Rich as Sin

by Anne Mather

  His grandfather had spoken in Greek, and, although Matthew knew the old man could speak English as well as he could, he responded in the same language. He had no wish to get into an argument over his rejection of his mother’s culture in favour of his father’s. Not when there was already a rift between them big enough to double the Marianas Trench.

  ‘Are you sure it is not the imminent arrival of this young woman—what did you say her name was? Max-Maxell?’

  ‘Maxwell,’ corrected Matthew patiently, knowing that a man who could recite the tonnage of a hundred oil tankers at a stroke was unlikely to be daunted by one surname. ‘Her name’s Samantha Maxwell. I believe my mother told you that several days ago.’

  ‘She may have done.’ Aristotle was dismissive. ‘But I cannot be expected to remember the name of every female you sleep with.’

  Matthew’s mouth compressed. ‘Did my mother tell you I was sleeping with her?’ he enquired pleasantly, and his grandfather shifted somewhat uncomfortably.

  ‘I do not know,’ he responded, adjusting the collar of his white linen jacket. ‘She may have done. As I say, I do not always remember.’

  Matthew gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘Really? I doubt if you’d like your competitors to hear that,’ he remarked, leaning forward, legs apart, his forearms along his thighs. ‘Are you getting old, Papa?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ The old man’s eyes flashed with sudden anger. ‘And what do you care? My one and only grandson? I have to have a birthday before you can find the time to see me!’

  ‘That’s not true.’ Matthew breathed out on a sigh. ‘I came to see you—three months ago. In Athens.’

  ‘Did you? Did you?’ Aristotle’s lips twisted. ‘As I recall it, you were drunk at least three-quarters of the time you were there. And you slept the rest!’

  ‘Yes, well—–’ Matthew felt a momentary sense of guilt. ‘That was different.’

  ‘How was it different?’ The old man sneered. ‘You were drunk because some little tart refused to spread her legs for you! Your mother told me. She had sympathy for you. I did not.’

  Matthew’s jaw tightened. ‘Did I ask for your sympathy?’ he demanded, as, just for a moment, the familiar sense of bereavement he had felt at Melissa’s betrayal gripped him.

  ‘No.’ His grandfather expelled the word with raw frustration. ‘But that doesn’t mean I forgive you. Or that I’ll feel any different this time, when the Maxwell girl realises she’s wasting her time.’

  Matthew suppressed a sudden urge to lash out at the old man and lay back in his chair, determinedly crossing one ankle across his knee. ‘That won’t happen,’ he declared flatly, watching as sunspots appeared on the blue, blue waters of the small bay. ‘And, just for your information, I haven’t slept with her. Yet.’

  ‘But you intend to.’

  Matthew’s mouth twisted. ‘Yes. I intend to.’

  His grandfather grimaced, taking a Cellophane-covered cigar out of his breast pocket, and peeling the wrapper. He trimmed it with a gold clipper and felt about in his pockets for some matches. ‘Who is she anyway?’ he snapped, discovering a book of matches, with the logo of an exclusive Athens nightclub on the flap, and striking one irritably. ‘Caroline says she’s a waitress.’ He puffed at the cigar. ‘Cannot you find enough women of your own class, without getting involved with a waitress?’

  ‘I didn’t realise you were a snob, Papa,’ Matthew countered evenly, though he was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his temper. ‘And, as it happens, she’s not a waitress. As my mother knows, and as I’m sure she’s told you, Sam runs a small café. And—until recently—she did some outside catering, too. I’d have thought you’d admire initiative. You’ve always told me that that was how you made your fortune. And speaking of class—–’

  ‘That will do, Matthew.’ His mother’s voice overrode what he had been about to say, and, although he was tempted to ignore her, his grandfather’s heaving chest deterred him. ‘Apollo, you know what the doctor said about smoking,’ Caroline added, whisking the cigar out of her father’s hand and grinding it beneath the heel of her painted sandals. ‘Now, why can’t I leave you two alone for more than five minutes without finding you at each other’s throats?’

  ‘Hardly that,’ remarked Matthew quietly, getting to his feet, and loosening the knot of the slipping towel. He slotted it about his shoulders. ‘I need a shower. If you’ll both excuse me, I’ll go and wash the salt from this debauched body of mine.’

  ‘Oh, Matthew!’ His mother caught his bare arm as he passed. ‘You’re not—you’re not planning on doing anything silly, are you, darling?’

  ‘Silly?’ Matthew looked puzzled. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like—leaving, for example.’

  ‘With his new mistress arriving later this morning, I should hardly think so,’ put in her father drily. He pulled out another cigar. ‘Let the boy go, Caroline. He and I understand one another. Which is more than you and I ever did.’

  Matthew left his mother protesting that her father was going the right way to kill himself by ignoring his doctor’s orders, and crossed the marble tiles into the wide entrance hall of the villa. Vine-hung, trellised walls gave this area of the house a natural airiness, and, although at the height of summer an efficient air-conditioning system came into operation, much of the building’s coolness was owed to Minoan design. That ancient civilisation had believed in a through-flow of air in their homes, and many of the buildings on Delphus still imitated these fundamental principles.

  Not that the rest of his grandfather’s villa could be said to resemble any ancient precepts, Matthew mused as he walked along an arched corridor to his own suite of rooms. Beneath his bare feet, the mosaic of Italian marble was strewn with soft Bokhara rugs, and the walls beside him had been decorated by a master hand. Expertly etched murals, in jewel-bright colours, reflected the duality of his grandfather’s history. His father, Matthew’s great-grandfather, had had his origins in the deserts of North Africa, and although the old man didn’t like to be reminded of his Arab antecedents he couldn’t deny his love of Moorish architecture.

  And there was plenty of room here for him to indulge in whatever style of architecture took his fancy, thought Matthew, pushing open the heavy-panelled door into his sitting-room. Built in the days when his grandfather had hoped to have a large family, it sprawled over more than an acre, with halls and reception-rooms of mammoth proportions. The twenty or so guest suites had all been designed to take advantage of the villa’s surroundings, and, stepping out into flower-filled courtyards, you were immediately assailed by the absolute perfection of the view. From its position on a rocky promontory the villa was surrounded on three sides by the sparkling waters of the Aegean, and, for all his ambivalence about coming here, Matthew accepted there was nowhere more uniquely placed.

  That he didn’t come as often as he should was a source of both bitterness and frustration to his grandfather. But then, Matthew conceded with a trace of self-mockery, he had always been something of a disappointment to the old man. Who else, born into a shipping dynasty, would have chosen to ignore all the benefits his grandfather’s wealth could give him, and start his own company? Who else would have gone against the strength of his grandfather’s will, and clung to the admittedly weaker link of his father’s heritage?

  The trouble was, he had never been able to explain his reasons to the old man. Aristotle—Apollo—whatever he cared to call himself, had never had the time to listen to his grandson’s opinions. Well, not when he had needed to voice them, anyway, Matthew amended now, stepping out of his wet shorts, and padding into the Byzantine luxury of the bathroom.

  Growing up in his grandfather’s house in Athens, a house necessarily protected from the outside world, he had longed to escape; to be like the children who played beyond the electrified gates that kept him a prisoner. Going to school in England had been a revelation, for, no matter how his grandfather might resent the system his father had chosen for him, the boardi
ng school in Hertfordshire had been far from the old man’s influence. That was when Matthew had started to rebel. That was when he had started to fight the stifling control of his mother’s family. He didn’t want the responsibilities his grandfather would have put on him. He didn’t want to live in a world where bodyguards were an accepted part of life and every move he made was reported on. He wanted freedom, and choices. He wanted to be Matthew Putnam; not Matthew Apollonius.

  Of course, it hadn’t been easy. There had been threats from his grandfather, and tears from his mother. But he had done it. He had made a life for himself, forged his own destiny—if only temporarily, he allowed with a certain irony. He knew that, sooner or later, fate would catch up with him. He was his grandfather’s heir. Victor’s presence was a constant reminder. And, while he might succeed in eluding his responsibilities for a while longer, much of his future was tied up in bills of lading at Piraeus.

  He sighed, tilting his face up to the hot spray of water that cascaded from a decidedly modern faucet. Its pummelling force put feeling back into his shoulders, which had become chilled during his conversation with his grandfather. Conversation? He pulled a wry face. Confrontation, more like.

  But, for all that, bringing Samantha here was undoubtedly an unwise move. Not only as far as his grandfather’s blood-pressure was concerned, but also because of his own reasons for doing so. Frankly, he wasn’t too sure why he had done it. It had certainly not been his intention when he’d intercepted her outside the café. But circumstances had contrived to force his hand, and although he despised the impulse that had caused him to make such a suggestion it was done now, and he had to live with it.

  Nevertheless, that didn’t stop him from feeling a heel. He had invited her here under false pretences; and, even if some despicable core of his anatomy welcomed the knowledge, he couldn’t excuse his own behaviour.

  After all, he knew his mother would never allow an outsider to interfere with her plans for the birthday celebrations. Besides, the arrangements had been completed weeks ago, with every detail honed to perfection. Apart from anything else, there was an army of servants at the villa, capable of feeding the five thousand, let alone a paltry fifty guests. It was only Samantha’s lack of experience that had allowed him to pull such a stunt. But then, she still had no idea who he really was.

  His lips tightened. If he had a shred of decency in him, he would tell her the truth right away, instead of letting her go on believing she had some purpose here beyond the plans he had for her. He should send her back where she had come from, no better or worse than when she left. Back to her fiancé, and her steady, boring existence.

  But he knew he wouldn’t do it. She was sensitive, and naïve—and incredibly innocent—and he was about to ruin her life. He was using her to expunge his frustration over Melissa, but for the first time in weeks he felt alive again. She had done that for him. And it wasn’t as if she was indifferent to him. God, he had known that night in the pub that she was vulnerable. All that defensive indignation! It had all been an act. If she hadn’t wanted to see him again, he wouldn’t have forced her. But it had taken so little persuasion to change her mind …

  With an impatient hand he switched the temperature control to cold. He felt hot now, hot and ridiculously excited, considering it was more than fifteen years since a contemporary of his mother’s had taught him how to please a woman. And, incidentally, how to please himself, too, he recalled, turning off the tap, and tugging a thick bathsheet from the rack. It was years since he had remembered that initiation, but since then several women had benefited from the experience. And Samantha …

  He frowned. What time was it? he wondered. He had taken his watch off before he went for his swim, and now he wrapped the towel about him and went into his bedroom.

  It was lying amid the tumbled sheets of the enormous bed, which occupied a bare quarter of the floor-space in the huge, high-ceilinged apartment. A tapestry quilt in shades of green and gold was lying in a heap on the floor, and he heaved it back on to the bed before picking up the timepiece. It was still early, he saw. Barely seven o’clock. Samantha wouldn’t be arriving for another five hours, at least. Always supposing she didn’t get cold feet at the last minute and let the plane go without her, he brooded tersely. But no. She wouldn’t do that. She had said she would come, and she would. She trusted him.

  Samantha didn’t know what she had expected to happen when she landed in Greece, but being met by a complete stranger had definitely not figured in her plans.

  When Matthew had sent her a return ticket to Athens, with the flight number and time of departure clearly indicated, she had naturally assumed he intended to meet her at the airport himself. Beyond telling her that Delphus, the place where his mother and grandfather lived, was some distance from Athens, he had given no details of how she was supposed to get there. Which was why she had expected he was going to meet her. Surely he must know how nervous she was.

  But instead she had been met by an admittedly trustworthy-looking individual in a pilot’s uniform, who introduced himself as Spiro Niarchos. He had explained, somewhat confusingly, that he worked for the Apollonius Corporation, and that he had been sent to escort her to her destination.

  Samantha had had little choice but to go with him. Even if, at that time, her interpretation of his uniform had run along the lines of its being that of a chauffeur. But, instead of a limousine, he had escorted her to a gleaming blue and silver helicopter, with the logo of the Apollonius Corporation emblazoned on its side.

  Now, some distance out over the blue-green waters of what she had guessed was the Aegean, her earlier doubts and fears had congealed into a tight knot of apprehension inside her. Where were they really going? she wondered. And would his mother and his grandfather really be there when they arrived? And if they weren’t, what was she going to do about it? She had agreed to come, knowing full well that Matthew Putnam wanted more than her professional services.

  Dear God!

  She closed her eyes for a moment as the enormity of what she had done washed over her. It was no use telling herself that so far as Paul and her parents were concerned this was just another assignment, when she knew it wasn’t. Just because she had managed to persuade them that this was an opportunity she couldn’t turn down didn’t alter the fact of her duplicity. She had told lies; invented excuses; even used her friendship with Jennifer Spellman to justify what she was doing. And why? Because she was mad, that was why. Mad to even think that a man like Matthew Putnam really cared anything about her. And yet …

  She opened her eyes again on a scene of breathtaking loveliness. It wasn’t like flying in an aeroplane, which reduced everything to matchbox proportions. From the windows of the helicopter she could see even the smallest island, and yachts and other sailing craft, cruising these land-locked waters.

  So, she acknowledged tensely, Matthew’s family must live on one of these islands. Remembering what she knew of Greek geography, she guessed his grandfather must be either a fisherman or a farmer. Probably the former, she decided thoughtfully, running her tongue over her lower lip. Unless the island was bigger than she expected—and, as she’d never heard of it, that didn’t seem likely—there didn’t seem a lot of room for cultivation. The smaller islands they were passing over were rocky outcrops in the main, with just a few sheep, and a handful of fig or olive trees providing shade. Not the kind of place to hold a party for fifty people, she would have thought. But then, she didn’t really know what kind of party it was going to be.

  She sighed uneasily. The conviction that she was making a terrible mistake by coming here was growing stronger by the minute. What did she know of Greek people? What did she know of Greek food? She had read somewhere that the Greeks were very hospitable. But the article had been concerned with tourism, not with a single Englishwoman venturing into the unknown.

  She glanced sideways at the pilot and noticed that his uniform bore the Apollonius Corporation logo, too. What did it all mean? The nam
e was vaguely familiar to her, and she thought she remembered hearing it used in connection with shipping. But why would a helicopter belonging to a shipping company be transporting her to Delphus? Unless, Matthew’s company, J.P. Software, was part of the Apollonius Corporation, too.

  The more she thought about it, the more logical it sounded. It explained so much, not least the helicopter, and Matthew’s apparent thoughtlessness at not meeting her in Athens. And she should be feeling grateful that she was not having to spend several hours on an inter-island ferry. Judging by the distance they had flown, it would have probably taken the rest of the day by sea. Even so …

  She pressed surreptitious hands against her churning stomach. The fact remained, she was still taking an enormous risk by coming here. She knew nothing of Matthew’s family, and hardly more about himself. Could she really pretend his motives were honourable, when he’d virtually admitted they weren’t? And what did she want anyway? Her future was in Northfleet, with Paul.

  Desperate to escape the downward spiral on which her thoughts were taking her, Samantha turned to look at the pilot again. She was sitting beside him, in the front of the aircraft, and because the engines were noisy she had to speak to him by means of the microphone that was attached to the helmet he had given her to wear.

  ‘Are we nearly there?’ she asked, hoping his English didn’t just stretch to the formal greeting and necessary instructions he had issued earlier.

  ‘Almost,’ he conceded, polite but unforthcoming, and although she sensed his reticence she persevered.

  ‘Does—er—does Mr Putnam often use the helicopter?’

  It was a stupid question, and she hoped he didn’t think she was trying to find out if he had brought any other young women to the island. Besides which, Matthew wasn’t exactly using the helicopter, was he? She didn’t honestly know if he ever had.

  The pilot’s expression as he looked at her mirrored her own uncertainty, and she was convinced he was wondering what Matthew saw in her. But then, almost indifferently, it seemed, he shrugged his shoulders, and returned his attention to flying the aircraft.