'So you've got spirit, heh? You take after your mother in that, at least. Well, sit down, sit down,' he said impatiently, 'and tell me about yourself. Do you speak Greek? Thespinis? he gestured to Lena, 'you may go, if you wish.'
She did wish. Obviously she was still out of favour with the old autocrat of Skiapelos. Besides, tired and dispirited, she was having difficulty hiding her depression. But, she thought, a little indignantly, for the length of time she'd spent in his presence, Thalassios might as well have ordered one of his servants to bring the children to him, and she could have slept longer. Perhaps then she might have been able to see things in better proportion.
But at least the interview between Thalassios and his grandchildren was a successful one.
'He's gruff and he's bossy. He obviously thinks boys are more important than girls,' Chryssanti reported when she rejoined Lena, 'but I quite like him.'
It was a relief to Lena not to have to cope with a teenage rebellion, and yet it meant, in effect, that her task here was over. There was no reason now why she should not move on and do the rest of her sightseeing as she'd planned. But the thought brought no euphoria in its wake. There were still so many places she'd always wanted to visit, and yet somehow the thought of exploring them alone had lost its appeal. Seeing Athens and its environs with Marcos had spoiled her.
Well, you can't have Marcos for a guide, she told herself firmly. Face it, you can't have Marcos—for anything, she added with gloomy humour.
'Is there really no other way of getting back to the mainland?' she asked him when he came in search of her, wanting to know how the encounter between Thalassios and his grandchildren had gone. Her tone betrayed a little of her desperation.
'Are you tired of us already, then?' he reproached. It was not said jestingly, but as if her answer really mattered.
'N—no, of course not.' She could never tire of Marcos's company. 'But I'm not needed here any more. I've no further reason to impose on your grandfather's hospitality and…' She gestured helplessly.
'And you wish to get on with your own life,' Marcos finished for her.
'Y—yes, I suppose so.'
'Are you not certain?'
Of course she wasn't certain. She wasn't certain of anything except that she loved him and that, when he was anywhere near her, her body ached to know his.
'I really ought to look for work,' she explained.
'I promised to help you,' Marcos reminded her, then, coaxingly, 'Come, remain here as my guest for a few more days, hmm? When we return to Athens, you shall work.'
'For…for you?' she asked doubtfully. She didn't think that was wise, and he too looked uncertain. But for different reasons, it transpired.
'I am not sure that you would be qualified to work for me personally. We shall see,' he promised her with a wide, white smile, and it seemed she had agreed to stay. 'In my country,' Marcos told her with mock severity, 'women do not argue.'
Though her feelings for Marcos were futile, Lena still found it impossible to contain her curiosity about him. It was unwise, but it seemed she must know as much about him as possible, information to carry away with her when she finally left Greece.
'Don't you have a house of your own?' she asked him as they lounged beside the villa's pool one morning. 'Or do you look on this as your home?'
'This villa will be mine some day—after my grandfather's death—may it be long postponed!' He crossed himself as he spoke. Lena had noticed that the Mavroleons were intensely religious. On the donkey ride up from the harbour, they had crossed themselves as they passed every one of the small blue-domed churches. 'I have the house in Athens, of course. But I do have a place on Skiapelos that is exclusively mine. Would you like to see it? Now?'
'Oh, I…' she demurred. But he was on his feet.
'Come on! Yes, just as you are. You don't need clothes where we're going.'
A beaming chauffeur seemed to find nothing strange in running them down to the man-made harbour, clad only in their swimsuits.
At first Lena thought they were going out to the yacht, and the idea of being alone there with Marcos filled her with quivering alarm. Of course, some of the crew would be on board… But it was to a small caique that he led her. He sprang aboard the broad-bottomed craft, offered her his hand, and to her surprise set sail unaided.
'My ancestors founded their fortune with little boats like these,' he told her, when she commented on his seamanship. 'They carried their own wool and cheese to other islands and to the mainlands. Those little caiques, in time, grew into millions of tons of tankers and bulk carriers.' There was no doubt he was proud of his ancestry. He was as much of a traditionalist as his grandfather, Lena decided. The thought gave her no comfort. Marcos would never set aside Thalassios's plans for him.
'There is something extraordinarily satisfying about sailing a caique,' Marcos went on. 'A Greek loves his boat as he loves his woman.' A gesture of his hand encompassed the boat's lines, sturdy, amply curved and broad in the beam. If that was the comparison he was making, Lena thought wryly, her own slender lines could not appeal to him.
'There is a sense of triumph, as they shudder on the crest of a big wave, that is like the moment before a man's consummation with a woman.' His words were sensual, his voice husky and his eyes on Lena's face seemed to convey a message she had no right to read there. She swallowed convulsively.
'Where are we going?' she asked in an attempt to divert not only his thoughts but her own.
'I told you Skiapelos is made up of several islands?' She nodded. 'One of the smaller islands is mine. It was my father's before me—as my grandfather's eldest son.'
'Does it have a name?'
Marcos shrugged.
'It has never seemed necessary to name it. How would you like to choose a name for my island, Helena?'
'I wouldn't be so presumptuous,' she said quickly. 'It's got nothing to do with me.'
Marcos's island looked a wild little rock. It was in fact uninhabited, he told her.
'It is so small, it is not even shown on the maps. My father did not live long enough to do anything constructive with it. I may build here some day, or I may just keep it in its natural form—as a retreat.'
'Do you come here often, then?' Lena asked as Marcos handed her on to a white, sandy beach.
'When I have something I want to think over—a personal problem.'
It was difficult to imagine Marcos Mavroleon worrying about anything. She told him so and he smiled.
'No? Not even though you have yourself experienced an interview with my grandfather? Believe me, that can constitute a problem.'
'You're not afraid of him?' The autocratic Thalassios was intimidating, certainly. But somehow she couldn't picture Marcos being in awe of him. Marcos was too like his grandfather.
'Not afraid, no. But I respect him and I do not like having to displease him.'
'Does he "interview" you often, then?'
'Regularly, about the way I am running his company. Occasionally on personal family matters. But soon I must seek an interview with him.'
'And that's worrying you?'
'It requires careful thought, certainly.'
As they spoke Marcos had not released her hand, and he led her up the sloping beach and into the broom-covered hillocks beyond. In the warmth of the sun the golden tangle emitted a heavy, musky scent that mingled with that of brine and the warm, masculine odour of the man who strode beside her. Marcos never moved slowly, even in the most enervating heat, and Lena was breathless by the time they reached the island's core.
'It's very overgrown,' she ventured. 'Are there… are there likely to be snakes or anything?'
'One or two, maybe,' he conceded but, at her look of alarm, reassured her, 'but they aren't the poisonous kind.' Even so, she couldn't restrain a shudder. 'Relax, Helena—' his hand tightened on hers '—you are safe with me.'
She wasn't so sure about that. They were very much alone here. Even more alone than they would have been on the
yacht, where at least the crew would have been within hailing distance.
A short climb and they reached the highest point of the island, which consisted of a fairly large plateau with a breathtaking all-round view of the sea and the other islands in the group. The clarity of the air was laden with the ambrosial scent of herbs.
'I have sometimes thought of building a house here,' Marcos confessed. 'Not a very large one—just big enough for myself and one other person.'
'Perhaps when you're married?' She probed the wound and found it still hurt. More than ever, in fact.
He didn't rise to the bait, instead suggesting, 'Let me show you the beach on the far side. There are caves where I used to play as a boy.' He would probably bring his own children here some day. Lena's heart contracted at the thought of children with Marcos's dark hair and olive features, his liquid black eyes. How she wished she could be the one to bear those children.
The caves were beautiful, much larger than she'd expected, hung with stalactites that hovered, their icy fingertips striving to reach those of the stalagmites below. It was beautiful, but it was cold. Lena commented on it.
'I never expected to feel cold in Greece.'
At once he was concerned and, with an arm about her, he led her once more on to the sunlit beach. It seemed sensible to follow his suggestion and lie on the soft white sand, allowing the sun to warm her chilled body. Marcos sat beside her, and covertly she studied his by now familiar profile. He was gazing out to sea and yet she had an idea his dark eyes were not registering the blue waters or the wheeling seabirds. Perhaps he was brooding on the interview with his grandfather, and she wondered idly what would be the subject under discussion.
She was warmer now, and she realised they had been on the island for a long time.
'Marcos?'
He turned to look at her, his eyes refocusing, and something in their expression troubled her.
'Sh—shouldn't we be getting back?'
'Not yet.'
She wished she hadn't disturbed his train of thought when he rolled over on to his stomach and lay close beside her, elbows planted in the sand, his hands supporting his head as he continued his intent observation of her.
Her body began to feel a heat that had nothing to do with the sun, and she moved restlessly.
'Is… is it safe to swim here?' she asked for the sake of something to say.
Again her words became a matter for regret as he stretched out a hand and entwined his fingers in her honey-coloured hair.
'You would like some more swimming lessons, hmm?'
She remembered how her last lesson had ended, and she flushed becomingly.
'Oh, no! No, I didn't mean… I just thought it would be nice to swim in the sea.'
'Why not?' He rose with suspicious alacrity and reached down to pull her up. Without releasing her hand, he began to run towards the sea, and a moment later they plunged into its warm, silky embrace.
Lena revelled in its gentle buoyancy, floating on her back as Marcos performed an energetic crawl. But he was soon back beside her, treading water. His eyes slid the length of her prone body, taking in the gentle swell of her breasts, emphasised by her swimsuit's brief cut.
Embarrassed, she shot upright in the water, then found she could not touch bottom. Marcos reached for her, supporting her. But suddenly it was not support he offered, his hands at her waist, moulding her against him.
'Helena!' Her name was a sudden urgent whisper, and his lips claimed hers as they parted in futile protest. It was a gentle kiss as his lips explored the inner softness of hers. She could not help her response and the kiss intensified, his hands sliding upwards. With dismay, she felt him unfasten the bikini top.
'Marcos, no!' she gasped as he began to caress her breasts, his dark head bent in fascinated attention to his own actions.
'Helena, yes!' he mocked gently. Then, more throatily, 'I told you the sea gods would be envious of me. And I plan to make them more envious yet.'
Senses heightened by his words and by his touch, she felt pulsating desire swamping her body in an insistent tide. His hands moved downwards as he kissed her throat, then the twin peaks of her breasts, and his fingers gently probed the waistband of the bikini bottom.
She reached for him, her fingers curling in his hair, and he continued his sensual torment, licking first one salty nipple, then the other. She could feel the taut, throbbing pressure of his thighs against hers, making her ache for appeasement.
She pressed her lips to his neck, delicately tasting the male texture of his skin, and with a muttered 'Christos' he swung her up into his arms and began to wade for the shore, his mouth clamped firmly to hers. He set her on the warm strand and came down above her, his body blotting out the light that was no fiercer than that in his black eyes.
Then his warm, urgent mouth claimed hers again. She could feel and hear the ragged, uneven rasping of his breath.
'I want you, Helena,' he breathed.
'Oh, Marcos!' She said his name tremulously. Her own voice was unrecognisable, soft and husky with her need. She parted her lips for him and felt his tongue surge into her mouth, duelling sensuously with her own.
As the kiss went on she plunged deeper into a maelstrom of sensation: the erotic thrust of his tongue in her mouth, the tingling of her bare breasts under the caress of his hands, the feel of his hard maleness against her thigh.
Her hands glided over his warm, naked back, exploring its muscular breadth. His masculinity was overpowering, her need an urgent, primal one. She wanted him. She knew she had never wanted a man the way she wanted Marcos Mavroleon—and he wanted her.
And if she didn't do something about it right now they were going to give into that need! Shocked back into sanity, she wrenched herself free and scrambled shakily to her feet.
'No, Marcos! This is all wrong! For goodness' sake, you're engaged to Marianthe!'
He was slow to react, and when he stood up she saw that his arousal was not diminished by her violent rejection. Warily, she watched him, prepared for him to make a grab for her, and yet not knowing what she'd do if he did. He had her completely at his mercy, alone with him here on his island.
For a long time he held her gaze with his own.
'You're right!' he said harshly. Then, abruptly, he turned on his heel and plunged back into the sea.
Shakily, Lena sat down on a convenient rock. She was uncertain how she felt about his reaction. Relief warred with unhappy chagrin. It wasn't flattering to have him give up so easily.
When he returned, his olive-skinned body gleaming with water, he was in control once more.
'Time to go home,' he told her, as coolly as if nothing had occurred between them. Home! If only his home were hers.
The celebrations for Thalassios's name day carried on for the whole of the week. Greeks retired late and rose early, and Lena had never been so tired in her life, in spite of observing the traditional and very necessary afternoon siesta. Fair-skinned, she found the earth-cracking heat too much for her. By day the light was harsh and cruel. At night the floors, shutters and beams of the villa shifted, groaned and cracked in the warm air, disturbing her rest. She felt decidedly edgy, and at times quite bad-tempered.
Lena was not the only one apparently whose mood had been affected. On the last day of their stay on the island they were all to attend the village wedding Marcos had spoken of. But an hour before they were due to leave the villa, Chryssanti burst into Lena's room, her face, which in any case had the pallor of the true redhead, was white and strained. She had scarcely shut the door behind her when she broke into noisy, angry sobs, through which Lena could just discern the muffled words, 'He's a liar. I don't believe him. I hate him!'
It was some while before Lena could calm the girl sufficiently to enquire what was the matter.
'It's that Dimitri Mavroleon. He's a liar,' she repeated. 'He… he's always where he's not wanted.' By this, Lena presumed Chryssanti meant with herself and Christos. 'And now…now he's told me
Christos is getting married when we get back to Athens. It can't be true, Lena. It can't. He's never even mentioned a girlfriend, Lena,' it was an agonised cry, 'I love him!'
It was ironic, Lena thought, as she tried to comfort the distraught girl. Here she was, murmuring platitudes such as 'time being a great healer'—'plenty of fish in the sea'. And all the time she knew the clichéd words convinced her as little as they convinced Chryssanti.
'I can't possibly go to this wedding,' Lena told Marcos. 'I…'
'But you are dressed for it.' His dark eyes admired her slender figure in the colourful cool cotton that clung tautly over her high, thrusting breasts and enhanced her slim waist and curving hips.
'I can't leave Chrys.'
'Is she not well?'
'She's unhappy about… about something, which is worse. There's no medicine I can give her for that.'
'She is worrying about her mother all of a sudden?' Taken up with her infatuation with Christos, Chryssanti had mentioned Irini rarely of late.
'No. Look, Marcos,' she felt a need to share the anxiety with someone else, 'she… she fancies herself in love with Christos, and Dimitri's just told her he's going to be married soon. Is Dimitri just mischief-making, or is it true?'
'Dimitri, a mischief-maker?' Marcos sounded astounded. 'Certainly not. He is quite correct.'
'Oh!' Lena was exasperated, her own troubles temporarily forgotten. 'I wish you'd told me. If Chryssanti had known sooner, she might have been spared this unhappiness.'
'I am sorry,' Marcos said sincerely. 'I must confess to having been too concerned with my own affairs. I did not notice what was happening.' He sounded annoyed with himself. 'It should have been my place, not Dimitri's, to issue a warning.'
'Oh!' Lena exclaimed again. 'You and your grandfather…all of you…you're all so…so feudal! I suppose your grandfather arranged Christos's wedding, too?' He nodded. 'Just as I thought. Thank heaven English people aren't hide-bound by all this tradition.' She remembered the reason she'd sought him out. 'Anyway, I'm not coming to the wedding.'
But she did go. Marcos would not take no for an answer.
Black Lion of Skiapelos Page 8
