Killing Her Softly

by Freda Vasilopoulos

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  Encore Romance

  www.encoreromance.com

  Copyright ©2009 by Freda Vasilopoulos

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  Killing Her Softly

  Cast of Characters

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  About the Author

  Welcome to Encore Romance

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  An Encore Romance Publication

  Killing Her Softly

  Freda Vasilopoulos

  Killing Her Softly

  An Encore Romance Publication

  July 2009

  Copyright ©1994, 2009 Freda Vasilopoulos

  Cover illustration copyright © BG Designs

  ISBN Not Assigned

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system-except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web-without permission in writing from the publisher.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  Published by: Encore Romance, P.O. Box 1165, Ladson, SC 29456-1165.

  This book was previously published in paperback format.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Cast of Characters

  Leslie Adams—31, investment loan officer

  Simon Korvallis—36, businessman, olive grower

  Jason Adams—Leslie's late ex-husband

  Cecil Weatherby—artist, Leslie's neighbor

  Eugenia Turner—retired soprano, Leslie's neighbor

  Harlan Gage—Jason's oily associate

  Wheeler—Gage's associate

  Jimmy—local policeman

  Christos Papadopoulos—lawyer in charge of Jason's estate

  Melanie—Jason's daughter

  Eva—Jason's first wife

  Allegra-who is the woman in the painting?

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter One

  "I suppose you've come to finish the job, have you?"

  The man's voice jerked Leslie out of her comfortable somnolence. She lifted her head, squinting against the glare of the setting sun. “Excuse me?"

  "Character assassination."

  Leslie blinked at the angry man standing before her. The handsome, angry man, she noted irrelevantly. She straightened in her chair, suddenly aware that the chatter of the Greek voices around her had stilled, as if the patrons of the small seaside taverna were holding their breath. “I beg your pardon?” she said distinctly. “I've never seen you before in my life."

  "Your husband has, Mrs. Adams."

  "Has he?” she said, suppressing the twinge of guilt she felt. Any strong feelings between her and Jason had died years ago; she found it difficult to grieve for him. Yet, wasn't she here on Corfu because of unfinished business? Jason's business.

  She had a feeling that that business had just surfaced, in the form of the man glaring down at her. “Well, Jason's dead, isn't he?” she added.

  "Is he?"

  An odd chill ran through her at the blunt tone. She opened her mouth to speak, then snapped it closed again as the deep voice continued, the words clipped and intense, with a faintly British accent.

  "They never found a body, did they? Only the sailboard, washed up on the beach. Knowing what a devious man Jason was, I wouldn't put it past him to fake his own death."

  Leslie felt her face turn pale. Involuntarily, she shivered. “The police closed the case,” she said in what she hoped was a dismissive tone. “Accidental drowning. They said only fools and tourists windsurf in April, especially with the cold spring this year."

  This is not a tropical island. She could still hear the police captain's pedantic voice rumbling in her ears. The first thing she'd done after landing at Corfu airport yesterday was go to the police station. The report was brief, incomprehensible to her, but the captain had translated the dry facts into passable English.

  Death by misadventure. A fall into the cold spring sea, hypothermia in spite of the wet suit witnesses said Jason had been wearing. Perhaps even a heart attack—Jason hadn't been a young man. As for the body, it would probably never be recovered. The strong undertow could have washed it to across to Italy or up the coast of the country once known as Yugoslavia. The Adriatic was a treacherous sea.

  The captain had offered his condolences but, as far as the police were concerned, it was over, another unfortunate case of a man underestimating a ruthless sea.

  "I hear you're living in the old Adams house,” the stranger said, sitting down without asking her permission.

  Curious about his outrageous statements, she said nothing. Not that he would have listened if she issued a protest; the stubborn set of his jaw told her he did what he pleased.

  "News travels fast,” Leslie said dryly, picking up her wine glass and sipping from it. Her fingers shook only a little.

  He gestured toward the people around them who'd returned to their meals. “In a place this size it does. A beautiful stranger in town, who just happens to have been married to Jason Adams, once a local celebrity. Why did you come, Mrs. Adams? There's nothing for you here."

  "There's the house,” she reminded him, glancing up to thank the waiter as he set plates of lamb chops, French fries, and salad in front of her.

  "Good evening, Simon,” the waiter said to the man sitting across from her. “Can I get you anything?"

  "A coffee, please. Strong, with sugar.” He tilted back his chair and crossed his ankle over the opposite knee.

  "Make yourself at home,” Leslie muttered, picking up her knife and fork. She cut a piece of meat and ate it, savoring the rich flavor.

  The coffee came and he sipped it thoughtfully, his dark eyes narrowed as he studied her. Defiantly, she stared back at him. His face was lean and tanned, compelling rather than conventionally handsome. Unruly black hair in need of a trim gleamed in the dim light. His expression was cool, almost austere in its remoteness.

  Leslie felt an odd flutter in her midsection, and sweat broke out on her palms. Desperately hoping the warmth creeping under her skin didn't reach her face, she let her gaze slide down his body. His chest was broad, his waist and hips narrow, the cleanly muscled body of a man accustomed to work. Warmth stirred within her, latent desire rousing and stretching.

  Drawing a deep, fortifying breath, she checked her wandering thoughts, reminding herself that she was a thirty-one-year-old woman who had long outgrown adolescent hormones, and was glad of it. “How long did you know Jason?” she asked.

  "Since I was a child. He and my father had business dealings once."

  Leslie nodded, understanding at last. “And it ended badl
y."

  He stared at her, dropping the raised chair legs to the floor with a thump. “Why do you say that?"

  "Your attitude. You're bitter about something. Jason went to Canada at least twelve years ago. Since you mention your father, I presume there was trouble between them.” She leaned forward earnestly. “I assure you it had nothing to do with me."

  "Didn't it? Then why have you come here? And, more to the point, how long are you planning to stay?"

  She frowned, her temper beginning to simmer. “What possible business is that of yours? What did that waiter call you—Simon?"

  "Simon Korvallis,” he said, extending his hand as if his full name represented a formal introduction.

  She shook his hand, feeling the heat of his skin and the callused roughness of his palm. His grip was firm without crushing her fingers. “You are—?” he asked.

  "You know who I am,” she said, snatching back her hand.

  "I mean, your first name."

  "It's Leslie. Jason never mentioned you."

  "He never mentioned you, either,” he said. Obviously he'd seen Jason in the past year, or at some time during their marriage. Leslie didn't even feel surprised that Jason might have come back here without telling her. When had he ever kept her informed about his activities?

  "How long did you know Jason?” Korvallis asked.

  "Almost twelve years. We were married for most of that time. Until we divorced last year."

  "You were divorced?” His brows lifted. “And he left you the house?"

  Leslie paused then decided that the ambiguity surrounding her position in the house was none of his business. “His lawyer said I could use it.” For how long, she didn't know, nor did she have any idea of the ultimate disposition of the house, since the estate hadn't been settled.

  "Twelve years,” Korvallis said softly. “You must have been awfully young when you married him."

  "I was,” she said wistfully. She'd married him with youthful impulsiveness and optimism, and lived to regret it. “I was nineteen when we met. Jason was forty-one at the time."

  He didn't even blink. “Any children?"

  "No."

  "So it's just you to claim the house."

  An odd note in his voice flicked at her nerves. “I didn't even know about the house until a month ago. I didn't know Jason grew up on Corfu."

  This time his brows lifted, one higher than the other, giving him a sardonic look. “Didn't you and your husband communicate, Mrs. Adams?"

  "Not often,” she admitted flatly. “I told you we divorced."

  "But of course you must have known that your husband was married before, didn't you?"

  She gaped at him, the food she'd eaten turning to lead in her stomach. “He was what?"

  "Married. Forgive me, I see you didn't know.” He gestured with one hand. “But don't worry, he wasn't a bigamist. His first wife died a long time ago."

  "Did they live here?” Her face felt tight, her mouth dry. She could feel a nerve jumping in her jaw and slowly unclenched her teeth.

  "Some of the time, yes. Although in the last years before she died, she lived in Athens and in England. I guess she'd had enough of him by then. Jason was a strange man."

  She couldn't argue with that statement; she'd have added secretive and manipulative.

  "He has no relatives, so I guess if anybody's entitled to the house, you are. What are you going to do with it?"

  She knitted together her frayed emotions. This had gone on long enough. “Why do you want to know, Mr. Korvallis?” she said sharply.

  He looked unfazed, calmly drinking the last of his coffee and setting down the thimble-size cup. “A number of reasons, Mrs. Adams,” he said at last. “None of which you would like."

  "Wouldn't I? Then don't bother to tell me.” She lifted her hand to summon the waiter. She'd only eaten half the food but her churning stomach warned her of disastrous consequences if she forced more of it down. Standing, she took the bill from the waiter's hand.

  Korvallis also stood up. He reached across and grasped Leslie's elbow. “Mrs. Adams, there are people in this village who would like to see an end to the legacy of Jason Adams. What happened may be old news by Canadian standards but Greeks have long memories. And we don't forgive easily. In fact, I could contest that will on moral grounds."

  "There...” Wasn't a will, she almost blurted but stopped herself just in time.

  "Not that I want that mausoleum of a house.” He frowned speculatively. “On the other hand, if you want to sell it, I might be willing to help you find a buyer."

  "Who are you?” she gasped, struggling to free her arm. To her relief, he let go at once. “What do you want?"

  "I'm not sure I want anything,” he said, his expression bleak. “Except, perhaps, justice."

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  Simon reseated himself and watched as Leslie paid the bill and walked away. Her hips swayed gently beneath the denim skirt she wore. She crossed the circle of light cast by a street lamp. His gaze moved up to her hair, a glossy swathe that reached to the middle of her back. Thick and wavy, so blonde that it was almost white, it shimmered like moonbeams on water.

  Her hair was a beacon that drew eyes toward her, the last visible part of her when she stepped beyond the light. Either she didn't notice the attention she generated, or she ignored it, as she disappeared into the shadows farther up the path.

  Under other circumstances, and if they were both different people, he might have been attracted to her. She was a good-looking woman. Her features were a little too strong for classic beauty, but her skin had the glow of good health. The gray eyes, large and shaded by surprisingly dark lashes, shone with character and maturity. The dark ring around the iris gave them a silver luminance that made them seem too transparent to contain secrets. Yet, he sensed secrets. And an old, deeply rooted pain.

  She wasn't mourning her husband's death, that he knew for sure, feeling a perverse satisfaction. Hard on the heels of this thought came the realization that against his better judgment, he was attracted to her.

  Not wise at all—

  He hadn't reached the age of thirty-six without having had his share of female companionship. In fact, there had been one woman with whom he'd been fairly serious for about a year, until she'd decided he was too involved in his career to make a good husband. But his life was different now. And Leslie Adams awakened something in him that he thought had died long ago.

  Maybe it was a romantic notion that for every man there was a special woman, but deep down inside him he had to admit he half believed that. He'd had his parents as an example of two people who were truly one.

  Was Leslie the one for him?

  He shook his head, gazing moodily into his coffee cup. She couldn't be, not after having been Jason's wife. Jason, who'd earned his contempt. Jason, who'd almost ruined his reputation.

  Was it over? Or was Jason still alive, waiting and watching?

  Maybe he should have gone back to London after the Melanie fiasco, to avoid the gossip. But while his years of real estate development in England had brought him financial security, they hadn't brought him contentment. The orchards right here in Platania had done that, and the small business he'd built up.

  He'd survived, and the talk had died down. He could only pray that Leslie's presence didn't revive it.

  * * * *

  Leslie's footsteps slowed as she neared the top of the hill on which the house stood. Her breath rasped in her throat, and she muttered in annoyance. Months of too much work and too little exercise were catching up to her. She couldn't even make it up the path without stopping to rest, and in the afternoon she'd seen gnarled old ladies tramp up without even breathing hard. There were a lot of old people in the village; the constant walking up and down the hills must be the reason for their longevity.

  Those people—why did they stare at her? She'd noticed it from the moment she stepped off the bus at noon. Was it only curiosity? She didn't think so. The stares were too intense, m
aking her self-conscious and uneasy.

  Of course, she might be imagining half of it, coming to a small village where she felt unsure of herself, not knowing the language or the customs.

  She sat down on a stone wall next to the path, her shoulders hunched. Jason had lied to her, if what that man, Simon Korvallis, said was true. It shouldn't have come as much of a surprise, but deep inside her, it still hurt.

  She knew she shouldn't feel this mixture of anger and disillusionment, not when she hadn't been entirely honest with Jason herself. She'd been working in a doughnut shop and putting herself through college when she'd met him. After their first conversation, Jason had made a point of coming in more and more frequently. When he asked her out to dinner, she'd accepted. She'd enjoyed herself; the age difference hadn't seemed important.

  A month later, he'd asked her to marry him. She hadn't been sure if what she felt was love but he'd been charming and persuasive, and she'd sensed he was lonely. Having grown up in a succession of dreary foster homes, kept sane only by her keen intelligence and determined spirit, she knew what loneliness was. She'd consented to marry him.

  At first their marriage had been a success. In fact, they had gotten along better than most couples she knew. And they'd traveled across Canada that first summer, seeing the country and getting to know each another.

  At least Leslie thought they had. It was only later that she became aware of the gaps in Jason's life, the huge areas she knew nothing about.

  A previous marriage? She'd never questioned him, and Jason had never mentioned any family. He'd lied, at least by omission. He'd had a wife. She wondered what other important facts he'd kept from her.

  Perhaps he had children, children who could be near her age. No, Korvallis had said Jason had no family left. Which might explain the circumstances that had brought her to Corfu.

  The letter she'd received a month ago from a law firm in Athens had come as a complete surprise. A partner in the firm, a Mr. Papadopoulos, had expressed his condolences on her loss and informed her that Jason had asked that she be notified in the event of his death. Since there was no one else, her participation might be required to settle his estate. They would contact her again.