Securing the Greek's Legacy

by Julia James

  There was something different about him. At first she thought it was something to do with his state of health, but then she realised it was his expression.

  Especially his eyes.

  They were resting on her, but the brief, penetrating glance she’d got used to was now a more focused stare. She stood still, letting him look her over. Somewhere deep inside her, unease was forming.

  What was going on?

  With a hideous plunging of her heart, she heard her voice blurting out, ‘Has something happened to Anatole?’

  Dear God, was that what this was about? Had something happened to him? Something to do with the protest, violent clashes?

  Please don’t let him be injured! Or worse...

  Fear pooled like acid in her stomach.

  ‘Yes—something has happened to Anatole.’

  She heard Timon’s words and faintness drummed through her. Then, at his next words, her head cleared.

  Brutally.

  As brutally as the harsh words came from Timon Petranakos in his hoarse voice.

  ‘Anatole is free—finally free. Of you!’

  She stared. ‘What do you mean?’ she said, a confused expression filling her face.

  A rasp came from him, and she could see his clawed hand clench the arm of his wheelchair.

  ‘I mean what I say!’ he ground out. ‘My grandson is free of you!’ His expression changed, his eyes hardening like flint. ‘Hah! You stare at me as if you cannot believe me! Well, believe me!’ The dark eyes pinioned her. ‘Did you really think,’ he ground out, his accent becoming stronger with the emotion that was so clearly visible in his lined face, ‘that I would permit him to be trapped by you?’

  Lyn’s face worked, her senses reeling.

  ‘I...I...don’t understand,’ she said again. It sounded limp, but it was all she could think right now. What was happening? Dear God, what was happening? It was like being hit by a tsunami—a wall of denunciation that she had never expected! Never thought to receive! Her mind recoiled and she clutched at flying words and thoughts to try desperately, urgently, to make some kind of sense of them! Find some kind of reason for what was going on here.

  Timon’s jaw set. The flint in his eyes, sunken as they were with age and illness, hardened.

  ‘Then understand this, if you please! Your dreams of being Kyria Telonidis are over! Over!’

  A little cry came from her throat, tearing it like a raw wound. She wanted to speak, shout, yell, but she couldn’t—not a single word. She was silenced. Helpless to make sense of any of this—anything at all!

  Timon was speaking again, his voice harsh and accusing. His words cut at her, slashing into her.

  ‘You thought to trap him. You took one look at him and thought you had it made. Thought you could use my grandson’s boy to trap my other grandson! To land yourself a life of ease and luxury that you have no right to! None! You saw your opportunity to make a wealthy marriage and a lucrative divorce and you took it!’

  The bitter eyes flashed like knives, stabbing into her.

  Shock spiked her riposte. ‘Anatole offered to marry me—it was his idea, not mine! He said it would make it easier to adopt Georgy—I agreed for Georgy’s sake!’ Lyn tried to fight back, tried to stand her ground in the face of this onslaught.

  Timon’s face twisted in anger. ‘For your own sake!’

  ‘No!’ she cried out desperately. ‘It isn’t like that! It’s for Georgy! It’s all for Georgy!’

  The lined face hardened. ‘Then you will be overjoyed to realise that you have achieved that! Marcos’s boy is here now—in the country where he belongs—and whatever those infernal, interfering, officious bureaucrats in England say, no court in Greece will hand him back. No court in Greece will take my great-grandson from me! And as for you—know that for all your scheming you have been well served in turn!’ His expression twisted. ‘Did you truly think that because Anatole took you to his bed he would actually go through with marrying you? He did it to keep you sweet—and it achieved his purpose—to get Marcos’s boy here the quickest way!’

  ‘No! I don’t believe it! No!’ She covered her ears with her hands, as if she could blot out the hateful, hideous words.

  ‘Well, believe it!’ Timon snarled at her. ‘Believe it to be justice served upon you—justice for your scheming, for your lies!’

  She froze, her hands falling inert to her sides. Her face paled. ‘What do you mean—lies?’

  His dark eyes glittered with venom. ‘Ah—now she is caught! Yes—lies! The lies you’ve told Anatole...’

  Her face paled. ‘I...I don’t understand...’ Her voice faltered.

  A claw-like hand lifted a piece of paper from his desk and held it up. Gimlet eyes bored into her. ‘Did you think I would not have you investigated? The woman who stood between me and my great-grandson? Of course I did!’ His voice changed, became chilled. ‘And how very right I was to do so.’

  As if weights were pulling at them her eyes dropped to the paper in his hand. She could read the letterhead, read the name of an investigative firm, read the brief opening paragraph with her name in it...

  She felt sick, her stomach clenching.

  ‘You don’t understand...’ she said. But her voice was like a thread.

  ‘I understand completely!’ Timon Petranakos threw back at her, dropping the paper to the desk.

  Lyn’s hands were clenching and unclenching. She forced herself to shift her gaze to the dark, unforgiving eyes upon her. The claws in her stomach worked.

  ‘Have...have you told Anatole?’

  It was the one question burning in her veins.

  A rasp came from Timon. ‘What do you think?’ he exclaimed, and she could hear the bitterness in his voice, the anger.

  ‘I can explain—’ she started, but he cut her off with another harsh rasp of his voice.

  ‘To what purpose? You lied to Anatole and now you are caught out! It is justice upon your head—nothing more than justice that all your schemes were always going to be in vain! That you were never going to achieve your ambition to marry my grandson, enrich yourself for life! And use my great-grandson to do it! Well...’ He threw his head back, eyes raking her like talons. ‘Your schemes are over now!’ The claw-like hand reached for another paper on his desk, and thrust it at her. ‘Look—look! And see how all your schemes have come to nothing!’

  She felt her arm reach out, her fingers close nervelessly on the thick document that Timon was thrusting at her. It was typed in Greek, with a printed heading, and the unfamiliar characters blurred and resolved. It looked formal—legal—and she could not read a word of it. But at the base was a date—two days ago—and, above it a signature.

  Anatole Telonidis.

  Timon was speaking again. ‘Here is a translation,’ he said. ‘I had it drawn up for you. For just this moment.’ He lifted another piece of paper. The layout was exactly the same as the Greek document, but this was in English. Only the signature at its base was absent. With trembling hands she took the paper, held it up. Again the words blurred, would not resolve themselves.

  ‘Keep it,’ said Timon Petranokos. ‘Keep them both. This document gives Anatole everything he wants—everything he’s been asking for! He has taken over as chairman. Total control. Full executive power. I’ve given it to him. And all he had to do to get what he wanted,’ he went on, the dark, sunken eyes glittering with animosity, ‘was undertake not to marry you.’ He paused. ‘He signed it without hesitation,’ he finished harshly, his mouth twisting.

  He took another rasping, difficult breath, as if so much speaking had drained him of his scarce reserves of energy.

  She should pity him, Lyn thought, but she could not.

  She could only fear him.

  But fear was no use to her now. It hadn’t been when Lindy
had died. It hadn’t been when the social workers had sought to take Georgy for adoption. It hadn’t been when Anatole Telonidis had turned up, dropping his bombshell into her life about Georgy’s dead father and the vast fortune he would inherit one day from his dying great-grandfather—the fortune Anatole was now safeguarding for Georgy by agreeing to what his grandfather demanded: shedding the bride-to-be he did not want...

  Had never wanted.

  It was like a spear in her side, hearing those words in her head—a spear that pierced her to her very core! Her vision flickered and she felt her heart slamming in her chest, her lungs bereft of oxygen. She gasped to breathe.

  Timon was speaking again, vituperation in his voice. ‘So you see there is nothing here for you now. Nothing! All there is for you to do is pack your bags and go! Take yourself off!’ His dark eyes were filled with loathing. ‘Your lies have come to nothing! And nothing is all that you deserve! To get rid of you as fast as I can do so I will hand you this, to speed you on your way!’

  He thrust yet one more piece of paper at her—a small one this time—the size of a cheque.

  ‘Take it!’ he rasped.

  Lyn stared at it blindly, frozen. She couldn’t think, couldn’t function—could only feel. Feel blow after blow landing upon her. Hammering her with pain. But she must not feel pain. Must not allow herself to do so. Later she would feel it, but not now. Now, at this moment, pain was unimportant. Only her next words were important.

  To buy time.

  Time to think, to work out what she must do—whatever it took—to keep Georgy safe with her.

  She took a breath, tortured and ragged, forced her features to become uncontorted. Forced herself to think, to do something—anything other than just stand there while she reeled with what was happening.

  She lifted her head. Stared straight at Timon. She should pity him—old and dying as he was, with his beloved grandson Marcos dead and buried so short a time ago. But she could not—not now. All she could do was what she was forcing herself to do now. To reach her hand out jerkily, as if it were being forced by an alien power, and take the cheque he offered.

  * * *

  She was at the beach house, staring at her mobile on which sat an unread text from Anatole, which had arrived while she was out having her life smashed to pieces. Beside the laptop on the dining room table were the documents Timon had thrust upon her and her Greek dictionary open beside them. Her frail and desperate hope that the translation he had given her was a lie had died. As she had slowly, painfully forced herself to read the original version, with Anatole’s signature on it, word by damning word her last hope had withered to nothing

  Anatole had done exactly what Timon had told her he had done. He had taken control of the Petranakos Corporation with full powers, just as he had always aimed to do.

  Lyn’s insides hollowed with pain. And he had done what he had always intended to do with her too. Always—right from the start! It was obvious now—hideously, crucifyingly obvious!

  Not marry me—

  A choking breathlessness filled her. The air was sucked from her lungs, suffocating her with horror.

  He was never going to marry me! Never! It was a lie—all along!

  And now he did not need to lie any more. There was no need for it. No need for any more pretence, any more charade.

  As she sat there staring at the damning evidence the phone rang. For a moment, with a jolt, she thought it was her mobile, then she realised it was the landline. Almost she ignored it, but it went on and on, so with nerveless fingers she picked it up.

  It was not Anatole. It was a voice speaking to her in Greek and immediately changing to English when the speaker heard her halting reply. It was an official from the town hall, confirming that the wedding due to take place in four days’ time was indeed, as requested by Kyrios Telonidis via e-mail the previous day, cancelled.

  She set down the phone. There was no emotion left within her. None at all. She could not allow any—must not—dared not. She stared back at her mobile, at the unread text from Anatole. She pressed her finger down to open it. To read her fate. She stared as the words entered her brain.

  Lyn, I’m cancelling the wedding. I need to talk to you. Urgently. Be there when I phone tonight. A

  She went on staring. Numbness filled her the way it had filled her when she’d sat beside Lindy’s dead body, all the life gone out of it. All hope gone. Then slowly she got to her feet, picking up the damning documents, looking around her at the place she had thought so stupidly was going to be her home...

  The home she’d share with Anatole.

  The man who had just cancelled their wedding.

  Not just postponed—but cancelled...

  There was a tapping at the French windows leading out to the garden. She looked round. The nanny was there, smiling politely, with Georgy in his buggy. The nanny, Lyn now realised bleakly, Timon had hired to take her place.

  How she got rid of her Lyn didn’t know, but she did somehow. Somehow, too, she made herself go upstairs, walk into the bedroom she’d shared with Anatole and gaze down blindly at the bed where he’d taken her into his arms so often. She found her vision blurring, her throat burning.

  She made herself look away, go to the closet, pick out the largest handbag she possessed. She put into it all the changes of clothes that she could cram in and, far more importantly, her passport, credit card and what little money she possessed. Then she went into Georgy’s room and packed his bag with nappies and two changes of outfit, his favourite toys. Then, still with her vision blurred and her throat burning, she made herself go downstairs again, scoop him up and hug him tight, tight, tight...

  With the shawl she had brought downstairs with her she made a makeshift sling and fitted him in the crook of her shoulder, awkwardly hefting the two bags onto her other shoulder. Her shoes were stout walking shoes and she needed them, for when she went outdoors she headed to the boundary of Timon Petranakos’s property, scrambling over the rocky outcrop there precariously with her precious burden and then, on the other side, gaining the track that led up from the seashore to the main road, running east to west about a quarter of a kilometre inland. There, she knew, was a bus stop. From there she could take the bus to the nearby seaside town and then pick up a tram. The tram would take her where she so desperately, urgently needed to get to.

  Piraeus, the port of Athens. Her gateway to escape...

  * * *

  It was crowded when she got there—crowded, busy and confusing. But she made herself decipher the notices, found the ferry she wanted—the one that was the safest— and bought a ticket with her precious store of euros. She would not risk a credit card. That could be traced...

  She hurried aboard the ferry, head down, Georgy in her arms, trying not to look anxious lest she draw attention to herself. The ferry was bound for Crete. If she could lie low there for a while, and then somehow—anyhow!—get a flight back from Crete to the UK she could lie low again, consult a family lawyer...do something that might stop her losing Georgy.

  Will I have any chance now even to be his foster-carer? What will happen now that Anatole isn’t marrying me after all? What happens to the adoption application?

  Questions, questions, questions—multiple and terrifying! Timon would make a move to claim Georgy, and surely Anatole would too? She had to get to a lawyer, find out what chance she had herself.

  But, however puny her hopes, one thing was for sure—if she stayed here in Greece then the long, powerful arm of the Petranakos dynasty would easily overpower her! Georgy would be ripped from her and she would stand no chance—no chance at all—against what Timon and Anatole could throw at her, with all their wealth and influence behind them.

  I have to get back to the UK! At least there I stand a chance, however frail...

  Her mind raced on, churning and tu
multuous, trying to think, think, think, trying to keep her terror at bay.

  Trying to keep at bay something that was even worse than the terror.

  It stabbed at her like a knife plunging deep into her.

  Pain. Pain such as she had never known before. Pain that savaged her like a wolf with a lamb in its tearing jaws. That made her want to hunch over and rock with the agony of it.

  She stumbled forward, gaining the seating area in the bow of the ferry, collapsing on one of the benches in the middle section, settling Georgy on her lap. He was staring about delightedly, fascinated by this new environment. She stared blindly out over the busy, crowded harbour, feeling a jolt as the ferry disengaged from the dock and started its journey. She willed it on faster, though she knew it would take until morning to reach Heraklion in Crete. She tried to think ahead, plan in detail what she would do once she arrived there, but her mind would not focus. The wind picked up as they reached the open sea, buffeting her where she sat exposed, feeling the savage jaws of pain tearing at her.

  Anatole’s name on the paper Timon had so triumphantly thrust at her.

  Anatole’s name betraying her.

  His message to her confirming his betrayal.

  His breaking of all the stupid trust she had put in him!

  Her mind cried silently in anguish. I trusted him! I trusted everything he said—everything he promised me!

  But it had meant nothing, that promise. Only one thing had mattered to him—getting Georgy to his grandfather and thereby getting control of the Petranakos Corporation.

  And if that promise had meant nothing to him... Her eyes stared blindly, haunted, pained. Nor had anything else...

  The stabbing pain came again. Nothing about me mattered to him! Nothing!

  Like a film playing at high speed in her head all the time she had spent with Anatole flashed past her inner vision. Their time together with Georgy...