Dark Apollo Page 10

  Camilla looked down at the vivid sea, sparkling and dancing round the boat, feeling its restless excitement thrill suddenly through own veins.

  Today. The thought was like a prayer to placate the ancient envious gods. One day out of all eternity. Was it so much to ask? She flung back her head lecklessly. 'Agreed,' she said.

  An hour later, they reached Marynthos. It was only a small village—a straggle of white buildings with coloured roofs round a natural inlet where fishing boats bobbed. And a wel­coming committee, Camilla noted, with an inrush of shyness.

  She said, 'Shall I stay on Calliope?’

  'By no means. Dimitris would be most of­fended if you failed to admire his son.'

  He took her arm, urging her on to the narrow quay, responding to the noisy babble of greetings, putting names unerringly to the crowd of smiling faces which surged round them.

  They were almost lifted off their feet on a wave of goodwill which carried them up the steep and narrow street. Here the women were waiting more decorously, the youngest children playing in the dust at their feet. The two grand­mothers, wearing the inevitable black dresses and headscarves, offered a formal welcome, and then Dimitris loannides himself appeared, a neat, bright-eyed man, his teeth gleaming in a grin of pure delight under his heavy moustache.

  The two men shook hands, then embraced, slapping each other on the back. Then Nic beckoned Camilla forward.

  Her hand was taken and held for a moment by Dimitris. "Welcome.’ he said in careful English. 'You are welcome, thespinis.’

  She was given a glass of wine, heavy and rather sweet, made, Nic told her, from Dimitris's own grapes, then was conducted into the house to see the baby.

  Hara loannides was sitting up in bed, holding him in her arms. She was a pretty girl, her face wearily contented as she crooned to her child.

  She greeted Nic shyly but with composure, and put the baby into his arms amid applause from the rest of the family clustering in the doorway.

  Clearly a visit from such an important and respected figure as Nic Xandreou was an event in their lives, Camilla realised. The fact that he had agreed to be godfather was an ad­ditional honor.

  And he talks of my responsibilities, she thought, when he's central to so many people's lives—the chief man of this island, quite apart from his business ventures.

  He wasn't awkward with the baby, she saw. He handled the small bundle with complete as­surance, instantly soothing an experimental wail of protest, lifting the baby to a more comfortable position against his shoulder, his smile softening to tenderness as the tiny angry face relaxed back into slumber.

  She thought, with a pang, He should have children of his own, then paused, her throat constricting in self-derision. He was playing the part expected of him, that was all.

  Nic Xandreou had already tried the obli­gations of marriage, and found them not to his taste, she reminded herself with an effort. His life belonged now in boardrooms and pent­houses, and wherever else there was money to be made and pleasure to be enjoyed.

  She glanced back, and found him looking at her, one eyebrow raised interrogatively. He said laconically. 'Hara wants you to hold him now.'

  ‘Oh, no.' Camilla took an alarmed step backwards. ‘I’d really rather not. I might drop him. I'm not used to small babies.’

  'Then start accustoming yourself.’ His quiet voice brooked no opposition. 'Sit on the bed, if you feel safer that way. You cannot hurt Hara by refusing.’

  He pushed her down gently on to the edge of the mattress, and put the baby into her re­luctant arms amid another chorus of approval.

  She looked down at the shawl-swathed cocoon. One small starfish hand had emerged from the wrappings, and moved to splay against her breast. A tiny bubble escaped the pursed lips as the baby's head turned—seeking.

  Strange anguish lanced through her as she wondered for the first tune in her life what it would be like to bear a child to the man you loved. To be the focus, as Hara was, of his pride and adoration.

  She thought, I wish—oh, God, I wish... and stopped dead, transfixed by the realisation of precisely what she wished.

  As if magnetised, she looked up at Nic, her eyes widening, her parted lips tremulous, His face was sombre and aloof, a muscle working beside his mouth as if he was trying to control some angry emotion.

  He probably resented the way she, a stranger, and an unwanted outsider at that, had been drawn into this intimate family moment, she thought painfully. Nor could she blame him, considering the deception she was practicing on him.

  He said softly, fiYou are supposed to say something.'

  She bit her lip, and turned to Hara. 'The baby's very handsome,’ she said. 'like his father.'

  Judging by Hara’s delighted beam as Nic translated, and the shout of laughter and ac­claim from the others, she'd managed to find the right comment, outsider or not.

  Hara bent forward, speaking rapidly in Greek, and Camilla shook her head in incomprehension.

  Dimitris supplied the cheerful explanation. ‘My wife hopes that Xandreou's woman also bears many fine sons.’

  Camilla felt a wave of helpless colour sweep up into her face. She did not dare look at Nic as he bent and took the baby from her, re­storing him to his mother. But, to her relief, the room began to empty, and they were con­ducted outside where tables had been set with platters of bread, salad and sliced fruit, and jugs of red wine.

  Nic was escorted ceremoniously to the place of honour, but Camilla was surrounded by the women, and pulled away to another table where she was subjected to a friendly but thorough scrutiny, everything from the colour of her hair to the material of her dress being examined and exclaimed over.

  Her throat taut with embarrassment, Camilla managed to smile as she swallowed some grapes, and drank a glass of the wine, aware that Nic was watching ironically.

  But she had only herself to blame, she thought. If she hadn't gone along with Arianna's suggestion and pushed herself on to him for the day, she'd have been saved all this discomfiture. She could only pray that back at the Villa Apollo everything had worked out, and that the end would, somehow, justify the means she'd chosen.

  The celebration seemed endless, although she supposed she should be grateful for that. The longer it extended into the afternoon, the less time she would have to spend on her own with him, and the less opportunity there would be for the kind of self-betrayal she dreaded, she thought constrictedly.

  She was conscious of him all the time. Above the laughter and chatter of the women there seemed to be a silent zone where the two of them existed alone. A place where she could look at him, and smile9 and say the words of love and desire she dared not even think. Where his kisses burned on her parted lips, and her body bloomed under the touch of his hands. A secret place, she thought, which would haunt her for the rest of her life, tormenting her with all kinds of unfulfilled yearnings.

  When she felt his hand curve round her shoulder in reality, she almost cried out in longing, but when she looked up at him his face was remote, his eyes guarded.

  'It is time we went.’ His tone was crisp, formal. 'Please say your goodbyes.'

  Mechanically, Camilla began to assemble her few Greek phrases of thanks and farewell.

  A stranger, she thought, not a lover. That was what he was, and that was how he must remain for her sanity's sake.

  They were escorted back to the harbour, and helped enthusiastically on board Calliope. As they headed out of the bays Camilla waved until the figures on the quay became mere dots.

  'You enjoyed that?' Nic asked quietly from the tiller.

  'Of course,' Camilla said with slight con­straint. 'I felt very—privileged to be made so welcome.’

  He was silent for a moment. 'They are simple people.’ he said at last. 'I hope their—lack of inhibition didn’t distress you.'

  'No.’ Her face warmed again. 'I suppose they were bound to draw the obvious conclusion.’ She tried to laugh. 'Everyone else has.'

  'Ye
s.' The monosyllable was clipped and curt, and she ventured no other comment.

  The breeze had dropped, and the afternoon was still, the horizon a shimmer of heat. Camilla felt a trickle of sweat run down be­tween her breasts. She put her hands to the nape of her neck, lifting away the heavy fall of hair.

  It occurred to her suddenly that Nic had not turned Calliope back the way they'd come, but that they were sailing on round the island.

  She looked at him. 'Where are we going?'

  ‘I know a small bay where the swimming is good.’ he returned. 'I thought we could anchor there for a while.’ He paused again. 'And also—talk.' He slanted a smile at her, his eyes flicking over her breasts, and down to where the thin cotton dress clung to the line of her thigh.

  ‘We have negotiations to minded her silkily. 'Or had you

  'By no means.’ she retorted. ‘But I thought ‘this was the time of day when all business stopped.’

  His smile widened. ‘That, agape mou, rather depends on the nature of the business urgency.’ He left the words tingling between them, and turned Calliope towards the shore again.

  Camilla found herself staring blankly at the small horseshoe of pale sand sheltered by two stony outcrops that they were approaching. From the beach, the ground rose into a wil­derness of bleached rock smudged by the oc­casional olive tree. It was very quiet—very lonely.

  She swallowed. Keep him talking, she thought, touching her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. Make it formal—a discussion of terms. The problem was she hadn't had time to do her homework—to find out the kind of hypothetical sum she'd be expected to ask for on Katie's behalf. She had no real idea what bargaining power she could command.

  But Nic Xandreou knew, down to the last drachma, and could call her bluff whenever he chose.

  But what else did he know—or suspect? That was the real risk—the danger she needed to be on her guard against.

  'Matia mou,' he had called her. And she must never let him look into her eyes again in case he saw the pitiful truth she needed at all cost to conceal: that, against all logic, reason or even sanity, she was in love with him.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Nic dropped anchor some hundred and fifty yards from the shore. With the noise of the engine stilled, there was only the creak of Calliope's timbers and the soft lap of the sea to break the hot and heavy afternoon silence. To remind Camilla, if any reminder were needed, just how alone they were. Shading her eyes with her hand, she stared towards the beach as if mesmerised by it.

  ‘Can you swim so far?' He was standing just behind her. He spoke softly, his breath fanning her ear.

  'Of course.’ She kept her tone brisk and bright. ‘I’m not that much of a wimp.’

  'No,’ he said rather drily. 'That much Is certain. But, all the same, we will take the boat ashore.

  Camilla watched as he brought the small dinghy alongside, loading it with towels; straw mats, a basket containing food and wine, and even a sun umbrella brought up from Calliope's cabin.

  All the gear for a successful seduction con­veniently to hand, she thought, swallowing. But then she'd hardly be the first girl he'd have brought to this remote and lovely place.

  She trailed her hand in the water as they rowed ashore. Shoals of small fish darted here and there, and soft fronds of weed billowed and danced in the shadowy depths.

  Her feet sank into the hot sand as she helped him drag the boat up the beach. By the time they'd unloaded it, Camilla felt that her dress was sticking to her. Surreptitiously, she eased the cling of the fabric away from her thighs.

  But he'd noticed, of course.

  'Shall we cool off before we open our dis­cussions?' Nic wedged the sun umbrella in place with a couple of large stones, and dusted off his hands. Camilla watched with misgiving as he unfastened the remaining buttons on his shirt. She was suddenly, forcibly reminded of the first time she'd seen him. Did he usually swim naked? she wondered, dry-mouthed. And, if so, would this occasion be any exception?

  But to her relief he stripped off his shorts to reveal brief black trunks. He turned, encoun­tering her scrutiny with a mockingly lifted eyebrow. The faint smile playing round his mouth was a challenge as he waited for her to fumble clumsily out of her dress, and drop it with self-conscious awkwardness on to one of the straw mats.

  "Your scratches are healed now?' He took her arm, turning her slightly so that he could study the fading marks.

  Flushing, Camilla pulled free. 'Completely.' She kicked off her sandals and ran past him down to the edge of the sea.

  The water felt breath-stoppingly cool against her over-heated skin as she splashed through the shallows.

  'Have a care.’ Nic was beside her, overtaking her with ease. 'The beach shelves quickly and very steeply. You can soon find you are out of your depth.’

  I found that out a long time ago. She thought it, but did not say it, as she watched him take a running dive, the lean, dark body cutting the water with hardly a splash.

  She'd been put of her depth since the moment she arrived on Karthos. She'd been so sure of her ability to handle things, but looking back it seemed she might just have made the situation worse. Lending herself to this de­ception seemed the only way to make amends to Katie, but she had also to gauge the con­sequences to herself. Physical damage healed. Emotional scarring could be with you for life.

  Other girls at the secretarial agency came back from foreign holidays giggling over brief flings with waiters, couriers or ski instructors, but for Camilla there could be no guilty secrets to be shared with a smile and sigh over coffee.

  Because Nic Xandreou mattered, she thought as she slid down into the water, letting it take and lift her, closing her eves against the dazzle of the sunlight. He was in her mind and her heart, part of the fibre of her being, and she hadn't the least idea how or when it had begun to happen. She'd been in too deep before she'd even seen the danger.

  But what she needed to remember, above all, was that it wasn't mutual. She was an an­noyance to Nic—a small problem to be re­solved, and that was all. If he made love to her, it would be with cynical amusement at the ease with which his victory had been accomplished, A trifling bonus on another successful deal.

  And die knowledge of that more than out­weighed the transitory delight of being, for a few hours, Xandreou's woman. It had to.

  She turned to glance at the shore, and saw with a shock of alarm that she'd let herself drift further out than she'd intended. She was a competent enough swimmer, but she was ac­customed to the predictability of swimming-baths. Beneath her now were untold fathoms of the Ionian Sea. She trod water, breathing deeply and calmly, refusing to panic as she felt the pull of an unsuspected current.

  She glanced around, but could see no re­assuring dark head within hailing distance, Besides, she didn't want to call for help un­necessarily, especially when she'd been quite implicitly warned.

  The boat, she realised, biting her lip, seemed marginally nearer than the beach. She would swim there first—make some excuse about preferring to sunbathe on board, which was probably a safer option anyway.

  She was halfway there when she realised she was in difficulty. The current seemed stronger, constantly hampering her progress, and her arms and legs were getting heavy.

  She thought, This is stupid, and a small wave broke against her face, making her cough, in­creasing the frightened tightness in her chest.

  One answer was to turn on to tier back again and float, but that would leave her at the mercy of the current, and it seemed best to flounder on, fighting panic and fatigue.

  She'd told him her swimming was 'good enough' but it seemed she'd overestimated her capabilities.

  She opened her mouth to shout, swallowed more water, and almost submerged, choking. Through streaming eyes, she saw that Calliope looked further away than ever.

  Suddenly there was a dark shape beside her in the water, the sea churned, and Nic was there, shaking the water out of his eyes, his face dark with anger. She
heard him say some­thing in furious Greek, then his aims went round her, lifting her up, holding her against him.

  'Relax, little fool,’ his voice bit at her. 'I have you now.’

  He turned her effortlessly, supporting her as he used a smooth, powerful side-stroke to take them back to shore.

  'It is safe now.’ His voice was terse as his clasp slackened. He lowered her gently, and Camilla discovered sand and shingle under her feet, her legs buckling in sheer relief.

  Nic muttered something under his breath, then his arms were round her again, and he was carrying her up the beach.

  Camilla found herself deposited under the shade of the umbrella. She looked up at him. He was dark against the sun, sea-water drop­lets glistening on his tanned body. Her chest hurt, and she could taste nothing but salt, but all the same she felt a twist of hot, shamed ex­citement deep within her. She said hoarsely, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I did warn you.' His shrug was almost im­patient. 'But there was no real danger. lie quietly for a while.’

  Through half-closed eyes, she watched him busy himself with the food basket. Heard the subdued pop of a wine cork being withdrawn.

  'Drink this.’ The glass he gave her was crystal with a twisted stem. Just the thing for a beach picnic, the fragment of her mind still working normally noted drily.

  Her teeth chattered against the rim of the glass. His hand came up to steady it, and the brush of his fingers against hers made her shiver.

  The wine was cold, crisp and dry, but it brought warmth to the frozen, frightened place her, and steadied the uneven rush of her pulses.

  When she had finished, he silently took the glass from her hand, and replaced it with a fresh bread roll crammed with cold roast lamb.

  She began, 'Oh, I don't think...' but he silenced her with a lifted hand.

  'It is little wonder you tired so easily,' he told her curtly. 'At Dimitris's house, of course, you only pretended to eat.’

  'I wasn't—I'm not hungry,' she protested without conviction. Actually she was rav­enous. Maybe frightening yourself silly had that effect. But she doubted whether she could swallow a morsel.