HELEN was standing at the rail when the ferry docked in
Santoros. Milos could see her clearly, despite the roiling
tension in his gut. And he had to admit, she was still one
of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen.
Or slept with, he appended, trying to make light of the
fact that he was meeting her again. Although it was over
fourteen years since he'd had anything to do with her,
there was no denying his jumping nerves or the seething
emotions just the sight of her inspired.
Theos, what was wrong with him? She'd been a wife, a
mother, and a widow since that mindless interlude in
London. He should be long over her — and he was, he
assured himself fiercely.
Was it his imagination, or did Helen look a little
harassed after her journey? Two plane flights and a ferry
ride at the end of it could do that to you, he guessed.
But he had no firsthand experience. He'd been spoilt by
private planes and helicopters and fast, turbo-driven
yachts.
Still, she was here now and Sam — her father — would be
delighted. He'd talked of little else since she'd accepted
his invitation. Milos had been sure Sam would want to meet
her himself, but he'd asked Milos to do it. He'd assumed
their previous association would give Milos a lever he
didn't have.
If he only knew!
But Sam was naturally anxious about the visit. It was
almost sixteen years since he'd last seen his daughter.
And then under less than favourable circumstances.
According to him, his first wife had ensured that their
daughter only heard one side of the story. A story that
entailed a disillusioned Sam getting involved with and
subsequently marrying a darkly attractive Greek woman he'd
met on a business trip to Athens.
When Milos had met Helen some twenty months later she'd
been no less hostile towards her father then than when
she'd first discovered he'd been unfaithful to her mother.
She'd blamed him. She'd been young and idealistic and
impossibly nai¨ve.
But so vulnerable, Milos reflected with unwilling honesty.
And he'd taken advantage of that vulnerability. Not for
her father's sake, but for his own ends. Endaxi, it hadn't
been all his fault, he defended himself impatiently. She'd
been more than willing to satisfy his demands.
The guilt had come later, of course. When he'd gone back
to Greece. He'd told no one what had happened during his
trip. Not his own family; not Maya, Sam's second wife; and
most particularly not Sam, who had trusted him. But the
worst feeling of all was that somehow he'd betrayed
himself.
He scowled now, watching as the ferry's captain eased his
vessel up to the quay. The trouble was, his own marriage —
the marriage his father had arranged against his will —
had been breaking up at that time and he'd been looking
for a diversion. Helen had certainly provided that, he
thought bitterly. And then she'd run out on him proving
what an immature creature she was.
Naturally, he'd never expected to be in the position he
was in now. Helen's alienation from her father and Maya
had foolishly persuaded him that there would be no
reconciliation in this lifetime. How wrong he'd been. He'd
been stunned when Sam had announced that Helen and her
daughter were coming to the island for a holiday. But,
Helen's own husband had been killed almost a year ago, Sam
had explained, and the letter he'd written expressing his
condolences had apparently gone a long way to mending the
rift between them.
A more cynical man might wonder if Sam's amazing change of
fortune had had anything to do with his daughter's change
of heart. Despite the fact that his background as a wine
importer in England had had little to do with the actual
cultivation of the grapes, meeting Maya and subsequently
taking over her family's failing vineyard had made him a
wealthy man. During the past ten years, Ambeli Kouros, as
the vineyard was known, had gone from strength to strength
and Sam Campbell had become a much respected man on the
island.
A girl appeared as the ferry was docking, pushing her way
through the crowd of passengers to join Helen at the rail.
Not her daughter, he assured himself, despite their
apparent familiarity. In a black tee shirt with some logo
sprawled across the front and baggy black jeans that
pooled around her ankles, she was the type of visitor
Milos thought the island could well do without. Black
lipstick, hair sprayed a lurid shade of green, a semi-
circle of piercings etching her ears, she was as different
from Helen as it was possible to be.
Skata, he thought, waiting for her to be claimed by the
group of backpack-toting teenagers that were hustling to
disembark. This was one of those occasions when he wished
his family owned the whole island and not just a large
part of it.
A wooden gangplank was run out from the quay and as the
passengers moved towards it Milos saw the girl speak to
Helen. He couldn't make out what she said, of course, but
it appeared it wasn't something Helen wanted to hear.
There was a brief heated exchange and then they both
joined the rapidly decreasing exodus.
Milos blew out a breath. No, he told himself shortly. He
was prepared to accept that travelling could promote the
most unlikely friendships and that creature could not be
Helen's daughter.
Whatever, they were coming down the gangplank now and his
eyes were irresistibly drawn to Helen's flushed face. Was
she hot? he wondered. Certainly, the skirt and jacket she
was wearing were unsuitable attire for this climate. But
was that the only reason she looked so distrait?
She'd cut her hair, he noticed, with a pang he quickly
suppressed. But she was still as slim and lovely as ever.
Would she recognise him? It had been over fourteen years,
after all. Was he flattering himself in thinking she might
remember him as well as he remembered her?
And then their eyes met and held, and the breath he'd
hardly been aware he was holding got caught somewhere in
the back of his throat. Theos, she remembered him all
right. Why else would there be such a mixture of fear and
loathing in her eyes?
"Who's that?"
Without her being aware of it, Melissa had noticed her
distraction, and Helen managed to drag her eyes away from
Milos's and say with admirable restraint, "Who's who?"
"That man," said Melissa flatly, hauling her backpack
higher on her shoulder. "Come on, Mum. He's staring at us.
He's not your dad, is he?"
Helen gave a nervous little laugh. "Hardly," she said,
acknowledging that only she could know the irony of that
statement. "His name's Milos Stephanides. Your grandfather
must have sent him to meet us."
"Yeah?" Melissa arched dark brows that were so exactly
like her father's that Helen felt a momentary pang. "So
how do you know him?"
"Oh..." This was not a conversation Helen wanted to be
having right now. "I met him — years ago. Your grandfather
asked him to look us up when he was on a visit to England."
She moistened her dry lips. "That — that was before you
were born, of course."
"And he still remembers you?" Melissa reflected
consideringly. "What happened? Don't tell me my stiff-
assed mother actually had a thing for a sexy Greek
labourer!"
"No!" Helen was horrified, glancing about her to make sure
no one else had heard her daughter's coarse words. 'And as
far as I know, he's not a labourer. He just works for your
grandfather, that's all."
"Well, what else is there to do on a farm?" asked Melissa
impatiently, and Helen sighed.
"It's not a farm."
"Yeah, right." Melissa gave her a sardonic look. "You're
not going to tell me." She snorted. "I should have had
more sense than to ask."
Helen had no time to answer that. They'd reached the stone
quay and Milos was coming towards them. He was wearing a
loose-fitting shirt, open halfway down his chest, she
noticed, and black chinos that hugged his narrow hips and
only hinted at the power of his long legs. He looked good,
she thought uneasily. Dear God, it was devastating how
good he looked. Cool and dark — was his hair a little
longer than she remembered? But so horribly familiar, his
lean handsome face the one that had haunted her dreams for
all these years.
She badly wanted to turn tail and get back on the ferry.
She'd known all along it was a risk coming here, but how
had she been supposed to know that his would be the first
face she'd see? But with Melissa breathing down her neck
and her pull-along suitcase nudging at her heels, there
was no alternative but to go on. She had to go through
with this, she told herself. If only to prove to this
smug, un-smiling stranger that she'd got over him and made
herself a life.
It didn't help that in spite of her high heels — heels
she'd worn in a futile attempt to boost her morale — she
still had to tilt her head to look up at him. It reminded
her too painfully of the past and for a moment she thought
she wasn't going to be able to do this. But then sanity
returned, and with admirable control she said, "Hello,
Milos. How kind of you to come and meet us. Did my father
send you?"
The dig was unmistakable, but he was unperturbed by
it. 'No one sent me," he said, revealing the faint trace
of accent she remembered so well. "I am not an item of
mail."
Helen's lips tightened. No, you're not, she wanted to say
grimly. You're far more dangerous. But all she actually
said was, "You know what I mean." Her eyes flicked to his
and swiftly away again. "Is my father with you?"
"No." Milos negated that hope with a cool arrogance. 'Did
you have a good journey?"
"You have got to be kidding!' It was Melissa who answered
him and Helen saw Milos's eyes move beyond the girl
without even acknowledging she'd spoken. "Your daughter?"
he said thinly. "I thought she was coming with you."
"I'm her daughter," announced Melissa shortly, clearly
resenting his attitude. "Who're you? My grandfather's
chauffeur?"
Milos's expression didn't change, but Helen was aware of
the sudden withdrawal that stiffened his lean, muscular
frame. "No, yours," he responded, without turning a
hair. 'Is this all the luggage you have?"
Helen resented it, but she felt uncomfortable now. It was
bad enough having to deal with a man she had once made a
fool of herself over without having to feel ashamed of her
daughter's attitude.
So, "Yes," she said, giving Melissa a killing look. "Is —
is it far to Aghios Petros?"
"Not very," Milos replied, taking possession of her
suitcase. "Follow me."
"Shouldn't you say ilthateh sto Santoros?" asked Melissa,
undaunted by her mother's embarrassment. "That's welcome
to Santoros," she added, for Helen's benefit. "Good, eh?"
Milos glanced at her, but if she'd expected an angry
reaction, she was disappointed. "I am pleased you're keen
to learn my language," he said smoothly. 'Then to ixera."
"Yeah." But Melissa was nonplussed now, and, shoving the
phrase book she'd pulled out of her backpack into the
pocket of her jeans, she adopted her usual belligerence
when faced with opposition of any kind. "Well, I'm not
really interested in learning Greek," she said rudely. She
glanced about her. "Come on. Can we get moving? I need to
pee."
Helen clenched her teeth. Melissa was impossible and she
saw that Milos had noticed how pushing the phrase book
into her pocket had exposed a generous wedge of olive skin
between her waistband and her cropped tee shirt. It had
also exposed the navel ring that they'd had a row about
just the night before and she dreaded to think what kind
of a mother he must believe her to be.
The quay had virtually emptied while they were talking and
only the porters unloading supplies from the hold of the
vessel were still working in the hot sun. Helen wished she
were just wearing a vest instead of the heavy blazer, but
she'd had no idea it would be so hot.
As if taking pity on her, Milos spoke again. "Your father
can't wait to see you," he said. Then, with a careless
gesture, "My car is over here."
"I'm looking forward to seeing him, too," Helen confessed,
keeping pace with him with some difficulty. "Is he very
ill?"
Milos halted then and gave her a stunned look. "He's — as
well as can be expected," he said, after a moment. "For
his age, that is." He paused and then added stiffly, "I
was sorry to hear about your husband's accident."
"Yes." But Helen didn't want to talk about Richard.
Particularly not to him. She strove for something else to
say and found the perfect response. "How is your wife
these days?"
Milos's jaw hardened. "We are divorced," he said tersely,
obviously resenting her question just as much as she'd
resented his. "Your — husband must have been very young
when he died."
"He was —"
"Course, he was stoned at the time," put in Melissa,
apparently growing tired of being ignored. Then, before
either of the adults could respond, "Wow, are these your
wheels? Cool!"