My Greek Island Fling

by Nina Harrington

She envied them that serenity. Her mind was a maelstrom of confused emotions and regret and loss, and she hadn’t even left the island yet.

  She felt as though time had stood still since she’d last spoken to Mark at the viewpoint.

  It had taken only minutes to strip off her dress when she got back to the villa alone, to throw on the same trousers and loose blouse she’d been wearing that morning and cram everything from the wardrobe and drawers into her bags. He had not returned by the time her luggage was loaded into the car.

  The cats had been sitting on the wall of sun-warmed stone as she’d turned the car around and driven through the wide entrance and onto the main road. When Snowy One had sat up and called to her she’d almost lost the will to go ahead with it.

  Coward! She should have waited for him to come back. But that would have meant staying the night in the villa. And she was just not up to it. She would have given in and spent the night in his arms. And not regretted a second of it. That was the hard part.

  Instead she’d held herself together long enough to drive down a country sideroad near Loggos and park her car well off the road, under the trees and away from the traffic and houses, before finally surrendering to the tears and anguish and exhaustion of the day. At some point in the night she’d fallen into an uncomfortable sleep for an hour or two before light broke through the trees above her.

  She’d dropped her luggage off at the travel agent in Gaios when she’d handed back the hire car just as soon as the office opened that morning. She didn’t need her expensive gowns and shoes for where she was going. This time her suitcases would be travelling cargo by themselves, and at this precise moment she really couldn’t care less if they made it back to London or not. Everything she needed, everything she could not replace, was either in her huge shoulder bag or carried safe inside her heart. Where it would be locked away forever.

  The burning in her throat emerged as a whispered sob, muffled by the sound of the hydrofoil engines starting up.

  The sea was as smooth as a mirror, with only a gentle ripple to reflect back the jewelled sparkling of the rising sun. It was stunningly beautiful. A new hot sunny morning had dawned and her heart was breaking. She looked out of the hydrofoil windows, streaked with droplets of salt water from the seaspray.

  The dew on the windows reflected back the fractured image of a woman who’d thought she knew what she wanted and had been proved completely wrong by someone so remarkable, so talented and so very lovable, that it took her breath away just thinking about him.

  He would be awake now—if he had managed to sleep at all.

  She wiped at the glass as the hydrofoil moved out into open water and headed towards Corfu, leaving behind the narrow green strip of the island with its white limestone cliffs that formed her last sight of Paxos. And the man she loved.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MARK stood under the shade of the huge oak tree at the bottom of the drive as Cassie’s golden retriever went tearing off across the lawn in search of a squirrel.

  He looked up into the flame-tinged dark green and russet oak leaves above his head, so familiar to him that he sometimes forgot that tall oak trees from Belmont had been used to build the great wooden sailing ships that had made up the navy for so many kings and queens over the centuries.

  Belmont’s heritage. His heritage. And now he was paying the price for that.

  Mark turned and started walking down the driveway between the two rows of mighty oak trees, back towards the magnificent Elizabethan manor house that was his family home. Belmont Manor.

  The September late-afternoon sunshine had turned the buff old limestone to a warm, welcoming glow that brought to mind old hearths and the long history of the generations who had lived there. Purple and red ivy tinged with green clambered up the right block of the E-shaped house, but ended well below the curved stone decoration on each turret.

  It was a solid house, almost six hundred years old, and barely changed over the centuries because the men had either been in London at court or busy fighting for their country. The heavy stone walls were broken up by rows of narrow mullioned windows which filled the rooms with coloured light, but never quite enough.

  Looking at it now through fresh eyes, he couldn’t fail to be impressed by the grandeur of the huge house. And yet this was his home. The place where he’d spent the first ten years of his life until he was sent to boarding school. But even then he’d come home to Belmont most weekends and every holiday. And he’d totally taken it for granted—just as he had with so much else in his life. Such as parents who would always be there to welcome him home, and a brother who would inherit the title and the house and all the obligations that went with it. Leaving the second son free to live his own life.

  That was then. This was now.

  Time to make a few changes.

  Mark walked slowly through the beautiful timbered hallway and chuckled to himself at what Lexi would make of the suit of armour standing in the corner, and the family shields over the huge stone fireplace. She would probably want to wear the armour and invent some entirely inappropriate alternative descriptions for the heraldic symbols on the shields.

  But as he strolled down the narrow oak-panelled corridor towards his father’s study his smile faded. Everywhere he looked there was something to remind him of his mother. A Chinese flower vase or a stunning Tudor portrait, perfectly matched to the oak panelling and the period of the house. Right down to the stunning needlepoint panels which decorated the heavy oak doors. She’d always had the knack of finding the perfect item to decorate each room with such loving care and detail. It had taken her thirty years to do it, but in the process she’d transformed the dark and gloomy house he’d seen in family photographs into a warm, light family home.

  This house was a celebration of her life, and Lexi had helped him to see that. Helped him to see a lot of things about his life in a new light.

  He didn’t need to be here in person today. He could have simply telephoned. But that was the coward’s way out and he was through with that way of life. He had left that behind on Paxos three months ago.

  Lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders, Mark strolled up to the half-open door and pushed it wide. His father looked up from his usual leather chair and waved at him to come closer. The gaunt look following his cancer treatment had faded. Charles Belmont was still slight, but he’d put on weight and was looking much more like the towering captain of industry and natural leader he had always been.

  ‘Mark, my boy. Great to see you. Come and take a look at this. The advance copies of your mother’s book arrived this morning. The printers have done a half-decent job.’

  His father lifted up the hardback book and passed it to Mark, who had chosen to stand, rather than sit in the chair on the opposite side of the desk from his father as though he had come for a job interview.

  ‘Excellent choice of photographs. Natural. I could not have chosen better myself. You did a remarkable job, Mark. Remarkable.’

  And to Mark’s horror Charles touched his nose with his knuckle to cover up his emotion. Strange: Mark did exactly the same thing and had never noticed it before.

  Mark looked away and made a show of examining the cover’s dust jacket and flicking through the first pages of his mother’s biography. The publishers had chosen the very first photograph that Lexi had picked up that day on Paxos, of his mother at the village fete. She looked happy and natural and full of life.

  The photo worked brilliantly.

  ‘Thank you, Father. But I can’t take the credit for going with this particular photograph. That was Lexi’s Sloane’s idea. She thought it might help if people saw the real Crystal Leighton instead of some shallow movie star.’

  ‘Damn right.’ His father nodded. ‘The girl’s got a good head on her shoulders. And it did you good to meet someone outside the business world.’ He nodded towards the book. ‘I didn’t just mean the cover. The stories you tell and your memories of happy and not-so-happy times brought h
er back to me in a way I didn’t think possible. I don’t have the talent for it. You clearly do.’

  His voice dropped and he sat back in his chair, legs outstretched, tapping his fingers on the desk.

  ‘Your sister is worried about you, Mark. When your mother was alive you would talk about what was happening in your life. But now …? I don’t know what’s going on in your head. We talk about the business—yes, sure. You even convinced me to go ahead with converting the cottages, and so far we’re right on track with that risky business plan of yours. But since you got back from Greece you haven’t been the same man. What do you want? More control of the business? The manor? Shout it out, son.’

  ‘What do I want?’

  Mark put down the book, strolled over to the window and looked out across the sunlit lawns. This was the first time in many, many years that his father had even asked him how he spent his day, but it was true that he had changed. They both had.

  ‘Actually, I’ve been asking myself the same question an awful lot since I got back from Paxos. And the answers are not always comfortable,’ he replied.

  ‘Tough questions demand tough answers,’ his father muttered dismissively. ‘Let’s hear it.’

  Mark half turned back towards him. ‘I want to stop feeling guilty for the fact that my mother couldn’t tell me she didn’t feel pretty enough to stand by me at my engagement party. That would be a start. I know now that there was nothing I could have done differently at the time,’ he added softly, ‘but it still makes me angry that she didn’t trust us enough to share her pain.’

  ‘Of course it makes you angry,’ his father replied with a sniff. ‘She didn’t tell me, either. I thought she was perfect in every way. I can’t understand her decision any more than you can. But she was an adult, intelligent woman who knew what she was doing. And don’t you dare think it was about your blasted engagement. Because it wasn’t. It was about her own self-worth. And if you’re angry—fine. We can be angry together.’

  The tapping continued.

  ‘What else is on that list of yours? What about this girl who helped write the book?’

  Mark took a moment to stay calm before making his reply. ‘Actually, she’s the reason I’m here today. Lexi has it in her head that marrying a girl who can give me a son is more important to me than finding someone I want to spend the rest of my life with. Three months ago she might have been right. Not any more. Not now.’ He looked over his shoulder and made eye contact. ‘I’m sorry, Father, but chances are that Lexi and I will not be able to give you the grandson you were hoping for. The Belmont line will probably end with me.’

  The air between Mark and his father almost crackled with the fierce electricity of the tension between them.

  ‘Even if it means that the title passes to your cousin Rupert? The spoiled brat who threw you out of a boat on the lake when you wouldn’t let him row? This girl must mean a great deal to you.’

  ‘She does. More than I can say.’

  Mark heard the creak of the leather chair behind him, but didn’t turn around to his father because of the tears in his eyes. A strong, warm arm wrapped around his shoulders and hugged him just once, then dropped to the window frame so they were both looking out in the same direction.

  The intimate contact was slight, but so incredibly new that it seemed to break down the final barrier Mark had been holding between himself and his father for so many years. They had made real progress over these past three months, but this was new. He turned his head towards him.

  ‘I’m pleased to hear that you’ve met someone at long last. I had almost given up on you. From what Cassie tells me, Alexis is not responsible for what her father did. She loves you enough to do the right thing, and sacrificed her personal happiness for yours. In my book that makes her someone I would like to meet. You deserve to have some love in your life, Mark. Your mother was right. You should get out more.’

  He nodded once, then gestured with his head towards the book on his desk.

  ‘If there’s one thing your mother’s story tells us it’s that we loved her and she loved us. More than we knew. And in the end that’s the only thing that matters. I am jolly glad that Crystal Leighton came into my life and made me the happiest man alive for so many wonderful years. And gave me my three wonderful children. I blame myself for what happened after Edmund. Tough times. Hard to deal with. I was not up to the job.’

  Then he looked up into the sky and his voice turned wistful. ‘I should be the one apologising to you, not the other way round. You’re right. Don’t give your inheritance another thought. The future can take care of itself. You’re the man I always knew you could be, and I’m proud to have you as my son.’

  Mark took a deep breath and startled his father by giving him a slap on the back. ‘I’m pleased to hear it—because I’m heading off to London tomorrow to try and persuade her to give me another chance. Thanks, Dad. I’m pleased you like the book. And thank you even more for bringing Lexi Sloane into my life.’

  ‘What are you waiting here for? Go get your girl and bring her home so she can meet the family. And don’t you frighten her off with all this pressure about having sons. It’s about time we had some fun around here.’

  Dratted device. Lexi shook the small battery-powered sander in the vain hope that playing maracas with it would actually squeeze out enough power to finish the living-room wall.

  No such luck. The sander gave a low whine and then shuddered to a halt as the battery gave out.

  ‘Oh, come on, you stupid thing,’ she snapped.

  ‘I charged you for three hours this morning. The least you could do is work.’

  She sat down on the arm of the sofa in the middle of the room. It was covered with a dust sheet and had been for weeks, while she stripped off the old wallpaper and repaired the holes in the plaster. Now came the dusty part. Sanding away the bumpy walls until they were smooth.

  For the last twelve weeks Lexi had filled her days and nights with work that should have provided the perfect distraction.

  But it was no use.

  Apparently no amount of physical hard work on the house could replace her obsession for Mark Belmont. He filled her days and nights with dreams and fantasies of what could have been; what had been lost. Worse, every time she looked at her children’s stories of kittens having great adventures she was transported back in her mind’s eye to the original inspiration and the sunny garden of Mark’s villa on Paxos. The wonderful house and the man who owned it.

  She could only hope that he wasn’t as miserable as she was. Even if the view was particularly delightful from the balcony of his no doubt sumptuous penthouse apartment.

  With a low sigh, Lexi replaced the sander on its charger and turned off the trance music that was giving her a headache.

  She needed air.

  Lexi walked the few steps from the living room to her freshly decorated kitchen, grabbed some juice out of the refrigerator and stepped out onto the tiny patio where she had replaced the traditional redbrick paving with buff-coloured sandstone slabs. Bright red geraniums and herbs spilled out from terracotta pots close to the kitchen door, and a simple wooden trellis still carried the last of the climbing roses.

  A precious ray of September sunshine warmed her face and the tiny olive bush in the brightly coloured pot she had painted next to her wooden chair. The colour on the paint tin had been described as ‘Mediterranean Blue.’ But it was not the same. How could it be? Nothing in her life could be the same again.

  She was still standing in the sunshine watching the sparrows on the bird table ten minutes later, when the front doorbell rang. She jogged back to fling it open, a pencil still logged behind one ear, expecting to see the postman.

  It was not the postman.

  ‘Mark?’ she gasped, staring at him, hardly able to believe her eyes. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you’d moved to—’

  ‘No. I changed my mind about New York. I’m having way too much fun right here in Blighty.’ />
  She swallowed and then gave a low sigh, blinking away tears.

  He was here. On her doorstep. Tall, gorgeous and overwhelmingly tinglicious.

  ‘Is your dad okay? I saw the pictures from the film festival when he accepted that lifetime achievement award on behalf of your mum. He looked a bit shaky.’

  He reached out and touched her arm, his fingers light on the sleeve of her boiler suit. ‘Dad’s fine. He’s still recovering, but he’ll stick around long enough to make my life interesting for some time to come. Thanks for asking. The emotion of the night got to all of us. I’m sorry you weren’t there to help us celebrate.’

  There was an awkward pause, and just when her resolve gave way and she felt that she simply had to say something, anything, to fill the silence, Mark suddenly presented her with a gift-wrapped square package tied with a silver ribbon.

  ‘I know that you’d prefer me not to contact you, but I thought you might want to have your personal copy of the biography. Signed, of course,’ he said, his voice dry and hesitant. ‘My dad is planning a private launch party in a few weeks, so this is a sneak peek. And, by the way, the Belmont family would love to have you there. It wouldn’t be the same if I couldn’t thank you in person on the big night. I haven’t forgotten what you said. You deserve the credit for making this book a reality.’

  She looked at the package, then back to Mark in silence, and then her shoulders dropped about six inches and she slid the yellow washing-up glove from one hand and wrapped her fingers around the book. She pulled it towards her for a second, then looked down at the paint splattered overalls and socks she was wearing and shrugged.

  ‘Sanding. Plastering. Bit of a mess. Not sure I’m ready for smart book-launch parties.’

  ‘You look lovely,’ he replied in a totally serious voice, but his eyes and mouth were smiling as his gaze locked onto hers. ‘You look like you.’

  He tilted his head to one side and gave her a lopsided grin which made him look about twelve years old.

  And her poor lonely heart melted all over again.