by Anne Mather
‘The terrace is this way,’ declared Milos politely when they were alone, and, although Helen wanted to tell him to go to hell, she obediently followed him along a cool tiled hallway whose thick walls guarded against the heat. ‘My grandfather built this place more than sixty years ago,’ he volunteered as they walked. ‘There was no road in those days and it was a convenient hide-out for members of the resistance forces during the last war.’
‘How interesting.’
Helen made no attempt to hide her sarcasm, but even she couldn’t deny a gasp of surprise when they emerged onto the terrace. She hadn’t realised the Jeep had climbed so high, but the hillside tumbling away to whitewashed villages, with the spires of hidden churches peeping through the mass of greenery, was breathtaking.
‘Impressive, ne?’ murmured Milos, resting his back against the stone wall that ringed the terrace at waist height. ‘It was originally built as a—what would you say?—a holiday home. Athens, in the heat of summer, is not to be recommended.’
‘How lucky to have the choice,’ remarked Helen drily, resting her hands on the top of the wall some distance from him. ‘So where are your parents now?’
‘They’re cruising in the Pacific,’ said Milos, with some reluctance. ‘And before you make some other scathing comment, I should tell you that my father had a heart attack at the beginning of the year and has been forced to retire. Otherwise, he would be attending the Athens conference himself.’
Helen knew a momentary feeling of guilt but she refused to let him see it. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said tersely, and she was. She wouldn’t wish ill health on anyone.
There was silence between them for a few seconds. Then Milos turned and put his hand on the wall only inches from hers. She tensed automatically, but all he did was abrade the stone with his thumb. So why did she feel as if it were her skin he was stroking?
‘Would you like to see where I live when I’m staying on the island?’ he asked suddenly, his voice huskier than before, and Helen had to steel herself not to move away from him.
‘Why would I want to see your house?’ she asked shortly. ‘Melissa’s told me all about it.’
‘Word of mouth is not the same as actually seeing it for yourself,’ he insisted softly. His eyes lingered on her mouth before moving down to the low vee of her cleavage. ‘Come with me, Helen. I want to prove to you I’m not the selfish bastard you think I am.’
‘I don’t have any thoughts about you, good or otherwise,’ she countered hurriedly, keeping her voice steady with an effort. She glanced behind her. ‘Melissa and your sister are taking an awfully long time. Do you think I should go and hurry them up?’
‘I think you should stay exactly where you are,’ retorted Milos harshly. His hand suddenly moved to close about her wrist and she wondered if he could feel her pulse racing against his palm. ‘How long are you going to keep this up, Helen?’ His eyes glittered dangerously. ‘How long are you going to deny that you wanted me as much as I wanted you all those years ago?’
‘Wanted being the operative word,’ said Helen, her breath coming in short, painful gasps. ‘You forget, I didn’t know you were married, Milos. I soon changed my mind about you when your wife explained why you’d really come to England.’
‘My wife explained?’ Milos looked baffled now, but that didn’t stop him from using his hold on her wrist to jerk her closer. ‘My wife and I were separated long before I came to England. I don’t know where you’ve got your information from, but I can assure you that’s the truth.’
‘A pity your wife didn’t see it that way,’ Helen countered, uncomfortably aware of how close he was. ‘Let me go, Milos. Or do you want your sister to see how badly you treat your guests?’
‘Badly?’ Milos was scathing. ‘You don’t know how badly I want to treat you. And I don’t particularly care what Rhea thinks.’ His hot gaze was almost suffocating her now and she was unhappily aware that her body wasn’t responding as it should. He had only to touch her and she trembled. No matter how detached she tried to be, it seemed to have a will of its own. ‘I wonder how you’d react if you were naked,’ he added thickly. ‘Would that have any effect on your treacherous little soul?’
Helen swallowed, unable to prevent herself from looking up at him. ‘Would it have any effect on yours?’ she countered, not knowing where the provocative words came from, but unable to take them back.
‘Oh, yes.’ His response was immediate, and now he turned, imprisoning her against the wall behind her. His taut body pressed hers into the stones, letting her feel every bone and angle. ‘Now tell me that what we had meant nothing to you,’ he exhorted roughly. ‘Tell me you have no lasting memories of that night.’
Even as his tongue trailed a wet path along her jawline panic gripped her. What did he mean? What was he saying? Was all of this—this planned seduction designed to get her to confess?
Dear God, if it was true, he was clever. Because right then she was tempted—unbearably tempted—to give in. With one of his thighs wedged between her legs and her breasts crushed against his chest, it would be so easy to delude herself into thinking this meant something.
Thankfully, it didn’t happen. His mouth had barely brushed her lips when they heard the sound of voices heading in their direction. Melissa and Rhea were laughing and talking together as they came to find them and, despite what he’d said earlier, it was enough to cause Milos to utter a muffled oath and put a decent distance between them before the two girls appeared.
Helen didn’t recover so easily. Although the kiss had been brief, her face was flooded with colour and she was sure Melissa would notice. Her daughter always noticed everything.
But if she did, she said nothing, and it was left to Rhea to say with some concern, ‘Is it too hot for you out here, Helen?’
‘Um—no, I’m fine,’ murmured Helen quickly, but Rhea still looked doubtful.
‘We can sit in the shade,’ she said, nodding to where a trellis overhung with bougainvillea sheltered a wicker table and chairs. ‘Marisa is on her way with the tray.’
‘How nice.’
Helen was sure she must sound as out of it as she was feeling and she was glad when Melissa exclaimed, ‘Rhea and me are going down to the beach for a swim, Mum. You can come with us, if you like.’
‘That sounds inviting.’ Helen didn’t even have the will to correct her grammar, but then Milos intervened.
‘I’m planning on showing your mother a little of the island this morning,’ he inserted smoothly, and Helen was amazed at his arrogance. ‘I believe she’s seen very little of it so far.’
‘Oh, I think a swim sounds much more appealing than riding around in a hot car,’ Helen protested, not looking at him as she spoke. He thought he could just order her around and, remembering what he’d been doing before the two girls had arrived, she rather thought he was right.
‘You can swim at Vassilios,’ he declared, evidently determined to have his own way. ‘I’m sure Rhea and Melissa don’t need a chaperon, do you?’
Melissa quickly came to the same conclusion. ‘Yeah, that’s right, Mum,’ she said as Marisa appeared with the tray. And, obviously hoping to end the discussion, ‘Mmm, lemonade! I love that stuff.’
‘So—it’s agreed.’ Milos seated himself opposite Helen as Rhea took charge of the coffee-pot. ‘We’ll meet back here for lunch, ne?’
No one else was willing to argue with him, but after the girls had driven away in Rhea’s open-topped buggy Helen faced him angrily.
‘I’m not going with you, Milos,’ she said, aware that at least Marisa was within calling distance if she needed her. ‘If you insist on talking, we can. But we’ll do it here. Not at Vassilios.’
Milos regarded her from between lowered lids. ‘Are you afraid of me, Helen?’
Hell, yes, she thought. She was afraid of him. But she wasn’t going to tell him that. ‘I just think it would be more—sensible if we stayed here,’ she insisted. ‘Melissa and Rhea won’t be long.’
‘Long enough,’ said Milos, crossing his arms over his body. ‘Come on. What have you got to lose?’
CHAPTER EIGHT
BEFORE he’d met Helen again, Milos had sworn to himself that he’d never let another woman get under his skin. All those years ago, when he’d let his senses get the better of his reason, he’d bitterly regretted it. He’d promised himself he’d never do anything like that again, and, although he hadn’t been a monk all these years, no woman had ever come close to achieving what Helen had achieved, almost without her being aware of it.
To begin with, he hadn’t wanted to believe he was never going to see her again. Even when she’d run out on him, he’d tried to find excuses for her, and it was only when she’d refused to speak to him that he’d had to accept that as far as she was concerned it was over.
He’d suffered agonies of remorse in the months after his return to Greece, not just because of his own feelings of betrayal, but because he’d let Sam down as well. It had taken years for him to regain his own self-respect and now he was in danger of losing it all over again.
He was such a fool! He’d barely brushed her mouth with his lips and he’d wanted to strip her clothes from her and bury himself in her hot little body. When Melissa and Rhea had interrupted them, he’d wanted to howl in frustration. Yet how could he feel anything but contempt for a woman who persisted in lying to him over and over again?
Now, with her sitting beside him in the front seat of his father’s elderly Aston Martin, he acknowledged that whatever happened he was never going to be indifferent to her. But he would deal with it, he told himself. He couldn’t let her ruin his life a second time.
He’d borrowed his father’s car because he’d ridden to San Rocco on the back of his Harley. He’d needed the unleashed power of the motorbike to clear his brain of the cobwebs that had clouded it when he’d woken up. Besides, he hadn’t known how he’d react having her spread thighs pressed against his butt. There was only so much a man could take.
Even so, there was no denying that being with her, feeling the heat of her warm body only inches from his, fired his blood. He was so stimulated, he could smell her—smell the flowery perfume he’d noticed once before, detect the tantalising scent of an arousal she’d already denied.
Taking her to Vassilios might be a mistake, too, he reflected. Did he really want to remember her there, at the heart of his existence? It was all right to tell himself that, at Vassilios, he was his own master. Only he realised how specious that description was.
The villa lay at the edge of a deep valley, where scarlet poppies and pink and white campion dotted the lush pastures where his horses grazed. The villa itself sprawled across a wide plateau, with white-railed paddocks surrounding it and a stream meandering under a stone bridge and down to a sandy shoreline.
Milos heard Helen catch her breath when she saw his home and was foolishly pleased by her reaction. He’d wanted her to like the place, particularly as she’d been so reluctant to come here. Besides, he was proud of it. The house had been built to his own design.
Stelios appeared from around the back of the building as they drove up to the house. The old man and his wife, Andrea, looked after the place for him. In recent years, Stelios had become troubled with arthritis, and Milos had had to employ a couple of younger men to do the rough work. But the old man was very proud of his position and he never let any of the younger employees forget he was the boss.
Now, his beady eyes fastened on Helen as they drew up, and Milos guessed he was already speculating about their relationship. After all, he seldom brought any women to Vassilios.
‘Ya, Stelios,’ Milos greeted him now, pushing open his door and getting out of the car. Then, in his own language, ‘Would you ask Andrea to bring us some refreshments? We’ll be on the veranda.’
‘Sigoora, kirieh.’ Certainly, sir.
Stelios spoke only a little English, and although Milos guessed the old man expected him to introduce his guest, he didn’t. Right now, he had more important things on his mind.
Milos nodded his thanks and then, seeing that Helen had already alighted from the car, he spread one hand to indicate she should precede him up the shallow steps and into the house.
They entered a large atrium that rose through two floors to a circular glazed ceiling above. The staircase giving access to the upper floor fanned out from its centre, while open pocket doors on either side of the foyer revealed elegantly furnished living and dining areas.
Milos saw at once that Helen was impressed by her surroundings. The feeling of light and space he’d incorporated into his drawings, and which the architect had followed so meticulously, gave the area a cool airiness that owed nothing to artificial means.
Bypassing the living and dining areas, Milos led the way along a screened hallway, and out onto the veranda at the back of the villa. Here, cushioned chairs were set in the shade of the overhanging balcony, the magnificent view of the ocean beyond an ever-changing backdrop.
He heard Helen draw in a breath when she saw the mosaic-tiled pool that lay below the patio. Curved stone steps led down, either into the pool itself or onto the stone apron that surrounded it. Canopied lounge chairs looked colourful and inviting in the sunlight, and she wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t seen some beauty in the scene.
‘Shall we sit?’ suggested Milos, indicating the chairs in the shade of the veranda, but Helen moved towards the steps leading down to the pool.
Standing with her back to him, she was unaware of how the sunlight limned the rounded curve of her hips and her long legs, even through her dress. But Milos was aware of everything about her, and he pushed his hands into his jeans’ pockets, wondering if she had any idea how tense he was.
‘You have a lovely view,’ she said, glancing back over her shoulder as the errant breeze caught a strand of her hair and blew it across her mouth.
Didn’t he just? thought Milos, but he didn’t say anything. After all, he could hardly tell her what was in his thoughts.
She lifted her hand then to tuck the silky coil behind her ear, the thin fabric of her dress now drawn taut against her breasts. Did she know how provocative it was to lick her lips like that? he wondered. Or was this just a studied attempt to distract him?
‘So,’ she said as he fought the urge to go and make her as aware of him as he was of her, ‘what are we really doing here?’
Milos pulled his hands out of his pockets and thrust them through his hair. ‘I’m sure you know,’ he said, pleased that he sounded almost reasonable. ‘Why don’t you sit with me and we’ll talk?’
‘You talk, Milos. You’re the one with all the questions,’ she retorted swiftly. ‘Tell me what you’re thinking and I’ll try and answer you.’
But it wasn’t that easy. Nothing ever was, he acknowledged grimly. His image of her now kept being overlaid with his image of how she’d looked the first time he’d seen her. A tall, slender girl, in the uniform jeans and sweatshirt she’d worn to the sixth-form college she’d been attending, she’d taken his breath away. He remembered his reaction to her then as if it had all happened yesterday and not more than fourteen years ago …
Milos was having afternoon tea in the sitting room with Sheila Campbell when Helen breezed into the house.
‘Hey, who does that swish car belong to?’ she was beginning—meaning the powerful Saab he had hired for the duration of his stay—as she came into the room. Then she came to an abrupt halt when she saw their visitor rising politely from the sofa at her entrance.
It was hard to say who was the most embarrassed at that moment. Sheila—who had admitted him to the house with obvious reluctance once she’d heard of his association with her ex-husband; Helen—because of the brashness of her arrival; or Milos himself—who knew he was here under false pretences and who had never expected Sam Campbell’s daughter would look anything like this.
Because Helen was beautiful, with the kind of untouched English beauty poets wrote about in books. V
iolet eyes, a faultless complexion, a mouth a man could only think of possessing. In other words, she was gorgeous, the tight faded jeans and navy sweat shirt in no way detracting from her appeal.
Her hair was fairly long, a thick blonde mane that had been streaked even by the weaker English sun. She wore it drawn back in a loose coil at her nape, and Milos guessed it would feel as lush and silky as it looked.
He was staring, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. From the moment her eyes had met his, he’d been aware of the connection between them. He wanted to get to know her; no, he needed to get to know her. It was a long time, if ever, since he’d felt such an instantaneous attraction before.
Her mother spoiled it, of course.
‘This is Mr Stephanides,’ she said stiffly. ‘He works with your father. He’s on holiday at the moment and apparently your father asked him to look us up.’
Milos saw the way Helen’s face froze at the mention of her father. It was as if whatever emotion his name inspired was not for public consumption. ‘My father?’ she said stiffly. ‘You know my father?’ And when Milos inclined his head, she murmured reluctantly, ‘Is he all right?’
‘He’s fine,’ Milos assured her, silently acknowledging what Sam had already told him: that Helen had taken her mother’s side during the divorce. ‘But he sends you his love, naturally. I believe it’s over a year since you’ve seen him.’
‘Almost two,’ Sheila Campbell broke in irritably, not liking being left out. ‘Not that that means anything to him. Helen knows what her father thinks of her. He made that very clear when he left us for that Greek woman. If you’ve come to plead his cause, Mr Stephanides, you’re wasting your time.’
‘I haven’t—that is—’ Milos knew he mustn’t show his hand too soon. Sam had warned him that Sheila would try to block any communication between him and Helen. By taking Sam’s side, he was only going to alienate them both. ‘As I say, I’m on holiday at the moment. As I know—few people in England, Sam gave me your address.’
