Innocent Obsession

by Anne Mather

  It was deliciously cool when they stepped out into the corridor and found themselves confronting white-panelled doors, with the Petronides name spelt out in letters of gold. Andreas brought a handful of keys out of his pocket and inserted one in the lock, then urged Sylvie forward into the apartment.

  Her first impression was of light and space, but almost immediately following on these thoughts was her breathless reaction to the view. She could see the Acropolis, the milky-white columns of the Parthenon towering over the city, and viewed over the rooftops of Athens, it had an almost fairytale beauty. She was drawn to the long windows, as if by a magnet, and for several seconds she was unaware that Andreas had left her to find the housekeeper.

  When she eventually dragged her eyes away and looked about her immediate surroundings, she felt an uneasy sense of disorientation. Her experiences so far had not prepared her for the luxurious appointments of the apartment, and she drew her skirts aside from bronze miniatures on narrow plinths, and furnishings with the unmistakable veneer of age and antiquity.

  It was a spacious room she was in, the floor softly tiled in russet and gold mosaic, and strewn with Bokhara rugs. A copper-shaded lamp was suspended over velvet-soft hide sofas, dotted with jewel-bright cushions, and a custom-built unit housed books and television set, stereo, and radio equipment. Strangely enough, the accoutrements to contemporary living blended well with their latter-day counterparts, and the atmosphere was one of comfortable prosperity—and understated opulence.

  The door behind her opened, and she turned to find Andreas re-entering the room, accompanied by a woman, plump, and black-clad, who regarded Sylvie with some suspicion.

  ‘This is Madame Kuriakis,’ Andreas introduced them briefly, his dark eyes lingering longer than necessary, Sylvie thought, on hers. ‘Apo dho i Thespinis Scott, kiria.’

  ‘Hero poli, thespinis,’ Madame Kuriakis murmured politely, and then turning to her employer, she evidently asked him some question concerning Sylvie’s presence there.

  ‘Mia stighmi,’ Andreas responded, with a quelling gesture, before continuing in English: ‘My housekeeper wishes to know whether you would like something to eat or drink. And then, I am afraid, I must leave you. I shall endeavour not to be too long.’

  Sylvie shook her head. ‘Perhaps some coffee,’ she ventured, unwilling to admit that she felt too churned up inside to eat anything. Then: ‘Are you sure I should stay here?. Your wife—–’

  ‘I have no wife, Miss Scott,’ he advised her, with a wry look. ‘Fere ligho kafe, kiria,’ this to Madame Kuriakis. ‘Herete, thespinis. Sto espanidhin!’

  He left her with a faint smile, and after indicating that Sylvie should take a seat, Madame Kuriakis left her also. It was slightly unnerving being left in such magnificent isolation, and Sylvie felt a growing awareness of her own incongruity in being here. Margot had done this, she thought angrily. Margot had sent her here, to be insulted and humiliated, and the temptation to get to her feet again and escape from this luxurious confinement was almost more than she could bear.

  The return of Madame Kuriakis, with a tray on which reposed a silver coffee pot and cream jug, a silver sugar bowl, and a dish of sticky sweetmeats, steadied her. The Greek woman put the tray down on the low table in front of Sylvie’s sandal-clad feet, and then knelt to pour the thick black beverage.

  ‘Krema, thespinis?’ she suggested, pointing to the jug, ‘zahari?’

  ‘No, no, nothing, thank you,’ answered Sylvie, waving her hand in negation, and with a little bob of her head the woman rose to her feet again and left the room.

  The coffee was treacly-rich, and very strong, and after tasting it Sylvie was glad to resort to the cream and sugar. She added several spoonfuls of sugar to hide the bitter taste, and still grimaced behind her hand after swallowing a mouthful. Still, it was something to do, and she toyed with the tiny silver spoon, and admired the fragile china cup and saucer.

  The sweetmeats were more to her liking, although their cloying texture stuck to her teeth. They were probably extremely fattening, too, she reflected, although Andreas didn’t appear to have suffered by it.

  Thinking of Andreas brought her up from her seat again, and across to the windows. She didn’t know why, but she was curiously loath to allow him to occupy her thoughts, and she could only assume it was his attitude towards her which aroused such strong feelings. Margot had been right about one thing, Greek men were not like Englishmen, and she was not altogether sure she liked the distinction.

  She wondered now what Leon’s letter to Margot had really said. She doubted her mother knew that Leon had been in hospital. Mrs Scott might be partisan in some things, but if she had suspected Leon was ill, surely she would have urged her daughter to return to Greece.

  As for herself, Sylvie was still too disturbed to know how she felt. Caring for Nikos while his father was going about his normal business pursuits was one thing; becoming nurse, as well as nursemaid, for his father, too, was quite another. Besides, Leon would not want her there. It was Margot he wanted, Margot he had expected, Margot who should be here.

  The time passed slowly, or perhaps it was that Sylvie was too conscious of the minutes, the hands on the ormolu clock crawling painfully towards six o’clock. At fifteen minutes past, the silver-grey telephone rang, and while Sylvie froze in anticipation Madame Kuriakis came to answer it.

  She expected it to be Andreas, summoning her to the phone, explaining without the embarrassment of another confrontation, that Leon and his parents refused to see her. But Madame Kuriakis scarcely looked at her, speaking into the receiver with evident animation, reassuring, if it was possible to identify her tone, whoever was on the line that Andreas’s absence was regrettable.

  When she replaced the receiver again, she glanced at Sylvie with reluctant courtesy. ‘Thespinis Eleni,’ she said, as if that should mean something, and Sylvie forced a smile even though she had no idea who Thespinis Eleni might be.

  Left to herself again, she speculated about the caller. Eleni! That was a woman’s name, of course. But what woman? Not his wife; he had said he had no wife. His sister, perhaps. Or a cousin. Or more likely, a girl-friend, she reflected resignedly, realising that whatever else Andreas Petronides might be, he was not without attraction for the opposite sex.

  The sound of a key in the lock brought her round with a start, to gaze apprehensively across the room. In the fading light there were shadows casting pools of darkness over the mellow floor, but the lean muscular figure of her host was unmistakable.

  He came into the room economically, moving with the lithe easy grace she had noticed earlier. He closed the door, dropped his keys into his pocket, and then surveyed her position by the windows with wry contemplation.

  ‘I am sorry I have been so long,’ he said at once, unbuttoning his jacket to reveal the tailored lines of his waistcoat. ‘But there was much to discuss, as you may imagine. Arrangements to be made.’

  ‘Arrangements?’ echoed Sylvie faintly, touching the slender chain about her throat, which was all the jewellery she wore. ‘You—you mean, I’m to stay here? In Greece. I mean. But what did your brother say?’

  Before he could reply, however, Madame Kuriakis appeared, eager to give him the message she had taken. Sylvie heard the woman’s name, Eleni, mentioned several times in their conversation, but apart from that she understood none of it, and stood there in silence, feeling unutterably de trop.

  Eventually, however, Andreas silenced the housekeeper, and after he had given her some instruction, she disappeared again, leaving Sylvie to face whatever was to come.

  ‘So.’ Andreas expelled his breath noisily. ‘Now we can continue. And yes, you are to remain in Greece.’

  Sylvie found her legs were strangely shaky and moving away from the windows, she sought the refuge of one of the sofas. Somehow she had convinced herself she would be returning to London, and now that she wasn’t, she felt curiously weak.

  ‘Your—your brother,’ she began, aware of his
eyes upon her, and needing to say something to divert him, ‘what did he say?’

  Andreas shrugged, and then, much to her dismay, he lowered his weight on to the sofa beside her, and giving her a disturbingly gentle look, he said: ‘Leon wants to see you. I have explained that you are not to blame for Margot’s behaviour,’ his lips tightened, ‘and he has agreed that you should stay and look after Nikos. As you had intended.’

  Sylvie looked bewildered. ‘But how? I mean—am I to go to Alasyia with Leon?’

  Andreas’s jaw hardened. ‘Unfortunately, that would not be at all acceptable.’

  ‘Acceptable?’ Sylvie was confused.

  ‘You are a young unmarried girl,’ declared Andreas roughly. ‘Sick as Leon is, he is still a man.’

  ‘Oh!’ Her colour deepened. ‘So—so what—–’

  ‘Arrangements have been made,’ said Andreas flatly, and somehow Sylvie knew who had been responsible for those arrangements. ‘Leon has been very ill. He needs time to convalesce. It has been arranged that he will continue his convalescence at Monastiros.’

  ‘Monastiros?’ Sylvie gazed at him uncomprehendingly. ‘Where—where is that?’

  Andreas leaned back against the cushioned leather, unfastening the button beneath his silver-grey tie, loosening the knot almost imperceptibly. He looked more relaxed, even satisfied, but Sylvie was impatient to know exactly what he had planned for her.

  ‘Monastiros is an island, thespinis,’ he said, his eyes narrowed as he looked at her. ‘It belongs to—my family. You and Nikos will be happy there, and Leon will have all the care he needs. My aunt, Ariadne Petronides, will see to that.’

  Sylvie sat up. ‘But why couldn’t we go to Alasyia? If—if your aunt is to provide a chaperon?’

  ‘You will go to Monastiros,’ he stated flatly. ‘It is all decided.’ He ran the palm of one hand over the roughening skin of his jawline. ‘And now you must excuse me while I change my clothes. My parents wish for us to dine with them this evening.’

  Sylvie scrambled to her feet as he stood up, and her haste brought her less than a hand’s-breadth away from him. ‘I—I can’t go to dinner like this,’ she stammered, indicating the creased Indian cotton, and without hesitation his dark eyes dropped appraisingly down the full length of her body.

  She had never been so conscious of her own shortcomings, she thought, with the blood rising hotly to the surface of her skin. He could not help but observe the palpitating rise and fall of her full breasts, or miss the anxious quivering of her stomach. Beneath the enveloping folds of her dress her knees were shaking, and she was sure she looked as hot and dishevelled as she felt. Nevertheless, his intent assimilation of her appearance did arouse a certain indignation inside her, and she clung to this as his eyes returned to her face.

  ‘Your suitcases are downstairs,’ he said at last, without emphasis, moving his shoulders in an indifferent gesture. ‘I will have Spiro fetch them up for you.’

  The crisp detachment of his tone made Sylvie increasingly aware of her own lack of sophistication. She was over-sensitive, she told herself impatiently. She had no reason to object to his assessment. After all, they were virtually related, he as Leon’s brother and she as Margot’s sister, but nevertheless no man had looked at her in quite that way, and she was left feeling raw, and strangely vulnerable.

  ‘Th-thank you,’ she said now, linking her clammy fingers together, and as he moved away to summon the chauffeur she endeavoured to compose herself. But she couldn’t dismiss the trickling of moisture that had invaded her spine, or dispel her awareness of his alien personality.

  Madame Kuriakis reappeared, and at Andreas’s instigation showed Sylvie into the bedroom she could use to change in. If the housekeeper had any misgivings about the girl’s continued presence in the apartment, she managed to conceal them, but Sylvie, with her increased sensitivity, suspected she had very definite opinions of her own.

  Left alone, Sylvie explored her domain with genuine curiosity. So this was what Margot had been loath to abandon, she reflected with unusual cynicism, trailing her fingers over apple-green damask and the gleaming patina of polished wood. Even the adjoining bathroom had a sunken bath, with its own jacuzzi unit, and she acknowledged without envy that luxury here was an accepted part of living. She was almost regretful she had only time to take a shower, although perhaps it was just as well. It would not do to get too accustomed to so much comfort.

  By the time she emerged from the bathroom, a fluffy green towel draped sarong-wise about her, her suitcases had been deposited on the carved chest at the end of the bed. Extracting her keys from her handbag, she opened the largest of them with a thoughtful air and studied its contents with evident indecision.

  Expecting to stay at Alasyia, which was sufficiently remote from civilisation to need little in the way of formal clothes, she had brought mostly casual wear and swimsuits. But she could hardly turn up at the Petronides residence for dinner wearing a cotton smock or beachwear, and the nearest thing to an evening outfit she possessed was a waistcoat and matching pants in amber-coloured velvet. It was worn with a cream shirt with wide, flowing sleeves gathered into a lacy cuff, and a frilled jabot below her small determined chin, and Sylvie had always thought it was quite flattering. The amber colour matched her eyes, which were several shades lighter than the rich brown they should have been, and the close-fitting pants accentuated the slender length of her legs. Nevertheless, she suspected that Madame Petronides might not approve, and she viewed the rounded curve of her hips with some anxiety. Was Margot right? Did she wear her clothes too tight? Did she eat all the wrong things? She sighed half irritably. Well, it was Margot’s fault that she was here, and if she didn’t suit, Margot would have to give up her selfish pursuits and replace her.

  She studied the fall of corn-gold hair without satisfaction. Should she braid it, or coil it into a chignon, or leave it loose? Plaiting her hair would only accentuate her immaturity, she decided impatiently, and she didn’t really have the time to do a good job of creating a more sophisticated style. With a resigned shrug she tied it at her nape with a length of black cord, then regarded her appearance with as much objectivity as she could muster.

  Where was she expected to sleep tonight? she wondered, after dimissing her appearance with a careless shrug. Acting on impulse, she folded up the Indian cotton and re-locked her suitcases, guessing there was little chance that she would be allowed to stay here. The idea that she might be expected to stay with Margot’s mother and father-in-law had little appeal for her, but she doubted she would be offered any alternative. If it was unacceptable that she should stay at Alasyia with Leon, it was certainly unacceptable for her to sleep at Andreas’s apartment.

  When she entered the living room again, Andreas was already waiting for her, his dark looks enhanced by a black mohair dinner jacket. He was in the process of pouring himself a drink from the selection available on a tray resting on a carved wooden table, but he straightened at her entrance and inclined his head politely.

  ‘Can I offer you something?’ he enquired, indicating the glass in his hand, but Sylvie shook her head. She was nervous enough as it was, without the effects of alcohol to weaken her confidence, and Andreas shrugged his acceptance and raised his glass to his lips.

  Unwilling to appear to be studying him too closely, Sylvie allowed her eyes to move round the lamplit room. It was quite dark outside the long windows now, and the lights of Athens beckoned insistently. Instinctively she moved towards the windows, catching her breath as the floodlit Parthenon attracted her enchanted eyes. She thought she had never seen anything more magnificent than the tall white columns outlined against the velvety darkness of the sky, and her lips parted in unknowing provocation as she gazed upon its ancient symmetry.

  ‘You find it interesting?’

  She had been unaware that Andreas had come to stand beside her until he spoke, and now she looked up at him with some of the fascination she had felt still in her eyes.

  ‘I
t’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?’ she exclaimed, her voice husky with sudden emotion, and Andreas’s dark eyes were enigmatic as he met that ingenuous appeal.

  ‘How old are you, Sylvana?’ he asked, using her name for the first time, and warm colour surged into her cheeks.

  ‘I’m eighteen,’ she replied, answering automatically, but quickly too, as she turned her head away from his cool scrutiny. ‘And please call me Sylvie. Everyone does.’

  Andreas shrugged. He had disposed of his glass, she noticed, and although she expected him to suggest that it was time they were leaving, he seemed curiously reluctant to abandon his position. Instead, he remained where he was, looking down at her, and it was she who shifted uneasily again, aware of her own lack of sophistication.

  ‘You do not mind—spending these weeks in Greece?’ he asked, with narrow-eyed interrogation, and Sylvie shook her head.

  ‘No. No, I don’t mind,’ she conceded. ‘At least—well,’ she qualified her statement, ‘it was the only thing I could do.’

  ‘You are not like Margot, I think,’ he opined dryly. ‘At eighteen, I could not imagine her giving up her time to look after her small nephew.’

  ‘Oh—–’ Sylvie managed a half smile of deprecation, ‘I’m not so noble. Who wouldn’t enjoy spending a few weeks in this climate!’ She made a gesture of dismissal. ‘Actually, I’m the lazy one of the family. Ask Mummy or—or Margot, they would tell you. I like lazing around—sunbathing, swimming, reading …’

  ‘You are still at school, yes?’ he suggested, and now her curiously tawny eyes flashed in annoyance.

  ‘I’m still at school, no!’ she retorted, unconsciously mocking his cultivated English. ‘I left school—some weeks ago. I’m going to university in October.’