They travelled down to Piraeus in two limousines, and Chryssanti insisted on accompanying Christos, his mother and his younger brother, Manoli. The older brother, Dimitri, sat in the back of Marcos's car with Stephen.
At Piraeus there were more surprises when they boarded a small launch which took them out into the harbour to where an enormous yacht, the Poseidon, rode at anchor on the low offshore tide, alone and regal.
'Does this yacht belong to my grandfather?' Stephen Forster put the question Lena longed to ask.
'No, to me,' Marcos told him, and to Lena, 'Come, I'll show you round.'
In a daze she followed him, from deck to deck, from dining salon to library, to the sauna, from suite to suite. On the gleaming teak of the afterdeck was a helicopter pad and a large, mosaic-tiled swimming pool which could be covered to make a dance-floor.
'It's enormous,' Lena marvelled when the tour finally ended with the suite which was to be hers and Chryssanti's for the voyage. 'You wouldn't know you were on board ship.'
During their absence the launch had made another trip ashore, returning to the boarding stairs this time with an assortment of uncles and aunts whose individual names were too many to memorise. One of the aunts, Lena noticed, was a nun.
It was almost dusk when the great yacht weighed anchor and set sail, her sleek lines and proud bearing carrying her effortlessly over the placid sea. Marcos had left his guests while he supervised their departure and Lena found herself sitting on a sofa in one of the salons with Christos's mother.
'It's nice to see Chrys looking so much happier,' she told Anastasia. 'It was very good of you to look after her and Stephen, Kyria Mavroleon. I hope they were no trouble to you?'
'None whatsoever. But please call me Tassia, everyone else does. Chrys is a charming child and very popular with my sons. They have all been at great pains to entertain her and distract her from her grief. And you, my dear, are you enjoying your stay in Greece?'
'Very much. Marcos…' For some reason, saying his name to a member of his family made Lena blush. 'Mr Mavroleon has been very kind. I've seen so much more than if I'd been alone.'
'Yes?' Tassia Mavroleon said thoughtfully. Then, 'You like my nephew?' Her brown eyes were shrewdly observant. They had detected the betraying blush. 'My dear,' she hesitated, 'it is perhaps not my place to say anything. But as woman to woman… and you are a foreigner, unaccustomed to our ways…' She paused again, and Lena waited with an odd sinking feeling for her to continue. She had an idea Anastasia Mavroleon did not approve of her friendship with Marcos, that she was going to be warned off. She was right.
'The Mavroleons are not easy men to understand. There is much of their grandfather in them. They are all hopelessly steeped in tradition, and their name says much about their character.' And as Lena looked questioningly at her, 'Mavroleon means Black Lion. They roar, they have black moods—and the most like his grandfather is Marcos—so much so even his friends have dubbed him "The Black Lion of Skiapelos".'
'Skiapelos?'
'The name of the group of islands which are their home. Be very careful, Helena.' An expensively beringed finger lightly tapped Lena's cheek. 'Be advised, do not become involved, do not allow yourself to be hurt. I married a Mavroleon, I know.'
Lena had wondered about Anastasia's husband, who had not been mentioned and did not form one of the family party.
'We are divorced,' the older woman added, as if in answer to the unspoken question. 'And another thing you should remember, Helena—I am sure you are too sensible to misunderstand my nephew—but it is almost unheard of for a Mavroleon to marry a foreigner.'
Perhaps, Lena mused, that was one of the reasons why she was so attracted to Marcos, the lure of something which she had sensed for herself was unattainable.
Anastasia might have gone on to say more if Marcos had not returned to the salon at that moment. He came directly towards Lena, and she felt her heart begin to thud rapidly as it always seemed to when he was near.
'Helena, there is something I wish to show you. Come with me.' He held out his hand to pull her up from the deep sofa.
Anastasia's words might have made Lena refuse, reject his gesture. But he did not wait for any opposition, taking her slim hand in his and drawing her to his side.
'You will excuse us, Tassia!' he said to his aunt. It was not a question, but said in the manner of one who does not expect or accept opposition.
Looking at Anastasia in rueful apology, Lena caught a warning glance from the brown eyes and an almost imperceptible shake of the head. With any other man Lena knew she probably would have resisted the almost imperious invitation, might have heeded his aunt's outspoken warning. But from the moment she put her hand in his and felt the warmth of his fingers curled firmly about her own, she was lost to all caution, accompanying him gladly.
So what if her acquaintance with Marcos Mavroleon was only a transitory exaltation of the spirits? Life was a journey, not a destination, and she meant to enjoy it in all its stages. After her experience with Petros, she'd decided she wasn't looking for permanence—at least, not yet. That way, she'd already discovered, lay disappointment and unhappiness. She felt a reckless impulse to live for the present. What was it her father was always saying? 'Tomorrow may never come' and 'Today is the tomorrow you worried about yesterday'.
'Where are we going?' she asked breathlessly. She had to hurry to keep up with Marcos's long strides.
'Up on deck.' Once out of the harbour, the Poseidon had travelled only a short distance along the coastline to its present position. 'We shall anchor here tonight and continue our journey at first light.'
'What did you want to show me?'
'The sunset,' Marcos told her. 'Look!'
'Oh!' Lena drew a long, rapturous breath.
They leant against the railing. On the horizon the sky was a pastiche of orange, pink and deep red, melding into a darkening sea. Lena was aware of Marcos watching her, waiting for her reaction to the scene. But she was totally unaware of the picture she herself made, her long, luxuriant hair tossed by an errant sea breeze, the pure lines of her profile silhouetted against the soft glow of the sunset.
'You look like a figurehead or a classic sculpture,' he said softly. 'But a warm, living sculpture, far more lovely than any wooden or cold marble image.' There was something different about him suddenly. Previously, his compliments had been issued with an air of reserve which had detracted from their value—as a man might perhaps comment on an object of beauty he admired but could never possess.
She turned to look up at him trying to fathom the expression on his shadowed face.
He put a hand on her arm where it rested beside his on the rail.
'Helena…' His maleness was a potent presence, and there was an urgency in his tone to which something inside her responded.
'Yes?'
'There is something I have been meaning to…'
'Lena! Aunt Tassia sent me to find you.' It was Chryssanti, blithely unaware of intrusion. 'She says it's time to dress for dinner.'
Anastasia Mavroleon had done it on purpose, of course, but whether out of genuine concern for Lena's welfare or out of family loyalty Lena couldn't be sure.
'Coming, Chrys.' She hoped the younger girl would go on ahead, having delivered her message. But Chryssanti lingered and Marcos had retreated into his usual reserve. 'I… I'll see you later,' Lena said to his profile, and felt chilled by his curt, dismissive nod. Perhaps he was relieved at the interruption.
In their suite, Lena and Chryssanti changed, Chryssanti into a softly flowing dress in a deep sea green that accorded well with her red-gold hair and tawny eyes.
'I wish I had a more grown-up dress,' the younger girl said, looking with envy at the sophisticated but simply cut golden sheath Lena wore. 'You are pretty, Lena. You're sort of golden all over.'
'Thank you, Chrys. But you're pretty too, you know.'
'Do you think so? Do you think a man would think I'm pretty?'
By a man,
Lena presumed she meant Christos, but young love was a delicate plant and she trod warily. She put an arm about the girl.
'Don't lose your heart yet, Chrys. You're still young.'
'It's too late.' There was a quaint yet pathetic maturity about the girl that tugged at Lena's sympathies. 'I think Christos is wonderful. I don't care what anyone says.'
'What have people been saying?'
'Oh, Manoli and Dimitri have been trying to put me off him, especially Dimitri. I can't stand Dimitri Mavroleon.' Then, with a sudden change of mood. 'Lena, if…if Mum dies, will Stephen and I be staying in Greece?'
'I don't know, dear. It depends on your grandfather, I suppose.'
'Because…because I wouldn't mind staying too much.' The words 'because of Christos' were not stated, but they were implied. 'So long as I can visit Nan and Gramps Forster sometimes. They'll miss me and Stephen.'
As they made their way to the dining salon, Lena breathed a quick prayer that things would work out happily for Chryssanti. Already she was fond of the girl and her small brother. She would have added a rider to the prayer on her own behalf, if she'd been quite sure what it was she wanted.
The Mavroleon women were beautifully dressed. Some were in white with flowing Grecian lines. The older women favoured black. Together their jewellery must amount to a small fortune. Lena felt decidedly under-dressed, unaware that the simplicity of her outfit, her youthful beauty, needed no extra adornment.
Marcos was at the head of the table, an elderly uncle on his right, the nun on his left. The rest of the family seated themselves according to some unspoken but obviously familiar protocol. Lena and her charges were at the bottom of the pecking order.
During her acquaintance with the Theodopouloses, Lena had become accustomed to their opulent life-style. But, as she ate off Meissen plates, used heavy silver cutlery and drank out of crystal glasses, she was beginning to realise they were not in the same league as the Mavroleons.
Chryssanti, next to Christos, was happy, all smiles and sparkling eyes. She was openly flirting with her handsome cousin. Lena was half amused, half concerned. But perhaps this was what Irini Forster had had in mind, she thought: that Chryssanti should marry one of her cousins and be accepted back into the fold that her mother had fled.
Distanced though she was from Marcos, Lena found her eyes constantly straying to where he sat, very much assured in his position as host. Evening dress suited him, the impeccable whiteness of his shirt front setting off his swarthy attractiveness. He seemed deeply engaged in conversation with his elderly relatives, and yet, when Lena glanced his way, invariably she met his speculative stare. Once, he raised his glass to her, an imperceptible gesture perhaps unnoticed by anyone else.
But yes, Anastasia had noticed. Her expression was grave and Lena flushed, resolving from now on to keep her wayward eyes firmly fixed on her plate, her attention on her more immediate neighbours. But even though she managed to restrain her eyes, she was vitally aware of Marcos's presence. Her tingling nerves told her that while she might be exerting self-control, he had imposed no such ban on himself. Nor could she repress her thoughts.
Those few days in Athens when she'd had Marcos's exclusive attentions had spoiled her. The restrictive presence of his relations irked her. She wanted to be alone with Marcos again, and she wanted him to finish that interrupted sentence. What had he been meaning to ask her?
At a sign from the religious aunt, the ladies rose and left the table, adjourning to a nearby salon, furnished with all the elegance of a land-based drawing-room.
Chryssanti made no secret of the fact that she disliked this formal arrangement. Her mind was not on the conversation of her female relatives. Instead her eyes were constantly straying to the door through which Christos must eventually emerge.
Lena, with the control of her greater maturity, was better able to conceal her own eagerness for the men to rejoin them. But she feared her manner must be almost as distraite.
Fortunately the Mavroleons were engrossed in their family reunion, some of them Lena gathered, not having seen each other since the last similar occasion. When the men finally left the dining salon, conversation became general but none the less reminiscent. Their forthcoming visit to Thalassios Mavroleon, now the most senior member of the family, seemed to have evoked a mood of nostalgia for the past.
Lena was aware of Chryssanti's restlessness. But for herself she was fascinated by the fond anecdotes of their native islands. Proudly they named the hardy, austere, thrifty old seadogs who had laid the foundations of their family fortunes. And, more recent family history, that of Thalassios Mavroleon himself and his stolid, stubborn maintenance of fortune and tradition. Greek shipowners were no longer the hardy, intrepid captains of yore. But even in their silk suits on this luxury yacht they kept the spirit of their ancestors alive.
A surreptitious glance at her watch told Lena it was long past Stephen's normal bedtime. With an explanatory word to Anastasia, she shepherded him to the cabin he was sharing with Manoli Mavroleon. It was impossible to rush a small boy's bedtime, and she was absent for some while. When she returned to the salon it was to find most of the company had dispersed, the older aunts and uncles presumably to their beds. Only a few die-hards were left quietly chatting and sipping their drinks. None of the younger generation was left.
Lena had hoped for some conversation with Marcos, and it was with a sense of disappointment that, unnoticed, she left the salon once more. She made her way to her own suite, expecting to find Chryssanti there. But there was no sign of the younger girl. With a sigh she supposed she must go in search of her. Her responsibility for Chryssanti did not end until the girl was safely in her grandfather's home and accepted by him. But where on earth, on a vessel this size, did she begin her search?
It was dark now, and the Poseidon's rigging lights were strung like diamonds against the night sky. The sea was still but for the moving lights of late-homing fishing-boats. In the distance were the twinkling lights of shore, and from somewhere drifted the faint sound of bouzouki music. Serene moonlight gave enough illumination for Lena to see that the forward deck was deserted. She made her way aft, to the pool deck.
The floodlit pool might have been in someone's back garden instead of on board a yacht. Surrounding it were tubs and urns containing flowering plants and shrubs. Someone was swimming, covering its length from end to end in long, powerful overarm strokes. It didn't take Lena long to realise that it was Marcos. She hesitated, knowing she ought to go on with her search for Chryssanti, yet wanting to watch him a little longer, unobserved.
But, as she hesitated, he surfaced suddenly and saw her. He didn't say anything but trod water, making his way slowly to the edge of the pool. His eyes never left hers and Lena found herself rooted to the spot, aware of an idiotic impulse to run. But some stronger urge held her.
Fascinated, she watched as the water receded from his gleaming, olive-skinned body, leaving its dark hairs sleek and flat. She'd never seen him without clothing of some kind, and had never realised before quite how muscularly perfect he was, his body sculptural in its perfection, like those of the marble gods his ancestors had venerated.
She realised that her legs were trembling, her mouth dry, and somewhere within her an insidious aching had begun, the need to be held to such a hard, perfect body. Her fingertips tingled with the urge to glide over that smooth, damp flesh and explore its contours. Nervously, she licked her lips, and at last he spoke.
'Why don't you come in?'
'I… I'm hardly dressed for it.' She tried for lightness, but the words came out in a rusty croak.
'No problem. We always have costumes for guests. I'm sure we have one to fit you. Go and take a look.' He gestured towards the side of the pool, towards a row of changing-rooms.
'No, I… it's a bit late for swimming. Perhaps tomorrow.'
'Tomorrow the pool will be full. Tonight we have it to ourselves.' What an inducement! Yet still she shook her head.
'I
ought to find Chryssanti. She's not in the cabin.'
'She's quite safe. Christos and his brothers are looking after her. They're in the games room, playing table tennis. Relax, Lena,' he coaxed, 'you're off duty. Make the most of it.'
Why not? This was what she'd been wanting all evening, to be alone with him. And what more perfect setting?
'All right.' With a sudden decisive nod, she moved towards the poolside cabins.
As Marcos had suggested, there were costumes in plenty. Some of them were new and obviously unworn. They certainly hadn't been purchased with his aunts in mind, Lena thought, somewhat dismayed by their brevity. Finally she close a black two-piece, admitting wryly to herself that she had chosen it because it was the most flattering to her golden-tanned body and sun-lightened blonde hair. Nevertheless, it was with a feeling of painful self-consciousness that she returned to the pool and found herself subjected to Marcos's critical appraisal.
She had hoped to slip into the pool unnoticed, but he was sitting on the edge waiting for her, and his black eyes travelled the length of her before he spoke.
'A veritable water-nymph. The sea gods will envy me tonight.' He certainly had a good line in compliments, she thought wryly. Was it just a line, or was he sincere? She wished she knew.
'I'm afraid I don't swim very well,' she confessed.
'Then you must practise regularly while you have the opportunity. Come,' he held out his hand, 'let me see you. Perhaps I can help you to improve.'
She slid into the water. It was invitingly, silkily warm, like the skin of the man who now supported her.
'Please,' she said with a breathlessness not caused by her immersion, 'I can manage. I'm not that bad. I won't drown.' Yet, contrarily, it was a disappointment when he released her.
Lena had only ever learned breast-stroke, though she had often admired and envied those who could manage the more powerful crawl. But in her busy life swimming had taken a low priority. She swam a length then surfaced. Holding on to the side, she looked around for Marcos and found him close beside her.
Black Lion of Skiapelos Page 5
