‘That was a moving performance you and Yolanda gave us tonight,’ Vassilis told him.
Damian’s nod was almost indifferent. ‘Thanks. I’m afraid we haven’t had time to discuss the wreck tonight, too many people and too many distractions.’
Vassilis folded his arms. ‘Stavros started to put me in the picture earlier today. Sounds exciting.’
Damian shifted his gaze away from Oriel to his friend, his expression impassive. ‘We need to have a serious talk to decide how we’re going to go about it. Some of the items will be difficult to extricate, and I don’t want to damage the wreck.’
‘I spoke to Stavros about it. We think, with your approval, we should buy a new pump. If we go about it carefully we shouldn’t disturb the site too much. I can get the latest model from the US.’
‘Great. Go ahead with that. We’ll talk again after the weekend.’
Vassilis agreed then turned to Oriel. ‘Are you sure you don’t want a lift back, Oriel?’
She saw Damian wince at his friend’s deliberate familiarity, and before she could answer he cut in: ‘Despinis Anderson came with me and I will take her back.’ There was a leashed quality in his stance that boded ill should she dare consider rebellion.
‘I thought you might have had other interests to pursue tonight,’ Vassilis said, with eyes that twinkled with innuendo.
Damian chose to ignore his friend’s remark. ‘Goodnight, Vassilis. See you next week.’ Then he linked his arm firmly through Oriel’s. ‘Shall we go?’ His touch was impersonal yet flames burned within her, with every separate nerve-end quivering into vibrant life, each individual skin cell craving his contact.
‘Goodnight, Vassilis, and thank you for making me feel so welcome this evening,’ she said over her shoulder. Damian’s grip tightened on her skin, letting her feel the pressure of his strong fingers as he began manoeuvring her firmly through the crowd.
They went back to the car in silence, Oriel having difficulty keeping up with Damian’s long stride – he was almost dragging her along. They sped back to Heliades, racing unsteadily round hairpin bends, each wrapped in thought, the island stretching away in deep mystery on either side of them as the stars winked above.
Oriel’s eyes glanced at the dark, proud outline of the man seated next to her. The easy feeling that had existed between them the day of the dive, as they worked side by side, had evaporated, replaced by a familiar tension. The tanned, capable hands that held the wheel were tight-knuckled; the rugged profile of the driver was taut. She wondered what was he thinking at this precise moment. Why was he so angry? Had he really been offended that she had chosen to sit with Vassilis instead of with him? What did he care? After all, he had other fish to fry, as she had discovered this evening. Or was it just his macho Greek pride niggling at him?
They arrived at the house much quicker than it had taken them to get to Manoli’s earlier that evening. Oriel’s bag had slipped to the ground and, by the time she had bent over to pick it up, Damian was already opening the door of the Jeep to let her out. Ice crossed with flame as she stepped out and faced him. The cutting, diamond edge of his gaze was drawing her into its unfathomable depths and, despite herself, she stood mesmerized for a few seconds like a small animal caught in the powerful glare of headlights. Her eyes dropped down to the open neckline of his shirt that revealed the curling black hairs on his chest. It evoked an overwhelming desire in Oriel to slip her hands under the thin material and feel the warmth of his skin and the hardness of his muscles. It was a heady thought, one that sent her reeling backwards, away from him.
‘Thank you, Damian. Goodnight.’ Turning abruptly, she ran up the steps to the front door. Hassan, who had stayed up for his master, stood there waiting like a statue in the shadows, and Oriel detected something like a protective, vigilant glance in her direction too as she approached. She slowed down as she entered the house, expecting Damian to follow her inside but, seconds later, she heard the engine start up and the sound of the Jeep drawing away, dwindling into the nothingness of the night.
* * *
Damian drove off in a savage mood. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this angry. He was furious at Oriel and Vassilis – and at the world in general – but most of all, his anger was directed towards himself. Oriel had looked stunning in that yellow dress but he had felt the blood boil in his veins as he thought of all the men at Manoli’s who must have ogled her and fantasized about her incredible body. When he’d seen her with Vassilis he couldn’t have stopped the words that had tumbled out of his mouth if he’d tried. Vassilis was his friend but, me to Theó, by God, Damian had wanted to punch him tonight. It was all he could do to feign an air of indifference when hot jealousy was burning his insides like lava.
They’d had two such wonderful days, he and Oriel, working side by side the day of the dive and walking through the grounds of his olive press this afternoon; and now he had gone and spoilt it all with his snide comments. All day he had been looking forward to the time when, after dinner at the taverna, he would take her on to the beach and kiss her senseless, telling her how she made him feel. Oh, at first, of course, she would push him away as usual but then she would submit and her body would yield to its needs – a fire that only he could assuage. But he had blown it and, consequently, had spent the evening in a foul temper.
As usual, he had been a target for unattached females, and there had been plenty of them, all beautiful and ready for a little fun. Even Yolanda, who had looked particularly enticing tonight, had left him cold. Yolanda … now there was a thorny issue. Why hadn’t she told him she was returning tonight? Her song had made no secret of the way she felt about him, but that was another story.
The headlights slashed across the quiet countryside, which had long gone to sleep as the Jeep roared through the night. The air was hot with a heaviness that sat oppressively upon Damian. He stared at his fingers, clenched hard on the steering wheel. Where was he going? Anywhere, nowhere, what did it matter? He would just drive until he’d calmed down.
He drove for hours around the island, with fantasies of Oriel naked and needing him flashing through his mind like an erotic film. Oriel in his arms, her body moulded against his, her head thrown back exposing her throat, eager for his caresses. Oriel moaning against his mouth as he tasted her lips and drunk thirstily; Oriel’s breasts in his hands, the lush curves and the hard peaks igniting his need; Oriel whispering to him of the places she wanted him to stroke and then parting her legs so he could better explore the mystery of her delicate, warm flesh. His loins throbbed as he imagined her crying out his name, words of passion and love on her lips when he filled her, opening up to him as he moved deeper and deeper into the heat of her damp softness – she, desperate and wild, shuddering underneath him, begging for more.
Damn it! He wasn’t angry any more but totally aroused.
Her words came back to him.
I’ve told you before, you’re the devil.
Well, the devil had taken hold of him tonight. Lust pounded in his veins and Damian glared at the road, feeling the straining arousal in his trousers. A muscle in his jaw jerked. If he went to bed now, even after a cold shower, it would be hours before he found sleep … that was if he found sleep. He dragged one hand down his face. He must stop this. No more memories, no more fantasies; he had to either convince Oriel that they were made for each other or erase her totally from his mind, otherwise he would go mad.
He finally found himself at the port. Damian swung out of the car. Nothing but peace lay around him and above his head. The beach was deserted and the sea monotonously calm, its little wavelets the only whisper in the overall hush. The night sky was paling to blue, the moon fading away, and the stars that had burned all night were beginning to extinguish their winking light; it was almost dawn, and land and sea were covered in a thin transparent mist that gave the scene an almost ghostly, unreal impression.
Damian paused for a moment, taking in the heady sense of isolation. He inha
led huge gasps of the salted air, pure and crisp at this hour; then, tearing off his clothes, he ran into the sea. He gave a powerful shudder as the cold water came into contact with his burning skin then plunged into the clear bosom of his friend. He swam vigorously, using every muscle of his hard body, forcing the tension to seep out of his aching limbs and raging senses.
When he came out of the water, his frustration had exhausted itself and the night had gone – gone like a passing shadow and with it his anxieties, misgivings and the torturing edge of his desire. The sun had sprung suddenly into the throne of purple and rose-coloured clouds that the mist had left for him. Damian walked back to the car, pulled out a towel from the back and dried himself. Then, taking his pack of Gitanes, he walked back to the beach and propped himself up against a rock. Sitting naked on his towel, he lit a cigarette and quietly watched nature rise. This was the time he liked most, when everything quivered with freshness and hope – the virgin page of a brand-new dawn.
As Damian smoked, his gaze settling in front of him, his mind emptied. The rising sun grabbed the scenery and at once turned it to woven gold. All of nature seemed to have woken up now; flights of doves and seagulls were whizzing round in the sky; dogs were calling the flocks of sheep and goats to pasture, distant cockerels were crowing, donkeys braying. A big sailing boat, her torn sails wrinkled like ancient skin, came in with barely perceptible movement as the current brought her towards the island.
A smaller boat, further south, did little more than stem the current. She was loaded deep with raw, red brick and seemed to have no more than six inches of freeboard. It was one of his, he noted absent-mindedly. Odd that it didn’t have its red and green lights on or even a foglight. He made a mental note to tell the harbour master and check with Yorgos later.
He stood up and threw away his cigarette. The harbour waters were getting busier by the minute, with fishing caiques gently trawling out into the open sea to tempt their luck as they had every day for more than a hundred years. Figures were beginning to move on the shore. It was time to go back.
* * *
Oriel lay awake, staring up at the ceiling. She was shocked at her reaction on hearing about Damian and Yolanda. It wasn’t a surprise to her, and yet it still twisted her heart when Vassilis had talked about them. She didn’t like feeling that way. It was out of character and she found it demeaning. Damian didn’t care for her really. Oh, he definitely desired her, she had no doubt about that, but there was nothing else, no warmth, no tenderness; she was just another seductive piece of flesh to him and that thought was even more degrading. He wasn’t the first man to hurt her, but he would be the last.
Forget him, she told herself angrily. He’s gone off now to slake his passions, no doubt, with Yolanda. Driving Oriel back to Heliades had been an inconvenience. No wonder he’d driven so fast – he couldn’t wait to get back to the siren, who had drawn him back to her with impassioned song.
A brief fury flared in her, but then was snuffed out and replaced by a mix of pain and frustration. The reason Damian could still hurt her was because she had never let go of him, never let him fade into her past … and the past could only hurt her if she let it stay in the present. Sleep evaded Oriel. Twisting and turning, she found her search for its temporary oblivion disrupted by tormenting thoughts and images, which even chased her into her dreams. A tall man, with skin like copper and eyes like flint, moved through those dreams, lay beside her, touched her with fire … made her shudder. She could feel the warmth of his body moulding her to him, the fever of his lips brushing her skin, the shameless coaxing of his hands as they explored her. She found herself reaching out in turn for him, murmuring his name; seeking him in vain in the still heat of the night.
CHAPTER 6
It was mid-afternoon by the time Oriel left Heliades. As it was Saturday, she had the day to herself to do with as she pleased and, after a night spent tossing and turning, a quiet morning writing letters in her sitting room had been restorative. Her spirits now revived, she set out on foot, heading for the marina.
It was good to stretch her legs and to feel the sun on them as she walked. She was wearing a pair of denim shorts with a sleeveless blouse and flat, golden sandals. Over her shoulder she carried a canvas beach bag, into which she had hastily shoved a long-sleeve shirt, some sun cream and a bottle of water.
The landscape became starker the further from Heliades she went: the great sandy expanses were peppered with wild carob, fig and olive trees that seemed to grow out of the rocks. Here, the barbaric sun had drained the countryside of colour and etched shadows, sharp and black, on the place. Goats were champing the sparse vegetation; one doe hadn’t long dropped a kid and it lay soft-eared, nuzzled by its mother.
Elsewhere a lithe country girl in her ankle-length skirt, thick raven-black plaits falling down her back and a voluminous black handkerchief swathing her head, carried a dark-eyed baby on her back while picking some figs. At one point a team of ox carts and mules went by with jangling bells. Oriel noticed that the peasant men in their black-and-white costumes, walking at the head of their beasts, kept their eyes to the ground as they passed her. It was a silent procession that carried her right out of the twentieth century into a remote, undated past.
Even the clusters of cottages here were timeless-looking, whitewashed under sun-dried bricks of brown clay. Most of the doors were open to the sunshine and outside a few of them were women dressed in black, with scarves over their heads, seated on rickety chairs gossiping and knitting, while others swept their front steps, the harshness of their arid land etched in their features. Their dark, watchful eyes looked up at the pale foreign lady passing by with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. Some would smile and politely murmur ‘Kalispera’ as she strolled past.
As she neared the outskirts of the little port, the road dropped downhill and she delighted in unexpected glimpses of the sea through sun-drenched olive groves. She was on the outskirts now, the wide road narrowing and becoming steeper. Oriel’s footsteps rang on the cobbles of crooked streets, some only wide enough for a donkey. Gone was the bare, dry terrain of before: this part of the island was decorative and almost poetic in its quaintness. The walls of some of the houses were whitewashed; others were the red of the bare volcanic limestone tufa. Their windows were aflame with cacti, carnations and begonias, and the high walls of the gardens were draped in bougainvillea and jasmine. The doorways, with their cheerful, coloured porches, were festooned with green vines and everywhere she looked, it seemed, bright flowers and foliage climbed and tumbled in a wild and heady tangle.
Oriel then caught her first sight of the bay, which seemed almost scooped out of the pine-forested cliffs, with a swathe of ivory-coloured beach fronting it. The slopes of green hills behind were rich with tall cypresses and tortured olive trees, their distant ridges gleaming with the dazzling white of a few scattered cottages. As she came down to the front, she passed a boatyard, which she hadn’t noticed previously, cluttered with half-finished caiques and all kinds of gear. Its small pontoon was at the outside edge of the harbour, so that craft could be launched straight into deep water. She inhaled that indescribable smell of freshly sawn timber, paint and varnish, so typical of a place that has its feet in water.
A little further away stood a row of fishing smacks and beyond that, drawn up on the sand, were some flat rowing boats and dinghies. Some of them were receiving attention from their owners – tanned, bare-chested young men with their trousers rolled up to their knees. One or two looked at Oriel as she passed, and they straightened their backs to watch her, hands on hips. They were handsome, she reflected, but she had to admit that they left her cold. For a moment she was troubled by the thought that, after Damian, no man seemed able to set her blood afire.
Oriel walked a few more yards along the beach to the quay, with its line of caiques in different sizes and colours, blossoming red, blue and green, rocking at their moorings. As she approached the main jetty she noticed that Damian’s boat was not
among them. She wondered if he had gone diving but it was more likely, she thought, with a little catch in her throat, that he had taken Yolanda to some other island for lunch, or was swimming in a deserted cove with her, away from prying eyes.
The port, unlike the cobbled streets on its outskirts, was teeming. The air was heavy with the smell of tar and paint, fish and bilgewater. Drying octopus hung on poles next to nets in need of mending, while larger netting was draped on tall wooden posts, graceful as any stage scene. Seagulls wheeled and screamed in the sapphire-blue sky, annoyed because there was no catch from which they could scavenge. Oriel watched their flight, fascinated, for a while. She had always found gulls on land to be greedy, predatory beasts. Airborne, they appeared to her miracles of power and grace, their plumage looking as though freshly laundered.
She found her gaze following one of the birds as it flew from the azure sky above the sea to the steps of the little white chapel, a short distance up from the seafront. Oriel remembered seeing it on her way to Heliades that first day. On impulse, she followed in the same direction as the bird, and paused a moment in front of a pair of blue wooden doors. They were open, allowing the church to air, and inside an old woman in a headscarf and apron was sweeping the nave with a broom. She smiled at Oriel, but left her to her own devices, not seeking to ply her with the usual string of personal questions with which she was so often met. The air was suffused with the scent of roses, many of which adorned a shrine to St Nicholas. She stopped to look more closely and saw that it was surrounded by crude miniature paintings: images, she realized, that told the story of the sponge divers and the perils involved with this ancient tradition. She thought of the poet Oppian who, in the third century AD, wrote of the spongotomos, saying: ‘No ordeal is more terrifying than that of the sponge divers and no labour more arduous for men.’
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