Dimitri Kyriakis placed the unmarked buff-coloured envelope
squarely in front of him on the gleaming expanse of the
otherwise empty desktop and tried not to show his distaste
as he dismissed the private investigator.
With the tips of his long fingers resting on the surface of
the envelope he stared out of the huge floor-to-ceiling
plate glass window, seeing nothing.
He had lived for thirty-six years, a driven man, with the
last twenty-two of those years spent coldly and clinically
exacting vengeance on the man who was his father for the way
he'd flung unforgivable insults and flatly refused to help
his gentle, loving mother when she'd needed financial help
as much as she'd needed oxygen and he, her son, fourteen
years old, had been impotent to provide it.
Years spent working, learning, planning, taking at first
tentative steps and then giant strides towards his
objective: the downfall of the arrogantly powerful Andreas
Papadiamantis.
Already the Kyriakis fleet of eye-wateringly luxurious
cruise liners had relegated his father's dwindling fleet to
scratching for the cut-price, downmarket, kiss-me-quick
tourist business, and it was rumoured to be going out of
business altogether.
And now his money men were working on the takeover of the
last two of his father's hotels. One in Paris, the other in
London. The rest had been overshadowed by the Kyriakis
chain, driven out of the top end of the market and
eventually sold off at a loss.
But things had changed. His father had disappeared off the
radar six months ago—none of the usual mentions in the
press, no sightings at his head office in Athens—and
the thought of the old lion crawling into his den to lick
his wounds had been oddly unsettling to Dimitri. He needed
his enemy to be in the ring, fighting.
Four months into his father's apparent disappearance, his
frustration and curiosity at fever-pitch, he had had the
fabulous, sprawling white villa he'd only visited that once
in his life watched. He had needed a clue to what was going
on. To him, the spying exercise had been utterly
distasteful. Ruthless in pursuit of his objectives he might
be, but he was always up-front, his intentions open for
anyone to see. It was the way he operated.
His dark-as-jet eyes focused at last on the panoramic view
from the window: the expanse of deep blue ocean framed in
the foreground by tall pines, the glimpse of the soft white
sand of a rocky bay.
Relaxing. Hypnotic. Or it should be. Always had been. Until
today.
He came to his island retreat on average twice a year, to
unwind, empty his mind. Not a fax machine, a computer, a
landline in sight. But now his mind was churning with
totally uncharacteristic and unwelcome indecision.
Had he done enough? Was the vendetta played out? Was it time
to forget his father, let the planned takeover go? Time to
allow the man who'd sired him to avoid the final
humiliation? Time for Dimitri to move on, to turn his life
in an entirely different direction? To turn his back on
sporadic, ultra-discreet affairs, to marry, produce sons and
daughters of his own—laughing, golden-limbed small
people to give a gentler purpose to his life.
The black bars of his brows drew together as he finally
remembered what lay beneath his fingertips. Broad shoulders
tightening beneath the crisp white cotton of his custom-made
shirt, he withdrew the photographs.
His father. On a terrace surrounding an immense outdoor
swimming pool. Wearing his trademark cream linen suit,
shades and—incongruously—a battered straw hat.
The telephoto lens made him look strangely diminished. Not
so the female he was touching.
He was touching the naked shoulder of arguably the most
luscious blonde bimbo ever to wear a bikini. Caught in the
act of turning to smile at the older man, her long silvery
hair falling back from her gorgeous face, her voluptuous
breasts seeming about to burst from the confines of the two
scraps of dark blue fabric, she was sexual enticement on legs.
And what legs! Long, beautifully proportioned, smooth, tanned.
Abruptly he pushed the photographic images back in the
envelope. He didn't need to see the others. He'd already
seen enough to know that the old lion was on the hunt for a
new wife to stir his ageing libido.
His father favoured blondes.
His mouth tightened to a hard, straight line as his mind
swirled with the memory of that other time, that other
blonde. His father's second wife. With diamonds glittering
at her ears, and her floaty designer dress a whole universe
away from the cheap, second-hand stuff his mother had had to
wear. And his father throwing him off his property, refusing
to help, refusing the modest sum that would have assuredly
gone a long way to making the life of the mother of his
bastard son so much easier, in all probability extending it
by several precious years.
So, no, while such coldly bitter memories still existed, it
wasn't over.
Andreas Papadiamantis was still unforgiven.
A girl could get used to this, sis!'
Bonnie Wade smiled warily at her sister. Lisa was sprawled
out on a lounger, her honed, bikini-clad body still
glistening from the pool, her cropped strawberry blonde hair
slicked to her head.
'My two blonde babies,' her dad called them. 'One
strawberry, one champagne!'
'Here—' Bonnie reached for the tube of sunblock from
the marble-topped table at the side of the lounger and
tossed it over. 'You don't want a dose of sunburn.'
At twenty-seven, two years Bonnie's senior, Lisa had always
been her best friend. Physically and temperamentally, they
couldn't be more different. Lisa was tough as old boot
leather, and slim to the point of thinness, whereas Bonnie
was soft as marshmal-low and—to her private
dismay—billowy. But they complemented each other,
understood each other.
Their mum, the harrassed wife of a busy GP, had been heard
to confide in her closest friend, the mother of three
boisterous boys who seemed perpetually to be intent on
causing grievous bodily harm to each other. 'I don't have
that problem, thank heavens! Ever since little Bonnie
learned to walk my two have been joined at the hip. Never a
cross word!'
So, delighted as she had been to receive the seven a.m. call
from the airport this morning, she still didn't understand
why Lisa was here.
'I'll talk to you about it later,' the older girl had stated
on the drive back to the villa. 'And before you get your
knickers in a twist, the Olds are fine. It's nothing to
worry about.'
Now, three hours later, she was none the wiser. As a fitness
instructor to the rich and famous, Lisa usually took time
off over the Christmas season, taking a three-week break and
flying to where was hottest. But it seemed this year she had
decided to take a week off during the summer, with a
last-minute diversion to drop in on her sister on her way to
Crete.
'You're sure the old guy doesn't mind me being here?' Lisa
finished slapping sunblock on her legs.
'Quite sure,' Bonnie confirmed. 'When I told him I needed
time off to collect you at the airport he insisted Nico
drive me, and wouldn't hear of you finding a hotel.' She
tweaked the starched skirts of her white uniform dress.
'So—give. Why the unexpected visit? What is there to
talk about?'
Lisa hoisted herself up on one elbow. 'OK. Look, why don't
you sit down—relax? I think I know how you're going to
take this, but I'm not sure, so, I thought I'd stop in as I
was passing and talk to you face to face.'
Bonnie shifted on the flat soles of her white canvas shoes,
as near to feeling exasperation with her sister as she'd
ever been. 'I'm on duty,' she pointed out. A glance at her
watch confirmed it. 'Andreas is due for his exercise session
in ten minutes.'
'Fair enough. Here goes… But first, how much longer
are you in this job?'
'I'm supposed to sign off at the end of the week. Why?'
As a nurse, working through a highly respected agency, she
specialised in remedial care. Sometimes, as now, she worked
abroad, but mostly in the UK. She might be staying on longer
to help this patient. Andreas Papadiamantis was a troubled
man, and she'd promised to help him. But there was no time
to go into that now—although the unexpected
opportunity to confide in her sister later, during her
off-duty hour after lunch, would be more than welcome.
'Why?' Lisa gave a wry, tight-lipped smile. 'Because Troy
went to see the Olds, that's why. He says he wants you back.'
Bonnie felt her face crawl with colour. Anger,
disbelief—she didn't know which. Abruptly she sat on a
vacant lounger. On the eve of their wedding he'd sent his
best man to tell her that he couldn't go through with it.
Sorry. Would she arrange for the return of the wedding
gifts? And she could keep the engagement ring.
She'd felt sorry for Brett, the bearer of the news. He'd
been painfully embarrassed. Only with hindsight had she
realised that she should have been feeling sorry for
herself, broken-hearted. But she hadn't been broken-hearted,
and Troy's supposedly magnanimous message that she could
keep his ring was an insult she was still smarting over six
months later.
The next morning, on what should have been her wedding day,
she'd taken the ring and the unworn bridal gown to the
nearest charity shop. Her parents, bless them, though
alternately fussing over her and ranting at Troy's perfidy,
had made all the necessary cancellations and returned the
gifts, and she had just gone ahead and got on with her life
as if nothing had happened.
Which, also with the clarity of hindsight, she recognised
meant that Troy had done her a favour.
She couldn't have been in love with him at all. He'd hurt
her pride, her sense of self-worth, but, being of a
cheerful, optimistic disposition she'd soon got over that.
'Apparently,' Lisa was saying, 'he gave them a real sob
story. He didn't know what came over him. Burnout, he
guessed. He'd been working so hard. He'd never forgive
himself for hurting you so badly, for messing up his own
life, come to that. He loves you more than he thought
possible, and just wants the chance to put things right. But
he didn't know where you were working, how to contact
you—blah-blah-blah. And you know Mum. A soppy romantic
if there ever was one. She went and got all dewy-eyed and
sentimental and told him where you were, working with a
cancer patient. And—this is more than a guess—I
know he'll be turning up any time now. As soon as he can fix
time off from that supposedly mega-impressive job of his in
the City. I wanted to warn you. I don't think you're the
type to go all gooey when a guy gets down on his knees and
begs forgiveness with crocodile tears in his eyes, but some
women just might—'
'Not this one!' Bonnie got to her feet, a smile
twitching at the corners of her expressive mouth. The nerve
of the man! Though if Lisa was right, and Troy Frobisher did
want them to get back together, and she had been
head over heels in love with him, then she might be deluded
enough to believe whatever he said and spend the rest of her
life regretting her gullibility.
She turned to her sister. 'Thanks for the warning. We'll
talk more later—after lunch. Don't worry, I won't be
taken in by him—or any man, come to that. And I've got
something to tell you that'll knock spots off the prospect
of any sick-making visit from an ex-fiancé!'
Andreas Papadiamantis could be a charming companion when he
wanted to be, and if ensuring that his surprise house-guest
felt welcome and relaxed while she enjoyed the lavish
hospitality of his home was his objective then he'd
succeeded magnificently.
Over lunch at the polished stone-topped table in a cool,
airy dining room, his gaunt, still-handsome features
softened as he glanced between the sisters, smoothly
switching subjects.
'Touching on your amusing description of your need for
strictness with your clients, I must tell you that my
nurse—your sister—is also a formidable woman,'
he told Lisa. 'When I was first diagnosed and taken in for
treatment I insisted on a total news blackout. I am not the
powerful business force I once was, but I still have
assets—the remainder of a once dominant chain of
luxury hotels. If the shareholders got wind of my possible
demise the value could drop like a stone.
'Bonnie was apprised of the situation when she took over my
remedial care, and I tell you, although I employ a security
staff, she made them look like amateurs! She was like a
lioness defending her cub.' He lifted his bony shoulders in
a dismissive shrug. 'I have lived with press interest for
most of my life, but it has increased to intolerable
proportions since my son set out to ruin me. She sent them
flying—literally!' He chuckled, his black eyes
dancing. 'She found one clinging to a tree that overhangs
the perimeter wall on the far side of the estate. She
knocked him off his perch with a handy stout stick!'
Bonnie blushed at the reminder. She'd felt dreadful
afterwards, and had sent Spiro, one of the security men, out
to discover if the snooper had been hurt. Thankfully there'd
been no sign of the man or his camera.
'It's not something I'm proud of,' she told the grinning
Lisa, and laid down her fork, her healthy appetite dwindling.
It disappeared altogether when her patient said, 'Bonnie
saved my life. I truly believe that. Oh, the doctors did
their part, I don't deny that, but mentally I had given up.
Until Bonnie arrived and chivvied me out of it—taught
me how to laugh, really laugh, for perhaps the first time in
my life, to take things less seriously.' His eyes clouded.
'To take a long hard look at my life, recognise my mistakes
and vow to do better. I know her agency will move her on to
look after some other ailing creature when I get the final
all-clear—'
'Which you have,' Bonnie put in, wanting to stop all this
embarrassing stuff.