Suddenly she heard a noise – the humming drone of a motor as the darkness was speared by a distant splash of light, growing nearer and larger, and which now seemed like a giant firefly skimming slowly over the waveless sea. Rounding the bay, the form of a boat appeared, its white mainsail furled around the mast, motoring towards the quay of the Lekkas domain.
Oriel’s heart leapt in her breast and she gave a sigh of relief, knowing that Damian was back and that she would see him tomorrow. Keeping her eyes peeled in the darkness, she observed him getting off the boat and mounting the stairs to the terrace, noting the details of his movements, the proud lift of his head, the energetic step, the sway of his broad shoulders and the way he swung his arms when he walked; and then he disappeared into the garden and was gone. Even from a distance and in dim light she would always know that silhouette. She stayed a little longer out on the terrace and then went in, pulling the shutters to before climbing into bed and slipping into a deep sleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.
It felt like only minutes later that Oriel suddenly woke up panting. She was almost certain she had heard the rhythmic sound of Helena’s wheelchair as it moved around the room. Was it an actual noise that had disturbed her sleep or had she had a nightmare? She listened, without turning on the light; the house was silent. She glanced at the shining dial of her travel alarm clock on the bedside table: three o’clock. The little canary was also awake, fluttering nervously in his cage. Without turning on the light, she went to the door and listened but there was no one there. It must be my imagination, she concluded, but that made it no less disturbing.
Back in her bed, Oriel tossed and turned restlessly, hovering between sleep and wakefulness as glimpses of Damian’s and Helena’s faces, alternating with volcanoes and sharks, kept flickering before her closed eyes. Conversations she’d had since her arrival whirled round and round in her tired brain and she found herself sitting up several times in a cold sweat. It wasn’t until nearly dawn that those voices ceased, the disturbing images melted away and she fell into a sound slumber.
CHAPTER 4
Stavros and Oriel arrived at the marina just as the sun was rising. Helios had the subdued quiet of dawn and the sea was a metallic grey, glistening as the occasional spear of light pierced through the clouds and danced over the surface. The air felt fresh and new; a gentle breeze caressed Oriel’s skin, soothing her. The marina was set in a small bay pinched into the coast between high pine-clad shores. There was a tiny taverna with a loggia surrounded by a trellis of vines, and a rickety wooden jetty at which Damian’s boat was moored with a scattering of other colourful craft, all almost motionless on the bluest of blue water. A slipway was littered with lobster pots and gnarled rope while, further along, brown nets stood drying on the white sandy beach, one of the many that scalloped the ultramarine sea and were generally empty. All was quiet, save for the noise of the hulls gently knocking against the jetty and the men’s voices discussing the day’s agenda.
Damian and the rest of the crew were already onboard the dive boat Ariadne, a twenty-five-metre blue-and-white wooden caique-style vessel, moored stern-on. Oriel stepped aboard and made her way to the wheelhouse, where she could see Damian standing with a couple of the dive team. He was half turned away, head down, scrutinizing some plans laid out on a small table in front of him, looking so handsome and virile that she caught her breath. His body was superb in his clinging wetsuit, giving the impression of indomitable strength. His dark curling hair, usually brushed back, fell across his forehead softly as if he hadn’t combed it since he woke.
As she walked across the wide deck that was comfortably equipped with wooden benches, Damian turned and their gaze met for a single searing moment before he turned once more to his plans.
The two men beside him weren’t so absorbed in the task not to stare at Oriel, who, despite her height, looked almost fragile in her wetsuit, which was moulded to her like a second skin, emphasizing her slim waist and the curve of her hips. She recognized the pair from the temple site the previous day. One was the tattooed bearded giant with the wheelbarrow who had leered at her; the other the wiry young man who had been laughing while writing in his field notebook. He was now nudging the gawping giant, who remembered his manners enough to stammer ‘Kaliméra’ in greeting.
Oriel smiled in what she hoped was a business-like fashion. ‘Kaliméra.’
Damian, still not looking her way, folded the map carefully. Finally, he turned to Oriel and Stavros. ‘I think you’ve all met. Yanni and Spyros,’ he said briskly, motioning to the giant and the impish-looking young man in turn. ‘Spyros is from Kalymnos and this is his first dive with us. Normally he’s with Vassilis’s team but he’s pestered me so often about getting involved with this excavation, he’s worn me down.’ The gruffness of his tone didn’t quite match the amused glint in his eye as he glanced at the young man, who grinned sheepishly back.
They all followed Damian out of the wheelhouse on to the deck. Two more men were seated on one of the benches, crouched over their kit bags. ‘Alexis, Mohammed, this is Despinis Anderson, who is joining us on the dive today.’ His hard gaze swept over the men before he glanced at Oriel, seeming almost aloof. ‘We’re a diverse team. Alexis here is from Crete, Mohammed from Algeria.’ The Cretan looked up and gave a wide snag-toothed smile, while the young Algerian, who already looked eager to start the dive and was pulling out his gear, nodded in Oriel’s direction.
‘Now,’ Damian continued, ‘before we set sail, I would like everyone to check their gear. We will be diving to a depth of thirty metres, half a mile offshore. The currents can be a little wayward and it’s just deep enough that observing the correct decompression stages will be vital. We don’t want anyone getting the bends.’
The wiry young man shrugged, and Damian fixed him with a gimlet eye. ‘And that means you too, Spyros,’ he barked with authority. ‘I know your sponge-diving ways are time-honoured in Kalymnos but this is my boat and my crew, and what I say goes.’
‘With all due respect, sir, people got along perfectly well before all these fussy scientific safety rules,’ Spyros argued, seemingly immune to the thunderclouds in Damian’s eyes and the dig in his ribs from the towering Yanni. ‘All you do if you get the bends is get your partner to take you back to the same depth. Then back to the surface slowly, five feet every five minutes. Then presto, you’re cured.’
‘If you want nitrogen bubbles in your bloodstream and a life of paralysis, that’s your issue, Spyros. But remember one thing, I am your captain and your employer, and you will do me the courtesy of obeying my orders. Or you can leave now,’ Damian instructed him firmly.
Spyros shrugged self-consciously. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘You can still back out.’
The young man smiled. ‘No, sir, I wouldn’t miss this expedition for anything.’
Damian’s expression changed and he gave the youth a hearty slap on the back. ‘Well, in that case, Spyros, welcome aboard the Ariadne. But, as I said, no improvising and no bright ideas.’
‘Understood.’
Satisfied, Damian asked Stavros to pull up the anchor, and the caique slid smoothly away from the jetty. Oriel watched Damian’s tall, lean figure move from one group to another, exchanging a few words with each man on his crew. She noted the friendliness with which they all responded, even Spyros, the young man from Kalymnos whose manner, though naturally playful and rebellious, was still tempered with respect. She went to sit on one of the wooden benches with her dive bag, where Damian soon joined her. For a long moment she sat silent, electrified by his closeness and unable to check through her kit, knowing she’d be fumbling around with trembling fingers. Finally she took a deep breath and spoke, saying the first thing that came into her head.
‘You’ve got a fine dive boat here.’ She looked around as she said the words, taking in for the first time the sheer scale of the vessel, with its two decks and state-of-the-art hoists and suction equipment. ‘I’ve rarely seen one as mod
ern and well equipped.’
It must have cost a small fortune, she added silently to herself.
Damian nodded, looking less aloof now, obviously pleased by her comments. ‘Cousteau helped me fit it out,’ he said. ‘We met at a dive conference and he showed me around his boat. His is a converted American Second World War minesweeper but I wanted mine to be more Greek in style. Below deck, the cabins have every convenience. I like things to be comfortable as well as functional.’
Oriel’s eyes sparkled, her awkwardness forgotten. ‘I would love to meet Jacques Cousteau,’ she exclaimed. ‘He was one of my childhood heroes. I once heard him interviewed and he said he’d almost killed himself as a child, weighing himself down with bricks in his family’s swimming pool, staying underwater until he lost consciousness.’
‘I think that kind of obsession in a man can accomplish great things,’ said Damian, smiling slightly. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better go and check the course has been correctly set.’
Oriel held on to the wooden rail behind her while the Ariadne made for the open sea. Despite the brilliant blue sky, the meltémi wind roared as the boat heavily beat and bashed its way against the rolling waves, the bow spray billowing up at each impact. This was normal May weather, though hot, and most of the divers were used to it, but as Oriel glanced across at the assembled men on the opposite bench she saw that the two younger divers were clearly feeling the harshness of the voyage.
They had been motoring for about twenty minutes when Alexis came to stand next to Oriel with a set of plans. ‘These are the plans of the wreck site that the Kyrios went through with us. I thought you might want to look at them,’ he said. He leaned in close to point out various features, devouring her with his eyes.
‘Thank you, Alexis,’ she answered politely. He was so closely invading her space that she could feel his warm breath on her cheek. On purpose, Oriel turned away as she assessed the map carefully. ‘I’m glad Damian thought to get a good underwater cartographer, it makes life a lot easier.’
‘Any problem, Alexis?’ Damian cut in before his crew member could answer. Oriel hadn’t heard him approach, and obviously neither had Alexis, who flinched a fraction at his employer’s tone. She turned her head and stared at Damian. There was a sardonic lift to his eyebrows and an arrogant tilt to his head as her gaze met the chips of ice that were watching her, as if to say, You see why I didn’t want you staying at the staff house? ‘No, no problem, Kyrios,’ Alexis answered hastily. ‘I was just making sure Despinis Anderson was familiar with the layout of the site.’
Oriel felt her cheeks grow hot. How on earth was she expected to work in a team if this was going to be how they behaved? She followed the two men to join the others, who were assembled for the captain’s briefing. They would go down in pairs, Damian explained. Each would have forty-five minutes underwater, and no more than two dives that day.
‘You must stick close to your dive partner,’ he instructed. ‘It’s very easy to get so absorbed in what you’re doing that you forget the time.’
Oriel thought of the other danger inherent in diving at thirty metres or more. All it takes is one ambitious or greedy moment – the desire to search further or finish digging out some artefact winking beguilingly – and before you know it, you are lost to narcosis. Yet a diver wouldn’t feel his senses growing confused: the hazy feeling comes upon you stealthily like a drug. Oriel had felt it herself before – the slower reactions, the impossibility of logical or rational thought – but she’d been lucky enough to have an experienced dive partner who had read the signs and helped her to the surface. The ‘Martini effect’, as nitrogen narcosis was often termed, had been fatal to plenty of others. Before too long, you might be moving senselessly in the wrong direction, away from the dive rope that guides you safely to the surface, or lashing out at your partner, even if they are in the very process of trying to save your life. Oriel gave an involuntary shiver. As she did so she met Damian’s intent gaze. Had he read her mind?
Damian now detailed who would partner whom. He assigned Oriel to himself, which made her think for a moment that perhaps all hope of them becoming friends again was not lost. As she took a seat a little away from the rest of the crew, it occurred to her that this was the first time she had found herself working in an all-male group. Although she hated to admit it, she increasingly understood Damian’s reluctance for her to live at the staff house. The men around her were coarse, relaxed and at ease. There was no compulsion to be on guard with their language or their jokes, which Oriel didn’t mind. However, sometimes she noticed one or other ogling her without shame and, although the men seemed respectful enough under Damian’s watchful eye, she was happy that she didn’t need to spend her evenings at the staff house, sharing the sitting room and the kitchen, or choosing to be either cooped up in her room or to go out to escape the men.
By now the boat had skirted a headland and had moved closer again to the shore, following it in parallel. Gentle gusts of wind were filled with a briny tang as they made Oriel’s hair flutter across her face. The sea was translucent and she gazed through the blue water at the little silver fish that darted in shoals, first one way, then the other. Looking up, she caught the glare of brilliant whiteness between the two bands of blue. There was the deeper one of the water, moving in a dance of lights and shadows, and the great upper band of the burning blue sky above the hilled islands they were passing by. It made the white structure of the little cliff-side villages, with their white walls and roofs of reddish tiles, their ridged slopes rich with pines, olives and pointed cypresses, stand out in such a picturesque way.
From time to time, Oriel slanted a glance at Damian but he ignored her, never speaking to her directly. His eyes, she couldn’t help noticing, were empty of expression whenever they met hers. It was as if he had retreated once again into himself and away from her.
Now the high-up villages thinned, becoming few and rare, and then petered out altogether into empty mountains and wild shores. Soon they came to a fringe of reef that ran parallel to the coast in a long line, about half a mile from the shore. As could be seen by the noticeable difference in the colour of the water, the reef fell perpendicularly into the depths of the sea and it was here, where the much deeper water suddenly turned into an intense blue, that Damian gave the signal to weigh anchor.
Glancing across at his hard profile, Oriel saw that in daylight the scar appeared rather more defined, but Damian himself projected such charisma that one could almost forget about it. He was gazing out to sea, smoking. As she studied him through half-closed lashes, she could see that he was determined and ambitious, someone used to taking command – a leader of men who, if angered, would make a fierce enemy. Still, he seemed stressed, she decided, as she eyed his taut, muscular frame in his wetsuit, sitting there on the edge of the boat, curiously lonely-looking as he drew on his cigarette: a man apparently without the need of human warmth, a man fighting secret demons …
‘Despinis Anderson and I will be going down first,’ he announced to the crew. He strode towards Oriel, who was tightening the straps of her weight belt. Her heart gave an uncontrollable lurch. She was about to protest when he bent over her and took the straps from her hands to examine the quick-release fastening, but then she saw that the other divers were all engaged in checking out each other’s gear. ‘We want you to be able to float easily to the surface if you get into trouble,’ he murmured as he tinkered with the mechanism, locking and releasing it until he was satisfied it was in good working order. The potent maleness of him so close made flames dance inside her.
‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but I’m perfectly familiar with my gear.’
But Damian ignored her and examined her compressed-air cylinder. ‘The stopper isn’t tight enough,’ he told her. ‘The loss of gas is very slight, but we can’t risk it.’ He unstrapped the cylinder, made the necessary adjustment, and helped her buckle the straps tightly once more. Oriel’s heart was thudding uncontrollably as he
stared down into her face, his expression granite, his mouth grim.
‘Spit into your mask,’ he ordered.
She hesitated for a second, annoyed at being dictated to, but most of all unsettled by the effect Damian’s closeness was having on her as an intense unrequited longing fought for supremacy in a raging storm inside her. This was crazy: he was a stranger. How was it possible to be sucked so deeply into another’s powerful personality?
‘It’ll keep your mask from fogging up.’
She silently obeyed, meeting his lidded gaze with a surge of resentment, the green in her eyes flaring. No one had any right to upset her equilibrium quite so thoroughly.
Damian took the mask from her and rinsed it out again. ‘Spit keeps the air on the inside of the mask from condensing on the glass,’ he explained.
‘I’m well aware of that. I’ve dived before,’ she shot back.
‘Yes, but I wasn’t sure if your delicate sense of fastidiousness would preclude your doing such a vulgar thing, eh?’ His face suddenly broke into a grin that was crooked and shatteringly attractive; still, she glared at him.
‘Come on, Despinis Anderson, let’s go. We have work to do,’ he announced gruffly but, as he looked at her, his dark, rugged features held an enigmatic quality, half mocking, half intense. There was a glitter of some emotion in the steady steely eyes, but Oriel was either too confused or too defensive to decipher it.
Turning to his crew, Damian gave them his final orders. ‘We have enough air to stay under the water for two hours, although I’m giving each of the four teams a strict forty-five-minute limit. If we need any help, I will send Despinis Anderson up and two of you will come down. I would prefer it if Stavros stayed up here today to man the boat and deal with any inspectors from the Ministry of Culture, should they visit. They have been told that we’re excavating, and they usually come across on the first day.’
Aphrodite's Tears Page 15
