Sweetly Contemporary Collection - Part 2 (Sweetly Contemporary Boxed Sets)

by Jennifer Blake

  “Mrs. Papoulas—”

  “So you refused to be his pillow friend? Now it makes sense, his temper and black looks.”

  There seemed to be no point in denying it. The other woman was going to keep on until she received an answer that satisfied her. Maura had been afraid that she would be upset at the thought of her grandson making such an offer. She should have known better, since it was Mrs. Papoulas who had first introduced the subject of his pillow friends. Might it not be better to admit the truth, rather than have her fret over the whole thing?

  “I expect you think I should have accepted,” Maura said quietly.

  “Why? Because he is my grandson? That doesn’t make him perfect or, I might add, guarantee intelligence.”

  She was forced to smile. “But you do see why I would rather you didn’t mention it to him?”

  “I see, though I cannot agree that it’s best.”

  “I assure you, it is.”

  “I wonder that he could think you might say yes. I would have credited him with more understanding.” The older woman frowned, the look in her eyes far away.

  “If what you said before is true, the women he asks usually do agree.”

  “They are not you.”

  Such a statement could not be argued.

  “They were not — not women he could love,” Mrs. Papoulas went on, “not women who wanted love from him. They exchanged their company for the security of having someone act their banker. He paid so he might have feminine companionship while keeping his heart and mind free. You are not the kind to tolerate such an arrangement, and I thought he recognized it. I was sure of it.”

  “The problem,” Maura answered, her lashes shielding the pain in her eyes, “is that he didn’t care enough to offer more.”

  “I could have sworn — He has been much with me on this cruise because of my wretched health, and we have talked more than in many years. When he spoke of you, even at first when you quarreled, there was a difference in his voice. You remained in his thoughts when he was apart from you, also. This I know, for he sometimes mentioned you, your opinions or something you had said, when we were talking on an entirely different subject.”

  “I suppose a man must feel some attraction for the woman he invites to become his mistress.”

  The other woman gave a sharp shake of her head. “It isn’t the same thing. It could be, now, that — but no, he would not make a game of something so important.”

  “A game?”

  “Forget I said it. I must let you go, my dear, so you can dress for dinner. It would not do for you to be late. The appetizers in Greek Tavernas are famous. It would be a pity for you to miss them.”

  “You won’t say anything to Nikolaos?”

  “I suppose we must hope that he will come to his senses by himself.”

  With that Maura had to be content, though she was well aware that the answer Mrs. Papoulas had given was far from definite.

  Eleven

  It was purest feminine instinct that caused Maura to dress for dinner with special care. She paired a lace-trimmed peasant blouse with a full, floor-length skirt of polished cotton in a soft apricot and white print. She brushed her hair until it shone, then put it up in a gleaming knot on top of her head, drawing tendril curls from it to brush against her temples and her nape. Her only jewelry was a fine serpentine chain in yellow gold, and a matching bracelet. A touch of mascara on her lashes, a bit of apricot lip gloss, and she was ready.

  Standing back from the mirror, she surveyed her appearance. She looked cool and self-possessed, a little regal with the crown of hair upon her head. Her skin, as Mrs. Papoulas had pointed out, had taken on a golden glow from the sun, rather than freckling as did that of most people with auburn hair. Her eyes looked enormous, and if there was a hint of vulnerability in their depths, it had to be admitted that it was becoming. She looked as well, in fact, as she had ever looked in her life. It was too bad she did not feel the same.

  Maura picked up a shawl of apricot silk mesh and draped it over her arms, settling it into place before she took up her small evening bag. She had a few minutes before the dinner chimes rang. She would go by the photographer’s office, as she had been promising herself she must, and pick up her pictures.

  The office was open. Several other people were circling the small room, searching the photographs posted on the walls for the likenesses of themselves, or their party. The pictures on view were only of the passengers leaving the ship at Jamaica, taken that morning. The other shots made during the cruise had been removed.

  The photographer was busy with a man and his wife. Maura, waiting until he could give her his attention so she could ask about the earlier photographs, studied the ones that were posted. There was none of Nikolaos. Nor, she discovered, was there one of herself. Retracing her footsteps, she scanned the entire three walls of pictures again, looking for the cream-colored slacks and top she had been wearing. The picture was not there. She looked again. Still nothing.

  It was possible, she told herself, that the photographer had snapped another person behind her as she came down the gangplank. Perhaps that person had already bought the picture. It really didn’t matter. There were others.

  But there wasn’t. The photographer thumbed through the sets of prints. He took them from their boxes and put them one by one down on the table. Her photograph was not among any of the several sets of pictures he had taken. No, he said, it was not possible that the film had not developed. He had his own darkroom, and he was positive he had not taken a bad frame. The only explanation was that the prints had been sold to someone else. All of them. He himself did not remember anyone asking to have her pictures singled out, but it sometimes happened that there were several people to be served at once, and he did not look at the pictures they had taken from the wall when they handed him the money. There was one other possibility. Freda, the assistant cruise director, kept the office open at times. She might have sold the prints. She was in the lounge, if Maura wanted to speak to her.

  The assistant cruise director was helping to put the finishing touches on the stage decorated for the Greek dances. Standing on a ladder, she was hanging blue and white bunting, the colors of the Greek flag, from the stage canopy.

  “Excuse me?” Maura said, looking up at her.

  “Yes? May I help you?”

  “I was told you might know who bought my pictures from the photographer’s office.” For some reason, she felt embarrassed, as though it were vain of her to want her own likeness.

  “Certainly,” the woman replied with no more than a brief glance at Maura.

  When she didn’t elaborate, Maura asked, “Who was it?”

  “It was Third Officer Alexandros Maratos.”

  “And you let him have them?” She did not know what answer she expected, or perhaps hoped, to hear, but she could not deny her disappointment.

  The assistant cruise director shrugged. “You had not come for them. I thought perhaps you did not want them, or it might even have been that he was buying them for you.”

  “I see.”

  “It may be that if you ask, he will give them to you.”

  “Yes, he might,” Maura said. Thanking the woman, she turned and left the lounge.

  There were blue and white flags on their table as a centerpiece, and over the sound system in the dining room came the staccato notes of bazouki music, the music of the Greek tavernas.

  Nikolaos and his grandmother were seated when Maura entered. He rose with a murmured good evening to hold her chair, then resumed his place.

  Conversation lagged. Stephen appeared to fill Maura’s water glass. He held a brief consultation with Nikolaos in rapid-fire Greek, then picked up their menus, bearing Maura’s away before she had even had a chance to look at it. When she would have protested, Mrs. Papoulas shook her head with a smile, saying that everything was arranged.

  So it was. A relish tray with radishes, celery hearts, and small black Greek olives was already on the table
. As further appetizers, they were brought small squares of creamy white feta, goat’s milk cheese, broiled eggplant stuffed with meat, tomatoes, and cheese and sprinkled with herbs, small rings of batter-fried squid, and also dolmathes, grape leaves in which had been steamed finely chopped meat in a sauce.

  Maura tried everything. The feta was delicious, as were the fried squid, the latter with something of the taste of a fried oyster. The dolmathes would have been better served hot, she thought. The only thing she did not care for was the eggplant, though the helping she had consumed the night before had been very good.

  While they were waiting for their soup course, Mrs. Papoulas and Maura discussed Greek cuisine. Because of the successive occupation of the country by the Romans, Venetians, and Turks over several hundred years, there were many dishes of Italian and Turkish origin in modern Greek cookery. Pastas, kebabs, strong coffee, incredibly rich pastries, including the one known as Turkish delight, and the use of thick yogurt, were all outside influences that had gradually been assimilated by the food-loving Greeks.

  Nikolaos sat listening to what they were saying, sipping now and then from a glass of anise-flavored ouzo, traditionally served with the appetizers in the tavernas, something Maura and his grandmother had refused. He did not seem bored, but rather indolent and disinclined to participate in the conversation. If it had been anyone else, Maura would have said he seemed depressed, but the look that she surprised in his dark eyes now and then when they rested on her had such an appearance of narrow concentration that she felt a growing wariness. He was, she told herself in an uncharacteristic excess of imagination, like a great animal, a panther, lying in wait.

  Their soup was typically Greek also. Called avgolemono, it was flavored with egg and lemon in a broth base. After that came a fish course of broiled jumbo shrimp. Next came a pasta of meat and macaroni that Mrs. Papoulas said had much the same taste as the eggplant dish known as moussaka. It was followed by broiled lamb seasoned with oregano, and vegetable side dishes for a main course. To complement the lamb in authentic style, the wine steward brought a bottle of retsina, the famous Greek wine with its tang of resin caused by aging in barrels made of pine.

  Finally came dessert, the honey sweet baklava, and loukoumades, the last tiny puffs of pastry dusted with cinnamon and dripping with honey. With the sweet was served steaming hot, dark, marvelously strong coffee.

  When the last dish was removed from the table, they had been sitting over the meal for the better part of two hours.

  “I have never,” Maura said with a deep drawn breath, “been so full in my life.”

  “But you enjoyed it, yes?” Mrs. Papoulas asked, her smile a little anxious.

  “Every mouthful!”

  “Except the eggplant,” Nikolaos pointed out. “You did not eat that.”

  Mrs. Papoulas lifted a brow in her grandson’s direction. “How close you must have been watching Maura to notice such a thing.”

  “Her face is so expressive,” he said shortly.

  “And so lovely?”

  “As you say.”

  Mrs. Papoulas sent her grandson a look of annoyance for his short answer. Pushing back her chair, she said, “We had better go to the lounge if we want to find seats for the show.”

  Instantly Nikolaos rose to help her to her feet. He glanced at Maura, but she was already standing, moving into the aisle between the tables to give the older woman plenty of room. As Mrs. Papoulas joined her, she turned toward the door. She had taken no more than a half dozen steps when she felt a touch on her shoulders. So on edge were her nerves that she started, jerking away from the contact. Nikolaos closed his hands on her arms, bringing her to a halt.

  As she swung her head to stare at him, she saw that he had draped her silk mesh shawl around her, bringing it from where she must have left it behind on her chair. He had caught her arms and the shawl at the same time, to keep it from falling to the floor as she shied away from him.

  “Thank you,” Maura murmured, aware of the heat of a flush as it rose to her hairline.

  “It was nothing,” he grated.

  Music in a minor key, lights bright and flashing, a whirl of color and movement; this was Maura’s impression of the lounge show. There was a dance number that displayed the white costume trimmed in red with the full skirt which was the dress of the Klepts, the mountain brigands Nikolaos had mentioned his ancestor joining, and another similar to an Italian tarantella that was, in effect, a dance of courtship, featuring both men and women. Finally there was the dance of comrades made popular by movies like Zorba the Greek, the dance of the tavernas where men linked arms at shoulder height, moving in time to a refrain vigorous in its celebration of life and loyalty.

  The last event was made more pleasurable for the passengers as they recognized the ship’s officers among the men on the stage, as well as a pair of the waiters and one of the deck hands.

  “That was Stephen,” Maura said as she applauded the dancers who ran from the stage as the music ended.

  “He did well, did he not?” Madame Papoulas said.

  “They were all great,” Maura agreed, then went on with a rueful smile. “The only problem is, the music makes me feel like dancing taverna style, and it isn’t allowed.”

  “I’m sure, tradition aside, that Stephen and his friends would have been delighted to have you join them. Since the show is now over, I will go to bed and leave you and Nikolaos to dance away the evening.”

  “Maura may have other plans,” Nikolaos said. His dark gaze fastened on Maura as he waited for her answer.

  If he was expecting her to help him out of a difficult situation, he was going to be disappointed. She was growing a little tired of his withdrawn, uncooperative attitude. “No,” she said, “none.”

  “Good,” he answered. “If you will wait for me here, I will return in a few minutes.”

  “There is no need for you to come up with me,” his grandmother protested as he got to his feet and drew out her chair.

  “But there is,” he told her, his voice firm.

  “What a bully you are, Nikolaos. If I were Maura, I would not be here when you get back.”

  He made no answer as he supported his grandmother from the room. Maura, watching his retreating back, conceded that there was merit in Mrs. Papoulas’s suggestion. She had the feeling that she had stepped into a trap by denying the existence of another engagement for the evening. The last thing she had expected, however, was for Nikolaos to have reason to want to be with her. Her earlier impression of him, as a panther waiting to pounce, returned to her. A slight shiver ran over her, and with a laugh she brushed at the gooseflesh that rose on her arms. She was being ridiculous. If he had anything at all to say to her, it would probably concern his grandmother and a suspicion that she had learned more than she should of the events of the afternoon.

  As Maura sat frowning with her chin resting on her clasped hands, the ship’s officers, in uniform once more after changing from the costumes worn during the dance, came from the backstage area. They made their way down the open aisle of the lounge, exiting at the back. Among them was Alexandros. In close conversation with the other men, he did not see Maura as he passed.

  She made a hesitant move, as if to catch his attention, wanting to ask him about her pictures. With greater deliberation, she left her place at the table and slipped from the lounge after him.

  The long strides of the officers covered ground quickly. They were not in sight when Maura reached the vestibule, though she thought she heard their voices on the stairs. Lifting her skirts, she followed after them as quickly as she could. She reached deck three in time to see the outside door on the starboard side closing. Running to the door, she pushed it open and stepped outside just as the men reached the foot of the stairs that led to the bridge.

  “Alexandros?” she called.

  The men turned. One clapped Alexandros on the shoulder with a quick comment, then the other two continued upward, leaving him to move slowly back toward
Maura.

  The deck was deserted, the light dim. They were running at full speed, and the wind fluttered her skirt against her. It was not cool, yet Maura drew her shawl around her, holding it across her breast, a futile protection against the sudden doubts that assailed her.

  “So you came after me, Maura,” Alexandros said. “I like that.”

  “I — I wanted to speak to you about my pictures. Freda said you had taken them.”

  “The pictures, yes. I wanted a souvenir. Are you flattered?”

  Maura managed a smile. “It’s a great compliment, but I wanted them myself, as reminders of my trip.”

  “But you will allow me to keep just one, won’t you? The one taken today was very good. In it you are very beautiful, though not so beautiful as now.” He moved closer as he spoke.

  “I suppose you can have it, if you will give me the others.” She wanted to move away from him, but was afraid he might take offense.

  “You must come with me to my cabin, and I will get them for you.” Alexandros reached to brush the palm of his hand over her arm.

  “I — I couldn’t do that.” Maura shifted so that the material of her shawl dropped over her arm. She flung a glance at the door.

  “Why not? You go to the stateroom of Nikolaos Vassos.”

  “Only when his grandmother is there,” Maura said quickly.

  “There is no fun in that,” Alexandros said, his voice thickening. “There will be no one in my cabin except me and you. It will be most pleasant.”

  “Couldn’t you bring the pictures here to me?” As he eased nearer, Maura could not repress the urge to step back.

  “I think I prefer that you come and get them, or at least, that you give me something in exchange.”

  “I don’t — know what you mean,” Maura said, but the words were no more than a play for time. She stepped back again, going nearer the door.

  “I mean — this!”

  He grabbed her, pushing her against the bulkhead. His fingers dug into her arms with bruising force. The buckle of his belt jabbed into her, and as she turned her head back and forth, his hot wet lips slid across her cheek. Sickness rose in her throat, and she braced her hands against his chest. She tried to kick out at him but he turned, pressing the lower part of his body against her. He shifted his grasp, clamping his hand to her chin, trying to hold her mouth still for his kiss. In the midst of her distress, the sound of the heavy door from inside opening came to Maura. She screamed, a smothered sound of rage, pain, and fear.