Black Lion of Skiapelos

by Annabel Murray

  'As you say, you are not too bad,' he commented. 'But the arm and leg movements could be improved. Let me show you.' He pulled her down into the water again, and a bemused Lena found herself floating on her front, one of his hands supporting her stomach while with the other he moved first her arm and then a leg in demonstration.

  She hoped he would think it was the movement of the water and not her reactions to him that made her quiver so.

  He freed her again and she did another length, trying to incorporate his instructions into her style. But it was difficult to concentrate, wondering if he would stop and hold her again. He did so.

  'Stand here, in the shallower water. Face me. Give me your hands. Now this is how you should move your arms, so!'

  As her arms moved Lena lost her footing on the smooth marble tiles of the pool and, water-borne, glissaded forward, colliding with a hard, muscular chest.

  She floundered to regain her feet, and the success of her struggles brought the entire length of her body into contact with his. At the impact, automatically his arms closed about her, steadying her. She raised her head to apologise and met his eyes.

  It was impossible to drown in four feet of water, she thought dizzily, but it was quite possible to drown in the depths of this man's brilliant black eyes as they held hers in a long-drawn-out gaze. Her hands had come to rest on his chest, and beneath her palms she could feel the steady thump of his heart. Had its beat accelerated as she knew hers had done? She didn't know, but she felt his ribcage lift and fall in a long breath, and there was a certain rigidity in his thighs, pressed against hers, that made her suspect he was not unmoved by their proximity.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The touch of that stunningly virile body was playing havoc with her senses. Marcos continued to look into her eyes for a moment, then, gently but firmly, he put her away from him.

  'I think perhaps that is enough instruction for tonight,' he said.

  'Y—yes, of course,' she stammered. 'Thank you.'

  Blindly she reached for the edge of the pool. It must be the chlorinated water that was making her eyes smart. Thank God Marcos hadn't been able to read her thoughts just then, when she could have sworn he was about to kiss her. And she would have let him, would have returned his kisses eagerly.

  'Helena!'

  'Yes?' Standing on the side, she dared not turn to look at him.

  'We were interrupted earlier.' Now she did turn, slowly tremulously. 'I was going to ask you something.'

  'Yes.' Her heart was beating an uneven tattoo against her ribcage.

  'What do you plan to do, after you have handed over Irini's children on Skiapelos?'

  'Do?' she said flatly. 'I don't understand.'

  'Will you be returning to England?' He swung himself out of the water to stand beside her, his brief black trunks were moulded closely to his body, leaving very little to her already fevered imagination.

  'Not… not immediately,' she said, low-voiced.

  'What then?'

  'I'd planned to travel a bit more.'

  'You have no job to return to?'

  'I handed in my notice just before I left England.'

  'That was rash, ne? I understand jobs are hard to come by these days.'

  'I don't expect any trouble. I'm well qualified. Besides, I might decide to work abroad for a while.'

  'What are your qualifications?'

  'I have a degree in business studies. I… I was a PA in a large firm in London.' She prayed he wouldn't press for more details.

  'Hmm.' He picked up a large towel from a poolside chair and wrapped it around her shoulders, his touch sending shafts of agonising sensation through her. 'Remind me again, nearer the time. I may be able to help.'

  To work for Marcos? To see him perhaps every day, but to know that he was out of her reach? It could only be a cause of grief.

  'I don't know that I'll want to stay in Greece.'

  'You do not like my country?' He sounded amazed.

  'You know I do!' Then, less vehemently, 'But it's not the only country in the world.'

  'You wish to see the world before you settle down.' He nodded understandingly. 'But you do intend to stay in one place some day, to marry, perhaps?'

  She drew in a sharp, painful breath. 'I don't know. I thought so once. Now I'm not at all certain of my future.'

  'There is perhaps a possibility of reconciliation with…?'

  'No!' It was unthinkable.

  'You sound very positive.'

  She was. Lena knew with a deep certainty that, if Petros were to come to her tomorrow and beg her to take him back, she would refuse. She had been in love with him, or so she'd thought. But that had been a poor emotion compared with that she now felt for Marcos Mavroleon. She'd known Petros for almost two years. But, incredibly, in that length of time her feelings for him had not deepened to the extent that, after just days she now felt for Marcos. Without any encouragement on his part, she was crazily, hopelessly in love with him. Her own apparent changeability worried her. She didn't like the idea that she might be fickle.

  'I must go.' She had to get away on her own, to examine this revelation, to come to terms with it. But above all to convince herself of its uselessness. 'I must see that Chrys gets to bed at a reasonable time.'

  'You are very conscientious.' He rested a hand on her shoulder, steering her towards the changing-rooms. Every nerve in her body screamed for him to take her in his arms, but it was only a casual, friendly gesture that anyone might make, she reminded herself. 'Goodnight, Helena. Sleep well.' Then, with apparent inconsequentiality, 'We have many more days ahead of us.'

  Lena was thankful that Chryssanti was asleep when she finally reached the cabin they shared. She couldn't have borne to listen to any eulogies about Christos, when she must repress her own thoughts about his cousin. She wished she could fall so easily into restful slumber, but mind and body kept her awake for many hours, and next morning, heavy-eyed, she was awoken far too early by an enthusiastic Chryssanti. The younger girl was eager for a new day to start.

  'I said I'd meet Christos and the others at the pool before breakfast,' she explained. Then, with a pout, 'I could do without Dimitri and Manoli, but they're very pushy.'

  Despite her heart and body's urging to the contrary, Lena followed the advice of her head and avoided being alone with Marcos in the days that followed. She used the pool when the others did and avoided being up on deck at night. Tassia Mavroleon made her approval known.

  'I see you are taking my advice, Helena. Believe me, it is for the best.'

  The sixth day of their cruise brought them to their destination.

  Lena was on deck with Stephen. Chryssanti was off somewhere about her own pursuits, with Christos no doubt. Stephen was a well-behaved child. His play required only a token supervision, and Lena was gazing wistfully out to sea, her thoughts far away, when she saw land rising on the horizon.

  'Those are the islands of Skiapelos, Helena.' Marcos had caught her, for once, unaware of his presence. He came to stand beside her at the rail. 'The main island, which is my grandfather's home, and five subsidiary islands. Another half-hour and we shall be there.'

  'I'd better find Chrys.' She turned to leave. 'Stephen, come…'

  'Wait!' Marcos's hand on her arm detained her. 'There is plenty of time for that. I would like you to watch with me. It is a sight not to be missed.' There was an edge of eager anticipation to his voice.

  'Then surely Chrys should be…'

  'Helena, are you trying to avoid me?' His eyes were no longer on the horizon, but on her face in curious scrutiny. 'I have seen nothing of you alone these past few days. Have I offended you in some way?'

  'N… no, of course not. How could you?'

  'That is what I am asking myself. I cannot recall…'

  'You've done nothing, Marcos, honestly. I…'

  'Then prove it by staying with me, hmm?'

  What could she say, or do? She leant once more against the rail, needing its support
to offset the weakness she felt at his nearness. He leant companionably beside her, his arm, his shoulder, his thigh touching hers. In exquisite anguish, Lena clenched her teeth and stared ahead.

  As the yacht moved ever closer to land, she began to pick out details of the sloping green rock that was the main island. It was picturesque to the point of drama: a tightly enclosed blue harbour full of brightly painted fishing caiques, and above it a little town of squat, whitewashed cubist buildings stained tangerine in the sunlight, with steep hills beyond.

  The yacht's steady engines ceased, the anchor chain rattled and they were stationary. The launch was lowered and there was a sudden bustle and movement of people. Again Marcos's hand on her arm stayed Lena.

  'Let the aunts and uncles go first. They will be eager to greet their brother.' He looked down at her. 'I do not want you to be nervous, Helena.'

  'Nervous? Of what?' Nothing could be more nerve-racking, she thought, than being close to this man, wanting him with a ferocity of desire of which she hadn't known herself capable.

  'Of meeting my grandfather. He is not a monster.'

  'Just a tyrant,' she riposted.

  'A tyrant, maybe,' he agreed, 'but a loving tyrant, as you will see.'

  As Marcos would be some day, she knew with a sudden certainty, snatching a sideways glance at the profile which, though not exactly handsome, was now to her the most attractive, the most compelling she had ever seen. She could picture him as the patriarch of Skiapelos, in his grandfather's place, with a wife, family, relations gathering to pay him tribute. Already he had a quality of leadership that others recognised. Christos and his brothers deferred to Marcos's every edict. But if he was going to follow in his grandfather's footsteps he was leaving it a little late to found his own dynasty. He must be around thirty-five. Before she could prevent it, the question popped out.

  'Why have you never married, Marcos?' The answer was as disconcerting as her own temerity.

  'I have been waiting for my bride to grow up.' Her face must have reflected her shock, for he went on, 'You are probably not familiar with our marriage customs?'

  'I know about arranged marriages,' Lena said, the words coming with painful slowness. 'Your aunt Irini… But I thought maybe attitudes had relaxed a little since then.' The Theodopoulos family hadn't objected to her engagement to Petros.

  'In mainland Greece, perhaps. Many island families prefer the old ways. I was betrothed at seventeen.'

  'You obviously believe in tradition, then?'

  'In some of them,' he agreed.

  The launch was returning and there was no time for further questions and answers. Which was probably just as well, if she were to cover up her stunned reaction to his revelation. Idiotic of her, of course, to have imagined there was no woman in Marcos's life.

  But Marcos seemed blithely unaware of her mental withdrawal. He continued to talk as they made their way to the launch and during the short journey ashore.

  'Marianthe Lychnos is the great-granddaughter of my grandfather's oldest friend. When she was born, it was agreed that she should be betrothed to me, and on her eighteenth birthday we should be married.'

  'H… how old is she now?' She had to know.

  'In three months' time she will be eighteen.'

  'Does… does she live on Skiapelos?'

  'No. She comes from Mykonos, but she will be at my grandfather's name day celebrations. You will like her.'

  Lena wasn't so sure, and as Marcos handed her into the launch she was too distraite even to register the usual throb of her pulses at his touch. In three months Marcos would be married, and very shortly she would have to endure seeing him with his fiancée. Fool, she told herself irritably, you should have stuck to your resolution and steered clear of men for a while. Talk about out of the frying pan into the fire.

  The main island of Skiapelos had its own harbour flanked by long white pebble beaches. Lena wasn't quite sure what she'd expected. Certainly not this thriving community of flat-roofed asymmetrical white houses, so crowded together that they grew out of one another like fungi on a tree bole, and streets with a tiny blue-domed church on nearly every corner. It was true the cobbled streets seemed fit only for dwarfs or for the donkeys that carried them up the hill from the seafront. Thank heaven she'd worn trousers this morning.

  The heavy, oppressive air was filled with the varying scents of flowers, dung, the sea and cooking. As the twisting lanes tacked to and fro, every bend gave a new vista of harbour, town and surrounding hillsides.

  Marcos edged his donkey alongside Lena's, his dignity not a whit impaired by the animal's low stature.

  'What do you think of our island?'

  'It's very attractive, but somehow I hadn't pictured your grandfather living in one of these little houses.'

  Marcos's laugh was a deep, attractive sound that stirred her to unbearable depths.

  'He was born in such a house, and for that reason this little town is carefully preserved. He lives very differently now—not perhaps from choice but from expediency. Wealth has its responsibilities.'

  Lena soon saw what he meant. On the far side of the island the land sloped down more gently to the sea. There were no steep, precipitous pathways. Another much larger man-made harbour gave easier access to a made-up road which ran inland to a vast green area enclosed by white-painted ranch-style fencing. Within this enclosure sprawled a villa, blindingly white against the blue sky. As they drew nearer Lena could see the traditional blue outlines painted around doors and long windows that stood open to the sun on all sides. By the main door was parked a large limousine. And surely, she looked back towards the harbour again, that was the Poseidon gliding in to anchor. Puzzled, she turned to Marcos.

  'Then why on earth anchor in the other harbour and go through all that performance with the donkeys?' But, with a wry expression, before he could answer, she groaned, 'No, don't tell me! It's tradition!'

  He laughed in appreciation of her dry humour, his head thrown back, exposing the bronzed column of his neck.

  'You must be thinking us a very odd family.' He sobered. 'But there is a very good reason. We Greeks have our pride, you know, and the villagers of Skiapelos, indebted as they are in many ways to my grandfather's bounty, like to feel they are offering a service in return—hence the donkey transport. Needless to say, there are times when the new harbour and my grandfather's heli-pad are used. Building materials and other heavy items could scarcely be brought up here on donkey-back. Neither could infirm visitors. And confess, Lena, you would have found it a very mundane proceeding to be whisked from yacht to villa by helicopter and limousine, missing the sights and sounds of island life?' He was right, of course.

  The next few moments were filled with activity as a veritable army of servants, almost as many as there were guests, took over shepherding people to their rooms. Lena received a confused impression of white walls hung with Old Masters, of illumined niches which held sculptured treasures she longed to stop and examine. According to Marcos, she and Irini's children were not expected, and yet a suite of rooms was placed at their disposal. She could only assume that because the villa was so extensive there was always accommodation available, whatever the number of visitors arriving.

  She had been expecting to share with Chryssanti, but instead there were separate rooms with a communicating sitting-room, and Stephen was whisked away to a separate nursery-room where, he was assured, there would be children of his own age.

  Luggage had been brought up from the yacht, and Lena unpacked for herself and Chryssanti, then, at a loss to know what she was supposed to do next, she took stock of her surroundings. Her bedroom possessed a balcony with sweeping views of the sea below while the sitting-room overlooked a shady, vine-covered patio that separated one wing of the villa from another. In the centre of the patio, by a gently murmuring fountain, a pretty dark-haired girl sat reading and, as Lena ventured out on to the cool marble tiles, the girl looked up and gave a friendly smile. She closed her book and rose t
o her feet.

  'Kalispera, thespinis!'

  'Good afternoon,' Lena replied.

  'Ah, you're English.' The girl slipped into that language, which she spoke with an easy colloquialism. 'Have you come with Marcos's party?' And, as Lena nodded, 'So he's here at last. Everyone will be gathering to greet Kyrios Thalassios. Shall we join them?'

  Lena was glad of a guide to the villa's rambling corridors. She called Chryssanti, and together they made their way back to the main reception hall, a large area of tiled marble floors, the high ceiling supported by slim Doric columns. Here the other guests were assembling in noisy reunion.

  'Heavens, what a crowd,' Lena exclaimed. There were even more people than those who had arrived on the Poseidon.

  'Kyrios Mavroleon is a very respected man,' the girl explained. 'None of his friends or family would dream of missing his name day—the feast of Aghios Thalassios. Oh, there's Marcos. Excuse me.' She left Lena's side and hurried across the room to where Marcos stood in conversation with a group of other men, and Lena saw her put a hand on his arm.

  Marcos glanced down and his face lit up into a welcoming smile. As his arm went around the girl's waist and he bent to kiss her cheek, Lena came to an inescapable conclusion. As Marcos straightened, his glance caught Lena's and she shuddered to think what emotions her face might be registering. He spoke a few swift words to the girl at his side, then drew her back to where Lena and Chryssanti stood.

  'Helena, I gather you two have not introduced yourselves. This is Marianthe Lychnos.' Lena held out her hand. 'I have explained to Marianthe who you are, and about Chryssanti and Stefanos, and she has kindly offered to look after you during your stay here.' And with unconscious irony he added, 'I should like the two of you to be friends.'

  Perhaps fortunately for Lena's lacerated feelings there was no opportunity to make a suitable reply, for at that moment there was a perceptible stir in the assembled crowd, followed by a silence that, considering the recent level of decibels, was uncanny. All eyes were upon the doorway which framed a solitary figure. This must be Thalassios Mavroleon.