath the surface to swim back underwater. He broke through the waves his body had created, desperate for air, and then saw that he was no longer alone.
A woman had emerged from the villa. She hadn’t seen him. It was obvious from the unhurried way she crossed the sun-splashed patio to rest her hands on the terrace wall. Obvious, too, from the uninhibited way she tilted back her head and allowed the sun to kiss those pale