The Highest Stakes of All Read online

  Her voice sounded apprehensive, and when Joanna nodded, she crossed herself, seized the child’s hand and began to tug her towards the house.

  At the door, she turned. ‘Go,’ she said in halting, heavily accented English. ‘You go. Not come here.’

  More evil eye, I suppose, Joanna thought wearily as she retreated. But I only gave the poor little soul her ball back. I hardly turned her into a frog.

  And you must have heard her crying, so why didn’t you do something about it yourself?

  Walking back to the villa, she kept picturing the small wistful face still looking back at her as she was being urged indoors by her mother. Besides the house being in the middle of nowhere, that garden was a very small playing space for a growing child, she thought, thinking of the expanse of unused lawn around the villa.

  She recalled, too, one of her aunt’s sayings—'all dressed up and nowhere to go.’ Well, that was certainly true for little Eleni, she told herself with a pang.

  As she emerged from the trees, a voice called, ‘Thespinis,’ and she saw Stavros hurrying towards her, mopping his face with his handkerchief.

  ‘I have been to the beach searching for you,’ he told her snappishly. ‘Where have you been?’

  Joanna shrugged. ‘Just for a walk,’ she returned neutrally.

  ‘You must come back to the house,’ he said urgently. ‘Come back quickly now. Because Kyrios Vassos is at Thaliki. Soon he will be here, and you must be waiting, thespinis. That is his order.’

  All thoughts of quizzing him about her unexpected encounter vanished. Her heart was thudding unevenly.

  She swallowed. ‘He—he’s on his way?’

  ‘Have I not said so?’ He gestured impatiently. ‘Hara is waiting in your room. Make haste.’

  The older woman swung round from the wardrobe as Joanna entered. She held up a dark green cotton skirt, ankle-length and patterned with daisies, and a scooped-neck blouse in broderie-anglaise.

  ‘This,’ she ordained brusquely. ‘You wear this.’ She paused. ‘You wish bath or shower?’

  Neither, with you around, Joanna thought. She said stonily, ‘I can manage for myself—thank you.’

  Hara gave her a beady look. ‘You hurry. I return.’

  Which was probably the longest verbal exchange they’d ever shared, Joanna thought.

  Alone, she hung the skirt and top back in the wardrobe and selected some white linen flared trousers and a matching shirt, covering her from throat to wrist.

  The hall seemed full of people when she eventually descended the stairs, but they were all looking at the open door, where Andonis stood beaming, and not at her.

  She sensed the excited stir, telling her the moment she’d dreaded had finally arrived. Then, as he walked in, clad only in ancient white shorts and a pair of canvas shoes, Joanna saw with a sudden lurch of the heart that the pirate had returned.

  For an instant time spun away, and it was as if she was once more seeing him for the first time.

  Except that she now realised what all those restless, troubled dreams had been telling her. That she knew exactly how that lean bronze body would feel against hers. How she would recognise the texture of his skin under her fingertips. And the taste of him beneath her lips.

  He moved then, and she drew a hurried, horrified breath, her whole body taut as a bowstring, only to find him striding past her to where Hara was standing, and, in spite of her ample proportions, lifting her off her feet in a bear hug while she bridled in coy protest like a young girl, scolding fondly in Greek until he put her down.

  Joanna thought helplessly that she had never seen such a change in anyone. Vinegar into honey. Never, surely, the same woman who, fifteen minutes ago, had thunderously condemned her choice of clothing as unsuitable attire in which to meet Kyrios Gordanis. And banged the door, muttering, when Joanna had refused point-blank to choose anything more feminine, or to loosen her hair, which she’d drawn severely back from her face and secured at the nape of her neck with a tortoiseshell clasp.

  Hands clenched at her sides, she watched Vassos Gordanis greet Stavros, clapping him genially on the shoulder with a smiling word.

  Then he turned to her, and all the laughter faded from his face, turning his mouth into a thin hard line.

  For one absurd moment, she found herself thinking, no one will ever smile at me again …

  Vassos Gordanis looked her over slowly, the harsh mockery in his eyes making her feel as if she’d been publicly stripped to the skin.

  The clothes she had chosen covered her completely, just as she’d intended, but for one bewildered moment it was all she could do not to place protective hands in front of her body. Except that would amount to a victory for him, so she stood her ground, her own gaze defiant.

  He said softly, ‘Kyria Joanna—at last.’ He paused. ‘I trust you have not been too lonely without me.’

  ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘I hoped my solitude would never end.’

  He shrugged. ‘Who knows? You may find my company even more to your taste.’

  She lifted her chin. ‘Not in your lifetime, Mr Gordanis.’

  ‘You sound very certain.’ She heard the note of faint derision in his tone. ‘But you may be persuaded to change your mind.’ He paused, letting her know he’d absorbed her swift, angry intake of breath, then added flatly, ‘Now, come and have lunch with me.’

  ‘You do not seem very hungry.’

  Joanna looked up from the grilled fish she was pushing round her plate. ‘Are you surprised? When I’m being treated in this monstrous way?’ She put down her fork. ‘Please—why are you so determined to do this?’

  ‘To make you pay in kind for what you did. But also …’ he paused reflectively ‘… also for my private enjoyment. And I am no longer sure which is the more important consideration.’

  She said rather breathlessly, ‘Stick to your revenge, Mr Gordanis. You’ll get nothing else from me.’

  ‘There is a saying, I believe, that revenge is sweet.’ His mouth curved cynically. ‘Maybe you will demonstrate its truth.’

  ‘You have no conscience, do you?’ she said quietly, after a pause. ‘No conscience at all.’

  ‘And what of your own moral code, Joanna mou?‘ He poured himself some more wine. ‘Which belongs, no doubt, to your country’s much vaunted “permissive society".’ He pronounced the phrase with scorn. ‘Does that bear scrutiny, I wonder?’

  Yes, she thought. Yes! Except in one instance that I have always regretted and that you have somehow discovered. And I never found Britain particularly permissive. Not with my aunt and uncle around.

  ‘But this is a pointless discussion,’ he went on. ‘You are here with me because that is what I have decided, and you will remain also for as long as I decide. So accustom yourself, and quickly, because your protests do not impress me.’

  His gaze flicked dismissively over her. ‘Nor does this belated attempt at modesty,’ he went on. ‘You are for sale in a buyers’ market, Joanna, and your charming body is your main asset,. I suggest you make the most of it later, when you are in bed with me.’

  He added softly, ‘When your only concealment, agapi mou, will be your beautiful hair.’

  Joanna pressed her hands to her burning face. ‘Don’t.’ She choked on the word. ‘Oh, please—don’t talk like that.’

  ‘And you once dared to call me a hypocrite.’ He sounded almost amused. ‘So what would you prefer us to discuss?’ He paused. ‘Do you have a topic of interest? Or shall we speak instead of Petros Manassou?’

  ‘I never knew anyone called that.’ She didn’t look at him, but knew her flush had deepened.

  ‘Peter Mansell, then,’ he said with a shrug. ‘And do not pretend you have failed to make the connection. Honesty will serve you better now.’

  She bit her lip. ‘Perhaps—but I don’t understand what he has to do with you.’

  He said flatly, ‘He is the only son of my cousin Maria. Does that make the situation clearer for you?’

/>   Her heart sank like a stone. Oh, God—oh, God …

  ‘Yes—I suppose,’ she said at last. ‘But why was he using a different name?’

  ‘He went to Australia to carry out a business transaction, for the first time unsupervised. He wished, it seems, to prove himself.’ His mouth tightened. ‘To demonstrate he could succeed in this without reference to his family connections.’

  By bragging everywhere about his money? Crowing over his commercial acumen? All the deals he’d achieved single-handed?

  She kept her head bent. ‘You thought he was old enough—experienced enough—to be trusted?’

  ‘I knew nothing of it until it was too late,’ he answered coldly. ‘He was sent by his future father-in-law, apparently to test his ambition and his reliability. Without your intervention he might possibly have done so. Fortunately the money your dubious friends took from him formed only the first tranche in a complicated series of payments. But it was enough to ruin him and the future he’d hoped for.’

  ‘You said his future father-in-law.’ Joanna swallowed. ‘He was—going to be—married?’

  Peter had never even hinted at that, she thought. On the contrary, he’d boasted openly about his bachelor status. Given the impression that all the girls in California were at his feet.

  And all of it complete and utter fantasy.

  ‘Once,’ he said. ‘No longer, however. Maybe never—until his criminal folly can be forgotten. I arranged for the money to be repaid, of course, but after such a betrayal of trust the bride’s family broke off the engagement, and made no secret of their reasons. It has caused a breach between friends that may never heal.’ He paused. ‘Yet, fortunately for his ex-fiancée, who is a pious, modest girl and Maria’s goddaughter, they only know half the story. Your part in it Petros confessed to me alone. Not even his mother knows of his shame in that respect. She has experienced enough heartbreak over this whole affair, so she was told only that I would pursue and punish the gamblers who cheated him.’

  He added softly, ‘And I have done so. You, Joanna mou, are the last. And in your case I decided, as they say, that your punishment should fit your crime. Exactly.’

  She touched her tongue to her dry lips. ‘And everyone knows this—of course? Even—Hara?’

  ‘Especially Hara,’ he said harshly. ‘She was my nanny when I was a baby, then went to my cousin when Petros was born.’ The dark gaze was scornful. ‘It is as if you had harmed her own child.’

  A perfect child who naturally could not be blamed for his youthful mistakes. And who had, anyway, found his own scapegoat.

  ‘Please,’ she said huskily. ‘Please—you must let me explain.’

  ‘No explanation is necessary,’ he denied brusquely. ‘Petros is young and still naïve about women, which must have made it pitifully easy for you to become his pillow friend—show him what he thought was Paradise—then lead him to your associates like an Easter lamb to the butcher’s knife.’

  Joanna said hoarsely. ‘He said that? That I’d—That we’d …’ She was nearly choking. ‘But he can’t have done. Because it isn’t true—I swear it. Oh, God, you—you have to believe me.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I do not. Or do you think I share the naïveté of my fool of a cousin? You forget, Joanna mou, I watched you that night in France, and so did every other man present, wondering what it would be like to have you under him—to touch you and kiss—to possess you. Just as you intended. And as you did to that boy.’

  He lit a cheroot and drew on it, watching her through the smoke. ‘Petros assures me your performance in private is an even greater thrill than the public display,’ he added almost casually. ‘That, in bed, you are inventive and inexhaustible as well as beautiful. Let us hope his judgement does not err—in this at least.’

  How could he have said that? Joanna wondered dazedly, cringing from the memory of Peter Mansell’s hoarse breathing, the unavailing attempts to push his tongue into her mouth. The hands pawing clumsily at her breasts while she fought to hide her revulsion.

  But the fact that he’d lied about her so hideously—gone to such appalling lengths to justify his conduct—did not make her guiltless, although she would have given anything in the world to be able to throw the entire accusation back in Vassos Gordanis’ mocking face.

  To tell him passionately that she’d done nothing—nothing. That Peter/Petros was a coward and an idiot, totally and stupidly responsible for the troubles his own conceit had brought on him.

  Except, of course, she couldn’t say that. Because she had indeed let him suppose that she might belong to him—eventually. And she could also have stopped him going to the poker game. Could have warned him off somehow, then made up some story to account for his absence, braving the wrath of Diamond Lenny.

  But she had not. Leaving her, she realised wretchedly, with no real defence. And facing instead the wrath of Vassos Gordanis.

  ‘Your silence is revealing, pedhi mou,’ he commented. He got to his feet and walked round the table, pulling her up from her chair and holding her against him, creating a moment when she was aware of the warmth of his bare chest penetrating the thin fabric of her shirt and felt her nipples harden suddenly against the lacy confinement of her bra.

  She smothered a gasp of pure shock and lifted her hands, pushing him away and taking a swift instinctive step backwards.

  His mouth twisted cynically. ‘However, it seems our time apart has not yet endeared me to you, Joanna mou,’ he remarked. ‘But be warned. I find your attitude a challenge, not a deterrent. If you fight me you will lose, and the manner of my victory may not be to your taste. Do you understand me?’

  It would be truthful to say no. To explain that nothing in her life had prepared her for this. For him. But knew that he would not believe her.

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice was barely a whisper. ‘I—understand …’

  Vassos Gordanis nodded abruptly. ‘And now there are matters that demand my attention so I must tear myself away from you.’ He took her hand and raised it, brushing her clenched knuckles with his lips. It was the briefest caress but it seemed to shiver through her entire being, increasing this whole new dimension of physical awareness that had come so shockingly into being when she’d found herself in his arms.

  Leaving her mute and trembling when he released her.

  ‘But only, I promise, for a little while,’ he added mockingly, and went.

  I can’t stay here just—waiting, Joanna thought desperately, watching his tall figure walk back into the villa. I can’t …

  She looked down at her fingers as if expecting to see them branded by the touch of his mouth.

  Because she deserved to be marked, she told herself with bitterness. She should carry a lasting scar for that instant of supreme folly—supreme weakness.

  How could such fleeting contact evoke a physical response she had never dreamed could exist—or imagined she would ever be capable of? Especially with him.

  She felt almost sick with self-betrayal.

  But at least he doesn’t know, she thought desperately. And I must make certain that he never finds out.

  So she couldn’t go on standing there in the sunlight as if she’d been turned to stone like the statue of Persephone. She had to try and hide her inner turmoil, and behave as if this was any other day. And that Vassos Gordanis’ arrival had prompted nothing but her indifference.

  Act like the girl he thinks I am, she told herself. Uncaring and unprincipled.

  Tension was building in her, like a knotted cord twisted round her forehead. She lifted a hand to release the clip fastening her hair, then paused as she remembered his words—your only concealment.

  And shivered at the thought of what awaited her that night.

  Although there was nothing she could do. This was his house. His island. If she ran away and hid somewhere, she’d simply be found and brought back to face his displeasure.

  And in some strange way the thought of his anger was almost worse than the prospect of t
he other kind of passion she could expect from him.

  There was only one place for her to go. The room that had been almost a refuge since she arrived. That might still provide her with sanctuary if only for a few hours. Until Vassos Gordanis had completed his work and remembered her again.

  Slowly, head bent, she walked into the house and went upstairs.

  As she walked into the bedroom she halted, thinking she’d come to the wrong place. Because it was like a warehouse, the floor and bed strewn with flat beribboned boxes and crumpled tissue paper. And in the middle of it all Hara, directing two of the maids who were hanging things in the wardrobe and placing them in the drawers.

  Dresses, Joanna saw with disbelief, and skirts in silk and lawn. Soft floating things. Filmy nightgowns and negligees. Lace underwear.

  She said, ‘What is this?’

  ‘Clothes, thespinis, for you to wear.’ Hara didn’t add, For the pleasure of Kyrios Gordanis, because she didn’t have to. As the furtive exchange of glances between the maids made more than clear.

  A rich man was indulging his mistress, who would be expected to show him proper gratitude for his generosity when they were alone. Or not.

  Joanna lifted her chin. ‘Then you can just take them away,’ she said crisply. ‘Because I don’t want them.’

  ‘This is the order of the kyrie. Hara’s tone was firm. ‘He is not to be disobeyed.’

  Joanna picked up the two nearest boxes, walked to the open window and out on to the little balcony, and threw them over its rail.

  ‘And unless you obey me, the rest will go the same way,’ she informed her gaping audience. ‘I have clothes and I require nothing from Kyrios Gordanis. So get it all out of here and then go, please. I have a headache.’

  There was a horrified silence, then Hara said something curt in her own language and the two girls began removing the garments and carrying them away in armfuls, whispering together as they did so.

  When it was finished, and the maids had gone, Hara said quietly, ‘This is not wise, thespinis.’

  ‘Really?’ Joanna met her gaze defiantly. ‘Well, I don’t think I care any more.’