Mediterranean Seduction

The Greek’s Seven-Day Seduction

Susan Stephens

The Spaniard’s Seduction

Anne Mather

The Italian’s Price

Diana Hamilton

The Sicilian’s Innocent Mistress

Carole Mortimer

The Frenchman’s Mistress

Kathryn Ross

The Mediterranean Billionaire’s Secret Baby

Diana Hamilton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

The Greek’s Seven-Day Seduction

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

The Spaniard’s Seduction

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

The Italian’s Price

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

The Sicilian’s Innocent Mistress

Excerpt

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

The Frenchman’s Mistress

About The Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

The Mediterranean Billionaire’s Secret Baby

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Copyright

The Greek’s Seven-Day Seduction

Susan Stephens

SUSAN STEPHENS was a professional singer who now loves nothing more than reading and writing romance. She lives in cosy chaos in a converted blacksmith’s cottage in Cheshire surrounded by cats, dogs, guinea pigs, children and a very understanding husband. She loves playing the piano and singing, as well as riding, cooking and gardening and travel. When she isn’t writing she’s usually daydreaming about her next hero!

Don’t miss Susan Stephen’s exciting new novel, The Ruthless Billionaire’s Virgin, available in May 2009 from Mills & Boon® Modern™.

CHAPTER ONE

CHARLOTTE’S feet were in the sea as she stared at the stars. She still found it hard to believe it could stay warm so late in the day on the tiny Greek island of Iskos. The damp sand felt firm and cool beneath her legs, and every so often she was forced to shuffle back on her haunches as an incoming wave claimed another slice of the shore. Finally the moment she had been waiting for arrived, and, drawing back her arm, she tossed the small band of gold as far out to sea as she could. As wealthy men’s wives went she had been a disaster, and the ring was the last symbol of that time.

Closing her eyes, she pictured it sinking to the seabed, and as it sank her spirits soared until finally relief wrapped around her like a warm blanket. Settling down again onto the sand, she curled her legs round to her side and took stock. The world was comfortingly unchanged, but at last she felt different, felt free. This must be how a butterfly felt on the day it shook out its wings.

Leaning back on her fists, she spotted the winged horse Pegasus laid out in stars above her head and felt it was a sign. The divorce was behind her. Her life was about to take flight.

Hugging her knees, Charlotte thought about the future. There were certain things she wouldn’t change. She was an established lifestyle journalist—have laptop, can travel—and she could live anywhere, thanks to the Internet. Perhaps she should move somewhere new, somewhere exciting and different—somewhere like this? But some things had to change first—recovering her zest for life, for instance. She had been on the island almost a month and hadn’t even ventured out at night yet—and her trip to Greece was supposed to be about rebuilding her self-esteem as well as her career. Up to now the change of scene had not helped. The inspiration she needed to write had proved elusive, and her self-esteem still hovered around zero.

Her thoughts flew to the flimsy dresses lying neglected at the bottom of her suitcase. They were fabulous designer freebies, courtesy of the magazine she worked for—but they came at a price. When her editor had said, ‘Find a gorgeous Greek and write about him,’ it had been code for, Bring back a barnstorming feature article to revive a career that has been badly shaken by your divorce. Trouble was, gorgeous Greeks appeared to be in short supply on Iskos.

Her green gaze idled along the base of the cliffs, where the sea was as sleek as black satin, and then swept out across the bay to where the water lay still and as smooth as a silver-grey plate. Lights were twinkling around the taverna at the water’s edge, and the occasional shout or burst of laughter bounced eerily off the rocks at her back, telling her it was time to go.

Springing to her feet, Charlotte slapped her hands together to get rid of the sand, and then froze as another sound intruded. Standing very still, she listened until she identified the regular swish of oars.

Scanning the sea, she spotted a lantern glowing in the prow of a small rowing boat. Everything was stripped of colour in the half-light, and it was hard to pick out anything with certainty, but thanks to the lantern Charlotte made out a man in silhouette. His stroke was sure and confident, as if he used the stars and moon to steer by and had a fixed point of destination.

Watching the oarsman was strangely hypnotic. He gave off an impression of power, and Charlotte smiled as her imagination kicked in. She had seen any number of wiry, weatherbeaten fishermen on the island, but something told her this man was different. He was tough, but graceful like a tiger…beautifully co-ordinated, dangerously strong. Her mind continued to throw up images in an attempt to give the shadowy form more substance—and quite suddenly she felt a hunger to start writing everything down.

Quickly retrieving her sandals, she slipped them on. The main thrust of the article was still hidden from her—but it would have something to do with the man in the boat, she was sure of it. Heading back in the direction of the steep trail that led up through the cliff to the villa she was renting, Charlotte began to run.

The outdoor terrace had a traditional pebble floor that wrapped right around the single-storey villa. There was a long table, set close by the stone balustrade to make the most of the view, and it was here that Charlotte set up her improvised desk. Like most homes in a warm climate the villa was blessed with plenty of outdoor lights, and she could write all night should she want to.

The whole time she was working Charlotte was conscious of the lantern, a tiny pinprick of light on the sea. The man and his boat were indistinguishable, but it was comforting to know he was there. It kept her imagination fired and the words flowing easily.

Gradually the list of ideas and impressions she was jotting down in preparation for writing the article was growing longer: lithe grace, physical strength, effortless coordination, sense of purpose, aura of power. Charlotte paused, and when she lifted her head she realised that her heart was racing. Determinedly she forced her attention back to the keyboard. Sheen of raven hair in failing light, harsh profile seen for the space of a heartbeat in silhouette, moonlight glancing off flexing muscles—She paused again, conscious that her breathing was faster now too. As her fingers hovered over the keys she gazed into the night at the tiny beacon, then, with a wry shake of her head, she dragged her gaze away again. Concentrate, she told herself sternly.

She wasn’t even aware how fast the words were tumbling from her fingers until a drop in temperature broke her concentration. Shivering a little, she sat up and eased her shoulders. A fresh wind had kicked up, whipping her long Titian hair round her face, lashing her eyes and making them water, and plastering annoying strands to her lips.

The last time she’d looked the sky had been gunmetal-grey, with just the hint of a magenta border where the sun-trail lingered, but now it had blackened into a deep Greek night—a deep, chilly Greek night, Charlotte amended, pulling her pashmina a little closer. After a few more minutes she was forced to concede defeat and retreat inside.

A heavy silence greeted her in the cool interior of the luxury villa, but it was a calming silence that filled her with relief rather than loneliness. She had known the moment the agent showed her round that this was the perfect setting in which to recover. A well-appointed property, at the high end of the market, it offered her the freedom from concern she so badly needed. She was too bruised inside, too shaken up to recover her fighting spirit without a little help.

The failed marriage had left behind more scars than she could ever have anticipated. There were the feelings of guilt—that she could maybe have done some things differently or better—a sense of failure, and then the grief. And that had really taken her by surprise. But she was a survivor, and this break in Greece was an investment in her future. Whatever else the article turned into, she was determined that the theme at the heart of it would be optimistic and uplifting.

Clutching the stack of printed sheets close to her chest, Charlotte shouldered open the heavy oak door that led into her bedroom. Like the rest of the house, this room was traditional in style, its terracotta floors scattered with richly patterned rugs in subtle shades of red.

With the most discerning rental client in mind, restoration had been undertaken with no expense spared. Freshly whitewashed walls framed the broad spread of a high bed, positioned so that its occupant could look out over the sea. And it was a bed designed to appeal to a novelty-seeking high spender. A well-sprung mattress lay on a platform of smooth rock, and the linen sheets were piled high with cushions in jewel-coloured silks. The throws flung casually over the top of that were cashmere.

There was even a large en suite bathroom through another door, which boasted brand-new white fittings housed in baby-blue wash-painted units. Charlotte decided she would take a long, lazy bath there as a reward for making a start on the article, but first something drew her back to the window.

Ideas were fine, she mused, inhaling the fragrant air as she thought about her work, but they were only ingredients for the cake—and nothing without careful preparation. With just a week left to get it right, she would need an early start the next morning.

The moon had slipped behind a cloud, and even the branches of the olive trees a few feet from the window seemed to have dissolved into the night. Closing her eyes, she drew a deep, steadying breath. There was a faint smell of lemons on the air, and an owl hooted in the distance as it drifted on silent wings in search of prey. Opening her eyes again, she tried to find the tiny dot of light. It was out there somewhere on the sea. She frowned, thinking it had gone. But then quite suddenly it appeared, glowing like a nightlight in the inky-black void.

‘Goodnight,’ she murmured softly, smiling a little to herself as she turned away.

It was possibly the most comfortable bed she had ever slept in in her life, Charlotte mused drowsily, settling back on the bank of plump pillows to stare into the night. Her gaze homed in on the lantern and settled there. She couldn’t help wondering about the man in the boat, the lone fisherman.

She moved restlessly on the cool sheets. How was she supposed to get to sleep while her mind was so active? With thoughts of the fisherman. Was she in lust with a shadow? Charlotte wondered wryly. Was this what it had come to? But it did no harm, she reminded herself. She was free now.

Her world had shrunk to an oasis of sensuality in the bedroom of a villa on a tiny Greek island in the Aegean sea, and it was a world full of possibilities if she allowed it to be. The island was far away from anyone she knew. She could have an affair and no one would be any the wiser. She could throw herself into a passionate sexual relationship with a man who wouldn’t expect anything from her—why should he? No strings, no consequences. And maybe that was exactly what she needed.

Her body certainly seemed to think so. Sensation was streaming through her as she watched the small light moving gently on the sea. Teasing vibrations had started to throb, with a warm and insistent pulse, but she took her hand away, resisting the road to loneliness, wondering instead if the answer to her frustration really did lie out at sea, in the small boat with the fisherman.

Sighing as she told herself not to be so foolish, Charlotte checked one last time that the lantern was still visible. Framed by the window, she saw that it was moving quite a bit now, as if the sea had grown rougher. Then she thought her imagination must have taken over, for with each beat of her heart it seemed to be coming a little closer. But however much she willed it to turn towards the villa it moved steadily away from her, towards the far side of the shore.

Who is he? Charlotte wondered as she thought about the fisherman. And, more importantly, how do I get to meet him? She was still mulling it over when sleep finally claimed her.

CHAPTER TWO

THE sound of turtledoves cooing in the split trunk of the olive tree outside her window woke Charlotte at daybreak. Easing herself down from the snug sleeping platform, she padded barefoot across the cool tiled floor and stared out of the open shutters. It took her a few moments to adjust to the low, slanting light, and then she sighed with disappointment.

What had she been expecting? She had seen the fisherman turn for shore in the middle of the night. But somehow that hadn’t been enough to prevent her imagination conjuring up an image of him waiting for her somewhere.

Directing her gaze upwards, she saw the sky was a pale, watery lemon, and smiled in anticipation. The new day held the exciting possibility that she might see the mystery man again.

These last few days on the island might well be worth all the others put together, Charlotte thought, suddenly feeling the crazy urge to lean out of the window and embrace the translucent light. She wanted to stamp the view on her memory for ever: the sand stretching away in an ivory crescent, looking as though it had been washed, cleaned and ironed just for her pleasure, and beyond that the fingers of mist lingering over smudgy green olive groves. The sea was translucent aquamarine, and mirror-flat between her side of the shore and the jetty where the fisherman must have tied up his boat. She stared intently, but there was no sign of either him or his boat.

Time to swim, she decided, pulling back decisively. And after that she would settle down to the business of writing.

Coming down the stone steps in just her pyjamas, Charlotte paused only to slip on her sandals. During her short time in Greece the sunshine and warmth had stripped away her inhibitions—that and the fact that so far no one had trespassed on the stretch of beach below the villa. She would swim naked today, as she had every day since her arrival.

By the time she reached the edge of the cliff her pulse was racing with more than her usual anticipation, and the first thing she saw out at sea were two red floats. His floats? Surely they must be. Her heart leapt, and, turning towards the steep donkey trail that led down to the beach, she tried not to run. But the markers were like magnets, drawing her to the shore.

They are just markers in the sea, Charlotte warned herself as she walked across the sand. Nothing to make a fuss about. She took her time removing her sandals, and made a point of ignoring them. But by the time she reached the water’s edge she could hardly breathe with excitement. He would come back—he had to come back at some point to claim them, she realised, ripping off her nightclothes and tossing them onto the ground.

Get a grip! she told herself, pausing a moment to enjoy the soft brush of the breeze on her naked body. If this was the way she was going to react, she would have done better staying up at the villa, where she was safe. How much safer to flesh out the fisherman in her imagination than to risk an encounter…

But as the cool water lapped over Charlotte’s feet her brain clicked into gear and a line of poetry swam into her head that seemed to fit the fisherman perfectly. More than that, it provided the perfect theme for her article.

She replayed the words in her head just to be sure: Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure. It was perfect—as the hook for her article, as the theme she had been searching for.

She only had to think about the fisherman to know the direction her article would take now. It was a theme that was sure to resonate with her readers, make them pause over their lattes: a man fulfilled, a man who had found his destiny working close to nature in the sleepy environs of a small Greek island.

Good as far as it went, Charlotte mused, shivering a little as she waded deeper into the water. But what had happened to her determination to reinvent herself? Was the fisherman going to be confined to the printed page? Living in the imagination was great—it had always provided her with an escape—but was it enough? And should the thought of the mysterious fisherman be sending her heart-rate off the scale? She put that thought on hold as she embraced the chilly waves with a shriek of excitement.

Plunging deep, Charlotte began to swim out strongly towards the red floats. She swam well, with her head underwater much of the time to streamline her position and minimise drag. The sea was as clear as if it had been filtered, and the sandy floor was littered with rocks giving shelter to the shoals of colourful fish streaking past her legs. She saw the fisherman’s lobster pots first, nestling between two rocks, even before she realised she had reached his markers.

Treading water, Charlotte grabbed hold of one of the fat red globes and clutched it to her chest. Her nipples tightened as she traced the curved lines with her fingertips and let her thoughts fly. Closing her eyes, she careered off on an erotic adventure where the fisherman’s tight buttocks moved with the same insistent thrust as the waves beneath his float. She allowed her legs to rise behind her, and used the float to keep herself above the waves. It felt cool and smooth against her cheek, with just enough scratchy damage to make her think of how a stubble-roughened jaw might feel against her skin. Her thoughts lingered on his strong hands, touching it, controlling it, much as she was doing now—

‘Oy! Min to kanis afto!’

Charlotte’s heart leapt into her throat as she thrust the float away. The barked order carried clearly across the water and came from the shore. Back-pedalling furiously, she sent a curtain of spray high into the air as she whirled around to try and see who was shouting at her.

So much for romantic ideals! It was her fisherman, and even the shock of reality and fantasy colliding was overtaken by a new fear when she saw him take a few fast steps forward. He thought she was in danger and was coming to her rescue, she realised. Quickly thrusting her arm into the air, she gave him a confident ‘thumbs-up’ signal. She relaxed a little when he halted abruptly, but he still exuded a sense of purpose she sensed might be triggered at the slightest provocation. She didn’t flatter herself it was out of concern. He was just plain furious.

But then she began to resent his arrogant occupation of her beach. What did he think she was doing? Did he think she was hoping to steal her supper? Did he own the sea? Charlotte had a good mind to stay exactly where she was until the man gave up and went away. But then she heard an engine put-putting towards her. Swinging round in the water, she saw that a small fishing vessel was closing in on her fast.

Back on the beach, the fisherman had planted himself in front of her pyjamas, whilst in the fishing boat she saw the stocky figure of a much older man sporting a swirling moustache. He had spotted her too. The boat was close enough for Charlotte to see the blue stripes painted down its sides.

She couldn’t stay treading water for ever. Was it fate lines colliding, or a disaster unfolding? Charlotte knew there was only one way to find out. She began to swim back to shore, and only slowed when she was close enough to see the water frothing around the fisherman’s naked feet. As their gazes clashed he brandished her clothes in his hand like a flag.

Was he showing them to her or taunting her with them? she wondered. But, noting the cynical slant of his eyes, Charlotte pulled away towards the shelter of the rocks clustering at the shoreline.

Nothing like a little real-life experience to spice up your writing, she mused, turning in time to see him make a second imperative gesture—past her this time, out to sea.

Quite suddenly the boat’s engine was cut. The fisherman on board retreated to the stern, where he busied himself with some nets. The only sound now was the restless surf sighing against the reef and slapping lazily against the side of the small fishing boat.

Crawling commando-style through the shallows on her forearms, Charlotte slipped into hiding between two large boulders and waited there out of sight until she had caught her breath. Then, snatching a quick look, she saw that the fisherman was still standing where she had first seen him, still holding her pyjamas in his fist.

‘Throw them over here!’ she called, pressing herself back against the rock. She waited, but when there was no response she was forced to dart her head out again. The fisherman shook her nightwear, and then his head—slowly and deliberately.

Charlotte sank back with a gust of frustration. Rock and a hard place came to her mind. It was clear this man was no push-over, but, on the plus side, he was an incredible-looking individual. His eyes were extraordinary. Their intensity alone was enough to send a shiver coursing down her spine.

Maybe it came from living so close to nature, Charlotte reasoned impatiently. But she was forced to admit that the hard, muscular body, combined with such an arrogant stare, added up to a lot more than she had bargained for when she’d daydreamed about the mysterious and then-unseen fisherman.

He was taller than she had imagined too, and built like a kickboxer, with incredible legs shown off to best advantage in a pair of battered shorts. Her senses surged at the thought of being controlled by such well-muscled thighs, and she quickly shut her eyes, as if that was enough to make the danger go away.

Fantasy was one thing. Reality, in the shape of this particular Greek male, was another thing altogether. He even wore a knife at his waist, hanging in a long sheath from a low-slung leather belt. ‘Dinosaur,’ Charlotte muttered fiercely, feeling her pulse speed up. He was such a compelling individual that one crazy part of her wanted to tear his clothes off with her teeth, whilst her sensible self was angry with him for provoking such an irresponsible response.

She sank down again in the shallows behind her rock, and it was a good few moments before she steeled herself for another look—and that was a mistake.

Charlotte’s breath flew out of her chest as their gazes clashed. Something in the man’s brooding expression suggested he knew every position in the Kama Sutra, and had devoted his life to perfecting each one of them in turn. Ideal research material for her article, no doubt—but was she really ready for this?

Charlotte shouted down the warning bells clamouring in her head. This was the moment. She could seize it, or live to regret it.

Predatory and very masculine interest was coming off the man in waves. She judged him to be in his midthirties—old enough to know what to do in the bedroom, without having lost either the interest or the stamina required for her purposes…

Closing her eyes, Charlotte brushed the last of her doubts aside. Rolling back the film in her mind, she evaluated what she knew of him: his hair was thick, raven-black and slightly wavy, and he wore it longer than the average man—but there was nothing remotely average about this man.

Most crucially he wore no ring. But she would still have to make discreet enquiries of Marianna, who worked at the villa and seemed to know everything about everyone on the island. So far, though, Charlotte thought confidently, the signs were looking good—delectable, unattached male with perfect body for lonely journalist’s entertainment. For research purposes only, naturally.

He could easily have passed for one of the Ancient Greek gods—except they’d been too petty and far too pretty, she decided. She cast him instead as Jason, the Argonauts’ legendary leader, instantly elevating the small blue and white fishing boat to the fifty-oared Argo—though it was too great a stretch even for Charlotte’s imagination to pass off her threadbare pyjamas as the Golden Fleece. And what was she going to do about her pyjamas? They remained firmly in his grasp.

She closed her eyes, waiting for her heart to calm down, and then, feeling his stare on her face, knew she hadn’t pulled back sufficiently behind the screen of rock.

Snapping her eyes open, Charlotte raised her voice so there could be no mistake. ‘Throw them over here!’

Glaring at him furiously when he made no response, she found herself caught in a hypnotic gaze. It was hard and cynical: the gaze of a connoisseur, disturbingly knowing.

Charlotte made one last attempt to call to him—in a softer voice this time, hoping to appeal to his better nature.

With a smile, she gestured airily towards the pyjamas.

He took a menacing step towards her.

‘Stay there!’ she shouted, alarmingly conscious of her own nakedness.

The fisherman stopped, and slouched comfortably on one hip.

He was enjoying her predicament, Charlotte realised, and, worse, appeared content to wait for as long as it took until she was forced to come out of hiding and claim her clothes.

She watched him shrug, and saw that the curve of his lips held no humour, that his dark stare was unwavering. But then an explanation occurred to her, and she knew she should have thought of it sooner. Of course—he didn’t understand what she was saying!

Hissing with frustration, Charlotte wondered what to do next. She didn’t speak Greek, so they were never going to get anywhere.

‘Why don’t you come here and get them?’ the fisherman suddenly challenged her, in barely accented English.

CHAPTER THREE

CHARLOTTE drew back abruptly. Whatever else she had been expecting it certainly wasn’t this easy command of her own language.

His voice was almost at the same level as the whispering surf, yet still managed to resonate with all the assurance she associated with rampant masculinity.

He spoke English so well… Tourists, Charlotte realised, cursing her sluggish brain cells. Of course he spoke English fluently—what had she expected him to speak? Ancient Greek?

No doubt he would have a good laugh about this encounter later in the local taverna. But if she was to make this the opportunity she had been waiting for she had to swallow her pride. With hardly any time left on the island, she still had an article to write and her self-esteem to rebuild. She had to make a start.

Now she knew he spoke her language she could be more direct. Tilting her chin in defiance, Charlotte stepped out of her hiding place. ‘Hand my pyjamas over right now! And don’t even think of accusing me of interfering with your catch. I’ve got every bit as much right to swim here as—’

The diatribe froze on her lips. The beach was deserted and the fisherman nowhere to be seen.

Frowning, Charlotte turned a full circle. But the man had disappeared as surely as if he really had been a figment of her imagination. The only proof he had ever existed lay in the fact that her pyjamas had been moved from the beach, where she had thrown them, to a rocky shelf protruding from the cliff-face. Relief and disappointment swept over her in turn until, remembering the fishing boat moored close by the shore, she snatched up her clothes and crawled between the rocks to get dressed.

Iannis climbed soundlessly and with the ease of long practice. Reaching for one final handhold, he swung himself over the cliff-edge and sprang to his feet.

Who was she? From his vantage point high above the beach he could see little more than the top of the young woman’s head. He watched as she flicked the water-slicked hair away from her face with the fast, fluid movements of a dancer.

He was forced to acknowledge that she had a graceful carriage, and gave a reluctant smile as he remembered how high and proud she had held her head when she emerged from behind her rock shelter. Not quite like Aphrodite from the waves—she was too rebellious for that—but just as beautiful. But she appeared utterly unconcerned by her actions, and that made him angry. If he had stayed behind to make something of the encounter, what then? Would she have remained so brazen?

A muscle ground in his jaw as he turned to go. Why should he care?

Because not only did she irritate him, she intrigued him, he realised, starting to move away from the edge. There was something undeniably provocative about a beautiful woman prepared to face him down. The way she flaunted herself was a challenge he couldn’t ignore: it urged him to test her boundaries. Perhaps she had none. Perhaps he would make it his business to find out. But first he had to find out who she was. Someone would be able to tell him: Iskos was a small island, and very few tourists came to visit in the autumn.

Before leaving he turned to watch her walking rapidly across the beach. She was making for the cliff path that led up towards the villa she must be renting. His eyes narrowed. She would have to come almost right past him if he stayed where he was.

There was something strangely vulnerable about her now, in contrast to the impression she had given down on the beach, Iannis realised, feeling his interest stir. Her pyjamas were wet with seawater and clumped wetly around her ankles—was that it?

As he continued to watch his mouth firmed. Had she never heard of swimming costumes? Or was it just too much trouble to put one on? Either way, it showed scant regard for the traditions of Iskos, where single women didn’t even go out unescorted, let alone bathe naked in the sea. Thank God she was no concern of his!

He made to go, then stopped again. Theos! She had the most provocative figure he had seen in a long time. It might not be fashionable to possess such well-shaped thighs, or such buttocks, but her lush curves defied fashion. And her breasts—! Iannis swung away, determined to push the troubling image aside.

But it was already too late. The face and form of the mystery woman were branded on his mind. She was a voluptuous temptress who had curled around his senses and left a calling card of desire, he realised, feeling his appetite sharpen. And he would call on her, he decided, slowing as he reached the fragrant shade of the pine trees. She was clearly a player—and if she was looking for a playmate he could certainly accommodate her. But at a time of his own choosing, not hers.

They were within yards of each other now, but Iannis had the cover of the trees to his advantage. The subterfuge gave him no satisfaction. When he saw a woman he liked he moved fast and in the open. But something about this one stood between them like an invisible barrier. Maybe the vulnerability he had sensed earlier. Whatever it was, it prevented him from confronting her as effectively as if she had used an army to keep them apart.

Or maybe he was just growing soft, Iannis thought, and his hard mouth firmed in a cynical line. And that would never do.

Marianna, who tended to the villa Charlotte was renting, was busy pegging out washing when Charlotte arrived back. Turning, hands on hips, to survey the young English visitor, she said sternly, ‘Why must you go to the beach undressed?’

All Charlotte cared about was that she was back, and in one piece. ‘I won’t do it again,’ she promised fervently, meaning every word. She had certainly learned her lesson! ‘But I’m not undressed, Marianna,’ she felt compelled to explain. ‘I’m wearing my pyjamas—’

Marianna threw up her hands in dismay. ‘And what about the fishermen?’

‘Fishermen?’ Charlotte affected innocence, but she felt her face heating up. ‘You knew about them?’

‘And you saw them,’ Marianna stated with confidence. ‘And, more importantly, they saw you.’ She wagged one blunt-nailed finger at Charlotte as she spoke. ‘It is not done here on Iskos. Next time I shall accompany you.’

Charlotte knew the admonishment was well meant, but hurried to change the subject. ‘Here—let me help you with that,’ she offered. Dipping down to pick something out of the loaded basket, she extracted a damp pillowcase, which Marianna promptly removed from her hands.

‘Did any of them speak to you?’ the older woman managed through a mouthful of pegs.

Marianna was not going to let the subject rest, Charlotte realised. ‘There was one man.’

‘Taller than the rest?’

‘Larger than life,’ Charlotte agreed with some irony, realising as she spoke that it was absolutely true. But Marianna’s sudden stillness rang a warning bell. ‘Do you know who I mean?’

‘Did you speak to him?’

‘If we’re both talking about the same man…’ Charlotte hesitated, and saw from Marianna’s face that they were. ‘A little,’ she admitted cautiously. ‘Why? Do you know him?’

But Marianna, exclaiming in Greek under her breath, seemed in no mood to answer questions.

‘What’s wrong Marianna?’ Charlotte prompted. She had to know. In fact, she wanted to mine Marianna’s brain for every scrap of information about the fisherman.

‘The fishermen made their decision to come here only this morning, or I would have warned you,’ Marianna said at last. ‘The weather is unusually warm for the time of year. It brought the fish to this part of the island.’

‘But why should it matter if I saw the fishermen?’

‘Fishermen? Bah!’ Marianna exclaimed. ‘Fisherman,’ she said, tapping the side of her nose for emphasis.

‘Yes?’ Charlotte prompted eagerly.

‘I must get on,’ Marianna said briskly. ‘Your breakfast is waiting on the terrace.’ And she turned her back, leaving Charlotte in no doubt that the conversation was over.

Faced by such an uncommunicative expanse of Greek matriarchal back, Charlotte was forced to concede defeat. ‘I’ll take a shower before I eat,’ she said, almost thinking aloud.

She would wash all the salt from her body and the memory of the fisherman from her mind. Then she would slip into some fresh clothes and bring her camera back to the terrace, just in case she felt like taking some background shots for the article. At least that way she would have accomplished something positive as far as work was concerned—because time was running out, she reminded herself.

He was there! She could hardly believe it. Right below her on the beach, hauling nets with the other men, clearly distinguishable because he was at least a head taller than the rest.

If this was what came with loss of privacy on the stretch of beach below her villa, she was all for it, Charlotte mused as she adjusted the focus on her camera.

The delicious breakfast Marianna had prepared for her lay forgotten on the plate as Charlotte clicked away furiously. She must get some shots of the other men too, she reminded herself, and the scenery. She took those as quickly as she could, and then zoomed in again to focus on her prime target—the broad sweep of sun-bronzed shoulders shown off to perfection beneath a faded blue vest. She couldn’t help noticing how the fabric clung to his toned torso—and then recoiled, almost falling off her chair when his head lifted and he swung around. Now he seemed to be looking straight at her…

Righting herself, Charlotte instinctively covered the lens of the camera with her hand. The sun must have glinted off the glass. Reaching for the camera case with shaking hands, she stowed the camera away inside it.

The man had definitely seen something. The way he was standing now, hands planted on his hips, staring up towards the terrace, proved it. And though he was too far away for her to be able to read the expression on his face, she didn’t have to.

‘Ah, you have not eaten your breakfast.’

Charlotte turned around, relieved to hear Marianna’s reproachful voice. It brought a welcome gust of normality into a situation that was growing increasingly uncomfortable. ‘I’m sorry.’ She smiled into Marianna’s raisin-black eyes. ‘Here, let me help you with that,’ she insisted as Marianna began collecting up the dishes. She was in no mood for playing Russian roulette with the fisherman’s intentions, and would feel a lot safer inside the house.

‘You will fade away,’ Marianna declared once they were back in the kitchen. ‘You must eat.’

‘Fade away? Me?’ Glancing in the mirror, Charlotte viewed herself critically. She had always been on the generous side of average, as far as weight was concerned, but a healthy diet, as well as plenty of exercise in the Greek sunshine, had stripped away much of the excess. She was surprised at how fit she looked. No amount of pounding rubber in the gym had managed to achieve such a firm body back in England.

Altogether her looks had undergone something of a transformation. Her hair had paled to a rich golden red, and even that was streaked with lighter strands around her hairline. Just as well, she mused wryly, since the tip of her nose was bright red. She needed the contrast. But her freckles… Charlotte groaned as she wiped her hands across her nose and cheeks, and sighed with frustration.

‘Do you eat at all when I leave here?’ Marianna persisted, breaking into her cogitations. ‘No, I thought not,’ she said disparagingly, without giving Charlotte a chance to speak. ‘But tonight you shall.’

‘I shall?’ Charlotte said with surprise.

‘Yes,’ Marianna said decisively. ‘Tonight you shall come with me to the taverna and eat a proper meal.’

‘But—’ Charlotte bit back the words she had been about to say. Anticipating a refusal, Marianna looked crestfallen. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ Charlotte said hurriedly, ‘but I don’t—’

‘Don’t eat? Yes, I know,’ Marianna said, rolling her eyes. ‘That’s why I’m suggesting you come along with me tonight. There is delicious food at the taverna. And there will be music, and dancing too.’

Raising her arms above her head, she clicked her fingers rhythmically, with such a look of mischief in her eyes that it didn’t take much for Charlotte to imagine the woman Marianna must have been maybe fifty years before. It would be churlish to refuse, she realised. ‘You’re very kind Marianna. Thank you for asking me. I’d love to come.’

‘In that case, I will collect you at nine o’clock,’ Marianna said briskly. ‘And you will wear a pretty party dress.’

‘A party dress?’ Charlotte’s mind stalled for a moment, and then she remembered the fabulous designer dresses still languishing at the bottom of her suitcase. ‘Will everyone be dressed up?’ she asked dubiously, hoping to avoid the toe-curling possibility that she might be overdressed if she wore one of them.

‘Of course,’ Marianna declared passionately. ‘Tonight is a special night—a panagiria. There will be traditional folk music, good food, and dancing. Everyone will be wearing their best clothes.’

‘Everyone—’ Charlotte bit the word back guiltily. Of course he wouldn’t be there. It was crazy to expect the hard man of the island to grace such an event with his presence. He might have felt at home yelling the odds at a boxing match, or even stripped to the waist taking part—She quickly pulled the shutters down on that disturbing thought. No, the occasion Marianna had just described would not appeal to the steely individual she had encountered on the beach.

Feeling reassured, Charlotte agreed with a smile. ‘I’ll be ready for you at nine o’clock,’ she promised Marianna, already looking forward to her first night out on the island.

‘There’s just one more thing,’ Marianna added haltingly.

‘And what’s that?’ Charlotte prompted with surprise. It wasn’t like Marianna to be anything other than forthcoming.

‘It would be better if you left your camera behind. The men don’t like it.’ Marianna gave an open-armed shrug.

‘The men don’t like it?’ Charlotte repeated, wrinkling her brow, not sure whether to laugh or not.

‘It’s better to conform.’

‘Do you conform?’ Charlotte said, still uncertain of her ground. Up to now she would have suspected that a strong character like Marianna would set the rules, rather than have them imposed upon her.

‘Yes,’ Marianna said with some emphasis. ‘It is not for me or for anyone to upset centuries of tradition.’

Consider yourself reprimanded, Charlotte thought. The one thing she didn’t want to do was cause offence. ‘I’m sorry—you’re quite right,’ she said quickly. ‘I won’t take anyone’s photograph without asking their permission first—’

‘No,’ Marianna said firmly, holding up her hand. ‘It would be better if you did not bring your camera at all. People can be…’

‘Yes?’ Charlotte pressed when the older woman fell silent.

Marianna only shrugged. ‘It would be better if you did not bring your camera,’ she repeated doggedly.

‘In that case, I won’t,’ Charlotte promised. Maybe that was what was wrong with the fisherman on the beach—he had suspected there was someone taking photographs. Marianna’s reference to centuries of tradition made Charlotte wonder if there was some superstition-based prejudice on Iskos that forbade the use of photography. ‘See you at nine,’ she said, returning to the present as she waved Marianna off with a smile.

Charlotte felt a rush of excitement as she contemplated the evening ahead. Her glance flew to the opposite side of the shore. She could just make out the white tops of the outdoor tables at the taverna, waiting for their traditional blue and white checked tablecloths to decorate the Formica surfaces.

There was no sign of the fisherman or his boat, and she turned her attention instead to the wooden jetty extending out on stilts into the sea. It was lit by twinkling lights at night, and from her eyrie on top of the cliff she had often thought it the most romantic place on earth. On several occasions haunting music had floated up to her in waves, and she had just been able to make out couples dancing close together, watch the tiny figures forming into a line to dance the kalamatiana, the traditional dance of Greece. And now, tonight, in just a few hours, she would be there!

Without a partner, Charlotte remembered wryly. But she was looking forward to all the good food Marianna had mentioned. Just the thought of the freshly caught fish and delectable mezedhes, the hors d’oeuvres of Greece, was enough to make her mouth water. And, who knew? She might even be invited to dance.

She would write all day, Charlotte decided, remembering the article still awaiting her attention. But then, as a reward, she would dance all night…

She hadn’t realised there was quite so much Lycra in the designer dresses, and with just half an hour to go before Marianna arrived Charlotte was still trying to make up her mind which one to wear. Would it be the skin-tight red dress with the plunging neckline, or the backless eau-de-nil number?

From the front at least the pale green dress looked quite respectable—except that it made her breasts look like melons and her backside—Thankfully, her head refused to go any further round to get a proper look, so she was going to overlook that problem. But at least the shade was subtle, Charlotte told herself, and she made her final decision.

If she draped a shawl around her shoulders she would be pretty well covered up. And it was either that or shorts and a tee-shirt—and Marianna had stipulated party dress. She couldn’t disappoint, could she? Charlotte mused, reverently lifting out the dainty Jimmy Choos her chums had insisted she pack along with the dresses. Irresistible! Charlotte held up the sandals to admire them. Goodbye flat sandals, hello stiletto heaven. She eased her slim, tanned feet beneath the fragile, beaded straps.

She was beginning to feel like Cinderella, Charlotte realised as she gathered up her long sun-streaked hair. Holding it with a discreet tortoiseshell clip, she dragged down a few tendrils to soften the effect.

Finally she attended to her freckles, using make-up with an unusually heavy hand. They certainly disappeared, but under a thick coating of foundation that left her face looking like a mask, so then she had to add some rouge to lift the effect.

The transformation was startling, to say the least. And it wasn’t quite what she was used to. She could always hide behind the shawl, Charlotte consoled herself. But the slash of bright red lipstick helped to boost her confidence, as did the layers of black mascara she’d applied to her lashes. But there wasn’t much of her old self left by the time she had finished, she realised, pulling a face at herself in the mirror. But as this was ‘new’ Charlotte—the one with all the confidence—that was good, wasn’t it?

Marianna arrived on the dot of nine, dressed in her finest black regalia, consisting of a voluminous ankle-length skirt, sensible shoes, and an all-concealing top, with the ubiquitous headscarf arranged to allow just a peep of sleek, centrally parted steel-grey hair.

‘Ready?’ Her thoughts on Charlotte’s appearance were revealed by a drawing together of her brows and a click of her tongue. ‘This is your party dress?’ she demanded uncertainly, giving Charlotte’s outfit a comprehensive perusal.

‘This is it,’ Charlotte agreed with an air of finality. She just couldn’t face the rigmarole of starting over again, trying to decide what to wear.

‘Then we go,’ Marianna said with a shrug, drawing the soft cream-coloured shawl down over Charlotte’s naked back and securing it a little closer around her neck.

CHAPTER FOUR

ANY apprehension Charlotte might have felt about her first night out on the island was quickly dispelled when they arrived at the taverna. Marianna was greeted like an honoured guest, and they were shown to one of the best tables, just where Charlotte had hoped it would be, out on the jetty at the very edge of the dance floor.

Marianna introduced the owner of the taverna to Charlotte as Mikos, and with a click of his fingers he summoned one of the young waiters forward. The good-looking youth quickly lit a candle for them, and provided a basket of freshly baked bread, together with a bowl of olive oil in which to dunk it, as well as a large bottle of fridge-chilled water and some drinking glasses.

‘I invite you both to visit my kitchen and take your pick of the food,’ Mikos announced, turning from Charlotte to Marianna. ‘I want you to have the very best, Kiria Lyknos,’ he said with deference. ‘I caught some excellent fish today.’ And then, turning to Charlotte, he explained with a flourish, ‘Mikos Anglias—part-time restaurateur, full-time fisherman. At least, I am a fisherman in my head,’ he added wryly. ‘Fishing is a state of mind here on Iskos—is that not correct, Kiria Lyknos?’

‘Everyone envies the fishermen of Iskos,’ Marianna agreed, nodding sagely.

Charlotte warmed to the ebullient owner of the taverna immediately. He seemed to validate the theme of her article that here on Iskos people were valued for their inner qualities, rather than for their wealth or position. Her heart thundered on cue as she remembered the source of that idea. And she had tried so hard to avoid any thought of the fisherman, Charlotte berated herself silently. She didn’t want anything to spoil the evening.

Thinking of him now made her look around anxiously. The other tables were filling up rapidly, but of course he was nowhere to be seen. She told herself not to be so jumpy, but still her heart insisted on pounding, as if he was somewhere close by—so much so that Marianna was forced to ask her twice to accompany her to the kitchen before Charlotte even realised that both she and Mikos were standing up and waiting for her to accompany them.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she apologised, getting to her feet right away. But she wasn’t allowed to set forth just yet. Having appointed herself unofficial chaperone for the evening, Marianna wouldn’t allow Charlotte to follow Mikos until the concealing cream shawl had been well and truly secured around her shoulders.

When she pushed through the swinging doors and entered the small kitchen it was like entering another world. The hub of the taverna was everything Charlotte had expected—hot, steamy, and full of noise. Pan lids crashed, pots bubbled and wheezed on the central cooking station, while a veritable army of people criss-crossed each other’s paths at speed, as if mounted on invisible tracks.

Forced to press back against the wall to let them pass, Charlotte took a few moments to get her bearings. Then suddenly there was a lull, and the room cleared. The two cooks at the central island continued ladling and stirring to some confident inner rhythm, while Marianna and Mikos talked on in an undertone like extras in the drama.

The steam lifted as if some giant hand had brushed it aside, and Charlotte felt a wave of interest envelop her long before she identified the source. Apprehension mounted inside her until she felt as if a fist was lodged in her throat. And as her gaze was drawn across the room she found the fisherman staring back at her.

There was no mistaking him. She would have known him anywhere, though his eyes were even more extraordinary close up than she had suspected when she’d first caught sight of him on the beach. Their colour was that of a semiprecious stone—tiger’s eye, maybe—sepia, shot through with gold. He wore a critical expression, but he didn’t trouble to mask his interest, and the expression in his eyes ran a shaft of awareness right through her. It was as if they were weighing each other up, like combatants about to enter the ring, Charlotte registered uneasily.

Not for one moment had she thought to find her fisherman in the kitchen at the taverna—and what exactly had she done to merit his disapproval? She began to bridle as he refused to break eye contact, and then she felt her cheeks flare red. He had almost certainly seen her naked on the beach, which accounted for the sardonic stare. She glared straight back at him and tried not to care that he had changed out of his simple work clothes into hip-skimming black trousers secured with a slim black leather belt. These were teamed with a crisp white shirt that had just enough buttons left undone to tease her senses with the sight of a hard, bronzed chest shaded with dark hair.

‘Iannis!’

Charlotte started guiltily at the sound of Marianna’s voice. It was as if, right on cue, the older woman had sensed the undertow of emotion snapping between them and stepped into the ring like a referee.

‘I did not expect to see you here tonight!’ she said, speaking in English for Charlotte’s benefit. And then, holding out her hands to Charlotte as if inviting her forward to be introduced, Marianna made it impossible to avoid the inevitable.

Iannis smiled at Marianna. So he did have teeth, Charlotte mused ironically, and rather nice ones at that—strong and white and even. She was surprised too at the warm welcome he received from Marianna, whose judgement she had come to trust. He said something cynical in Greek—or at least Charlotte took it to be cynical from the mocking tone of his voice and the sardonic curve of his lips. But Marianna only slapped him playfully on the arm, and was rewarded by an affectionate hug, followed by a kiss on both cheeks.

‘Come, come,’ she said, turning back to Charlotte. ‘Come and meet Iannis Kiriakos.’

There was no escape, so she might as well face up to him, Charlotte mused wryly. What a ring to his name—she loved it! Best of all, Kiriakos was a popular surname on the island—and his first name was popular in all of Greece. She couldn’t have named him better, as far as her article was concerned—but she would have to keep him anonymous, she remembered with disappointment, or ask permission to name him.

Anonymity was the safer option, she decided, the moment his hand locked with her own.

‘We’ve already met—on the beach,’ he reminded her in a voice that was low and steady, as if he wanted to remind her fully of her humiliation without alerting Marianna to trouble.

Charlotte felt a tremor run through her as his strength closed around her. The possibility that he was intimately acquainted with every inch of her left her feeling at a distinct disadvantage.

She refused to look at him, but his handshake was firm and confident, his hand warm and strong, and surprisingly smooth. He made her think of a powerful engine idling, and her imagination leapt to fill in the blanks. She couldn’t even begin to guess at the consequences of stirring such immense potential into action. He would need ten women to satisfy him, at least, she thought wildly, instinctively backing away when he released her hand—which he did disappointingly soon.

There was something about Iannis Kiriakos that insanely made Charlotte want to rest against him for a moment. He made her feel so tiny and defenceless, made the air around her seem charged with an energy that hadn’t been there before. And, as hard as she tried to ignore him, a determined heat was busily invading every inch of her—filling her with hunger. And not for food.

She detected a faint, spicy edge to the food-fragranced air. Sandalwood, Charlotte decided, inhaling appreciatively, one of her favourite scents, and a sophisticated choice for a fisherman.

As curiosity got the better of her she glanced up, only to be met by a slanting ironic stare that made her stomach quiver in response. A day’s worth of stubble darkened his tanned face which, with the black waves curling over the collar of his shirt, made her fisherman look exactly like a pirate.

His hair was thick and glossy, and she imagined running her fingers through it—if only she could have reached. When he shifted position in response to a question from one of the cooks he moved so close to her that Charlotte felt as if an electric current had just surged through her body.

Now most of her view was taken up by the broad sweep of his shoulders, and the ease with which he moved suggested he was a lot more relaxed about their close proximity than she could ever be.

Concentrate on gathering facts for your article, Charlotte told herself primly. But her thoughts centred on their encounter at the beach, and the deep, challenging voice suggesting she should come out of her hiding place stark naked to claim her clothes.

Steadying her breathing, Charlotte tried again to revive her professional nose for a story. Iannis Kiriakos is completely at ease with himself and the world he inhabits, she logged mentally. Materially, he may have little, in comparison to many men, but he is infinitely more assured than most. He talks easily to everyone, and everyone appears to take pleasure in his company. Except me, Charlotte realised, swallowing nervously when he swung around to stare at her.

‘That’s enough time spent in the kitchen,’ Marianna said, startling Charlotte as she took hold of her arm. Nudging Iannis out of the way, Marianna positioned herself between them. ‘I have chosen our food, and now we will return to our table,’ she said firmly, and steered Charlotte towards the door.

Charlotte was ready to believe she had never been more grateful to anyone in her life as they exited the kitchen. But on their way back to the table Marianna had no hesitation in throwing the blackest of glances at any man who presumed to show interest in her charge. It was as if she was already spoken for, Charlotte realised with amusement. And she was more than happy to go along with that—as long as Marianna’s plans for her had nothing to with Iannis Kiriakos.

‘Marianna, who is Iannis?’ Charlotte said, the moment they sat down again.

But just as Marianna was on the point of answering some friends at a neighbouring table attracted her attention.

Charlotte was beginning to feel vaguely threatened by the mysterious fisherman, and her lack of knowledge about him only added to the uncertainty.

She had never been confronted by such an overload of testosterone in her life, Charlotte told herself, thinking that must be the reason for her worry. Forcing herself to relax, she leaned forward to put the question to Marianna again. But before Marianna had a chance to say anything everyone started to applaud. The evening’s entertainment had begun.

‘Ah, the musicians,’ Marianna said, clapping her hands with pleasure and pointing as the bouzouki band assembled on the low stage at the far end of the jetty. She beamed at Charlotte. ‘I do hope you will enjoy this evening,’ she said, leaning over the table to pat Charlotte’s hand.

‘I know I will,’ Charlotte said warmly, putting her doubts to one side. But the smile soon froze on her face when Iannis Kiriakos walked across the dance floor and chose a table directly facing her.

As he settled down people called to him from other tables, and lifted their glasses to him in a toast. The whole of the taverna seemed to vibrate at a different frequency now he was here, Charlotte realised, wondering why that should be so. It was as if his presence was the signal for the music to strike up too.

Maybe he had been away from the island for some time, she reasoned. The welcome he was getting suggested something of the sort. But where would a man like Iannis go? To another island close by, perhaps?

Charlotte could see Marianna looking at her curiously, and was just about to launch into a whole series of questions when the volume of the music rose, making conversation impossible. And Marianna was soon engaged in a jovial shouting match with some friends at the nearby table. But it was Iannis Kiriakos who troubled Charlotte the most. He seemed to have only one person in his sight-line.

Charlotte dropped her gaze quickly, but not fast enough. Their eyes had clashed briefly, but it had been enough for her face to flame red as she interpreted the question in her fisherman’s gaze: Available, or not available? And there had been a curve at one corner of his hard and extremely sensuous mouth that seemed to suggest he already knew the answer to his silent question.

Before Charlotte could think what to do about it their food arrived, piled high on huge platters carried at shoulder height by a boisterous stream of waiters led by the fun-loving Mikos. She felt faint with relief at the distraction, and threw herself whole-heartedly into the rhythmical applause that greeted the parade.

‘This is just wonderful,’ she called across to Marianna.

‘I knew it was an evening you shouldn’t miss,’ Marianna agreed, inclining her head graciously.

But beneath Marianna’s hooded lids Charlotte glimpsed a glint of something that aroused her suspicious. Surely Marianna wouldn’t have engineered the meeting with Iannis Kiriakos? Charlotte dismissed her suspicions on the grounds of Marianna’s traditional upbringing. She would never expose an unattached woman to a blatantly rampant male when that woman was leaving the island in just a few days’ time. And more than that, Charlotte realised, she trusted Marianna.

Within minutes of her arrival on the island she had found herself confiding in the older woman in a way she would never have believed possible with someone who was practically a stranger. But Marianna had that quality. She drew people to her. She had drawn out the pain of Charlotte’s failed marriage like pus from a wound, and by the time she’d left that first evening Charlotte had felt the healing process had begun.

Marianna’s thoughts on Charlotte’s failure as a trophy wife had been bluntly put. ‘You need someone who is content in themselves—a man who does not need possessions to find his level in life.’

No, Charlotte told herself firmly, never in a million years would Marianna set her up with the steely-looking individual currently viewing her as if she was the next tasty dish on the menu.

Soon Charlotte’s own platter was piled high with food. The fish was so fresh it melted in her mouth like butter, and the bowls of salads and dips were so delicious she hardly knew where to begin.

‘Use your fingers,’ Marianna advised, taking the lead.

Breaking off a chunk of bread, Charlotte joined her in dunking it into the fragrant sauce and licking the excess off her fingers enthusiastically. The juices were running every-where—over her wrists, down her arm—and she had to resort to sucking her fingers clean one by one. Then something made her look up, and she found Iannis Kiriakos staring back at her, his dark eyes glinting with amusement.

It was as if a practised hand strummed a set of strings deep within her, and it was impossible to tear her gaze away from him until Marianna reclaimed her attention, when she passed another bowl of food across the table. But even then Charlotte found it impossible to hold her glance in check. As her eyes strayed she saw one corner of his mouth tug up in the suggestion of a smile, but his eyes were hard and calculating and she felt a shiver of apprehension.

Instinctively, she drew closer to Marianna, concentrating all her attention on the food. But it was impossible not to snatch glances of Iannis—not to notice his long, lean fingers as he fed food into his mouth, or glimpse the flash of strong white teeth when he spoke to the waiter, or to see that his expression was always quite different when he directed his attention to anyone other than her. She saw him soften then, and his eyes sharpen with laughter. But when he looked back at her it was always with an expression in his eyes she didn’t care to name.

She discovered that his mouth was compulsive viewing too—he had the most expressive lips… Pull yourself together, Charlotte warned herself sternly. You don’t need either the friendship or the approval of this Iannis Kiriakos. You only need him like a scientist needs a theory—to write about.

That last thought should have helped, but even when Iannis was fully engrossed in the food set before him it was like being in a tunnel where only the two of them existed. And when he pulled back his head to stare at her again Charlotte noticed one of his ebony brows lifting just enough to send a slither of sensation down her spine.

Gradually plates were pushed aside and glasses refilled. Noise levels had risen, and only dipped slightly when the overhead strings of light were reduced to a single strand. Time to dance, Charlotte guessed, as a hum of anticipation rose above the tables. The musicians had returned after their break and were starting to tune their instruments. Moonlight flooded the dance floor, and it was all so romantic. She would have been having the time of her life, Charlotte realised tensely, had it not been for one man.

Determinedly she turned her attention to the leader of the band, watching as he made a signal with one hand. Despite her misgivings, she couldn’t help but thrill to the strong chord that rang out like a call to arms. Men were already answering the call, rising one by one from the tables surrounding the dance floor and assembling in front of her in a ragged line. They were forming up to dance the kalamatiana, she guessed as they rested their arms across each other’s shoulders.

And then the unmistakable beat began. Snaking outwards from the small stage where the musicians were assembled. She could almost imagine the notes winding and curling sinuously around the men on the floor, causing their work-hardened muscles to soften and their faces to take on a look of intense pride. It was if their machismo had become the servant of expression and dramatic intensity. It was a potent sight, and one Charlotte found impossible to resist.

To begin with the pulse was slow and steady, but promising more, like a racehorse reined in hard at the gate. The occasional musical flourish raised the tension, as well as the expectation of the audience, and soon everyone was clapping in time to the beat, stamping their feet in an attempt to push the tempo on. The rhythm was growing stronger and more persuasive every few bars, until it thrummed through Charlotte’s body with remorseless intent.

She was on her feet now, swaying in time like everyone else, echoing the cries around her as she urged the music on to its inevitable climax. Then one of the older men broke away from the chain of dancers and began walking around the tables, his arms extended in mute invitation for more people to join in. And as his glance passed over Charlotte, he winked.

What was she waiting for? Kicking off her shoes, Charlotte eased her way through the tables and walked onto the dance floor. She was oblivious to everything now apart from the beat—the wild, irresistible beat. Joining on to the end of the line, she tossed back her hair with abandon and lavished a smile on the man standing next to her. Stranger to the island or not, she had no intention of missing an opportunity like this.

Charlotte failed to register the gasp that went up. She was too busy watching the moves and trying to match her step to that of the men dancing with her. By the time she did notice anything, it was just the warm and slightly damp feel of the corded arm beneath her hand. The man she was clinging on to was clearly delighted to have her as his dancing partner, Charlotte realised, whipping her head away from his moist garlic breath. He seemed to be holding her a lot closer than was strictly necessary, and as the tempo lifted another man joined in at her free side. Now she was sandwiched between them—and out of sight of the spectators Garlic Breath’s hand was on an unmistakable mission…

Iannis sprang to his feet. It was bad enough that this woman chose to cavort naked on the beaches of Iskos. But this—this was insupportable!

Charlotte was just beginning to panic when her two partners fell away, releasing her so quickly that for a few moments she was stranded in the middle of the dance floor on her own, feeling completely foolish.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

She whipped around. The angry words startled her, but not half as much as the sight of Iannis Kiriakos in a rage. He stood in the middle of the floor, completely unconcerned that he was drawing more attention to her than ever. Charlotte’s face flamed red with embarrassment and with fury. She was dancing like everyone else—what the hell did he think she was doing?

‘Must you break every convention without the slightest consideration for other people’s sensibilities?’ he asked coldly, before she had a chance to recover. Then, turning, he made a swift signal to the band and the music slowed abruptly.

Charlotte was glad of the dim lights. Her blood pressure was so high she felt ready to explode. If Iannis Kiriakos really wanted a fight out here, in front of everyone, she’d give him one. But as if he could read her mind he seized her arm in a firm grip and steered her back to the line of dancers. ‘You want to dance?’ he rasped harshly. ‘We’ll dance.’

Everyone was staring at them now, Charlotte realised. In fact the noise and laughter around the dance floor had stilled into stunned silence. Her imposing fisherman could capture everyone’s attention simply by being, but in this state of mind he was compulsive viewing. The faces of the local people were frozen in anticipation as they waited to see what he would do with her.

‘Do you like being the only woman in a man’s dance?’ he demanded scathingly, positioning her at the end of the line next to him.

‘A man’s dance?’ Charlotte cloaked her shocked realisation, and the resulting rush of blood to her face, in anger. ‘I’m only surprised your pride allows you to indulge in anything so frivolous as dancing—let alone participate in a dance for men.’ She had just enough time to inject some derision and challenge into her angry words before the music restarted and quickly returned to its original pace and volume.

She gasped as Iannis seized hold of her and swung her around to join in the dance, and then she was forced to concentrate fast, or trip over his feet. The contrast between her dancing partners couldn’t have been more pronounced. Unlike Garlic Breath, Iannis showed no interest in groping her, and diverted all his passion into the intricate steps. His anger was converted into an expressive fire that allowed him to produce strong, powerful moves. And he brought her with him so firmly she didn’t even have to think about her own steps.

Charlotte hardly knew how she found the opportunity to breathe as her body swayed in response to the slightest undulation of Iannis Kiriakos’s commanding frame. But then, just when she thought the music had reached its peak, he made a sign to the leader of the musicians and the music changed again, slowing and deepening to little more than a low, vibrating rumble of sound.

Iannis broke away, leaving Charlotte disorientated until Marianna came to her rescue. Joining her on the dance floor, she took hold of Charlotte’s arm.

‘What have I done wrong now?’ Charlotte demanded, trying not to care that Iannis was trawling the room, collecting up every woman in sight. None of them could resist him, she noticed tensely—though he was at his most charming with the older women, helping them to their feet and moving back chairs for them. ‘Well, Marianna?’ she repeated tensely. ‘Can you tell me what I’ve done wrong?’

‘Iannis is saving your embarrassment,’ Marianna said, her dark eyes gleaming.

‘My embarrassment?’ Charlotte said distractedly, seeing all the young women waiting tensely to discover which of them Iannis would choose. He seemed to pick at random, she noticed, and his imperative gesture brought even the most diffident young girl to her feet. ‘He needs bringing down a peg or two.’

‘Are you the woman to do it?’

‘Marianna!’ Charlotte exclaimed. ‘Of course I’m not. I’m not even interested—’

‘Really?’ Marianna murmured, so softly Charlotte hardly caught the word. But before she could protest Marianna added, ‘All the women are interested in Iannis Kiriakos. Why should you be an exception?’

Not wanting to cause offence, Charlotte confined herself to a faint smile. But inside she was a bubbling cauldron of emotion—emotion that she longed to take out on Iannis Kiriakos, not the kindly Marianna who, for some inexplicable reason, chose to champion him.

‘Here on Iskos only the men take part in the kalamatiana,’ Marianna expanded.

‘I know that now,’ Charlotte admitted ruefully.

‘I can’t remember another occasion when a woman—especially a young, single woman, and unescorted at that—took the floor,’ Marianna went on with a shake of her head.

‘Perhaps it’s time, then?’ Charlotte suggested, meeting Marianna’s gentle reproach with a smile. ‘And anyway,’ she added fondly, ‘I’m not unescorted. You’re here beside me.’

Marianna smiled at that, and patted Charlotte’s arm. ‘I am now,’ she agreed heavily, rolling her eyes with a sigh.

Charlotte watched Iannis stroll confidently around the perimeter of the dance floor, bringing more women to their feet. Prowling, she mused, like the tiger she had first thought him to be… But would he come back to her?

He did, though he uttered but a single word. ‘Ready?’ He gave a curt flick of his chin to indicate that she should rest her arm on his again, whilst on her other side Marianna blithely marshalled Charlotte into the correct position for the dance.

Arrogant brute! Charlotte thought furiously, trying not to faint with pleasure when she rested her arm on his. Trapped between Marianna and Iannis, she had safety at one side and danger at the other. It made Charlotte feel slightly light-headed, and far too confident for her own good. By the time the dance began her senses were in free-fall and her arm seemed to melt into his. It was impossible to remain detached with Iannis standing next to her. So much machismo should never be let loose, Charlotte decided, flaring a look into his face that warned him plainly—No! But what use was that when her body blatantly called out to him, Yes?

Brava! she murmured inwardly, complimenting herself on her restraint as she mastered the steps of the dance. It was amazing she could concentrate on anything at all when all she wanted to do was tug him off the dance floor and put her theories to the test.

The line of dancers extended right along the jetty now, to the very limits of the dance floor. ‘Follow me,’ Marianna instructed in a discreet whisper, giving Charlotte’s hand an encouraging squeeze. ‘You are doing really well for a beginner. You will soon pick up the more complicated moves.’

Charlotte made sure she did. There was a very pretty young girl on the other side of Iannis. This fired her determination, particularly as she was quite certain he didn’t lavish the same accusatory stare on his other partner each time he was forced to deliver a prompt.

The rhythm of the bouzoukis was irresistible, and those still seated began to stamp in time and clap their hands, encouraging the dancers to pick up the pace. As the beat pulsed through her Charlotte was lost in the music. Everything outside the dance floor receded until nothing existed beyond the warmth and strength of Iannis’s outstretched arm beneath her own. The desire to move with him was all that mattered to her. Every fibre of her being vibrated in unison with him, until nothing existed outside the dance—nothing but Iannis Kiriakos, and he was the dance.

CHAPTER FIVE

FOLLOWING Iannis in the kalamatiana seemed so natural to Charlotte it was as if they were sharing a secret language only they knew. The dance was like a seduction, with the tension rising and falling between them so that in one sinuous move she offered compliance, only to promise conflict with the next aggressive step. And Iannis had a great sense of rhythm, as she had known he would.

Charlotte basked in the hot stab of his glance. It might be formalised and impersonal, but right now it was all hers, and the music kept them chained together, scaling the heights only to leave them, suspended on a plateau of awareness, before starting to climb again. Always, just when it seemed that they must reach the summit at last, it fell back again to a shiver-inducing, seductive whisper.

Charlotte’s mind was full of music, but her eyes were full of Iannis, and now when he met her stare she found his expression shockingly, thrillingly intimate. Snatching off her shawl, he tossed it onto an empty seat and turned to lavish a fierce glance on her, his intention unmistakable, the promise of it electrifying. She wanted him now, immediately, she didn’t want to wait. All she wanted was for Iannis to drag her from the dance floor and find some dark, secret place where they could be alone.

Charlotte was barely conscious of the fact that her breasts were threatening to overflow their tight constraint, or that her skirt had ridden up above her knees. All she knew was that her clothes had become an encumbrance, that she longed for Iannis to tear them off.

Marianna had retired to fan herself, and her place in the line had been taken by one of the young waiters, but quite suddenly the dance ended, and the line of dancers drifted apart. Still held firm in Iannis’s grip, Charlotte slowly emerged from the erotic trance into which she had fallen and found she was incredibly aroused. Still panting, she gazed at him, then flushed with uncertainty. In the heat of the dance her behaviour could have passed for flair and enthusiasm, but now that the music had slowed she felt less sure of herself.

Several married couples had joined them on the dance floor and they had no such inhibitions. Their movements were blatantly seductive. But that was okay for them, Charlotte realised, feeling increasingly unsure of herself. When she put her hands flat against Iannis’s chest and tried to pull away from him, he challenged her softly.

‘Won’t you dance with a simple fisherman?’

His cynical eyes were dark and watchful. Yes, he was only playing with her, Charlotte realised with a twinge of alarm—playing with her like a big cat with a mouse. But what did she expect after the exhibition she had made of herself?

Tiny shivers of awareness were still toying with her senses, and then her gaze fell to his lips and she saw the sardonic smile playing around the unforgiving line of his mouth. Marianna was right. Iannis needed curbing. And though she was not about to try, she had no intention of backing down either.

‘If you like,’ Charlotte managed evenly, levelling a cool green stare on his face.

Her defiance seemed to unsettle him. He wasn’t sure how to handle it, she realised. Clearly there wasn’t much need when every woman in the place wanted Iannis Kiriakos. This knowledge only made Charlotte want to carry on provoking him, to needle and goad him. And she had the satisfaction of seeing her tactics work perfectly. There was an answering flare of challenge in his gaze, and then his arms closed around her.

But as he dragged her close Charlotte knew she was fooling herself if she thought her mind was fixed against him. Her body was like butter, softening in defiance of her wishes. When Iannis placed one firm hand on her naked back she gasped and hoped he hadn’t heard. But, as if reading her responses was second nature to him, he lifted the hand away and made his touch frustratingly light instead. It made Charlotte long all the more for pressure, for confinement, and all the subliminal messages that could pass between a man and woman through the merest adjustment of a finger. But as they eased into the slow steps of the dance Iannis continued to hold her at a distance, until Charlotte felt as if she was skirting the fringes of a hurricane and could only hope that at any moment she might be sucked in and lost.

She tried to act cool while she lost herself in sensation, and all the time Iannis kept her steady and in step with him, using the same maddeningly light touch.

What better revenge could she exact for his arrogance than this? Allowing Iannis to arouse her without giving him the satisfaction of knowing what was happening. A contented smile curled around Charlotte’s lips as she relished the softening, swelling and yielding sensations that came with the moist preparations her body was making. The fact that it was her secret only made the tiny but delicious spasms all the more intense. Her fisherman’s power might be awesome, and the forces he could unleash immense, but she had his measure now. He liked to tease and provoke—and that was one game in which she could excel too.

But the only trouble with subterfuge was that it didn’t bring satisfaction—the heat gathering between her thighs bore witness to that. And the longer they danced together the greater grew Charlotte’s need for release. Finally she was aching so much she knew she had to thrust her pride aside and take the direct approach.

But he knew, she realised, staring up at him. His lips had tugged up at one corner, revealing his amusement and satisfaction at her plight.

As she struggled to pull herself away Iannis proved too fast for her again, and, changing his grip, he allowed her to feel his arousal, huge and hard, pressing into the soft cushion of her belly.

Charlotte’s breath quickened to rapid, greedy gusts. It was a brush with nature, primitive and intense. And one she didn’t want to avoid, Charlotte realised, meeting his hard, knowing gaze. Everything about Iannis Kiriakos promised an understanding of her needs that no other man could hope to match. He offered anonymity too, she remembered, and that gave her the freedom to indulge her senses to a degree she would never have risked before.

She stared into his face, meaning to accept his challenge, but his dark and very dangerous eyes were hooded now, their expression hidden from her.

Good. She had no desire to commune with the fisherman on an everyday level. She wanted him for one thing, and one thing only.

Iannis Kiriakos would banish all the ghosts from her past. She was starved of the type of attention he could give her, and she would have him, Charlotte determined as she relaxed, allowing his warmth to invade her. It slicked through her limbs, leaving no area untouched, and as her body grew soft and pliant she was conscious of his unyielding frame pressed against her like a coiled spring.

The compulsion to wrestle with him and lose overwhelmingly swept over her in waves. His hands were so strong, so smooth, she thought, moving sinuously beneath them. That was good—she needed all his skill, wanted none of that sensitivity lost beneath workworn skin or calluses. His sense of rhythm augured well too. He moved easily to the beat, bringing her with him just by holding her so lightly—too lightly, Charlotte acknowledged again, moving restlessly beneath his hands. She wanted more, so much more…

He didn’t need to ask himself what Charlotte Clare wanted, or what she needed, Iannis reflected, taking pleasure in moving away every time she tried to range herself a little closer to him in the dance. He would make her wait, he decided, a harsh smile tilting the corners of his mouth. She would be insatiable. He could afford to wait as long as he chose when the outcome was so certain.

He stared over Charlotte’s head, dismissing her in favour of the towering cliffs that showed vaguely on the other side of the shore like smoke trails against the inky sky. Iskos was his island, beautiful and uncomplicated—that was why he loved it so passionately. But there was nothing uncomplicated about the woman in his arms, he realised uneasily, tensing a little as she intruded on his thoughts.

On the surface she resembled any of the other sex-tourists who came to the Greek islands in search of a meaningless coupling to brag about to their friends back home. Any Greek man would do, so long as he had a foreign-sounding name and a pulse—the rest they could invent. The obligatory conquest was as necessary to them as the suntan they took away with them. And the closer they came to the end of the holiday, the more desperate for a man they became.

He smiled as he thought of the youths lining the sea walls each summer to gauge the level of frustration of each passing beauty. They could pick off their prey with absolute confidence. He glanced down again. Charlotte’s flight home must be imminent, judging by the amount of make-up she was wearing, not to mention the abundant décolletage and skintight outfit.

Purely out of curiosity he channelled his senses into the hand resting lightly on her back. Her skin was fine and smooth and warm. At least she wasn’t tomato-red and flaky.

Charlotte sensed the fisherman’s interest shift a gear, and glanced up. He danced so well. Probably got lots of practice in the tourist season. Would it be one dance or two? What price was he prepared to pay? She tensed as their gazes clashed and looked away. She didn’t want conflict. Conflict was provocative and called for resolution. She wanted straightforward sex and a pain-free goodbye. No regrets, no consequences.

Was this part of the evening tedious for him? Was it necessary courtship for the sake of injecting a little decency into the proceedings—the paying of dues before they got down to business? Was this his equivalent of a romantic dinner for two—the tab picked up by the man until you got back to his place, where you were expected to come up with your slice of the bill? Maybe that was why she had always insisted on paying for herself on the few occasions she had been out since the divorce, Charlotte mused, pressing her lips together in ironic acceptance.

He was right to be suspicious, Iannis decided. Even if he cut her some slack where the outfit was concerned—and he would, since in his experience women from northern climes never wore summer clothes well—Charlotte Clare could keep her ‘butter wouldn’t melt’ look. It didn’t work for him—not with everything else he could see going on behind her eyes. This was no innocent abroad; this was an intelligent, thoughtful, and possibly very dangerous woman—or else how had she slipped beneath the guard of Marianna, the shrewdest woman on the island? He could tell Marianna thought a lot of her. Theos, she had chosen to appoint herself unofficial guardian, and when had that ever happened before? Like everyone else on the island, Marianna was usually content to let him have his own way over everything—especially women.

Iannis dipped his head and smiled faintly in acknowledgement as Marianna caught his gaze. He should be angry with her for setting this hoyden loose on him—but he had too much respect for Marianna Lyknos, Iannis realised, grinding his jaw in frustration. But maybe, just maybe, she had got it wrong this time. Charlotte Clare would have to be watched, and watched closely. Not that that would be hard—she was fairly easy on the eye.

Iannis forced himself to relax, realising that his grip on Charlotte’s arm had tightened. That was exactly what she wanted, he thought, feeling the resulting tremor run right through her. Her response had only confirmed his thoughts. She was looking for action—of that there was no doubt. It was up to him now to decide if, when and where he would give her what she wanted.

Dancing was so like sex it was amazing it was permitted in public, Charlotte decided, as someone began to strengthen the beat by patting gently on a drum. The sound was muffled and persuasive, seeming to ripple through her like an electric current invading a supple cable. Her whole body was vibrating to the low, insistent sound. It made her want to sway her hips, to entice Iannis all the more.

Touching the tip of her tongue to her lips, Charlotte cast a slanted glance at the man who maddeningly insisted on holding her as if she was a precious piece of china, when all she wanted was to be gripped, mastered, taken somewhere far away from the crowded dance floor where she could be served, plundered, ravished and sated.

Ravishing, Iannis thought, approving Charlotte’s seductive moves. She would be pretty too—if she gave her face a good wash. For once, he was impressed—and he couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. Thankfully she had ditched the Miss Goody-Two-Shoes act, so now they could stop wasting time and get down to it.

Charlotte gasped as Iannis suddenly drew her a lot closer. At last, she thought gratefully, closing her eyes. She had begun to think she would die of frustration—either that or die of shame, knowing that she was the most unattractive woman on the planet.

She kicked her conscience into touch, determined to concentrate on the here and now. Here was a gorgeous man, and now he had to make love to her. For once in her life she would know what it felt like to be held by a real man and made love to exhaustively.

Just one night would be enough, Charlotte promised herself fervently, though she had the article to think about too. One long night, she amended quickly, and then they could both go their separate ways without a backward glance.

She held her breath as Iannis turned her around, discovering how neatly her tightly sheathed rump fitted into the cradle of his hips. She only had to move her hips a fraction—but he brought her back to face him and held her lightly around the waist.

His expression had grown slumberous, she noticed, gazing straight into his eyes. She had to make sure there could be no misunderstanding. This was no time for niceties. Her stay on the island was almost at an end.

Iannis responded by tightening his grip fractionally—but it wasn’t enough. He was teasing her, Charlotte realised, feeling faint with frustration. She felt he relished the delay. Everything was a dance to him—a courtly, protracted, drawn-out dance. And the longer it took, the better it seemed, as far as Iannis was concerned.

As he dipped his head to taunt her with a knowing stare, Charlotte knew her lips were plump and swollen with desire. The tip of her tongue crept out to moisten them, and she knew they would be gleaming in the candlelight just a hair’s breadth away from his hard, sensuous mouth. She could feel them tingling at his proximity, and his black gaze, on a level with her own, was perceptive and amused.

She wanted to rail at him, to pound her fists on his chest and rage with complaint—but not here, not with all his people surrounding them. Here she must move to the music with decorous circumspection, and curb her impulse to lash her hands behind his neck and drag him down to kiss him hard. There was a supreme confidence, a certainty about the way the fisherman moved. It made her long for him to lavish some of that skill on her. But his idea of seduction was apparently to send her half mad with frustration before granting her wish.

The sexual chemistry between them was not only red-hot, but blatantly obvious. More couples joined them, as if drawn like moths to the flame of desire, and, reading the change in mood, the musicians picked up the pace of the music until the traditional rhythms were pounding with elemental abandon.

Lashed around Iannis, Charlotte was well aware of the other dancers’ lack of inhibition. But Iannis was maddeningly restrained, and appeared content to draw out his seduction on the dance floor indefinitely—for the satisfaction of seeing her beg, presumably. It made Charlotte mad. It made her all the more determined to take control. Giving herself to the music, she began to compete with all the other women in enticing her man. She had the satisfaction of seeing Iannis grow increasingly intent as she abandoned herself to the seductive rhythm. It was time to turn the tables on her Greek seducer. She needed raw material for her article, and raw sex too—lots of it.

Iannis Kiriakos might think he was bending her to his will, but Charlotte was determined that she would get the better part of the bargain in the end. ‘Find a gorgeous Greek and write about him.’ The editor’s words rang in her head as she flaunted her sexuality through the dance. Her mission on the island had never seemed more appealing. Iannis was her Greek. She would write about him. Research never got better than this.

‘Shall we find somewhere a little quieter?’

The husky voice broke into her introspection, and it took her a moment or two to refocus. Then she tensed angrily. Iannis would think he had wrested control from her with no effort at all. But his warm breath was laving the most sensitive part of her neck, causing fine blonde hairs to rise in unison and sending quivering messages to each erotic zone. His low voice was pulsing with intent, showering her in sensation until her body throbbed in answer to his question.

‘If you like,’ Charlotte managed coolly.

Resting one hand in the small of her back, Iannis began to guide her off the dance floor. They had almost reached the narrow aisle between the tables that led to the road beyond the jetty when an unmistakable voice stopped them in their tracks.

‘Ah, you are ready to go, I see. Thank you, Iannis,’ Marianna said courteously with a small dip of her head as she barred their way. ‘I will take over now and see Thespinis Charlotte safely home.’

CHAPTER SIX

‘DAMN! Damn! Double damn!’ Charlotte raged, taking out her frustration on her pillows by giving them a hefty thwack with each word. As if it wasn’t bad enough that she had her own inhibitions and moral code to deal with, now she had Marianna as self-appointed guardian just in case she slipped up! Marianna was one woman Charlotte didn’t care to argue with. She respected the older woman far too much.

On their return from the taverna Marianna had revealed a covered bowl of honey in the refrigerator, as well as slices of the buttery yellow local cheese. She had advised Charlotte to dip into it. ‘We love this dish here on Iskos, and I knew you would be hungry,’ she observed, brushing off Charlotte’s gratitude with a flick of her hand.

But the one thing she would not do was to draw back the cloak of secrecy that seemed to surround Iannis Kiriakos.

‘He’s just a very good fisherman,’ she’d said vaguely, producing a bottle of local wine. ‘Shall we drink a toast to the island?’

And with that she had brought the curtain down on Charlotte’s investigations.

It was hard to think badly of Iannis when Marianna clearly liked him so much. But that was a dangerous way to think, Charlotte realised with a frown. She had seen the man’s charm at work in the taverna. In fact, thinking too closely about Iannis at all was dangerous. He should remain an idea—an ideal—for her article, and for the purpose of restoring her self-esteem. Nothing more.

Charlotte knew she had allowed things to get out of hand at the taverna, and the result was she hadn’t had a moment’s sleep. She had as much energy to spare as a highly bred mare—waiting for a stallion, Charlotte thought restlessly, progressing the metaphor into a cul-de-sac of frustration.

Another few thumps on the pillow left her feeling fractionally better. But there was still a long way to go—and only a short time left to get there, she remembered, making a dry, angry sound in her throat. Now it was almost dawn, and she was so tired she knew she wouldn’t write a word all day. Another twenty-four hours slipping through her fingers like sand—she would soon be on a flight home.

She wouldn’t panic. She would swim. Maybe the cool water would clear her head. It was almost light enough. She would wear a proper costume this time: an all-concealing, breast-flattening, passion-killing sensible number that she wore at the serious swimming club she had joined back home. There wasn’t a thong in sight there. Her clubmates were more interested in the latest high-tech gear to reduce drag and improve their time by maybe a tenth of a second.

That should do it, Charlotte thought, mutinously pulling the costume she had in mind out of a drawer. She could just imagine the arrogant expression on the fisherman’s face turning to disappointment and surprise when he saw her wearing it. She held it up, revelling in the shapeless form and the dismal bottle-green shade in particular.

Glamour personified, Charlotte decided happily when she had dragged it on and examined her reflection. Even a Greek chauvinist like Iannis Kiriakos could not possibly find such a hideous garment provocative. She turned to view herself again in the full-length mirror. The costume was desexing, dehumanising—absolutely perfect. She looked like a porpoise with a wig on.

Beautiful, Iannis mused, looking down at Charlotte on the beach. She was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen in his life—and he’d seen a few. But her swimming costume was an insult to that glorious frame. He watched as she tossed back her hair and then secured it on top of her head with a band. He could sit all day just watching her, Iannis realised, easing his position on the uncomfortable rocky ledge.

Settling back to enjoy himself, he sighed, feeling his whole body relax. When had that last happened? When was the last time he had slowed down long enough to take account of the scent of myrtle and thyme mixing with the faintly salty tang of the sea?

A sleepless night had brought him back to the cliff overlooking the bay. When he’d woken he’d hardly been able to wait to pull on his shorts and an old vest. He hadn’t even bothered with sandals, such had been his need to get out of the cottage and marvel at the Technicolor light show that was dawn on Iskos. But it was more than that…much more than just the promise of a visual treat, Iannis accepted, as he watched Charlotte tiptoe into the sea.

Need, he mused thoughtfully. Need drove everything. Where would he be without it? What would he ever have accomplished?

She was taking it slowly this morning, he noticed, leaning forward a little with concern.

Oblivious to the fact that she was being observed, Charlotte stretched out her arms above her head, stretching her fingertips towards the sky as if reaching for something.

Like a salutation to the rising sun, Iannis thought, questioning his sanity at the romantic image as he caught himself smiling faintly, indulgently.

Charlotte Clare was dangerous—if only because he could think of nothing else while she was here on his island. Did she call out to the sky as she made her gesture? He couldn’t be sure and wished he had been closer to hear. But then, almost before he’d realised what she meant to do, she turned and bolted towards the rising surf, plunging in head first without a moment’s hesitation.

He watched her swimming out strongly towards his floats and smiled, wondering what the attraction could be. If he had known she was going to make them her goal each morning he would have left a pontoon instead, and joined her there.

The thought was enough to arouse him, and the tug of sexual attraction reminded him all too painfully of Marianna’s unwelcome interference in his plans. If it had been anyone else but Marianna he would have ignored her interference—the Englishwoman was clearly looking for adventure. Why did it have to be Marianna of all people who took her part?

A muscle worked in his jaw as Iannis wondered about the older woman’s interest in Charlotte Clare. Had her judgement become suspect with age? He thought not—but this just didn’t make sense. Nevertheless, on Iskos, on his island, like everyone else he was subject to tradition, and Marianna had earned the position of matriarch through long years of wise council and selfless service to everyone connected with the island. She was respected and listened to by all, and even Iannis Kiriakos would not presume to go against her.

Springing to his feet, Iannis made a rough sound of impatience. Discretion at the taverna in front of half the island was one thing, but that situation was no longer in play. Marianna would not overstep the mark by interfering in his private life.

His glance swept the tranquil surface of the ocean. Charlotte was already turning for the shore and making swift headway towards the apple-green shallows. It seemed important for him to know that she was safe, Iannis realised, making a short dismissive sound—goodness knows why he should care when Charlotte Clare, if her behaviour the previous night had been any guide, chose to live her life on the edge. But she was obviously needy, he thought with an ironic and very masculine smile, and he felt like being accommodating. Seeing her dressed like an overripe fruit had made the urge to peel her clothes off a priority. Maybe he could do them both a favour.

Turning for the cliff path that led down to the road, Iannis smiled to himself, a plan already brewing in his mind.

Her work was going so well Charlotte’s fingers could barely keep up with her thoughts. Iannis Kiriakos close up and personal had provided more inspiration for her to work on than the word-count for her article allowed. She was having trouble deciding what to leave out rather than finding enough material to include. And the cooling swim in the sea had worked its magic, as she’d hoped it would. The beauty of dawn on Iskos had been like balm to her troubled mind, unscrambling her thought processes so that by the time she’d returned to the villa she had had the article at her fingertips.

All she had to do was allow Iannis to float into her mind and the words flowed effortlessly onto the screen. She felt she knew him, this fabulous-looking man who was king in his own way of his Greek island paradise. Why should he want for anything more when he had everything he needed right here?

Gazing out to sea, Charlotte sighed. There was no sign of either Iannis or his boat. There were just the two red floats to remind her that he really was a flesh and blood man. As her thoughts travelled back to the taverna she felt a ripple of awareness shimmer down her spine and a smile of satisfaction curl around her lips. He wanted her. There was no doubt in her mind. Just knowing that was intoxicating—and exciting. She could never remember feeling like this before. She had never reacted with such schoolgirl enthusiasm, never felt such gut-wrenching hope where a man was concerned.

There had been more fall-out from her marriage than she knew, Charlotte realised suddenly. The internal wounds had cut far deeper than those carved by harsh words and insults. Spiritual neglect, spiritual abuse had led to spiritual shrinkage, but the time had come when she could do something about it. Good-looking men were rare enough, and men who attracted her were an endangered species—but Iannis Kiriakos was most definitely in a category of his own.

Hearing a movement behind her, she whirled around.

‘Pardon me, Thespinis Clare,’ Iannis Kiriakos murmured, slouching on one hip as he regarded her from the shady end of the terrace. ‘I did not mean to alarm you.’

But she was alarmed—more than alarmed. Something fundamental rocked on its axis deep inside her—and it had nothing to do with the fact that this man’s towering presence didn’t reveal the slightest degree of repentance, either for his intrusion or for frightening her half out of her wits.

When Marianna had come between them the previous night Charlotte’s first reaction had been bitter disappointment, but as they had walked away from the seaside restaurant she had been overwhelmed with relief. The fisherman’s gaze boring into her back, much as it was scorching her face right now, had been enough to tell her she was mad to imagine she could ever be ready to embark on an affair with a man like Iannis Kiriakos—a man who was infinitely more sexually experienced than she was, and who inhabited a very different world from her own.

‘Am I interrupting your work?’

Work! She had forgotten all about it! Charlotte covered the notepad she had been scribbling rough ideas on with her hands, in an instinctive gesture of concealment, but it was one she knew too late would only arouse his suspicions.

How would you feel if you discovered someone was writing about you—passing opinions, leaping to conclusions to make good copy and generally judging you?

Not too pleased, Charlotte answered herself grudgingly—though looking up at Iannis she guessed ‘not too pleased’ would be putting it mildly. He had the pride of his Grecian ancestry combined with something extra, something indefinable—something she guessed must come from his prowess as a fisherman, battling the elements on a daily basis. She could feel it now. There was a stillness about him, and it was the stillness of a hunter assessing his prey.

Feeling the need to keep watching him, she reached for her pen and jotted rapidly. Reflective and insightful. Sees things in life that you and I miss. She laid her pen down with an air of finality.

‘I was just finishing,’ she said, pinning a confident smile to her face.

‘Are you working on something interesting?’ he asked, with the crazy crooked smile that could so easily put her off her guard.

Charlotte’s smile faltered. ‘Just something I have to finish before I go home.’

‘Which is when?’ he asked bluntly.

‘Sunday.’ Charlotte tensed as he moved towards her, out of the shadows. She swallowed convulsively, still holding his gaze as she began sweeping up the untidy stack of printed sheets.

His mouth tugged down at the corners in an expression of wry understanding. ‘You don’t have too much time left, then.’

Charlotte’s heart lurched. Then she saw his gaze switch to her littered workstation. ‘Three days. Look, I’m sorry,’ she said, anxious to change the subject, ‘did you want to see Marianna? Only you’ve just missed her.’

The rhythmic pulse of the cicadas stilled suddenly, as if they too were keen to hear his reply.

‘I came to see you.’

‘I see.’ Charlotte cleared her throat. Her heart was trying to set a new record. He came a step closer. As if he was testing her.

She brought the lid of her laptop down to hide the screen and scrabbled some blank sheets of paper across her handwritten notes. She reached for the travelling rug on the back of her chair and tossed that across everything for good measure.

‘The wind gets up here on top of the cliff,’ Charlotte explained lamely, as if he wouldn’t already know that.

Scrambling to her feet, she almost knocked the chair over in her haste to draw his attention away from the table, and failed to notice the couple of pages that went floating to the floor.

‘Now, then.’ Charlotte clasped her hands, stopping just short of wringing them. ‘How can I help you?’

Iannis leaned over the balcony and rested his own strong hands on the low balustrade overlooking the sea, cupping his supple fingers over the edge to enclose the smooth round rail. ‘I thought you might like to come down to the beach and have lunch with me.’ He inclined his head towards her as he waited for her answer.

Might… Might like! Charlotte dragged in a few necessary breaths. Lunch was a harmless activity—and he said down on the beach, the public beach. She could do that.

‘Well?’ Iannis pressed in a low voice. ‘I have some fresh sardines I caught this morning. I will barbecue them.’

‘Oh!’ Charlotte cursed herself for sounding so obviously relieved. It was just that a barbecue was so wonderfully innocent. She was struck once again by his command of her language, and wished she could see his face clearly and judge his expression. But with the heat haze shimmering around him even his form was indistinct.

He was still waiting for an answer, she realised. Charlotte’s eyes flickered back to her temporary workplace. Had Iannis realised that she was trying to hide something?

‘So, will you come?’

He came towards her now, and at last she could see him clearly. She had forgotten how tall, how imposing he was. In one stomach-churning moment she took in everything—naked feet tanned to the colour of nutmeg, faded denim shorts cut off from some old jeans, so that their edges were frayed and bleached white. Hard-muscled thighs, and an impressive spread of chest. The wide sweep of his shoulders led her gaze with inevitable finality to the familiar watchful expression on his improbably handsome face. His hair was tousled and he needed to shave.

Did she prefer him this way—rough and earthy in fisherman mode? Or polished like a hard black diamond, for dancing?

‘I need an answer. I’m hungry,’ he said abruptly, slicing through her cogitations.

There was an acuity flaring in his gaze that made her uncomfortable. It was as if he knew everything about her just by searching her eyes. She was beginning to feel as if her whole body might just surge towards him if she didn’t wake up fast. There was such an air of arrogance about him too. Charlotte knew she should feel needled by it—infuriated. But instead all she wanted to do was to rest her arms around his waist and gaze adoringly into his eyes.

What the hell had got into her? Charlotte wondered angrily. The logical side of her brain gave an answer: something primal, some irresistible; she was in lust.

Iannis angled his head as he waited for her reply, and there was a suggestion of amusement in his eyes, as if mind-reading skills should be added to his list of accomplishments.

‘I…I’d like that. Thank you,’ Charlotte said, consciously making herself relax when she realised she was hugging herself defensively.

‘Should you clear up your work first?’ he suggested in a low drawl

‘Yes, yes. Good idea,’ Charlotte agreed, flashing him a strained smile as she hurried to the table. Flipping back the rug, she gathered everything up as quickly as she could. ‘There. All done,’ she said ingenuously.

‘Why don’t you go and change? Put on your swimming costume?’

How was it drawled questions became commands when they issued from this man’s lips? Charlotte wondered, tensing up again. There was something in his gaze that warned her that he was remembering their first encounter. He must have seen her naked—she just couldn’t mistake that look in his eyes. Even Iannis Kiriakos couldn’t resist gloating a little.

Maddeningly, it only made her body ache the more. Her nipples were painfully engorged, while her lips, her breasts—in fact every sexual organ she possessed—were in the same painful condition, and likely to remain so until something was done about it. She had no doubt he would be only too pleased to oblige. But erotic daydreams were one thing—they were safe. Iannis Kiriakos in the flesh was not.

The fisherman in her article was safe, and predictable too—simply because she pulled his strings. But the man standing in front of her now was a very different proposition. Charlotte doubted Iannis Kiriakos possessed strings.

‘Well?’ he prompted, with more than a hint of impatience.

Charlotte got the impression that he was unaccustomed to having to ask for anything twice. But this was her home—at least until the end of the week. He had to know that she was in charge here at least. ‘I’ll go and get changed,’ she said, with a flash in her eyes that warned him not to push too hard.

His hard mouth quirked slightly, as if her show of spirit only pleased him more, and once again to her annoyance Charlotte found her body responded eagerly to even the smallest sign of his approval. He would be incredible in bed. But the reality of sleeping with a man like Iannis was too frightening even to contemplate. Just the thought of thighs like those straddling her, controlling her, was enough—never mind imagining what it might feel like to be crushed beneath his powerful torso.

He was not the sort of man for her. She would do better to concentrate on the part he would play in her work… But she still had to learn more about him. Iannis Kiriakos was the magic ingredient that would make her article live.

‘Why don’t you make yourself comfortable over here?’ Charlotte suggested, pointing to a comfortable recliner well away from her work. ‘I won’t be long.’

‘I’ll stand,’ Iannis replied as he stared out at the sea.

Charlotte hesitated. She would have preferred to see him settled further away from her work, rather than have him plant his hands on the rail of the veranda in such a proprietary fashion. There was something alarmingly temporary about his posture—as if at any moment he might spring back and begin to prowl around in search of new distractions.

‘Don’t be long,’ he said.

I don’t like to be kept waiting, he implied, Charlotte thought, biting back the rejoinder that sprang to her lips. She had to keep her cool, however much he provoked her. If her stay on Iskos was to be of any benefit at all she had to keep the article at the forefront of her mind.

Charlotte paused on the threshold, turned around and cast a thoughtful stare at the expressive span of uncompromising back currently angled towards her. The likelihood of Iannis Kiriakos ever picking up a copy of Street Style, the magazine she was writing for, on Iskos was a million to one. There was no reason for him ever to find out about the article.

As her gaze lingered she realised that it was quite easy to strip away his clothes in her mind. She should stick to her original intention and kill two birds with one stone, Charlotte decided, feeling her throat dry. How hard could it be to sleep with a man like Iannis? A shiver of anticipation ran through her as she continued to appraise him. There was a little matter of sexual frustration and low self-esteem to address, and he was just the person for the job. And, of course, she could delve into his psyche at the same time, to discover what made him tick—absolutely essential research for her article. So why was she hesitating? What on earth did she have to lose?

Lust did terrible things to you, Charlotte mused as she foraged in the chest where she kept her clothes. Here she was now, for instance—rifling through her swimming costumes in search of the most provocative. But none of them really answered her requirements. Most were faded and thin from too much exposure to the chemicals in the indoor pools at home. Finally she settled on an old white one. It was possibly the most disreputable of the lot—when wet it was practically transparent…

She would be some time, Iannis reasoned as he leaned over to pick up the sheets of paper Charlotte had carelessly dropped. He felt a rush of victory as he straightened up. By the time she returned he would have read them. He would know exactly what she was up to—

‘Iannis.’

He whirled around, his mouth tensing into an angry line. ‘Marianna!’ Iannis curbed his initial reaction. ‘How good to see you,’ he added in a softer voice.

‘Here. Give that to me,’ Marianna insisted, smiling as she advanced towards him. ‘Thespinis Charlotte is not going to want to lose any of her work.’

‘No,’ Iannis said, making nothing of it as he folded the sheets and slipped them into the back pocket of his denim shorts. ‘This is something of mine.’ He touched Marianna’s arm reassuringly.

Lifting her shoulders in an accepting shrug, she flashed him a quick smile and disappeared into the house.

Waiting a few moments, until he was sure he was alone, Iannis felt for the sheets of paper in his back pocket.

‘Sorry to keep you.’

His lips pressed down briefly with disappointment. So, reading Charlotte Clare’s work would have to wait. But there were compensations—in the form of this very lovely young woman, who was clearly prepared for whatever he had in mind.

This was going to be easier than taking candy from a baby, Iannis mused as Charlotte came towards him wearing a white bathing costume that left very little to his imagination. Yet again the costume looked like a relic from a museum. Possibly it had been bought from a thrift shop, or passed down through the generations. He kept his cynical thoughts to himself and his expression bland. It hardly mattered—she wouldn’t be wearing it for long.

Iannis led the way down to the beach, knowing Charlotte would be close behind. The only question was how far was he going to be able to push the offhanded manner. He smiled grimly to himself as he quickened his step and heard her slithering down the loose shale to keep up with him. She wouldn’t let him get away; that much was certain. He had met plenty of women like Charlotte Clare before—they would do anything for the chance to sleep with Iannis Kiriakos.

‘I’m sorry…’

He halted abruptly at the sound of Charlotte’s voice.

‘I’m sorry,’ Charlotte repeated. ‘I have to go back. I won’t keep you waiting long, Iannis. I promise.’ She wanted some clothes from the villa. Iannis was far too arrogant. She had made a huge mistake coming down to the beach half naked.

Iannis turned with impatience. They were almost halfway down the cliff—and Charlotte was right. She wouldn’t keep him waiting long.

‘Look,’ Charlotte said persuasively, ‘why don’t you go on? I’ve kept you waiting for ages already, and I know you’re ready—’

He swung round to look at her and had the satisfaction of seeing the words freeze on her lips. He was definitely ready. She was right about that. The barbecue could wait. But they’d need some sustenance by the time he’d finished with her.

‘Well? What is it now?’ he said, frowning impatiently as he grated out the words.

It would make his life easier if she could try and look less like a sun-kissed urchin and more the brazen seductress. Even the ancient costume only succeeded in adding to her air of innocence—her total lack of practice in the art of seduction. Iannis obliterated the thought before it could take root in his mind. Anyway, there were benefits to being alone for a few minutes, he reminded himself, thinking of the sheets of paper he had retrieved from her floor.

‘Be quick, then,’ he said, waving her away.

Perfect. Now he had the chance to read her papers and find out just what she’d been hiding…

‘Thespinis Charlotte!’

Planting his hands on his hips, Iannis swore softly in Greek as Marianna hurried towards them with a large basket hanging from her arm. He moved Charlotte aside to go and help Marianna, seeing she was slithering out of control down the steep track in her smooth-bottomed shoes.

‘What are you thinking of, Marianna?’ he said. ‘You might have hurt yourself.’

‘What is it, Marianna?’ Charlotte said with concern.

‘Only this,’ Marianna said, widening her eyes as she fanned herself vigorously. ‘You forgot towels. You forgot suncream. You forgot clothes. You forgot everything,’ she exclaimed, looking Charlotte up and down with concern. ‘You must not let this man hurry you off like that again. Make him wait,’ she counselled sternly, plucking out a suitably modest pair of knee-length shorts and a baggy tee shirt for Charlotte to wear.

‘You are very kind, Marianna,’ Iannis remarked softly.

Marianna contented herself with a knowing look and compressed her lips together in approval when Charlotte quickly put on the clothes she had brought from the villa.

Iannis knew he would have to subdue his desire to read whatever Charlotte had written until that evening. He would not let it spoil his day. Turning to view her, he discovered Charlotte was every bit as alluring now she was respectably dressed.

‘Take it slowly,’ he advised as Marianna started back up the slope. ‘The day is growing warm, and you are not as young as you were, Marianna Lyknos.’

As Marianna turned to wag an admonishing finger at him Iannis smiled. Okay, so Marianna had won this one. He’d have to work a little harder now to get at the goods—but how much of a delay would that amount to? A couple of seconds at most for the top, then the swimming costume and shorts would come off together in the same easy movement—ten seconds, maybe?

He felt a small sense of triumph—but then a pang of regret hit him hard. Why? Iannis asked himself impatiently, trying to shut down his conscience. Why should he care? Charlotte Clare was no different from any other woman. They were all the same—all after the same thing. He thought of Charlotte naked on the beach the first time he saw her. It only served to fuel his anger. Was this how beautiful women cheapened themselves nowadays? Didn’t she know all she had to do was act normally, talk normally, dress normally? She could wear a sack and he would want her just as much. He made a sound of contempt.

‘Are you all right?’

Charlotte stopped scrambling down the slope for a moment to take a look at him.

‘I’m just fine,’ Iannis confirmed, leaping past her onto the sand. Striding ahead, he made for a simple metal barbecue erected close to the cliff. If he remained close to her a moment longer she would see how angry she made him—and then all chance of a satisfactory conclusion to the day would be lost.

The sand felt cool and firm beneath Charlotte’s feet, but the sun was hot, and she was glad that Iannis had chosen a spot for lunch beneath the shelter of an overhanging rock.

‘Do you like sardines?’ he asked, without turning as he lit the coals.

‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen such big ones,’ Charlotte admitted honestly.

‘You’ll like these,’ he said with confidence.

Charlotte watched in fascination as he drew the knife from the scabbard at his waist. The blade was razor-sharp, and well used, and he wielded it with confidence and precision. Her gaze became fixed upon his hands. His lean tanned fingers were dexterous and delicate too—surprisingly so for such a powerful man, she noticed as she watched him prepare the food.

The small fish cooked quickly, and by the time Iannis had finished with them there was only succulent pale brown meat on Charlotte’s plate, with not even a fine bone in sight. His knife glinted in the light again as he sliced a tomato, discarding the tough inner core and then balancing the moist slices on the blade to slip them onto her plate. He had salt and pepper grinders, as well as a glass bottle with a screw top containing oil. There were chilli peppers, bay leaves and peppercorns floating in the greenish gold liquid, and he added a little, together with a sprinkling of seasoning, to their food.

If this was standard table tackle for fishermen on Iskos, she was definitely impressed, Charlotte thought as he produced a bottle of local wine. They drank out of pottery beakers, and the wine, chilled in the sea, was delicious.

‘This is wonderful. Thank you,’ Charlotte said as they clinked beakers. ‘It’s far more than I expected.’

‘I am delighted to have exceeded your expectations,’ Iannis replied, dipping his head in recognition of her praise.

They shared the meal between them, balancing the plate on a flat rock and sitting either side of it. It was the most relaxed time Charlotte had spent on Iskos. She stole a glance at her companion, who seemed fully engrossed—either in the food or the view. He stared out to sea with the look of a man who was just at home there as on land. His eyes were narrowed and his glance was keen, and there was such depth there, Charlotte mused romantically, telling herself to note that down. Surely he had many more interests other than fishing. She longed to ask him about them, but at that moment his firm lips quirked slightly, as if he felt her staring at him, and she quickly looked away.

‘Good?’ he enquired, and with that one softly spoken word he drew her back into the ambit of his stunning gaze.

‘Absolutely delicious,’ Charlotte admitted softly. ‘I’ve never tasted sardines like this before.’

‘Because they are freshly caught,’ Iannis explained. ‘They are a different class of food altogether to those fish that have travelled for many hours before reaching their destination.’

‘I couldn’t agree more—’ Charlotte stopped, hearing that her voice had changed subtly to a tone she might employ at a drinks party back home. A foodie chat with Iannis Kiriakos?

‘Are you not lonely on your own at the villa?’

Charlotte took a moment to refocus as he changed the subject. ‘If you mean do I need a man to feel secure there—or anywhere else, for that matter—the answer’s no, Iannis.’

Charlotte knew the strength of her retort was unnecessary, but for some reason he had put her on the defensive. She studied him again, and as he turned to look at her she held his gaze a moment, to show she was quite capable of looking after herself.

Iannis merely huffed a small silent laugh, as if in wry acceptance of the fact, and then turned back to face out to sea.

‘You don’t have to be defensive with me,’ he observed gently. ‘I like my own space too. I am content in my own company. I have learned that solitude can be as invigorating, as instructive as even the very best company.’

Charlotte relaxed a little. It was so refreshing, so unexpected to find Iannis understood her without the need for lengthy explanation. They sat in silence together until he murmured, ‘I value silence too…time to listen to the sounds all around me, and the thoughts and feelings inside me.’

She’d had no idea they shared so much, and the urge to question him about his thoughts and feelings was something Charlotte had to fight to subdue. Without words or physical contact, without much happening at all, they were growing closer, she realised warily.

‘Fisherman have to be patient,’ he said, breaking into her thoughts. ‘They must know their territory intimately and be prepared for the worst.’

While Iannis conveniently chose to gaze out to sea, Charlotte forced herself to take an objective look at his faded tee shirt and battered shorts, his bare feet and tousled hair. She was not Shirley Valentine; she could not give up her successful career to live with a simple fisherman on a remote Greek island.

‘Has someone hurt you?’ he demanded, keeping his gaze fixed on some middle point.

Probing her subconscious by stealth? ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘So they have,’ Iannis observed steadily, turning around to look at her.

His eyes were full of concern, and something else…understanding?

Something she had never expected.

A ball of emotion lodged in Charlotte’s throat. In that moment she wanted to tell him everything, share everything, throw her past open to him, let him be her judge… But reality intruded just in time and she bit down hard on her lip and made a flippant gesture with her hand. ‘I’m over it,’ she said dismissively.

‘Tell me more about yourself,’ Iannis insisted, refusing to let her off so lightly. The suggestion of a smile was tugging at his lips as he warned her softly, ‘I’m waiting, and I’m not going anywhere.’

Charlotte made a few false starts, and then became more animated when she found that he really was listening, and smiling into her eyes, as she shared a carefully edited version of her past with him. Her husband had never asked questions, never listened to anything she had to say, never maintained eye contact for longer than a millisecond…

‘So you organised a sit-down strike at school when your favourite dinner lady was sacked?’

He really was listening! ‘She didn’t get her job back.’

‘You tried,’ Iannis remarked softly. ‘And then you climbed out of a window and shinned down the drainpipe to escape from a swimming gala?’

‘Some workmen brought a ladder when I got stuck.’

‘A real rebel!’

There was approval, even humour in his voice. He made it sound like the most wonderful compliment she had ever been paid. Maybe he wasn’t such a dinosaur after all, Charlotte mused, and for a few moments she felt warm and happy. But then she frowned. Why did things have to get complicated? This was only supposed to be a holiday fling—no depth, no consequences. Everyone did it. Why couldn’t she?

Would a holiday fling be enough for her? They had both let their guard down…both forgotten to be mistrustful. There was a harmony and warmth between them that hadn’t existed before. It was dangerous, she recognised. In fact it was the worst thing that could possibly have happened. They shouldn’t be getting to know each other. It was much better…far safer for them both…if Iannis just was. She didn’t want him to take on substance and become someone she cared about. He was supposed to smoulder and deliver—nothing more. Was it already too late for that?

Charlotte cleared her mind for a moment and tried to look at things rationally. But Iannis’s sexual aura was the most potent thing she had ever encountered. It was like being in a force field she wanted to run from, while another part of her never wanted to leave his side—ever. This was madness, she realised.

‘Swim?’

‘Yes!’ Cold water! Fast! Now!

‘Okay,’ Iannis said, holding up his hands palms flat, as if to calm a small child.

‘I’d really like to swim,’ Charlotte said, springing to her feet as she spoke.

Moving away from Iannis as fast as she could, she tugged off her top as she ran, tossing it behind her and pausing only briefly at the water’s edge to rip off her shorts. Maybe the shock of meeting the waves head-on might knock some sense into her, she reasoned—nothing else had helped her so far.

Plunging into a rising wave, Charlotte felt the cool water close around her and gasped before powering away, directing her energies straight out to sea. She didn’t risk stopping to plot a course. The tiger was on her tail, and she felt him closing in on her fast. She threw everything behind her stroke, desperate to escape—from Iannis, from the promised article, and most of all from herself, from the new person she had become the moment she broke with the past and tossed her wedding ring into the sea.

Reinventing herself was taking a lot more courage than she had bargained for—and she hadn’t reckoned on Iannis Kiriakos being around to lend a hand.

CHAPTER SEVEN

IANNIS caught up with her quickly. He was as easy in the water as he was on land, swimming like a dolphin—next to her, in front, beneath and behind—diving effortlessly, his pace and agility astonishing. Soon even Charlotte was laughing, half with incredulity at his skill, and half with pleasure because he was playing with her. She hadn’t played in a long time—or maybe ever.

He had moored his boat close up to the red floats, where it drifted lazily on the idle swell. Still laughing, Charlotte grabbed hold of the side and clung on while she caught her breath. Iannis went one better and swung himself aboard the small craft.

The flash of bronzed torso was the only encouragement she needed. It looked so easy. But Charlotte only succeeded in pulling her side of the boat so close to the surface it almost capsized. As the boat yawed perilously Charlotte slipped underneath, and, disorientated, held on instead of letting go. Stretched out underwater, with her arms extended over her head and her torso wrapped around the boat, her legs rose upwards on the far side of the boat, anchoring her in position.

But Iannis was with her almost at once. She felt his arms lock around her waist and in seconds she was floating safely in the water beside him.

‘Wait for me next time,’ he suggested dryly. ‘I will lift you into the boat.’

Charlotte knew she should stoutly declare her independence, but her heart was hammering uncontrollably so she just said, ‘Thank you,’ as she struggled to get her breath back. The near-accident had really shocked her—but not half as much as the sensation of Iannis’s warmth and strength closing around her half-naked body.

‘Stop shivering,’ Iannis insisted. There was a suggestion of laughter in his voice. ‘There’s nothing to be worried about now. I’ve got you. You’re safe. I won’t let you drown.’

‘Really?’ Charlotte said dryly as her confidence returned. Their faces were very close—too close. It was one of those moments when anything might have happened. Warding off disappointment, she turned quickly, ready to get on board the rowing boat.

Iannis positioned her hands on the side. His hands were warm and strong as he closed her fingers over the smooth wooden surface.

‘Stay there until I’m ready,’ he said, ‘and don’t pull down this time—wait for me to lift you.’

She watched him spring out of the water and vault over the side, hardly affecting the balance of the boat at all. Water streamed off his muscular physique highlighting every contour as he leaned towards her with the sun at his back. Beneath the battered denim shorts she saw now that he had been wearing black bathing shorts. Charlotte forced her gaze away.

‘Are you coming or not?’ Iannis demanded sharply.

‘Of course.’

‘Give me your hands,’ he instructed.

One moment Charlotte was treading water, the next she was standing in front of him, with the sea pulsing rhythmically beneath her feet on the rough wooden planking.

Straddling the boat to keep it balanced, his legs firmly planted, Iannis stared down at her.

‘Thank you…’

Charlotte gasped in surprise when Iannis traced the swell of her bottom lip with his thumb. She found it both restrained and astonishingly seductive. Closing her eyes, she was sure he was about to say something tender and reassuring—or even kiss her.

He did neither.

‘Thank you,’ she said again, as he moved away.

‘For what?’ he demanded, slanting her a look.

‘For diving in, for helping me.’ Charlotte shrugged, wondering why he couldn’t accept her simple thanks. But then she noticed one corner of his mouth tugging up. ‘Don’t tease me, Iannis. I know I panicked. I don’t know what happened. Maybe it was the effects of the wine.’

‘You only had one glass,’ he pointed out. ‘Knowing we were going to swim, I made sure of that. Just forget it,’ he said, relaxing onto one hip when she looked as if she’d say something more.

But she couldn’t relax, Charlotte realised, wishing she could find some reason for him to take hold of her again. Her feelings were all mixed up. She could still feel the touch of his thumb on her lip and wanted more. But those intoxicating sensations were getting in the way of her journalistic skills. She should be pumping him for information. Once that was done she could let herself go in every sense—and maybe even return home with a contented smile on her face instead of just an article. But there was something else going on inside her, something she had not anticipated—and it had no connection with sex, or her wretched job.

They had only shared a meal together, Charlotte reasoned, trying to make light of it, but then she smiled, recalling how relaxed she had been with him. They had played in the sea like children, and she’d had fun, she remembered wistfully. She had got into difficulties, but Iannis had been there for her… She sighed with impatience. There were so few days left. It was nonsense to even contemplate falling in love. She hardly knew him. It was just a feeling…and feelings wore off.

But here in his own world, the sea, Iannis was even more assured, even more powerful—and it drew her to him, making her wish all sorts of things could come true. She felt his gaze on her face, felt the power emanating from him. And powerful men need a powerful foil, Charlotte reminded herself as she tilted her chin up to stare back at him.

Iannis wasn’t quite sure how he held himself in check. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to slip his arms around her waist and drag her to him. But she was too tender, too vulnerable—why did he always sense that about her? And she could save that defiant look she was giving him. He wasn’t fooled for a moment. In fact, it was all he could do to stop himself smiling. She was such a mass of contradictions—and it was obvious she had forgotten the white swimsuit was virtually transparent when it was wet. It left nothing, absolutely nothing to his imagination.

Bracing himself, Iannis gazed skywards as he waited for the tug of desire to abate. If he had been interested in Charlotte Clare before, he was doubly so now. She was blatantly aroused, even after the shock she had just sustained in the water. Her nipples were almost painfully extended, and that only accentuated the natural uplift of her breasts. She had a true hourglass figure, with not one angular surface to distract him from her curves. He wanted to grab hold of her, turn her around to admire every inch of her and rid her of the hideous white skin that supposedly passed for a swimming costume. She was more beautiful than Aphrodite, and had no need to wear a magic girdle around her waist to snare him.

But that in itself was a danger, Iannis reminded himself, putting a brake on his erotic reverie. He would have to be on his guard all the time. He would give her the physical pleasure she so obviously craved—but he must never give her his trust.

Holding back on emotion was hard for him—almost impossible for a Greek. But he must not fall under her spell, like the mythical mariners who had allowed themselves to be lured onto the rocks by the Sirens. What else were myths other than lessons in life set down in ancient times in allegorical form in order to protect future generations? Who was he to ignore them now? He had some sympathy with those sailors of old. He was finding it increasingly impossible to keep his own thoughts under control.

He viewed Charlotte lazily, as a connoisseur might view a piece of precious porcelain. The sun had warmed her skin to a shade of softest honey gold, and it was as smooth as silk, as lush as his favourite fruit, the peach. He longed to taste her, to sample her juices, to lave, nibble and kiss every inch of her delectable body. He knew she would taste every bit as sweet as she looked. He even had cause to be thankful for the vile costume. It moulded every inch of her with intimate attention to detail, forcing him to look into her eyes for the sake of his sanity.

But he would have to find out more about her. Why had she made Iskos her base? Coincidence? He thought not. What was she working on so busily at her laptop? He remembered the folded sheets, still in the back pocket of his shorts on the shore, and felt a rush of anticipation and dread. Why did she feel the need to hide her work from him if it was innocent?

Too many questions still awaiting answers. He would be mad to soften, to get to know the warm, headstrong woman beneath the incredible body. Be satisfied with the goods on display, Iannis thought cynically—and then, remembering the Sirens, he added silently to himself, And only sample those when it is safe to do so.

Charlotte felt the sexual tension ebb away without understanding what had happened. But still warmth persisted in trickling through her veins—and not just because Iannis looked so incredible, with locks of wet hair flicked around his face and his lips set in a firm line that seemed to demand she tease them apart and entice them to soften. His eyes were like black gold, with jewels of intelligence sparking at their core, and at that moment she wanted him on any terms. But what did she have to do to get the response she longed for from him?

‘I’ll take you back,’ he said.

Iannis could think of nothing but the sheets of paper in the pocket of his shorts. He could not wait to return to shore and read them. He had to know what she had written. Indicating that Charlotte should sit down, he picked up the oars before she had a chance to complain.

He didn’t speak a word to her as he pulled for shore.

It had been a good day. He had made lunch, as he’d said he would, and Charlotte should be content. But she was not content—far from it. She couldn’t even enjoy watching his muscles flex as he worked the oars, because it was clear he was intent on returning to land as fast as possible. He didn’t trouble to hide the fact that he’d had enough of her. And what had she learned for her article? Nothing. What had she learned about Iannis the man? Nothing! Apart from the fact that she liked him a lot more than was good for her.

And now he was aloof, closed off to her…after everything they had shared—she had shared, Charlotte realised, compressing her lips together in a flat, angry line. While she had been giving Iannis an insight into her formative years he had given her precisely nothing in return. He had used her—for what? His amusement? To laugh about with his friends in the taverna?

She was damned well going to find out just exactly what was going on—who he was. Did he have a wife? The thought made her feel physically sick, but more determined than ever. She had to know the truth, and the only way to do that was to follow him when they got back to shore. Even if he lived alone, a home was like a car, or clothes, his choice of friends—it would say so much about him…there would be clues. At least she would know something of him that way. And anything she saw would be meat for her article.

That was how she must regard him from now on—a subject for her article and nothing more. Two could play at the ‘give it all, then snatch it back’ emotional game, Charlotte mused tensely.

‘Thank you for taking me out on the boat,’ she said after they had disembarked, watching Iannis pull it clear of the shallows. ‘Will you be rowing home?’

‘No,’ he told her over his shoulder. ‘I’ve already arranged for someone to come and get the boat—and the barbecue,’ he added, jerking his chin towards it.

Charlotte contained her excitement as she watched Iannis settle the boat between some rocks, where even a freak tide couldn’t hope to drag it out to sea. It would make it so much easier to follow him if he was on foot.

It was a great hiding place for the boat, she realised as he straightened up. That was why she hadn’t spotted it before. What else was he hiding from her? She had to know, to save anyone else who might be involved—and save herself, Charlotte accepted grimly. Normally she wouldn’t consider sneaking about, but she wasn’t going to be a doormat either.

Charlotte concealed her impatience as she waited for Iannis to leave. ‘I’m going to sunbathe a little before I go back,’ she said, stretching her arms languidly, as if to emphasise the fact that she wasn’t going anywhere fast.

‘Well, don’t take your costume off,’ he warned in a low growl. ‘Marianna’s son will be down here soon, to collect up everything I’ve left behind.’ Slanting her a glance, he frowned. ‘Do you frequently sunbathe at dusk?’

The day was slipping away fast, and Charlotte realised she needed to come up with a reasonable explanation. ‘I have fair skin. I prefer to sunbathe when it is cooler.’

‘In that case you will have your wish,’ Iannis agreed sardonically, dipping his head towards the sun, suspended like a giant orange balloon above the horizon. ‘I will call on you before I set my bait this evening.’ By which time I will have read your notes, he thought with satisfaction, and will have judged you guilty or not guilty.

Would she make it back in time after following him home? Charlotte wondered anxiously. Iannis would move fast, and he knew the island far better than she did. He might take some shortcut…

‘Is that not convenient?’ he demanded when she remained silent.

‘When, exactly?’ Charlotte pressed cautiously.

‘Some time before Marianna leaves,’ Iannis replied. ‘I wish to speak with her, and I think it may be easier for me to find her at your villa than to catch her at home.’

Was he resentful of her relationship with Marianna? Charlotte wondered curiously. ‘If you call after seven you will miss her,’ she said. And if you call much before half-past six I won’t be there. ‘Six forty-five?’ she offered with a shrug.

‘A small window of opportunity,’ Iannis remarked ironically.

‘I’ll need a bath…wash my hair—’

‘I am coming to see Marianna,’ he reminded her coolly.

‘Ah, yes, but that is the best time to see Marianna,’ Charlotte said, making it up as she went along. ‘She doesn’t like to be disturbed when she is working—she will be getting ready to leave at that time.’

‘Very well. I will try and accommodate Marianna’s hectic schedule,’ Iannis agreed with a mocking bow.

And by then I will know a lot more about you, Charlotte thought with satisfaction as she watched him collect his things. ‘Why don’t you use this?’ she suggested, pressing Marianna’s basket into his hands to make her own task easier. ‘You can return it to Marianna tonight.’

‘That would be useful,’ he conceded with a nod.

‘Thanks again,’ Charlotte called, hopping with impatience until he finally made off towards the cliff path.

Anticipation was coiled up inside her like a tightly wound spring, and she was barely able to wait until he disappeared out of sight. But Charlotte made herself count up to twenty, and then ran lightly across the sand in his tracks.

As she had suspected, he moved fast over the rugged terrain. As they dropped down towards the town Charlotte pictured him in a bare room somewhere amidst the brightly painted houses that fringed the small harbour. He would have few luxuries, and everything would have been carefully chosen. Usefulness would be all that mattered where his possessions were concerned.

Marianna had explained to her that the colourful harbour dwellings, so unlike the stark white houses clinging to the hillsides, owed their individuality to a time when only fishermen had lived there. If a distress signal was raised at any one of them, men fishing out in the bay could easily identify the household in question.

But Iannis strode straight past each gaily painted doorway without a second glance, and apart from acknowledging the greetings of the local inhabitants didn’t break stride once. He would be in a hurry, Charlotte reasoned. There was hardly time for him to get back home, shower, change, and then return to the villa to see Marianna.

She tried to keep the chase low-key, but it was hard not to draw attention when she was the only newcomer in the area. Seeing her anxiety, the local women were keen to help, and she was forced to stop every few steps and back into the shadows to reassure them with signs and the few words of Greek she had picked up. But it worked to her advantage too. She was able to take cover amongst the friendly groups and wait until Iannis was a safe distance away before starting after him again.

He took a steep path out of the village—little more than a track hidden between two buildings. Charlotte might have missed it completely had she not been close behind. She saw that it wound up the hill that rose behind the village, and would be completely inaccessible except by foot.

The light was dwindling fast. It was time to make a decision. Maybe she should turn back and try tomorrow, earlier in the day? But then Iannis suddenly veered off to the right and disappeared into a parched clump of trees.

Starting up the track after him, Charlotte began to run. But once she had followed him into the trees she had to move more carefully. The woodland path was strewn with dried twigs that crunched beneath her feet, and each time she stopped she had to strain to hear over the noise of her thundering heart that he was still moving ahead of her.

Then, quite abruptly, the trees opened out and she found herself back on top of the cliff, at the opposite side of the horseshoe bay to where her own villa was situated. She caught a brief glimpse of Iannis, but then he disappeared completely, taking a route she could only guess led down to the beach again. There was no cover as she crept forward to the cliff-edge, and she was forced to lie flat and crawl on her belly in order to peer down.

Close by the water’s edge, two white cottages sat side by side. There was no sign of Iannis. His rowing boat had been brought back and tied up at a small wooden jetty in front of the cottage. Other than that there were no clues: nothing carelessly left outside, no scattering of possessions that might flesh out the man who lived there—nothing apart from his boat. She would have to get closer, Charlotte realised reluctantly.

Forced to stop each time her feet dislodged a flurry of loose stones, she made achingly slow progress down the steep staircase that cut through the cliff, but when she reached the shale path Charlotte saw that lights had been switched on inside both cottages. Running the last few steps, she ducked down beneath one of the lighted windows and waited until her breathing steadied. Then, still half-crouching, she peered over the window ledge into the brightly illuminated room. A shadow passed by an open doorway and she saw that she had got the right house.

The interior of Iannis’s cottage was as unhelpful as the outside had been. Immaculately neat, with freshly whitewashed walls, and its furniture simple and basic. But there was an arrangement of local flowers on the scrubbed wooden table, she noticed, as well as several pots of herbs on a ledge inside the window.

Charlotte felt her stomach contract. She could imagine Iannis doing many things, but arranging flowers wasn’t one of them. A woman’s touch? She scanned the row of flourishing green herbs lined up in their small terracotta pots and then looked around the room for more clues.

There was a battery of unsophisticated cooking utensils hanging from hooks on the walls, as well as several decorative plates in traditional blue and cream earthenware on a wooden shelf…but they were all too perfectly positioned. And in spite of the flowers and herbs there was something sterile about the interior. Perhaps it was the absolute lack of clutter, but it looked more like a swanky holiday cottage than a local home.

She ducked down as Iannis walked into the room. From his damp hair she deduced that he had taken a quick shower. It made her all the more aware of her own salt-caked discomfort. Peering cautiously over the sill again, she saw that he had changed into a pair of beautifully cut black trousers, and had a towel slung casually around his neck. The trousers were gaping open at the front, and she saw the reason for it as he reached for a freshly ironed shirt hanging on the back of a chair.

She ducked down again fast when he turned to stare out of the window, almost as if he sensed she was there. Pressing herself back against the wall, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut and waited for her heart to calm down. She was such a fool. Had she really imagined he would live alone? Iron his own shirts?

When the kitchen light went off again she scuttled around the corner of the cottage to where another band of light striped the stony ground. Cautiously straightening up, Charlotte peered through the window into what she guessed was the main reception room. Elegantly furnished, it reinforced her suspicions that this was no usual fisherman’s home. The traditional woven rug with a graphic design in neutral colours could have passed in a modern loft conversion, there was a deeply padded banquette covered in what looked like cream linen skirting two sides of the room, and a large stone fireplace with a cast-iron hearth full of logs. But there wasn’t a single personal possession as far as she could see.

Maybe Iannis was just incredibly tidy… But she had to be sure. She had to find his bedroom.

She was beginning to feel like a character in a not-very-funny cartoon, Charlotte thought, as she bunny-hopped her way around the cottage. But fortunately the building wasn’t large, and she soon found an exterior staircase that led to a veranda at first-floor level. It seemed likely that his bedroom would be at the top of the steps.

Climbing soundlessly in her bare feet, Charlotte saw that the double doors were wide open. And she could hear music. Jazz? Soft, smoochy jazz. She jerked back in surprise and took some thinking time. She couldn’t have been more taken aback if there had been a brass band playing. The only music she had heard so far on the island was either pop or traditional Greek tunes at the taverna.

Creeping onto the balcony, she cautiously peered into the bedroom. There was just one bank of pillows on the bed. No sign of a woman’s touch here, at least…in fact no sign of anyone’s touch. It looked exactly like a hotel bedroom.

She spotted the shorts and top he had been wearing cast on a chair, but there wasn’t a photograph or even an ornament to soften the room—a disappointment for her professional curiosity, but otherwise a relief.

Charlotte tensed and pulled back quickly as Iannis strode into the room. She saw him snatch up the shorts, but then a large moth, attracted by the light, brushed against her face. With a soft cry of alarm she raised her arms to ward it off. Iannis froze, and then moved with frightening speed towards the open doors.

Charlotte had a head start. She ran ahead of him with a speed born of utter panic. If she could just get down to the beach she felt sure she could get back to the villa before he guessed what she had done.

The moon was stubbornly fixed behind a cloud, which was to her advantage. She heard shutters closing, and knew he must have gone back to lock up. Pausing to catch her breath, with her hands resting on her legs, Charlotte smiled. It had been a close call, but she had got away with it.

After a few minutes of rapid walking along the beach she heard something else, and stopped again. It was the unmistakable sound of oars clopping into still water. And then she saw the small rowing boat moving steadily across the bay.

Charlotte uttered a small sound of alarm. She had never dreamed that Iannis would row across the bay—not when he had changed into decent clothes. There wasn’t the slightest chance she could catch up with him now. Marianna would be worried out of her mind when Iannis arrived without her.

And where would she say she had been?

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHARLOTTE had no intention of skulking in the shadows outside her own villa. She could hear Iannis and Marianna talking on the terrace and decided to brazen it out.

‘Good evening, Iannis,’ she said, strolling casually towards him.

He tensed as he swung around to view her through narrowed eyes.

‘Where have you been?’ Marianna exclaimed.

‘I trust you caught the last rays of the sun?’ Iannis murmured sardonically.

Charlotte felt her face redden. ‘I stayed longer than I intended to down on the beach…and now I need to take a shower, if you will excuse me.’

‘Well, thank goodness you have returned safely,’ Marianna said. ‘I must be going, too—’

‘Oh, no,’ Charlotte exclaimed, stopping dead in her tracks. ‘You don’t have to rush off.’

‘It is getting late,’ Marianna pointed out, looking Charlotte up and down with concern.

‘Perhaps Iannis will walk with you?’ Charlotte suggested hopefully.

‘It would be my pleasure,’ he agreed.

As Iannis and Marianna walked away from the villa together Charlotte felt the tension drain out of her. She’d had more than enough excitement for one evening.

But less than half an hour later Iannis was back.

‘Forgive me,’ he murmured, standing beneath the light on the porch as she opened the door. ‘There is something I forgot.’

‘Oh?’ Charlotte said faintly, backing up as he came towards her. ‘Can I find it for you?’

‘I have already found it,’ he said, closing the front door softly behind him.

‘I don’t understand…’ Charlotte felt her heart lurch as she watched a muscle work in his jaw, and then very slowly he eased away from the door.

‘Do you understand this, pedhaki mou?’ he murmured, reaching out for her.

Even after their closeness on the beach, coming from his lips the endearment was so unexpected Charlotte’s brow pleated fleetingly in bemusement. She had heard the Greek women crooning ‘little one’ to their children, but hearing it now from Iannis thrilled her—made her doubts seem foolish, made her feel safe, she realised as he dragged away the last barrier between them.

Iannis felt his senses surge to a level that could no longer be contained. Revenge—for all she had written about him, for her deception—would be sheer delight, he mused as he brushed his lips experimentally against Charlotte’s mouth and felt her soften. It would be the most intense erotic experience of his life. And she would enjoy it too. He’d make sure of that. And then she could ask herself where it had all gone wrong. He would fit a lifetime of pleasure into the few short hours she had left on the island—it would be some small compensation for what she had done.

He pulled back and allowed his gaze to rove over her. She was pulsing with desire, her lips already swollen and pink—as the rest of her would be before long. He took his time drawing her back into his arms, inch by lingering inch, relishing the sight of her eyes darkening and her nipples hardening until surely they must give her pain.

When a woman as beautiful as Charlotte Clare tried her hand at betrayal she must expect the penalty to be thoroughly and exhaustively exacted, Iannis mused, staring down at her. The only way he could think of to still his smile of victory was by dipping his head to part her lips with his tongue. She welcomed his possession so urgently he exulted. Sex between them was going to be even better than he had envisaged.

His hands were as firm as she had longed for them to be and her soft moans were becoming more urgent. She was all desire, all hot with longing, and with every other thought erased from her mind. This was what she needed, what she wanted—and Iannis wanted her, which made it complete.

‘Do you want me?’ Iannis murmured, holding her away from him to level a burning stare on her face. ‘Is this what you want, Charlotte? Tell me,’ he insisted harshly. ‘Let me hear you say it,’ he demanded fiercely.

‘If you want me to beg you will be disappointed,’ she warned, her eyes flashing fire. But even as she defied him Charlotte knew it was everything she had ever dreamed of and more. She gave a gasp of relief as he dragged her against him.

‘But you will beg,’ Iannis promised, running his hands lightly down her arms so that she trembled uncontrollably. ‘I’ll make sure of it.’

‘We meet as equals, Iannis,’ Charlotte gasped as he swung her off her feet and into his arms, ‘or not at all.’

‘You are in no position to make conditions,’ he pointed out, moving deeper into the villa. ‘You said something about taking a shower…?’

His arrogance was astounding—but she was seduced by the effect it had on her, Charlotte realised as Iannis settled her into his arms.

Shouldering open the bathroom door, he set her down on the floor and then, strolling over to the shower, switched it on. ‘Take your clothes off, Charlotte,’ he instructed, turning to her, ‘and make it slow.’

Charlotte felt as if she was melting into a pool of desire. Her lips still stung from his possession, and her body, where his hands had touched, was throbbing with awareness. She was swollen, moist and ready for his possession, but as she went to attack the buttons on his shirt he seized her wrists.

‘Not so fast,’ he whispered harshly against her ear. ‘I want to see you naked first.’

Charlotte could hear her rapid breathing, noisy above the steady swish of the shower, and see Iannis clearly reflected in the mirror above the bath. His eyes were narrowed, his gaze predatory. Relaxing, yielding, easing into his grip, she waited, then tore her hands out of his grasp when he was least expecting it.

‘I said equal terms or not at all,’ she warned, raising one brow in furious challenge as she stared at him.

Iannis had to admit to a rush of pleasure—and not for the reason he had expected. She seemed so easy, so compliant, yet had already shown herself to be a formidable adversary—and in more ways than one, he remembered, tensing at the memory. But at least his conscience was clear. She was his equal in passion. She knew what she was doing. And so did he.

This time Iannis made no complaint when Charlotte raised her arms to undo his shirt. He made it easy for her to slip the tiny horn buttons free, and then offered his wrists so that she could release the buttons on his cuffs. Moving his arms away from his sides, he allowed her to ease the shirt from his trousers and had to stop himself smiling when she was forced to stand on tiptoes to slip it from his shoulders. As she did her breasts pressed against his naked chest, and even through her top he could feel the insistent thrust of her hardened nipples.

She heard the fast breath he sucked in and looked up in satisfaction. ‘Maybe you will be the one who has to beg,’ she said, raising her eyebrows, gently mocking him.

‘Hussy,’ Iannis murmured with pleasure as she went on about her task. He eased onto one hip and saw her glance stray to the buckle on his trousers. ‘Do you want some help?’ he offered huskily.

‘I think I’ll manage,’ Charlotte answered, keeping steady eye contact as she loosened the soft kidskin belt from its silver tine.

Her voice was contained, but her eyes, her breathing, everything about her told him different, Iannis thought, tensing as very slowly Charlotte began lowering the zip on his trousers. He had never allowed a woman to take charge before—and never felt so turned on before. Charlotte had turned the tables on him in a way he could never have anticipated. She eased the trousers down over his hips and he stepped out of them. As she dipped down to help him he saw her hair still tangled from the sea. It made her look so vulnerable, so terribly fragile.

Fragile, but dangerously strong-willed. He remembered just in time what she had done. It was that strength he was pitting himself against now, not her vulnerability.

He groaned, all rational thought obliterated as she slipped the fingers of each hand beneath the elastic of his briefs. It cut off his train of thought as effectively as if she had taken him in her mouth. But it felt great. She felt great, he realised, easing into the sensation.

Charlotte swallowed hard as she brought the black silk briefs down over Iannis’s lean hips. She had never seen a man so aroused before. She had never wanted a man like this before, she realised, but for Iannis she would do anything. Sinking slowly to her knees in front of him, she took him in her mouth.

Iannis exhaled a ragged sigh. The touch of her lips and tongue was tentative to begin with, but as she grew in confidence she became more certain and more extreme. The sensation was building in him so fast it was as if he was a virgin, with no notion of control. He was suddenly suffused with the desire to do as much for her, and more—and that feeling was growing with every thought-stealing stroke of her tongue.

He moaned softly, throwing his head back as she closed her lips around him, pressing him firmly against the roof of her mouth as she began to suck. Soon he wouldn’t be able to stop himself, Iannis realised as his hips flexed convulsively. She was a Siren, a water sprite. She had bewitched him, Iannis Kiriakos, to whom control was everything—in every area of his life.

‘Stop,’ he managed huskily. ‘Stop, Charlotte! Stop now!’

She ignored him.

When was the last time anyone had disobeyed him? Could he recall a single incident? Much as he wanted her to continue, catching sight of Charlotte’s tangled, salt-clogged hair, Iannis knew his need to pleasure her was greater. She was the most dangerous and the most infuriating woman he had ever known. But she drew other feelings from him too, and it was these that made him reach down and bring her to her feet.

‘Did I do something wrong?’

Wilful, strong, and yet so very fragile, Iannis thought as he drew her into his arms. ‘No,’ he admitted, wishing things could be different between them, ‘you did nothing wrong. You did everything right.’

Charlotte gazed up, wanting to believe him. ‘So, why—?’

He rested one finger over her swollen lips, making a sound he might have made to a child. But then he replaced that finger with his lips and all Charlotte’s concerns dissolved into sensation. His lips were firm and insistent, and he teased the seam of her lips apart with lazy passes of his tongue, then took her, plunging deeply and slowly into the moist darkness of her mouth.

Her hips moved convulsively to provide a warm cradle for his erection, and the touch of his naked body against every inch of her torso, even through the thickness of her clothes, was all it took to tip her over the edge so that she cried out in surprise as the violent spasms claimed her.

Iannis supported her, bearing her weight when her legs gave way and lifting her off the ground to deepen his kiss for the duration of her climax.

‘You greedy girl,’ he murmured softly when it was all over. ‘Did I give you permission for that?’

His voice was low and teasing, and he felt so strong, so wonderful against her. She never wanted him to let her go, never wanted the moment to end. And the way he was looking at her—his gaze penetrating, warm and amused—she wanted that look to last for ever. ‘I’m sorry, I—’

He cut her off with his finger again and made the same soft sound as he let her go. ‘Where’s the shampoo?’ he said, looking around.

‘Shampoo?’ Charlotte mumbled, still mesmerised, still lost in the aftermath of sensation.

‘The shampoo,’ Iannis repeated. ‘In here?’ he enquired, opening a cupboard on the wall.

Charlotte managed to whisper, ‘Yes,’ her gaze following Iannis, drinking him in, relishing the sight of him.

‘Conditioner?’

‘Conditioner?’ A croak seemed to emerge from her throat of its own accord.

‘Yes—you know,’ Iannis said wryly. He ruffled his own hair, then, seeing the state she was in—how reluctant to emerge from the erotic trance into which he had placed her—he raised his shoulders in a shrug and shook his head.

‘Shower,’ she managed to whisper.

Iannis checked, and then came back to her.

‘I hope you have a good water tank or we’ll be taking a cold shower,’ he observed dryly.

The water was still running, Charlotte realised, coming to. ‘Oh, no!’

‘No matter,’ Iannis said. ‘We have more than enough heat between us, and to spare. Come,’ he said, beckoning to her. ‘Come to me, Charlotte.’

Charlotte raised her arms for him and Iannis eased her top over her head. The old swimming costume felt tight across her straining breasts. She had never seen her nipples so erect.

‘Magnificent,’ Iannis remarked, following her gaze. With both his hands he very lightly cupped her breasts, and with an even lighter touch scraped his thumbnails very slowly around the base of the insistent peaks before taking them in a firm grip through the worn fabric and tugging on them.

Charlotte gasped and threw back her head as the pleasure lapped over her, but Iannis removed his hands immediately.

‘Not again,’ he warned. ‘I won’t allow you to lose control again.’

As he dropped a kiss on her shoulder Charlotte felt his beard-roughened face scrape against her tender neck and shuddered with delight. Then she felt him nudging her a little, and realised that he had already loosened her shorts and pushed them down over the swell of her hips.

Tilting her chin up, he made her look at him. Very lightly he touched her lips with his tongue… teasing her, Charlotte realised, when he stopped and held her away from him. It made her long all the more to press against him, to feel his erection pressed hard against the cushion of her belly.

Were her eyes as dark as his? They seemed to control her without the need for words. She lost herself willingly in the deep black pools of light, groaning in response when he slipped the straps of her costume down from her shoulders and then, with torturous delay, brought it down inch by lingering inch over her sensitised body.

It was like unpeeling the most delicious, the most succulent fruit, Iannis mused, freeing Charlotte from the shabby costume. Her shoulders were sun-kissed and her arms felt like silk. And her breasts—He stopped, unwilling to draw the costume lower until he had feasted his eyes on them. They were full and proud, the nipples tip-tilted in a way he had rarely seen. They seemed to challenge him in a way he had never experienced before. Revenge was sweet, indeed, he conceded, feeling his senses soar as he dipped his head to kiss her again. But as he deepened the kiss, making it slow and languorous, he knew his lust for revenge had subsided. The urge to bring her pleasure had overtaken everything else.

‘Come,’ he murmured, ‘it is time for me to serve you now.’

Was this what love felt like? Charlotte wondered. Iannis was a magical lover—she didn’t want to think beyond that; she only wanted him to take her on an erotic journey where there were no secrets, no holding back.

He led her under the shower and washed her hair, and when he had finished with that he took the sponge and gently washed every inch of her body.

‘Can I wash you now?’ Charlotte said when he had finished.

He looked at her, saw how her eyelashes were long and thick and clogged with water. The look she was giving him was so open—cunningly contrived to put him off guard? But he didn’t want to believe that. He wanted one night—one night of love before he must confront the reality of her betrayal. Was that so much to ask? Iannis wondered, feeling his senses soar as he stared into her eyes.

‘Soon,’ he murmured, kissing Charlotte’s eyelids gently when she begged him again.

But she took the sponge from his hand and refused to give it back to him. ‘I won’t be denied.’

‘I can see that,’ he murmured, dropping a kiss on her neck.

He had a body the mythical gods would have envied, Charlotte mused as she lavished care over every toned, tanned inch. Iannis possessed a frame of heroic proportions; his muscles were hard and clearly defined. Yet he wasn’t over-built, and nor was he weatherbeaten, as she might have supposed him to be due to his work. He was perfectly proportioned, deliciously bronzed, and with just enough body hair to draw attention to his masculinity without concealing it…

‘Seen enough?’

She looked up as he growled softly.

‘I’m not sure I will ever see enough,’ she admitted, wielding the sponge with growing confidence.

He put his arms around her, keeping her still. ‘I think we’d better stop now,’ he murmured, and she felt his warm breath on her head.

‘Are you sure?’ Charlotte whispered, staring up at him.

‘Quite sure,’ Iannis confirmed, taking the sponge out of her hand. ‘Now, shall I have to seduce you all over again?’ he suggested, kissing the top of her head.

‘Oh, I think so,’ Charlotte murmured happily, snuggling into him.

He wrapped her from head to foot in towels so that she could hardly move, and then swept her into his arms and carried her through to the bedroom. Laying her down on the soft pile of cushions, Iannis stretched out next to her. ‘Shall I unwrap you?’ he suggested wickedly, running one hand very lightly and tantalisingly down the length of her towel-covered form.

Please, Charlotte thought, seeing his eyes were bright with humour. ‘Am I a gift?’ she challenged provocatively.

Iannis frowned briefly—just a shadow, then it passed. But that look set a doubt in Charlotte’s mind. She sensed he had pulled away from her in some way she couldn’t grasp. But then he began kissing her, and her senses took over, and nothing mattered other than how much she wanted him, how much he had come to mean to her—however dangerous that was—and how soon she had to leave…

‘Crying?’ Iannis murmured, pulling away to stare into her face. ‘What’s this, Charlotte?’

Her name sounded so soft and tender on his lips—she should have been called something harsh-sounding to reflect her duplicity, Charlotte thought, stemming her tears by sheer force of will. At that moment she wished she had never embarked upon the article, never heard of Iskos, never visited the island—but then she would never have met Iannis, she realised, gazing up at him in confusion.

‘Make love to me, Iannis,’ she whispered. ‘Make love to me so that I forget everything.’

Iannis felt himself sucked deep into a vortex of emotion which he didn’t care to analyse. He only knew that he wanted to kiss all the tears from her cheeks and make her smile again. They tasted salty on his tongue, and the scent of a wildflower rocked his senses as he buried his face into her soft neck and kissed her there. As she moved beneath him and her arms wound around his neck, he returned to kiss her mouth, deepening the kiss until he thought he must surely taste her soul.

Charlotte gave herself completely, yielding to sensation, knowing she was in the hands of a master, trusting and loving and giving until all the doubts and questions in her mind were obliterated in a constant stream of sensation.

Iannis kept on kissing her until she was all hunger, all passion, all need, and then he brought her beneath him, using one strong hand to ease her buttocks apart while he lodged a powerful thigh between her legs. He brought her legs up and over his shoulders until she was completely open, completely his. And even then he made her wait, allowing just a whisper of his erection to tantalise her senses, drawing it slowly and steadily down between her legs.

When she begged him he only shook his head in stern refusal, dropping kisses on her mouth to still her cries. But Charlotte called his name until finally he submitted to her will and allowed the tip to catch inside her. When he pulled away again she railed at him, not caring what he must think of her as she berated him with words she hardly recognised.

‘What is it you want Charlotte?’ Iannis demanded softly, cruelly repeating the exercise, holding her with a firm hand when she attempted to capture him. ‘You must wait…you must learn control,’ he husked in her ear. ‘You proved yourself ignorant in the ways of love before, and now you must be taught. You will thank me for teaching you restraint…’

‘No. I. Won’t!’ Charlotte managed hoarsely. ‘I don’t have time to learn!’

He laughed, a short and very masculine laugh. ‘We will make time,’ he promised, and, making another tantalising pass, he rested inside her a moment longer.

‘Don’t tease me,’ Charlotte warned in a husky gasp. ‘I can’t bear it, Iannis.’

‘I’m sure you’ll be an admirable student.’

‘Ah—’ She let out a long, ragged sigh as he sank deep within her, taking possession of her completely and stretching her beyond anything she would have imagined possible. The feeling was so far beyond any pleasure she had known that Charlotte couldn’t move, couldn’t participate, couldn’t urge him on as she had intended. Instead she could only lie beneath him motionless, and let him take her with firm, deep strokes until he had worked her all the way up the bed to the wall. She only surfaced briefly when with a harsh, accepting laugh Iannis was forced to drag her back down the bed to begin again.

‘Don’t…don’t stop,’ Charlotte begged weakly, hardly conscious of what was happening to her, only that she had never been suspended so high or for so long on such an incredible plateau of sensation.

‘Don’t worry, agape mou, I have no intention of stopping —not until this night is over,’ he added under his breath.

His last comment drove through the fog in Charlotte’s mind, and, focusing, she saw something hard glittering behind his eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t talk,’ Iannis commanded, cutting across her. ‘Just feel.’

Charlotte succumbed to the temptation without a fight. She had been starved too long to refuse. And Iannis made love to her in a way that made her feel strong, confident.

‘I want to ride you,’ she said at last, capturing him between her thighs.

‘Who am I to refuse?’ Iannis murmured, his hard mouth curving in a smile of contentment as he brought her on top of him.

But as their gazes clashed something flared between them, a warning that the battle wasn’t over—it had only just begun.

CHAPTER NINE

‘SHOULDN’T you put some clothes on?’

‘Complaining?’ Iannis demanded, carrying a tray of fruit juice over to the bed.

‘Certainly not,’ Charlotte assured him. ‘Should this be called service with a smile?’ she murmured, gazing up at him.

The more she came to know him, the more confidence she had using colloquial phrases. After all, his command of English was almost as good as her own, Charlotte reflected, drinking in every desirable inch of him as he settled the tray on the bedside table.

‘There’s no point in wearing clothes when I’m coming back to bed,’ he pointed out with unarguable logic.

Surely no man could have such stamina, Charlotte mused. She was barely able to move with exhaustion, but Iannis seemed unaffected by constant lovemaking. Maybe he was one of the mythical gods, fallen from a cloud—her good luck, she thought, holding his gaze as he held the beaker for her to drink. In that moment she would have done anything for him if it meant he would come back to bed.

‘So, what are you waiting for? Come back to me, Iannis. I need you.’

‘Again?’ he murmured, taking the juice away from her.

‘Yes, again. And don’t keep me waiting,’ Charlotte teased, rolling onto her back. Kicking down the covers, she spread her limbs across the silken sheets.

‘What if I said you have exhausted me?’ Iannis murmured, stretching out beside her.

‘I would call you a liar,’ Charlotte countered, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck. ‘And, fortunately for me, you cannot pretend not to be aroused.’

‘Why should I wish to pretend—?’ He broke off, and there was a silence.

The moment’s tension was just that—an instant, a subtle change of vibration in the air between them, which was gone again almost immediately.

‘No reason,’ Charlotte said. ‘Because you know you can’t get away with it,’ she added, smiling provocatively as she moved languorously beside him. ‘Not with an erection like this. And, as you’ve shown no signs of tiring yet, I have every confidence in you. After all, we began last night in the shower…’

‘I do not need reminding,’ Iannis assured her, smiling again as he seized back control and removed her hand.

Charlotte stole a look at her wristwatch on the bedside table. ‘And it’s almost—’

‘Dawn?’ Iannis supplied softly, bringing her back into his arms. Kissing the top of her head, he added, ‘We won’t watch the time, Charlotte, or look at the clock again. Time is an irrelevance for us.’

He remained silent as he brushed some wayward strands of hair from her face, and then he smiled a little and gazed into the middle distance to a point where she couldn’t join him. ‘Or at least we will hold it at bay for a few hours,’ he mused softly. ‘We will not allow it to crack into furious flower, or let reality intrude before we are ready.’

His kisses wiped her mind clean, and he kissed her deeply until all she wanted was to wind her limbs around him and rejoice in his strength. And then he took her again, with one sure stroke, and she was truly lost.

Around midday Iannis left. He was so matter-of-fact about going that Charlotte hardly realised what was happening until it was too late. One minute he was taking a shower, while she dozed contentedly in the blissful aftermath of lovemaking, and the next minute the villa was completely silent and she was alone again.

She tried sleeping the afternoon away—curling up and pretending everything was fine. Of course he had to go—he had work to do. The lobster pots wouldn’t empty themselves. Wasn’t that what she loved about him—his dedication to his work, his contentment with his lot? Was she going to steal that away from him?

Was there anything to steal?

Having seen the cottage Iannis was living in, Charlotte wasn’t sure of anything…including whether he was even a fisherman. It seemed more likely that he chose to get away to relax. Whatever the truth, she couldn’t keep him close just to service her sexual needs.

Why not? Charlotte mused wickedly, pressing her face into the satin pillows to hide her smile.

Because that was just a daydream, her sensible side insisted. Even if Iannis had said that time shouldn’t exist for them, it did—for her, at least.

Frowning, Charlotte racked her brain in an attempt to recover the exact words he had used in relation to time. The way he put it had stirred some vague memory—something about time flowering. ‘Time cracks into furious flower’—that was it! She sat upright in bed in shock as it came to her. She knew that poem—Gwendolyn Brooks. Iannis Kiriakos, quoting American poetry? Some fisherman!

Charlotte slipped out of bed. She needed a cold shower. She needed to get her brain in gear. She needed to do it right away—now.

Standing under the icy water, jumping up and down and shivering, Charlotte knew she had asked Iannis none of the right questions. And, worse, she had made assumptions based on nothing more than her own preconceived ideas and prejudices. Her ‘fisherman’ was like a book, waiting to be opened, and she hadn’t tried to get past the first page.

Not that they had done much talking, she remembered, exclaiming with impatience as she grabbed a towel. Snapping to a halt in front of the mirror, Charlotte saw that her eyes were bright and her cheeks still flushed from hours of lovemaking—but her determination showed clearly too. She had to discover everything there was to know about Iannis Kiriakos—and she had left herself hardly any time to do it!

What had she imagined? Charlotte asked herself impatiently as she hurried back to the bedroom. That Iannis would reveal his soul to her on the basis of one night of lovemaking? She had given more of herself than she would ever have believed possible, but why should Iannis feel the same?

The doubt left Charlotte feeling vulnerable and increasingly restless as she hurriedly put on her clothes. Iannis wasn’t exactly forthcoming. In fact if she hadn’t been so busy making allowances for the language barrier she would have said he weighed every word before he spoke to her. And what language barrier was that, exactly? Charlotte swiped a brush through her hair, remembering he had barely the trace of an accent. Why, of all the fishermen on Iskos, did she have to get herself entangled with a mystery man who might not even be one of them?

Maybe he was running away from something…someone. She quelled that thought instantly. It was impossible to imagine Iannis Kiriakos running away from anything.

But if she was right…

Charlotte levelled a stare at her reflection as she developed her theory. If there was more to Iannis Kiriakos, then he had made love to her under false pretences. She knew already that he loved to tease and joke—was she just a game to him too? Sleeping together was more than that, surely? It should have changed everything between them, she reasoned angrily. How could Iannis make love to her if he was only play-acting? It just wasn’t possible.

Really? her reflection observed cynically. You did…

Dropping the hairbrush onto the chest with a clatter, Charlotte straightened up. The article she was writing would stand or fall on its central focus—and that was Iannis Kiriakos, the fisherman of Iskos who found fulfilment living close to nature. But the conclusions she had jumped to where the real man was concerned were full of flaws. Iannis was definitely not what he seemed—and the only certain knowledge she had of him wasn’t printable. The central focus of her article had to be a man her readers could believe in…therefore she would not write about the real Iannis, but about the man her imagination had conjured up!

The solution was so simple that Charlotte exclaimed out loud, but then she frowned again. Simple, maybe, but it didn’t resolve any of her personal issues. Work-wise, she could easily rejig the first draft of her article and send it off for comment. But she would still have to investigate Iannis the man for the sake of her own sanity, and find out who he really was…

The front door to the waterfront cottage was open. It seemed Iannis was at home. Charlotte’s heart began to race. She had no idea how he would react when he saw her, and sucked in a few deep breaths to try and steady herself.

It gave her a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach just remembering how it had felt to wake and find him gone. No note, no small token—her imagination had conjured up a bunch of wildflowers, a few scribbled words, even in Greek, or better still a few words in English to reassure her, to tell her where and when they might meet next—even a sardine in the fridge, damn it!

It was beginning to look as if she should put the whole episode with Iannis Kiriakos down to bitter experience. Except she couldn’t do that, Charlotte realised. She would never forget him.

She tensed, hearing his voice, and peered cautiously in through one of the ground-floor windows. She saw he was talking on a mobile phone. It was pressed to his ear as he paced up and down the room. The expression on his face was intent and serious. He looked as if he was drawing up plans while he was listening.

A great yearning washed over her as she watched him. Did he think of her at all—or had she just been a night’s pleasure, easily forgotten? She flattened her palms against the rough stone as regret flooded through her. He looked amazing in jeans. His naked feet were slipped into simple thonged sandals of a type many people wore on the island, but that was his only nod towards island fashion. The shirt was undoubtedly pure linen, and his gold wristwatch too slim to be a fake.

Charlotte lurched back guiltily as he turned around to stare at her. Along with his other accomplishments he was incredibly intuitive—frighteningly so, she realised, pinning a smile to her face. But, far from returning her smile, his face was set into an angry mask.

She must have surprised him, Charlotte reasoned, raising her hand in greeting.

Cutting the line, he tossed the phone onto a low coffee table and crossed the room at a speed that suggested he intended to cut her off at the front door. Charlotte felt her stomach churn with apprehension. This was worse than she had imagined. He really didn’t want to see her.

When Iannis appeared, framed by the door, it was hard to believe this was the same man who only a few short hours before had held her in his arms and told her she was the most desirable woman on earth.

‘Charlotte.’

His voice was curt as he leaned one arm against the architrave, as if to bar her way. His eyes were cold and hard. Nothing about him suggested that she was welcome. And it wasn’t just his manner that had changed, Charlotte realised. He looked different.

Could it be just because his hair was tamed and he was wearing fresh clothes? He was certainly impeccably groomed, and that gave him more presence than ever. Then she realised that the man barring her way could have moved comfortably in any company in the world—it was she who felt out of place. She had thought herself suitably dressed for the visit, in a casual sundress with a cotton cardigan tied around her shoulders, but right now she felt downright unsophisticated, as well as totally unsure of herself.

‘Why have you come here, Charlotte?’

‘I had to speak to you.’ Why? Was it worth this much humiliation?

Iannis’s eyes registered nothing…no emotion, no warmth. Even anger would have been better than this. Again Charlotte was overcome by the sensation of sheer power that flowed from him. But it had nothing to do with physical strength—it was his will, she recognised, staring up at him.

His hair was swept back severely and curled around his powerful neck in luxuriant waves. Even now desire licked through her as she remembered touching, stroking, kissing and tasting that same bronzed flesh, moving on to lavish more kisses on the wide sweep of his shoulders and then, at his encouragement, going on to explore the whole of his daunting frame with her lips and her teeth and her tongue. Had that really been just a few short hours ago? It seemed impossible now. His expression was so guarded, almost hostile towards her.

‘How did you find me?’

His voice matched the expression in his eyes—cold, speculative, unforgiving.

Charlotte ran through a selection of excuses in her mind. It felt tawdry to admit to following him. ‘I asked,’ she said, shrugging aside the question in his eyes.

‘I said,’ Iannis repeated icily, ‘how did you find me?’ He spoke slowly, enunciating each word with precision, as if to emphasise the fact that he would only be satisfied with the truth. And when she remained silent he said coldly, ‘Do you need me to rephrase the question, Charlotte?’

‘No!’ Anger flared through her. It was obvious she had been used. The irony of the situation made Charlotte want to laugh out loud. Instead she dug her nails into her palms until the pain ordered her thoughts, and then admitted quietly, ‘I followed you.’

Her candour seemed to surprise him. Iannis brought his arm down and shifted position. It was only then she realised how tense he was.

Last night was to have been the end of it, Iannis reminded himself grimly. Yet here she was, making the call he had just received redundant. But why? Because deep down he knew that whatever wrong she did to him he still wanted her? He would always want her? More than that, he actually resented those words of condemnation coming from the lips of someone who had never met her. How could they know anything?

As his anger rose in Charlotte’s defence Iannis had to confess to a grudging admiration for the woman staring steadily at him now. Most people would have gone scurrying back down the path in the face of his anger, but she didn’t even flinch. She just stared straight back at him with that extraordinary emerald gaze, throwing off waves of defiance and disrespect. In spite of all the promises he had made to himself, desire tugged mercilessly at the edges of his control. It was an irresistible force. Countries had been lost for the sake of women as beautiful as Charlotte Clare.

Iannis smiled inwardly, knowing he should rejoice, because all he had at stake was his pride.

‘You’d better come in,’ he said coolly, standing aside. It was all he could do to keep his hands off her as she edged past him, and, hearing her sharp intake of breath, he knew she felt the same. Was it by chance that her magnificent breasts had brushed against his arm?

Charlotte had to remind herself that this was the man in whose arms she had slept all night. Could this really be the same man who had put her pleasure before his own and made her feel safe every step of the way? He seemed so cold, so distant. She had given him so much of herself—too much, she could see now—and it appeared that she would pay for her lack of judgement. Iannis had only taken what she had freely offered.

‘Marianna!’ Charlotte’s troubled thoughts were replaced by shock as the very last person she expected to see huffed down the internal staircase in a flurry of skirts. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I live next door. I take care of the cottage—and Iannis,’ Marianna explained, rolling her eyes to the heavens as she heaved a tolerant sigh.

Fresh flowers, clean shirts, pots in herbs. ‘I should have realised.’

‘Why should you?’ Marianna said, hurrying to reassure Charlotte with a pat on the arm. ‘You can’t be expected to know everything about Iskos. You have only been on the island five minutes.’

‘I don’t mean to interrupt—’

But he did, Charlotte thought, determined she would not be intimidated by Iannis, however autocratic and impatient his tone.

‘I have to go,’ Marianna said, distracting her. ‘There are things I must do in the village.’

‘Oh, no—’ The words froze on Charlotte’s lips as she realised that both Iannis and Marianna were staring at her.

‘I’m sorry, I must,’ Marianna replied with an apologetic shrug as she glanced up at Iannis.

Charlotte noticed the affectionate look that passed between them, but by the time Iannis turned back to her his expression had become impassive again.

‘Won’t you sit down?’ he invited politely and a little stiffly when Marianna had gone.

Charlotte accepted, sitting primly on the very edge of the hard upright chair. She felt his force field envelop her, even though he chose a seat far away from her, at the other side of the small table.

‘You came to see me,’ he said, easing back. ‘Why exactly?’

Hurt was a luxury Charlotte knew she could not afford. She hardened her heart. She had been a fool, but she had to put that behind her. She had to know who Iannis really was, understand the extent of the mistake she had made before she could move on. She didn’t need Iannis to like her, Charlotte reminded herself, meeting his searching gaze head-on. He was a resource…research for her article—for sex…

How had this happened? Iannis wondered, grinding his jaw with frustration. How could they sit like two strangers about to embark on a hostile discussion when all he wanted was take her in his arms?

How had he allowed this to happen? The final wall around his privacy had been breached. By Charlotte. The one person in the world he might have allowed in. But not now…not now that he understood why she had come here to Iskos.

And she thought it had come as a surprise to him that she had followed him! She shouldn’t have been so careless. Snoopers should make sure they are bug-proof, he mused, trying to read the thoughts behind her eyes—eyes that had grown as cold as green ice, he noted clinically.

The only good thing to be said in her favour was that she treated Marianna with respect. It intrigued him how the two women had built up such a close relationship in so short a time.

But no, that was not the only good thing about Charlotte, Iannis conceded as his gaze strayed to her breasts. He had the pleasure of seeing her nipples harden on demand through the flimsy cotton fabric of her dress…but her eyes were still hard, still calculating. His worth? The worth of her article about him? Let her suffer, let her wait, let her squirm beneath his interest. She had trespassed on his privacy, but that was the least of it, and now she had to pay.

He should have seen what was coming. Flaunting herself on the beach and then at the taverna…bringing herself to his attention. He should have walked away then, as he had walked away so many times before. But she had always stopped him—with her defiance, her passion, her vulnerability. Iannis ground his jaw, knowing that was the very last quality of Charlotte’s he wanted to examine right now.

He felt a familiar tug in his groin and hardened instantly. All he could think of was her face when he made love to her, the way she had called out to him, and his own immense satisfaction when he’d held her safe in his arms. And he had imagined his palate too jaded to respond with such eagerness, Iannis thought bitterly. Had she but known it, he was putty in her hands. But she had killed what might have been, in favour of reaping short-term benefits in cash!

He wanted revenge. He wanted it now—fiercely, overwhelmingly. For what she had destroyed she must pay.

She had such an appetite, he remembered, easing his position on the unyielding seat. He met Charlotte’s determined stare with a lazy, slanting gaze. An appetite for danger too—but that could be contained. He would contain it. And he would enjoy testing her defences. It would be interesting to see how much she would reveal under the most extreme form of coercion he could devise. She was angry now, he saw, as he looked at her, but it would take the merest shift to push all that passion onto quite a different track.

Holding Charlotte’s gaze, Iannis allowed his expression to soften just enough to snare her in his noose, and then, tightening it with a half-smile, he waited for the reaction he knew would come. He had the satisfaction of seeing Charlotte’s defiant gaze falter and her tongue creep out to moisten her lips. She was remembering, he thought with satisfaction. The explosive sex they had enjoyed was hardly something she would forget, he mused cynically, watching her eyes darken with desire.

Charlotte’s breath caught in her throat as Iannis looked at her. All the reasons for her visit drained from her mind. All she knew was that she wanted him. And when he stood and started moving round the table towards her it was like an irresistible force pulling her to her feet. Meeting him halfway, she felt nothing but a huge rush of relief when they crashed together and his arms closed around her.

She was home, she knew, and let out a soft cry as Iannis took possession of her mouth. Her lips were soft, still slightly swollen from the last time they had made love, and his mouth felt firm, hungry and demanding, just as she had dreamed it would, as he backed her to the door.

‘I want you, Iannis,’ Charlotte sobbed softly as she melted against him.

‘You shall have me,’ he promised huskily, lifting her into his arms.

He carried her up the stone steps as if she weighed nothing, and kicked open a door into the room she had seen once before—but from the other side of the open shutters—then laid her down on the bed and tugged off his clothes.

This was her Iannis’s home, her fisherman’s home. The two identities swam together and Charlotte sighed, whimpering with anticipation as he turned her on her side. She must try to remember…it was meat for her article…fuel for her soul. The headboard was taupe-coloured suede, the sheets crisp linen—

The details jarred. Iannis was already stripping off her clothes, and with them went her reason. And then he stretched out behind her, and all Charlotte knew as she groaned in expectation was that he was already naked and very much aroused. The warm touch of his flesh on hers and the jutting pressure of his erection sent a shower of sensation flooding through her, and when he tested her readiness with one skilful hand she angled herself in shameless invitation, so that he entered her smoothly in one deep thrust, bringing one of her legs over his to open her completely.

He rested a moment, to give them both a chance to savour the sensation, but Charlotte thrust her hips towards him and he began to move deeply and rhythmically, rocking her back and forth, controlling her with one hand while he stroked her very swollen centre of sensation with such an advanced skill and understanding of her needs she was soon sobbing with delight.

The dual sensation was almost too much for Charlotte to bear—the regular thrusts, the delicate attention to her clitoris made all the better by the fact that for once Iannis didn’t tease, he didn’t make her wait. Instead he took a very lenient view of how many times she could climax without him. Work could wait for ever, she told herself, melting into another violent maelstrom of sensation as he encouraged her with harsh words in his own language. She had no idea what he was saying, but it had the desired effect…

He dried her with a fluffy white towel after the shower they shared together. They had been kissing all the time under the stream of warm water—Charlotte’s hands reaching up to cup his beard-roughened cheeks, Iannis’s arms resting loosely around her waist. He had given her every bit of the reassurance she’d needed to hear. He was everything she had ever wanted; she was satiated and complete. All her doubts, all her anger had disappeared, and all she could remember was where they had been and what they had done.

This was the man who inhabited her thoughts every waking moment and was a welcome visitor in her dreams at night. She was in far, far too deep, Charlotte realised as Iannis dropped the lightest, most seductive of kisses on her neck. After what they had just shared she could not pretend to herself any longer that she wanted Iannis for nothing more than sex, or for research of any kind. Just the thought of how cold-bloodedly she had planned her campaign before she met him seemed preposterous now.

‘Would you like to take a look around when you’re dressed?’ he enquired, tenderly dabbing at the moisture on her face with the edge of the soft towel.

‘I’d love to,’ Charlotte admitted softly, watching him, drinking in his every move, filling her mind with him. This time she had no ulterior motive, Charlotte knew, and she gazed at Iannis with her eyes full of love. She didn’t care if he saw it, didn’t trouble to hide the devotion in her gaze. She never wanted to return to life before Iskos, before Iannis. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ she said, remembering how private he was.

‘Would I be asking if I did?’ Iannis countered, one corner of his mouth tugging up so that her gaze was drawn to the sexy, boyish crease down one side of his face. ‘You’re here now,’ he pointed out easily. ‘Be my guest.’

He couldn’t resist, Iannis realised. Maybe because, just like Charlotte, he had an appetite for danger. He had to torture himself. He had to see how she would react when he drew back the curtain on his life—even if just a chink. Would she show her true colours? Would she continue with the charade? He had to know.

He softened his expression as he jerked his chin towards the bedroom. ‘After you,’ he invited pleasantly.

‘My clothes—’ Charlotte said, shooting a rueful glance at the towel she was wearing.

‘I’ll find you something in the bedroom,’ Iannis promised, standing aside to let her pass.

The flutter of unease struck unexpectedly as Charlotte went past him. This was what she wanted, wasn’t it—access into his world? Then she relaxed again, recognising the cause of her concern. If she wasn’t careful her article would turn into one long love letter to the fisherman of Iskos—and that wouldn’t go down too well with her editor, or enhance her own professional reputation. If the piece was to carry real impact she had to remain objective. She had enough factual information for the article without laying bare her personal feelings for the man in question.

Charlotte’s gaze settled on a surprisingly elaborate music centre, which sat on top of an old wooden chest. There were CDs piled up all around it, running the gamut from country to classics and jazz. ‘Wow,’ she breathed softly, ‘quite a collection.’

‘Don’t you like music?’

‘I love it,’ Charlotte admitted, remembering that she had once as she ran her fingertips down the stack. ‘Miles Davis, Ella Fitzgerald—you have excellent taste,’ she said pointedly, hoping to provoke him into saying something revealing for a change.

‘Why, thank you,’ Iannis responded evenly.

Charlotte thought she heard an edge of sarcasm in his voice.

‘Would you like me to put some music on?’ he suggested.

She had imagined it, Charlotte told herself. He sounded so relaxed now. ‘You choose.’

‘Drink?’

She nodded in agreement, and then, as some blue notes issued softly from a number of speakers set at intervals around the room, turned full circle with surprise. ‘You really like your music,’ Charlotte remarked, when Iannis returned from the kitchen with an open bottle of wine and two glasses.

‘Yes, I do,’ he agreed, handing her a glass of chilled white wine.

‘My first husband loathed music—’ Charlotte’s stomach clenched. The words had slipped out while her brain was cruising in neutral, she realised. The soothing melody had lulled her into a false sense of security.

‘How many husbands have you had?’ Iannis said, slanting her a curious look.

‘Just one.’

‘One being enough?’

He wasn’t going to let it go. ‘Quite,’ Charlotte agreed, pressing her lips together.

‘Well, I think music can be very useful,’ Iannis said pointedly. ‘I can usually find a piece suitable for any given situation.’

I bet you can, Charlotte thought as their eyes met over the rim of the glass. Taking people off guard, perhaps? And what music would he choose for lovemaking? Nothing obvious, she was certain of that—a man with such refined skills would look for something subtle.

‘Here, wear my robe,’ he offered, tossing her a towelling dressing gown in thick cotton pile the colour of clotted cream. ‘You look beautiful,’ he said when she’d slipped it on, and, dragging the lapels together over the full swell of her breasts, he brought her close and dropped a kiss on her mouth.

Charlotte told herself to relax. She was looking for trouble where none existed. Everything was perfect. It didn’t matter who Iannis really was. If he turned out to be a small businessman on Iskos rather than a fisherman, she could live with that. The expression in his eyes, the firm curve of his mouth—that same mouth that had traced a path of sensation over every part of her—everything about him reassured her.

She loved the way he brought the robe tight over her sensitised body, loved the ownership in his firm clasp and the tickling sensation when his warm breath ruffled her hair. This was everything she wanted. She could stay, send back her work to England from Iskos; she didn’t need to go home ever again…this was home.

So why couldn’t she relax? Why was a worm of doubt creeping into her mind again? Charlotte wondered, gazing up to search Iannis’s eyes. Because nothing was as it seemed? Because the man she loved was an illusion, a figment of her imagination?

When you wanted something so badly, wanted to believe in someone so badly, you could talk yourself into anything. But, even accepting that, she wanted to hold reality at bay and lose herself in his piercing gaze. She wanted to believe everything Iannis had made her believe. And, worse still, she ached for her own fanciful ideas about him to be true. Iannis Kiriakos, fisherman of Iskos.

The phrase scorched a path of scorn right through her daydreams. Running her fingers over the dense weave of the blatantly luxurious robe, Charlotte could hardly credit the fact that she was still staring into his eyes, still wanting to believe. It was pathetic. She was pathetic! Mashing her lips together in anger, she dragged her glance away and waited until she had regained some semblance of control, then, turning back to Iannis, she smiled. Let him think she was still sucked into the deception. Then she might at least have the satisfaction of discovering the truth about him.

‘What are you looking so serious about?’ Iannis demanded softly.

There was such power in his voice, such authority—and he knew how to use it, Charlotte realised, feeling it raise all the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. ‘Nothing,’ she managed casually.

‘Why don’t I believe you?’ he said, removing the glass from her hand.

‘I don’t know,’ Charlotte murmured. She swallowed convulsively, feeling her senses flare. If she was to go along with this deception she had to go along with all of it, she realised, quivering as Iannis used his hands as a musician might, running them lightly down the length of her arms, only to use a firmer touch as he brought them up to her shoulders again.

‘Kiss me,’ he demanded, dipping his head so that their lips were only a fraction apart.

The music changed. It had to be a compilation Iannis had put together, Charlotte realised, holding her breath as Aretha Franklin started singing.

‘This is wonderful music for—’

‘Dancing,’ Iannis supplied, slipping his hands around her waist to draw her close. ‘Do you like it?’ he murmured, and his mouth was so close to her ear that his breath threw a lasso of sensation around her senses.

Like it? Charlotte wasn’t able to think clearly enough about anything to give him an answer. She wanted only to burrow into Iannis, to drink in his warmth, to relish the way they fit together, like two pieces of the same jigsaw. She was suddenly relaxed, disarmed, completely contented. Her heart felt as if it was about to burst. Was this love? To see a fault in a relationship and refuse to acknowledge it, not allow it to intrude on the depths of your feelings?

She gazed up, knowing her emotions were plainly on show for him to see. But his gaze was hard, and a cold dash of reality intruded. Love was not an issue here, Charlotte realised—there was only lust between them. Lust and suspicion. Love was not a condition she could even contemplate where Iannis Kiriakos was concerned—not if her self-esteem really meant anything.

‘You’d better get dressed,’ he said as the track ended. ‘Your clothes are still in the bathroom.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Charlotte said, stepping back promptly to save her pride. ‘I’ll go and get ready.’

‘Are you hungry?’

The normality of the question made her pause. ‘A little,’ she admitted curiously.

‘I’d better feed you, then. I don’t want you fading away.’

There wasn’t the remotest chance, Charlotte thought, reading the message behind his eyes.

‘Feel free to look around when you’re ready,’ he suggested. ‘I’ll make an omelette. Marianna left some chocolate cake for me—if you’re good, I’ll share it with you.’

‘What do I have to do to be good?’ Charlotte pressed lightly with a provocative smile as she struggled to restore some of her confidence.

‘I’ll think of something,’ Iannis promised, catching hold of her around the waist for another kiss.

He made everything sound so innocent, so normal—if only it could be, Charlotte thought wistfully, softening as Iannis slipped his hand beneath her robe.

‘Theos, you have skin like silk,’ he murmured as Charlotte pressed against him. ‘Be quick,’ he murmured, pulling away. ‘Then come and join me.’

‘Quick’ wasn’t the word for it, Charlotte mused as she rifled through the last cupboard as quietly as she could. Her lightning search of the bathroom had confirmed all her suspicions. The cottage definitely wasn’t his main home—there was no clutter. But she had been surprised to discover an aftershave so exclusive she guessed it was hand-blended. And then there was the black leather Penhaligon toiletry bag, the wet shave kit from Tiffany’s, and a shower with enough power to stop an elephant in its tracks.

Simple fisherman? I think not, Charlotte mused tensely, relieved that she had already made plans to construct her article around an idealised version of the simple fisherman she had first imagined Iannis to be. If he ran a small business, it wasn’t here on Iskos.

A sound outside the door prompted her to replace everything as quickly as she could. Then, checking her appearance briefly in the mirror, Charlotte hurried to join Iannis.

* * *

‘Delicious,’ Charlotte exclaimed, finishing up the last scrap of her omelette. ‘You must be every woman’s dream.’

Iannis cast her an ironic glance. ‘Don’t get used to it,’ he warned as he collected up her plate. ‘I cook when I’m hungry, and that’s it.’

‘It will do for me,’ Charlotte murmured, helping him to load everything in the sink.

‘Will it?’ he said sardonically. ‘So, what do you think of my simple cottage?’

‘I like it a lot,’ Charlotte admitted cautiously. ‘I can see that you have a very good life here,’ she said, going along with the pretence.

‘I do, and I won’t allow anything—or anyone, for that matter—to spoil that for me.’

He dipped his head to look at her as he spoke, so that their eyes were on a level, and Charlotte had to make a conscious effort not to flinch as she looked at him.

‘I can understand that,’ she said, pinning a smile on her face. ‘You’ve got everything you need here.’ For a holiday home, she mused thoughtfully. But the way he talked of his life on Iskos made it sound so much more than that.

‘Some people certainly seem to think so,’ Iannis said, cutting into her thoughts. ‘Now, come here.’

Charlotte knew she should run—run as fast as she could away from this man she knew nothing about—run out of the cottage and out of his life for good. But invisible cords seemed to be drawing her towards him instead.

‘Iannis, I—’

‘Yes,’ he murmured softly, ‘I know. Come here, Charlotte. Come to me.’

He held out his arms to her and she took the single step necessary. Then, tilting her chin so that she had nowhere to look but into his eyes, Iannis brushed his lips very gently against her mouth.

That was all it took. Exhaling a ragged breath, Charlotte softened against him as he swung her into his arms. They didn’t make it as far as the bedroom this time. Laying her down on the padded banquette beneath the window, Iannis stripped off her clothes and lay down beside her as soon as he had rid himself of his own.

Rubbing his beard-roughened face against her fragrant skin, Iannis felt Charlotte quiver with desire as his hands moved around her to claim her breasts. They were both locked into a situation that was rapidly spiralling out of control, he admitted to himself grimly. The practical side was easy—he could handle that the usual way—but this…this was different, he mused, inhaling deeply, wanting to drown in Charlotte’s familiar and intoxicating scent. Even with everything she had tried to do to him, all he wanted was to give her pleasure.

It was madness, he realised, sifting her silky hair through his fingers, but it was a glorious obsession. She was beautiful and—he loved her. Iannis roughly cast the thought aside. Love was for fools. And he was no fool.

He turned his attention to safer matters…to the generous curve of her hip that only the very greatest artist would possess enough skill to lay down on canvas. He traced her shape with his hands, pausing to lavish attention on the swell of her buttocks, and took pleasure in hearing her whimpers of desire as he used his thumbs to part and then relax them again. It was a technique he already knew she loved—the promise of fulfilment held in suspension until she was consumed with desire. And the way he had positioned her meant she could look out across one of the most stunning views in all of Greece while he attended to her needs. He would pleasure all her senses together.

No sensation had ever been greater, Charlotte realised as she pressed herself invitingly into Iannis. No reasoned thoughts could intrude. She was still aroused from their lovemaking, and yet now it seemed he was able to lift her onto an even higher plane of awareness. Her lips were loosely parted and she was utterly relaxed. Iannis had left her with nothing to do but gaze languorously out at a view no money could buy while he worked his magic on her with lips and teeth and devastatingly sensitive fingers. She heard herself purr with delight as she angled herself ready for his possession.

When he entered her it was like a homecoming, and for a moment they were both forced to rest quite still, overcome by sensation, and by an emotional charge that was as unexpected to each of them as it was intensely pleasurable. But then he secured her hips in a firm grip and satisfied all her needs, plunging repeatedly until Charlotte lost count of how many times she climaxed, and only knew that she was lost in an erotic maelstrom from which she never wanted to escape.

He had chosen music for lovers, she thought, when he slowed his strokes to accord with the easy beat. It ought to be available on prescription—though she hardly qualified for help in that direction now. As she sighed with contentment Iannis changed position, moving on top of her.

‘That was a heavy sigh,’ he growled softly. ‘Not one of regret, I hope?’

Charlotte pushed the shadows away as she smiled at him, lifting her arms to link her hands behind his head. ‘I wish this moment could last for ever,’ she said honestly. And that reality might never intrude.

‘Iskos is a mystical, magical island,’ Iannis warned softly. ‘It may call you back.’

‘I’m sure it will,’ Charlotte agreed thoughtfully, and then she wondered what she had said to make him so tense.

Easing out of her, Iannis had pushed away from the banquette and straightened up. He swiped his clothes off the floor and moved towards the door.

‘Time for a shower,’ he called back, without a second glance in her direction.

Charlotte pressed her lips together, subduing the shock of his sudden departure along with the doubt invading her mind.

The room seemed very bare and empty without Iannis in it, Charlotte realised as she gathered her clothes together self-consciously. Hearing the water running in the bathroom, she slipped the dress over her head. She had no inclination to intrude. She couldn’t even be sure that she would be welcome. She would shower later, in her own bathroom at the villa…

‘Still here?’

Charlotte’s heart lurched as Iannis walked back into the room. Was he joking? She couldn’t see his face—it was buried in a towel as he rubbed his hair dry. Now that he had finished with her was she supposed to have left? Gone without a trace by the time he emerged from the bathroom?

Wearing nothing but his jeans, he looked amazing, but a different sort of hunger had overtaken Charlotte. She felt a desperate longing to know the man beneath the incredible physique; for all their intimacy she knew barely anything about him.

‘I thought you would join me in the shower,’ he said now, lifting his shoulders in an expressive shrug. ‘Shall I bathe you?’ he offered with a slanting smile.

How she wanted that, Charlotte realised, meeting his amused gaze with a degree of relief she took care to conceal.

But then other thoughts intruded, and she frowned. Article; feedback from editor; time running out. There was just so much thinking to do on the personal front—and work to catch up with on the professional front. She needed space from Iannis to do any of it.

‘I’d better get back,’ she said reluctantly.

Iannis was surprised to feel a pang of regret as Charlotte walked towards him. She looked so young, and so vulnerable again as she lifted one arm out towards him, as if inviting a final embrace. But she had her own agenda, he remembered, and he found himself straddling an impossible divide between the desire for revenge and the need to protect her. She had no idea what she was up against—how could she?

But when he felt her touch him lightly on the arm as she moved past him Iannis caught hold of her again.

‘I’ll walk you back to the villa,’ he said.

How could he not be there to protect her? he wondered, gazing down into Charlotte’s face. Tracing the freckles across the bridge of her nose very lightly with one finger, he smiled, but when she lifted her chin trustingly to meet his gaze he found he had to turn his head away and let her go.

CHAPTER TEN

MAYBE she was just being ridiculous, Charlotte told herself as they strolled back to the villa. Perhaps Iannis just liked nice things. Perhaps he had come into money. Perhaps the expensive accessories she had seen lying around were gifts from a grateful lover.

The last thought made her so angry she had to stop thinking altogether for a few moments.

She told herself that her suspicions were the product of an overactive imagination. Yes, he could be warm, and witty, and he had a breadth of knowledge she found stimulating—but there was a library on Iskos, as well as television and radio, and doubtless the village school was very good.

The deserted villa was all in darkness, and rose like a milky-white spectre amidst a gathering circle of trees. Could he really leave her alone in such a place?

Iannis was already answering his own question as his keen gaze raked the shadows.

Had he lost his appetite for revenge? he mused, steadying Charlotte as she stumbled in the darkness. He wanted to believe she was misguided rather than bad. Surely the fallout from her invasion into his privacy could be dealt with? And, not only that, she would be out of his life for good in a couple of days.

When she gave a soft cry and stumbled again, with a sound of impatience he swung her into his arms.

‘I’m perfectly capable of walking—’

‘I’m sure you are. But this is easier. I have to be at work early in the morning, so I need to get to bed. I’ve no time for detours to the hospital if you twist your ankle.’

‘You’re too kind,’ Charlotte commented wryly.

‘Aren’t I?’ Iannis countered, matching her provocative tone.

When they reached the door he set her down and held out his hand for the key. Opening the door, he stood back to let her pass and then followed her inside.

‘Are you sure you don’t get nervous when you’re here on your own?’ he said, his voice echoing around the empty hall.

‘Not really,’ Charlotte admitted as she went ahead of him to switch on the lights. ‘Staying on my own at the villa has been good for me. Sometimes it’s important to have time on your own—thinking time. Do you know what I mean?’

Iannis refrained from answering, just eased his shoulders in a shrug as he leaned back against the door.

‘Come in. Close the door,’ Charlotte said. ‘I just have to check something—do you mind?’

And what if I do? Iannis thought, irritation rising inside him as he guessed what she was about to do.

Charlotte glanced towards the kitchen door, knowing her responsibilities lay behind it. She was keen to log on, to see if there had been any reaction yet to the first draft of her article. She would offer him a drink—distract him…

Iannis watched her head straight for the scrubbed pine table where she had left her laptop. His gaze mapped out everything—the Internet connection leading from the telephone box on the wall, her notepad, and the neat stack of printed sheets.

‘I won’t be long,’ Charlotte said as she flashed him a smile.

‘No problem—why don’t I wait for you outside on the veranda?’ Something held him back from staying close by. Let her have enough rope to hang herself, Iannis thought bitterly as he moved towards the outer doors.

‘I’ll bring a nightcap outside for us when I’ve finished,’ Charlotte called after him. ‘I’ll only be a couple of minutes.’

‘No hurry,’ Iannis murmured. How true. He was in no hurry to read her eyes and see what the reaction had been to the work she had completed.

He could have predicted that it would be foremost in her mind when she got back, he realised, making himself comfortable on one of the outdoor chairs. And yet, he had delayed his departure in order to have one last night with her. Their relationship was beginning to show some unfortunate similarities to a tawdry series of farewell tours.

A muscle flexed in his jaw and he looked back into the villa to watch Charlotte leaning over the computer as she read from the screen. He had become far too trusting, and now he must pay the penalty for allowing her to get too close. If she hadn’t left him alone that morning when he’d come to take her to the beach he might never have seen those sheets of paper, never read the notes she had written about him. But they were emblazoned on his mind, Iannis realised, feeling his anger mounting as Charlotte continued to tap on the keyboard, apparently oblivious to his existence.

It seemed certain that her work was all she cared about. He was nothing but a vehicle through which she could boost her annual salary. It was a new angle, he allowed, struggling to contain his scorn, and it would be interesting to see just how far she was prepared to go with the deception.

He studied her face keenly. The intense concentration, the slight smile tugging at her lips only served to fuel his resentment. She had clearly received good news from her editor.

He made a harsh sound of contempt. How could anyone not appreciate her theme? The idyllic existence of a simple Greek fisherman compared to the stressful life of the reader. Even he could see it was a winner. But she would pay for the insult. No one abused a member of the Kiriakos clan and got away with it.

Use her and lose her? Iannis ground his jaw in frustration. It should have been so easy, if only he hadn’t allowed feelings to get in the way. If he had been a headstrong youth this foolhardy affair might have been defensible, but he was a thirty-five year old man, with no excuse for falling deeply and passionately in love with the one woman on earth who had chosen to betray him.

His eyes narrowed as he recalled the damning words she had used. According to Charlotte’s article he, Iannis Kiriakos, had found the meaning of life here on Iskos! Once pictures of him unguarded and relaxed were flashed around the world he would be a laughing stock. He winced as he remembered how she had mocked—what was it?—his ‘homely joys, and destiny obscure’? He only hoped he never had occasion to remind Charlotte of those words, for if he did—

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, coming towards him through the double doors onto the veranda. ‘I didn’t expect to take so long.’

Iannis lifted his shoulders in a shrug. ‘Keeping in touch with things back home?’ he said mildly, pretending unconcern. But inside he was seething. He had delayed his departure from the island for her—and for what? So she could finesse the article that held him up for ridicule?

As Iannis looked at Charlotte his passion flared. He had a stark choice to make: confront her now and end the relationship—or enjoy her one last time.

‘That’s right,’ Charlotte agreed, a smile hovering uncertainly on her lips as she tried to interpret the look on Iannis’s face. ‘Work,’ she explained with an apologetic shrug, ‘it just won’t go away—’ She gasped as he caught hold of her arms and dragged her to him, his eyes blazing with passion.

He was going to miss her, Charlotte reasoned, feeling her heart soar. And then he started kissing her and she knew it would be all right.

Reaching up when he drew back, she meshed her fingers through his hair and then cupped his face between her hands to bring him close and kiss his lips longingly, lovingly. Closing her eyes, she rested against his encircling arm, sighing with delicious anticipation as Iannis slipped her dress off. Swinging her onto his lap on the reclining chair, he suckled one extended nipple through the fine mesh of her bra.

It all felt so right, as Charlotte turned her attention to Iannis’s clothing. He was an incredible lover—passionate and demanding, but tender and considerate too. He had restored her self-esteem; he had shown her how lovemaking could be…should be. She moaned softly, struggling to keep her brain waves in order as he turned his attention to the neglected nipple, taking that between his lips and suckling whilst he subjected the other to some delicious torture between his thumb and forefinger.

And there was the article, Charlotte remembered, just before she sank beneath a wave of sensation. Nothing she had ever written had been so well received—she had Iannis to thank for that too.

Throwing her head back, she gasped as he began to stroke her stomach with firm downward caresses. The fire smouldering inside her flared into life again. But even as she melted beneath his touch Charlotte remembered how little time was left for them. The thought of how she might start to live without him sent a chill rippling down her spine. But then he eased her thighs apart and she could think of nothing but the pleasure to come.

‘Stand up and take your bra off.’

His voice sounded harsh, and in her groggy state Charlotte blinked at him like a wary owl.

‘Do it slowly,’ he added, in a slightly gentler tone.

Meeting his gaze, Charlotte felt reassured. Iannis liked playing games, and she liked playing the games he taught her. She sucked in a soft, eager breath and he inclined his head as an indication to begin.

She met his gaze steadily, relishing her female power when she saw the look of frank appreciation in his eyes. Freeing her breasts from their lacy constraint, she cast the flimsy piece of lingerie aside.

‘I think you know what I want you to do,’ Iannis murmured, gazing at her.

Cupping her breasts in her hands, Charlotte brought them up so that he could decide between the taut pink nipples. As he took one between his lips and laved it with his tongue his hands moved to control her hips. Slipping one hand between her legs, he started stroking her there rhythmically, until she threw back her head and cried out uncontrollably. He brought her easily to the edge, and as her legs weakened he took her waist in a firm hold and brought her astride him.

He wanted this…he needed this, Iannis realised, even though his mind was in an agony of confusion. He wanted Charlotte more than any other woman; wanted her in a way that his pride had no power to subdue. She touched his senses, his heart, his soul; she drew something from the very core of him. But she had betrayed him, he remembered, thrusting deep, and he must never forget that.

As he controlled her movements Iannis longed to draw Charlotte into his arms, to hold her and to kiss her. He wanted to reassure her, tell her it would always be like this—that he would make it so. But that would be a lie, he thought grimly, watching her face flush pink at the onset of her climax, and he never lied—which only made the pain of her deception all the harder to bear.

He held her steady until the last violent spasms of release left her limp, and then stroked her silky hair to soothe her down. It was his misfortune to love a woman who wished him only harm, and the only defence in his armoury was to harden his heart against her.

But when, still breathing raggedly, Charlotte smiled contentedly into his eyes, he felt his soul reach out and curl around her. Was she a madness that had possessed him—a folly from which he would never recover? The only answer was to make a clean break. And that break would take place in just a few short hours. He had until dawn to have his fill of her, and then it was over—Charlotte Clare would be out of his life for good.

He led her by the hand to the bathroom, where they enjoyed a languid soak in silence, both lost in their own thoughts.

Completely relaxed, Charlotte leaned back against Iannis, enclosed by his muscular legs. The water was silky-soft, fragrant with the scent of lavender. Peace after the storm of lovemaking, she reflected, feeling calm and sated. It was impossible not to draw up a thousand reasons for delaying her departure from the island. They seemed to have reached a point where anything was possible…

‘Warm enough?’ Iannis murmured, when he had lifted her out of the bath and wrapped her in a soft towel.

His breath on her head was like a caress, and Charlotte turned her face up for his kisses. ‘Perfect,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t you ever get tired?’ she murmured, smiling against his lips.

‘Not where you’re concerned,’ Iannis admitted, pulling back to look at her. ‘But you must sleep now—’

‘You’ll stay?’ Charlotte broke in, touching his cheek with her fingertips as she stared into his eyes.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Iannis assured her softly. Yet, he amended silently.

The first sensation Charlotte felt on waking was regret, because her stay on the island was almost over. Still with her eyes closed, she reached across the bed. There was no one there.

Instantly awake, she sat up. Thin early-morning sunlight was already slanting through the shutters and falling across the bedclothes in pale golden bands. Looking around, she saw there was no trace that Iannis had ever been in the room. Had it not been for all the signs of lovemaking her body still held she might have thought last night a dream. She sat very still, holding her breath to listen, but the silence in the villa was heavy and complete.

Leaping off the bed, she snatched her robe from the back of the door and went to search for him.

She knew he had left the villa long before she reached the kitchen, but still she ran out onto the veranda, hoping he might be there.

The veranda, like the rest of the house, was empty and silent, apart from a few leaves skittering about in the light breeze.

Leaning over the balcony, she stared down at the shore and exclaimed out loud with relief. He was there, hauling nets with the other fishermen. He must have left some time before dawn, she reasoned, seeing he had changed back into his work clothes.

So why the panic? Charlotte exhaled impatiently, remembering Iannis had told her he had to be at work early that morning. She was becoming forgetful. But how could she be expected to remember anything when her mind was full of Iannis? There was no room inside her head for anything else.

It was thrilling to watch him, to see his muscles flexing and hear him call with such authority to the other men—and know he was hers. Her gaze dropped to the powerful thighs that had so recently controlled her as he subjected her to pleasure beyond her wildest dreams. He didn’t just have a magnificent body—he knew how to use it, Charlotte mused, and a contented smile tugged at her lips.

He was at least a head taller than the other fishermen, but that was not the reason they looked to him for leadership. He possessed a natural air of authority, and something else—something indefinable. One of the other men had brought a small child with him to the beach, and Charlotte smiled to see Iannis scoop the toddler’s ball from the ground and throw it for him.

The misty seashore at dawn, the limpid water, the soft colours, the men going easily about their work—it was just like a scene from a movie, a dreamscape in the pearly light of dawn. On an impulse Charlotte pulled back, slapping the rail of the veranda as if to make everything stay just as it was in that instant. Then, dashing into the villa, she went to find her camera.

She had been taking pictures for quite a few minutes before Iannis looked up and saw what she was doing. A rush of happiness thrilled through Charlotte. Her lips widened in a smile and she waved playfully, making signs to indicate that he should back up a little, in order for her to take a group photograph.

Iannis stood motionless for a moment or two, just watching her, and then very slowly the smile dropped from Charlotte’s face. Everything about him suggested the opposite to her expectations. He was angry with her…furious.

She frowned in bewilderment, hearing him bark something at the other fishermen, and then tensed as he started striding back across the beach towards her.

There would be no more photographs today, she realised, slipping the camera strap from her neck. Hurrying back into the villa, she hung the camera on the back of a chair, then went outside again, meaning to meet him halfway.

But he was too fast for her, and Charlotte knew immediately that something was very wrong. Iannis didn’t speak, or embrace her. Instead he seized her arm and wheeled her around, steering her in the direction of the villa.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she shouted angrily.

His silence frightened her—frightened her more than anything he could have said to her. Tearing her arm from his grip, she swung around.

‘Is this how you treat women in Greece?’ She could see that the furious accusation rattled him. His face paled beneath his tan.

‘We will talk inside the villa,’ he said tensely.

‘You’re not coming in.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really!’ What had she done? Charlotte wondered angrily. ‘You owe me an explanation!’

‘What?’ The single word left his lips on an explosion of breath.

‘You heard me.’

‘I don’t owe you a thing!’ he snarled back.

‘I don’t want you at the villa!’ Charlotte assured him. ‘Not in this mood.’ When he tried to catch hold of her again, she snatched her arm away.

Iannis answered that by swinging her off the ground into his arms. Binding her arms to her sides, he strode into the villa, marched down the shady passageway and shouldered open the door into her bedroom.

Charlotte wasn’t sure whether she kicked herself free or if he chose to drop her down on the bed. She didn’t wait around to find out. Moving to the door, she stood beside it, tense with anger.

‘Out!’ She stood her ground when he took a fast, angry step towards her. ‘What are you going to do now, Iannis?’ she demanded furiously. ‘Hit me?’

He looked shocked. ‘I have never laid a finger on a woman in my life,’ he said coldly, ‘and even you could never push me that far.’

As they stood confronting each other, eyes blazing, Charlotte believed him. But that neither excused nor explained his behaviour. ‘Are you going to tell me what this is about?’

‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me?’ Iannis countered harshly.

Suddenly all she could remember was the words of love he had spoken to her, his tenderness, the safe harbour she had found in his arms. ‘I think you’d better get out,’ Charlotte said, horrified to hear her voice starting to shake.

‘Not until you have explained this,’ Iannis said coldly, picking up her digital camera and brandishing it in her face.

‘My camera?’

‘And,’ he said, striding past her out of the room and indicating that she should follow him, ‘this.’

‘What?’

Stalking into the kitchen, Charlotte saw he was standing over the table where she had left her work.

‘This,’ he said again, turning to look at her.

Charlotte rushed to guard her manuscript. ‘Did you imagine I don’t work for a living? I’m a journalist—’

‘A journalist?’ he echoed sarcastically. ‘Is that what you call yourself? So, what’s this?’ Holding up her camera, he cocked his head as he waited for her reply.

‘As we’ve already established,’ Charlotte said acerbically, ‘that is a camera.’

‘I mean, what were you doing with it?’

He made a sound of disgust and Charlotte was horrified to see him starting to remove the film card. ‘What are you doing?’ she exclaimed angrily.

But Iannis was too fast for her. Catching hold of her wrists in one fist he held her still. ‘I’m removing the film card,’ he said evenly.

‘How dare you?’

‘Oh, I dare,’ he said easily, and, slipping it onto the palm of his hand, closed his fingers around it.

‘You can’t steal that—’

‘Watch me.’

‘Give it back to me this minute or I’ll—’

‘You’ll what?’ Iannis demanded harshly. ‘Call your lawyers?’

Charlotte stalled a moment in bemusement as he let her go. No one in their right mind would call in lawyers to retrieve a film card with—what?—twenty shots taken. Pictures she would still have time to replace before she returned home the next day. But it was the principle that inflamed her most of all. Iannis couldn’t just walk into her bedroom, pick up her camera and steal all the photographs she had taken on Iskos.

‘Well?’

His curt question was the last straw. She snatched the camera away from him, and tried to get the film card out of his hand too.

‘Not so fast,’ Iannis warned, seizing hold of her again. He held her so close their breath mingled. ‘You haven’t given me an answer yet,’ he reminded her coldly.

‘Keep the damned photographs,’ Charlotte hissed furiously, whipping her face away because it hurt too much to see the change in him. ‘I can get plenty more where they came from!’

‘I bet you can,’ he agreed bitterly. ‘But you won’t be taking any more pictures of me.’

Charlotte’s heart banged against her ribcage. Was he going to leave the island—leave her?

‘Did you really imagine that temporary access to my body gave you rights over my life?’

Charlotte’s lips moved, but no sound came out. ‘I can’t believe you just said that,’ she said at last, shaking her head in stunned disbelief. ‘Did you have to think long and hard how to hurt me most, or does it just come naturally to you?’ And if that was the case then it was over between them, she realised. She hadn’t come to Iskos to lick her emotional wounds only to leave with a fresh set.

‘I hurt you?’ Iannis demanded with a snarl of derision. ‘I’m surprised you have the gall to accuse me of doing such a thing when you have sunk so low.’

The series of verbal blows left Charlotte dumbstruck. ‘If I had any idea what you were talking about,’ she said at last, hoarsely, ‘then perhaps I could defend myself.’

‘Try this,’ Iannis said coldly, holding some crumpled sheets of paper up in front of her.

Taking them from him, Charlotte blenched as she read the notes for her article. ‘These are just some notes I made for an article I’m writing—a draft—’

‘A draft?’ he said derisively. ‘So you didn’t finish it?’

His face told her he already knew the answer to that.

‘So?’ he said when she remained silent. ‘You don’t even bother to deny it?’

Of all the emotions washing over her, it was guilt that made Charlotte feel the most wretched. ‘Perhaps I should have discussed it with you first—’

‘Perhaps?’ Iannis echoed incredulously. ‘And now?’

‘I wrote it, and I stand by it,’ Charlotte said. Her voice was soft and steady.

The laugh Iannis gave was short and contemptuous. ‘And how much money will this little effort make you?’

Was money all he cared about?

‘I said,’ Iannis repeated, and his voice was tight with fury, ‘how much do you hope to make from this, Charlotte? Enough to make you feel better when you realise how much damage you’ve done to me?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Charlotte protested. ‘This won’t damage you, Iannis. It will make people sit up and wonder where their own lives are going wrong. You’ve got it all—can’t you see that?’

He laughed in her face, and then shook his head. ‘You really don’t understand anything, do you, Charlotte? You just don’t know what you’ve done.’

‘Of course I know what I’ve done,’ Charlotte said, defending herself fiercely. ‘Looking for stories like this one is what I do every day of my working life—’

‘I bet it is,’ Iannis snarled. ‘Go on.’

He made Charlotte feel as if she was standing on a cliff-edge and he was about to push her off. ‘I have written an article,’ she said, ‘and it’s a good one, according to my editor—for which I will be paid enough to cover my bills back home.’

‘And that’s it?’ Iannis challenged derisively. ‘What about the worldwide rights?’

‘Worldwide what?’ Charlotte cut in incredulously.

‘You heard me,’ Iannis said, picking up her camera again. ‘And don’t let’s forget the photographs.’

‘The photographs will add colour to the article,’ Charlotte pointed out distractedly, while her mind whirled with possibilities. What was he thinking? What was he getting at?

‘I can just imagine—’

‘Don’t tell me you’re superstitious?’ she broke in suddenly, as realisation dawned. Remembering Marianna’s warning not to take photographs at the taverna, she knew it had to be that. ‘If you’re offended because I took a photograph—’

‘Offended? Superstitious?’ Iannis repeated incredulously. ‘Do you think we live in the Dark Ages on Iskos?’ When Charlotte only stared blankly at him he added icily, ‘You patronising woman. How dare you insult me and my kinsmen in such a manner?’ And with a sharp gesture he flung the printed sheets at her.

Charlotte made no move to retrieve them from the floor.

‘Where’s the rest of the article?’ Iannis demanded, staring at her coldly. ‘Let me have it now.’

‘On the kitchen table,’ Charlotte said evenly. ‘Why don’t you take it with you, Iannis? Perhaps when you’ve read the finished article you might feel like making me an apology.’

Iannis narrowed his eyes and looked at her as if she had gone quite mad. Shaking his head, he said coldly, ‘I shall take it away with me—but only so that it can be checked against the published version.’

‘Do as you please,’ Charlotte said, meeting his gaze steadily. ‘I should have told you from the outset that I was writing an article around you and what I believed about your lifestyle—this island.’ She held her arms wide and shook her head in frustration at his inability to accept her explanation. ‘Don’t you understand, Iannis? It was an ideal that captured my heart, my imagination. You remain anonymous all the way through. The fisherman of Iskos is never named—’

He cut her off with a sharp sound of derision. ‘If you believe that, you are more of a fool than I took you for. You claim to be a journalist—’ He put up his hand to silence her when she tried to interrupt. ‘By your own admission you work for a magazine.’

‘Yes—yes, I do.’

‘Then you can hardly claim to be ignorant of the term paparazzi.’

‘Paparazzi!’ Charlotte’s short laugh touched on hysteria and she raked stiff fingers through her hair. Wheeling away from him, she struggled to make some sense of his accusation.

‘Don’t pretend innocence now,’ Iannis warned. ‘You are in far too deep.’

‘I am in too deep,’ Charlotte agreed, hearing her voice break as she whirled around to face him. ‘And you’re quite right—it does show what a fool I’ve been. But let me put your mind at rest, Iannis. I am a bona fide journalist. I am not a member of the paparazzi, nor have I ever been one. I can assure you of that. How dare you accuse me of such a thing? Take my article,’ she said, thrusting it towards him. ‘Show it to anyone you choose. But why don’t you read it yourself first? Really read it. Then perhaps you will see how much I admire you. And when you have read it—if you can understand anything I have written—then perhaps you’ll regret what you’ve done here. Or maybe not—maybe you’re just not capable of feeling anything at all. Now, get out! Get out!’ she repeated furiously when he just stood looking at her.

She had no intention whatsoever of letting him see her cry.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

IANNIS poured himself another beer, and then sat down again at the small dining table in the cottage. After the worst day of his life—a day he had spent doing all the normal things he’d promised himself he would get through before reading anything she had written—he had been up all night with the pages of Charlotte’s article spread out in front of him. His mobile phone was by his side, the number already keyed in, but he couldn’t bring himself to ring—not yet. Not until he had read every word she had written once more, and slowly this time. He owed Charlotte that much before he set the wheels in motion to bring her whole world crashing down around her ears.

It was almost dawn. Charlotte knew that because she could hear the first bird singing outside her bedroom window. Soon it would be light—the strange lemon-tinted light that always heralded a new day on Iskos. She buried her head into the pillows, wishing the night could last for ever. But it wouldn’t, and Charlotte tossed the thought away as her survival instinct kicked in.

She had to look on the bright side: with no distractions she could polish the article, tidy the villa and pack. What had happened the day before seemed like a bad dream now—a nightmare. But if she was in over her head with Iannis Kiriakos she had no one to blame but herself.

In over her head? Charlotte padded across the cool tiled floor to open the shutters, knowing without any doubt at all that she was in love with Iannis. What was the use in pretending? Leaning out of the window, she gave a wry grimace. Irony had triumphed in the end. She had been so busy wondering whether she could adapt to a simpler life—his pride was something she had never even considered.

She frowned, remembering how Iannis seemed to imagine everyone would ridicule him for choosing to live a simple life, and drew a shuddering breath to think how mistaken he was. ‘They…would…envy…you!’ she called to the empty seashore. But only silence came back at her—the same silence Charlotte knew would be hers until she left Iskos for good.

Iannis glanced at his wrist-watch, as he had been doing every few minutes for the past hour. It was just after five. Charlotte would be asleep, but how much longer could he wait?

He had combed her article meticulously throughout the night, looking for any hint of sensationalism or ridicule, but had come to the same conclusion every time. She had written a love story with the simple fisherman of Iskos at its heart. Far from the exposé he had feared, Charlotte had taken a tender and sometimes whimsical look at his life—and her view of it, had it been only half true, would have meant he was indeed the happiest and most fortunate of men. But it was flimflam—nothing more than the wishful thinking of an impressionable young woman.

Harsh reality would intrude soon enough, he realised bitterly. After a shower and a change of clothes he would go up to the villa to see her—have it out with her, explain why the article had to be pulled. Then at least his conscience would be clear.

But as he picked up the small film card and turned it over in his hand a spear of doubt entered his mind. Maybe she had only intended to use the photographs for the article —but how could he be sure? And could he afford to take that risk? Words could be dealt with—withdrawn before the magazine went to print, discredited by dismissing them as gutter-press drivel. But photographs were impossible to refute, and could be sold on to others with a very different agenda. They supplied hard evidence that even he would find impossible to deny. Experience proved photographs could be flashed around the world at the click of a mouse. How many more cards like this one did she have stashed away?

Trust was the one luxury he could not afford, Iannis thought grimly as he pushed back from the table.

Charlotte was certain Iannis was close by. She knew from the change in the air and from the subtle current that swept through her, leaving her more aware, more alive.

She froze in the middle of sweeping under the bed. There was, of course, nothing to sweep. Marianna had finished work for the week, and always left the villa spotlessly clean, but Charlotte had to do something to fill in the time before she left. It hardly seemed possible that only a day ago she had been trying to hold time at bay. Now she was ticking off the minutes to her departure.

Straightening up, she went across to the window. Iannis was almost at the door, dressed casually in jeans, a shirt and desert boots, his hair still damp from the shower, his face unshaven. There was no time to do anything about her own appearance, Charlotte realised self-consciously, bringing a hand up to smooth her hair. Her feet were bare. She had dressed for cleaning—nothing more.

She saw the manuscript in his hand, as well as the film card. He had come to apologise! A bubble of anticipation formed inside her, only to burst when she opened the door and saw the expression on his face.

‘May I come in?’

Charlotte felt a chill sweep over her as she moved aside to let him pass.

He walked straight into the kitchen and, moving aside the bowl of fresh flowers she had put there, left the article next to her laptop. Swinging around, he showed her the film card in the palm of his hand.

‘Thank you for returning—’

‘Are there any more of these?’ he demanded coldly.

‘I’m sorry—?’

‘You will be, if you’re hiding any more.’

Before she could stop him he went over to the kitchen drawers and started dragging them open.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Charlotte exclaimed angrily. ‘Stop that right now!’ Storming across the room, she slammed the drawers shut again. ‘I thought you had come to apologise,’ she cried in an agony of hurt and bewilderment. ‘I should have known better!’

‘Get out of my way!’ Iannis warned softly.

‘If you want to search this house you’ll have to get past me first.’

Iannis didn’t doubt it for a moment. He wondered if he had ever seen a woman looking so furious—or so desirable. He scowled in exasperation at the turn his thoughts were taking.

‘Nothing to say, Iannis?’ Charlotte demanded coldly. ‘Then may I suggest you get out of my house?’ With movements so jerky she felt like a marionette, Charlotte forced herself to walk across the room and take up position by the door.

‘Sit down, please,’ Iannis said with unconcern, holding out a chair for her. ‘I want to talk to you.’

‘I don’t think we’ve got anything left to say to each other.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ He sprang up and came to take hold of her arm.

‘If you’re trying to intimidate me,’ Charlotte flared, staring up into his face, ‘you’ve picked the wrong woman.’

‘And you picked the wrong man to involve in your little scheme,’ he informed her scathingly, guiding her to a chair.

‘Little scheme?’ Charlotte’s brow pleated in bewilderment, and she sat rigid with shock to confront him.

‘You made the wrong choice, selecting me as your victim,’ Iannis explained, holding her gaze steadily.

‘My victim?’ Charlotte’s mind raced. The article had been little short of a paean of praise to him. How could he possibly take offence at anything she had written?

As if reading her thoughts, Iannis picked up the top sheet of her article. ‘Life styles; life choices—’ He stopped reading after the title, waiting to see how she would react. ‘By Charlotte Clare.’

Charlotte shook her head, completely mystified. ‘But if you’ve read the article then you know—’

‘Know what?’ Iannis demanded in a dangerously low voice. ‘Know that you intended to expose me? Know that you intended to make money out of me? Yes, I am aware of all those things.’ He sat back and viewed Charlotte coldly. ‘The question is—what am I going to do about it—about you?’

‘You don’t have to do anything,’ Charlotte protested heatedly. ‘If you have read the article you know how positive—’

He cut in with a short, scathing laugh. ‘You don’t even bother to deny it!’

‘Why should I?’ Charlotte demanded in bewilderment. ‘I have done nothing wrong. Perhaps I should have squared it with you first, but—’

His sound of contempt cut her off. ‘Yes, perhaps you should,’ Iannis remarked bitterly.

‘I only featured you at all because—’

‘I am the type of individual that paparazzi feed off?’ Iannis cut in harshly. He was taken aback by the look of surprise on Charlotte’s face.

‘Paparazzi?’ she echoed. ‘Not that again!’

Iannis sliced a hand through the air to cut her off. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.’

‘You’re way off track, Iannis,’ Charlotte insisted stubbornly. ‘If I was paparazzi, why on earth would I be interested in—?’ She broke off and paled. ‘Unless…’

‘Unless?’ Iannis echoed harshly.

Wrapping her arms around her waist, as if to protect herself against him, Charlotte felt as if a dam had just burst in her mind. If only she hadn’t been so short-sighted, so obsessed with her article. The moment was like an epiphany. Suddenly she could see the whole picture…all the clues and inconsistencies she had so far chosen to ignore.

Turning around very slowly, she tilted her chin to stare into his eyes. ‘Who are you, Iannis? I already know you’re not Iannis Kiriakos, a simple fisherman of Iskos, so who the hell are you?’

Iannis laughed scornfully as he raked stiff fingers impatiently through his hair. ‘Don’t come the innocent with me, Charlotte. It’s been tried before and it won’t work.’

‘Just answer my question,’ she said calmly.

‘Very well,’ he agreed coldly. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, my name is Iannis Kiriakos of the Kiriakos shipping line. My business interests span the globe—but I expect you already know that too.’

Charlotte felt as though she might well be sick, or even faint. She could not take it in. He was the Iannis Kiriakos—and she never suspected it. A businessman, yes, she had half expected that…but a tycoon, a billionaire. She froze, and shut her eyes for a moment. And in that instant she knew without a shadow of doubt that she could not have loved Iannis Kiriakos the Greek tycoon any more than she loved Iannis Kiriakos the simple fisherman. But Iannis’s opinion of her was so low she could hardly bear it. As far as he was concerned she was just a cheap gold-digger with no morals at all—a woman who gave her body in the interests of getting a good story and snaring herself a rich man.

She struggled to pay attention as he continued. ‘I like to step off the bandwagon a couple of times each year,’ he said evenly, oblivious to her state of mind, ‘and that is when I come to Iskos, the island of my ancestors.’

His words hummed around Charlotte’s head like an angry swarm of bees.

‘I can see you’re not interested,’ he said accusingly.

‘I am interested,’ Charlotte countered, struggling to find a way out of the black cloud of pain. ‘You say I know all about you, but you’ve just proved that I don’t know anything about you at all. You tell me you’re this man of great wealth and status. Is that supposed to change my opinion of you? Or does it mean that it is you, Iannis, who is ashamed of your heritage? Is that the real reason you choose to punish me now? Has my article uncovered something you are reluctant to share with anyone outside this island? Do you think you might be ridiculed because you find solace and renewal here, living the life of a simple fisherman? Because if you do—’

Her words were too close to the truth, Iannis realised angrily. ‘What do you know about such things?’ he cut in harshly.

‘I know you’re wrong,’ Charlotte said. ‘I know that when people read my article, far from deriding you, they will envy you.’

‘I will not lose this,’ Iannis grated softly, as if to himself. ‘I will not allow you to continue with the publication of your article just to satisfy the gossip-hungry readers of your magazine. Here on Iskos I live as my ancestors lived. I fish as they fished. I eat as they eat.’ And I love as they loved, he thought bitterly. But this he did not say. There was no point in fooling himself, nor in appealing to Charlotte’s better nature. Not when all she was interested in was making money out of him—like all the rest.

‘So, who are you really, Iannis?’ Charlotte pressed gently. ‘Iannis Kiriakos the Greek billionaire, or Iannis the fisherman?’

‘You choose,’ he said abruptly. ‘I despise all titles—though I suspect you have already chosen the one that suits you the best.’

Yes, she had—or thought she had.

‘No?’ Iannis demanded when she didn’t answer. ‘Would you like my help?’ And without waiting for her reply, he grated, ‘How about this one—Iannis Kiriakos, eligible bachelor?’

Charlotte’s face went white as she stared at him. ‘You despicable, arrogant man! Not only do you imagine that I can be bought, but you seem to think that I would sleep with a man in order to trap him into marriage. You are wrong on both counts Mr Kiriakos. I can’t be bought—and I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth. You say I tricked you?’ She gave a sharp, ugly laugh of incredulity. ‘You slept with me, but withheld your true identity. You deceived me, you used me. And now you calmly stand there, daring to suggest that I would sell you out—or, worse, that I choose my partners on the basis of their bank balance.’

‘Partners?’ Iannis roared, surprising himself with the force of his reaction. ‘How many men—?’

Charlotte cut across in a voice of pure steel. ‘Don’t think for one moment I am going to allow you another opportunity to hurt me, Iannis. You have done quite enough just by proving how little you really know me. I thought I had found someone special, someone untouched by all the cynicism and suspicion of the world I left behind when I came to Iskos. But I was just fooling myself, wasn’t I? All you wanted was a trophy to put on your shelf with all the others!’

And who knew better about trophies? Charlotte raged inwardly as her mouth tightened with disdain. ‘You just put on a convenient front to lure me into your bed, Iannis! How many times have you done that before?’

‘How dare you suggest I would stoop so low?’ he accused, coming a menacing step closer.

‘Why shouldn’t I when you treat me like this?’ Charlotte said, not yielding an inch. ‘Or is what I’ve said just too close to the truth for you, Iannis?’

‘I have never lured a woman into my bed—’

‘And how do I know that?’ Charlotte continued relentlessly. ‘Because you tell me so? How can I believe anything you say when by your own admission you have made such a good job of deceiving me? But you needn’t concern yourself any longer with what I might stand to gain from you, Iannis. You can keep your wretched money! I’m not interested in your money, or in anyone else’s money. I am quite capable of supporting myself. And in a few short hours I’ll be out of your life for good. So relax, Iannis. You can keep your precious bank balance intact. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a plane to catch.’ When he didn’t move, she added flatly, ‘If I haven’t made myself clear, I’d like you to leave.’

Iannis continued to stare at her, his eyes like twin probes, blazing their way into the very depths of her soul, searching for truth. ‘Not until you give me some assurances.’

‘Assurances?’ Charlotte demanded softly. ‘What more do you want from me, Iannis? You’ve taken everything I’ve got. And you’ve got my film card in your hand. The article? Here—take it.’ Removing the disk from her laptop, she thrust that at him too. ‘I think that’s everything. You can stay, if you want, and watch me erase the master document from my computer—or you can take my word for the fact that I cannot wait to be rid of it. As for the copy I have already mailed to my editor—I will tell her that I wish to have it withdrawn immediately. When I leave Iskos I want nothing to remind me of my time here or anything Greek—especially you.’

‘Unfortunately it’s not that simple,’ he countered coldly.

‘Of course it’s that simple,’ Charlotte insisted.

‘You don’t seem to understand,’ Iannis said evenly, making himself comfortable on the chair. ‘You see, Charlotte, I cannot take the risk that once you leave here you might just go ahead anyway.’

‘I have given you my word.’

‘In this instance that’s not enough, I’m afraid.’

‘You can’t hold me here against my will,’ Charlotte said, pressing her lips together in impotent anger.

Taking his mobile phone out of his back pocket, Iannis keyed in a number, his gaze fixed on her face the whole time.

A chill ran down Charlotte’s spine as she listened as he instructed his lawyers.

‘That was totally unnecessary,’ she said coldly, the moment he cut the line. ‘You’re throwing your money away. I could have done that just by e-mailing my editor—then I would have confirmed everything on Monday, when I return to work.’

‘You may not be at work on Monday,’ Iannis observed. ‘And e-mail is all very well, but I find court orders are always more effective.’

‘So you don’t trust me?’

‘Should I?’ he queried sardonically. ‘Unless this matter is concluded swiftly, and to my complete satisfaction, I will have an impediment of departure placed upon you and you will remain here on Iskos—as my guest.’

‘And that’s supposed to fill me with gratitude?’ Charlotte demanded, her voice dry with shock. ‘It sounds as if you mean to take me hostage.’

‘Please spare me the amateur dramatics,’ Iannis said coldly, ‘and do not credit me with your own flair for invention. I am merely offering you an extended stay as my guest, incurring no extra cost for you.’

Was she supposed to thank him? Charlotte wondered. She felt more like punching him. ‘I don’t want an extended stay,’ she said firmly.

Iannis shrugged dismissively. ‘I’d say you don’t have much choice. Why don’t you send that e-mail?’

The laptop was too precious to throw at him.

Charlotte’s fingers flew over the keyboard. She wanted to hate him, it would be so much easier, but even now her feelings were dangerously far from hate.

‘There,’ she said finally, tilting the screen so he could see. ‘It’s all finished—done with. Now will you let me go?’

‘No,’ Iannis said flatly. ‘You stay here with me until I hear from my lawyers. You can ignore me, be as awkward as you like, but it won’t change a thing. Until I have confirmation that this business is over I’m not leaving, so you might as well get used to the idea.’

‘And what if I refuse to stay?’

She watched him tense slightly on the seat, as if he might leap to his feet at any moment and restrain her. She would never escape from him using conventional methods, Charlotte realised. She would have to be a lot more subtle than that if she wanted to get away…

CHAPTER TWELVE

WHERE would she go? Charlotte wondered as she worked quietly at the kitchen table. Filling in time while Iannis waited for the call from his lawyers, she was sketching out some ideas in note form for her next piece of work. So far she had written ten words. It was one thing planning to escape—but escape to where, and to whom?

With only one flight a week leaving Iskos, she didn’t have a lot of choice. If she missed this one Marianna was the only person she knew well enough to land on her doorstep unannounced. She had said she lived next door to Iannis. It couldn’t be that hard to find her. And anything was preferable to being held captive in her own villa, Charlotte mused, slanting a look at her captor. He was completely unrepentant, even though he was just as guilty of deception as she was. And he had the audacity to look more desirable than ever, reading the local papers as if he belonged here—feet resting on a stool and his mobile phone close to hand. He might not have had a care in the world.

Was this the type of person she had turned into? Charlotte wondered angrily. Someone complacent, biddable—docile? Happy to fall in with whatever Iannis Kiriakos wanted—however unreasonable that might be? She had written the article in good faith, and there was not one word of complaint against him in a single line. Pushing back her chair in a sudden fit of temper, she lurched away from the table.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’

He was faster than she was, and his voice was cold and flat. As he tried to stop her at the door Charlotte saw red. ‘Don’t you dare get in my way!’ she warned, thumping her fists on his chest. ‘I’m getting out of here.’

‘To go where?’

‘Anywhere! Away from you!’

He swore in Greek, and seized hold of her wrists, but Charlotte shook him off and pulled away. Reaching for her, Iannis stepped backwards, met with the stool and tripped over it, bringing Charlotte crashing down to the floor on top of him.

It took a few moments for Charlotte to get her breath back, and then she saw Iannis was lying very still beneath her, with his eyes closed. His arms were still locked around her waist, as if he had been trying to protect her as they fell.

‘Are you all right?’ she demanded anxiously, levering herself up to take a proper look at him.

His eyes snapped open. ‘What do you think?’

‘Don’t tease me like that,’ she exclaimed angrily. ‘It’s not funny, Iannis. You could have been hurt.’

‘And you’d care?’

Charlotte huffed impatiently. ‘No.’ But that wasn’t true and he knew it. ‘I’m sorry you fell.’

‘How sorry?’ Iannis challenged huskily, and suddenly she was aware of his warm, hard body beneath her own.

‘Sorry enough,’ Charlotte muttered mutinously. But she could feel his erection pulsing hard beneath her. ‘You?’ she demanded, her voice strong but her body softening in spite of the warnings ringing in her head.

‘About the same,’ he agreed, a touch of humour forcing one corner of his mouth up. ‘Truce?’

‘Possibly,’ Charlotte agreed waspishly as an idea occurred to her. ‘But—’

‘But?’ Iannis echoed, the softly delivered consonants drawing her attention to his lips.

‘Only if you agree to let me go the moment—’

‘You’re free to go now,’ he cut in, lifting his hands away from her, ‘as long as you don’t leave the villa. But I warn you, Charlotte. I intend to resolve this matter today. I need your assurance that you will stay.’

Then he could have it, Charlotte mused, starting to free his shirt from the waistband of his jeans. The flesh beneath was hard and tanned, the dark hair from his chest tapering and disappearing beneath the sturdy leather belt. As she pushed the fabric higher with her hands she dipped her head and licked a little, teasing until he groaned beneath her. ‘You’re my hostage now,’ she explained, turning her attentions to the buckle on his belt, ‘and until I get what I want you’re going to stay right here.’

Iannis sighed contentedly as she undid the belt and started on his button fly. ‘No, no. Stop,’ he protested weakly.

‘Sorry, can’t do that,’ Charlotte told him. ‘You have been a very bad boy, Iannis, and now you have to pay.’

While she released each button with an agonising lack of haste, Iannis tugged off his shirt and cast it aside.

He looked so magnificent she had to pause for a moment. Why not enjoy it, Charlotte asked herself, lavishing a gaze on his powerful chest. He was hers for the moment, truly hers, to do with as she liked—all identity stripped away. Right now it didn’t matter whether it was Iannis the fisherman or Iannis the tycoon beneath her hands. He felt fantastic and she intended to take her fill of him.

The muscles running down his arms and across his shoulders were relaxed, and Charlotte felt a stab of discontent. She longed for them to flex as he reached out for her, but Iannis seemed content to lie still and do nothing while she made love to him. Charlotte felt her senses surge. He was full of surprises.

‘Well?’ he demanded sardonically. ‘Are you going to master me, tiger woman?’

‘Watch me,’ Charlotte murmured, but he was already reaching behind her head and feeling for the clip that held up her hair. Freeing it, he tossed it aside, and then combed his fingers through her long Titian waves until they tumbled in profusion around her face.

‘Beautiful,’ he observed softly. ‘Now take your top off.’

Straddling him, Charlotte did as he asked, but kept her bra in place. ‘Up,’ she ordered softly. Freeing his jeans, she drew in a fast breath. ‘Who said you could go commando?’ she demanded, firming her mouth sternly.

‘I wasn’t aware that there was a law against it,’ Iannis pointed out as his lips tugged down in a rueful expression. ‘I was in a hurry to get here this morning. Oh, and by the way, would you like me to keep my boots on?’

‘You can take them off,’ Charlotte allowed generously.

‘You’re in charge.’

‘Too right,’ Charlotte agreed, flashing him a seductive smile as she turned to free the laces on his boots.

Now he was quite naked, and she took a moment to relish the whole delicious length of him.

‘Do you like what you see?’ Iannis demanded softly.

‘You know I do.’

He raised his hands above his head in a gesture of complete acquiescence. ‘So, enjoy,’ he offered huskily.

‘Arrogant brute,’ Charlotte whispered, feeling her senses quicken.

‘You love it,’ Iannis observed in a low drawl. And as a way to pass the time until his lawyers called it could scarcely be bettered, he mused with satisfaction.

‘Iannis,’ Charlotte murmured softly, combing her hair through with her fingers in a gesture that was both languorous and intensely seductive, ‘do you ever indulge in fantasies?’ She watched his sweeping ebony brows draw together in an expression of perplexity.

‘Do you?’ he countered in a low voice, his lips tugging up in the suggestion of a knowing smile.

‘Answer me first,’ Charlotte insisted, adopting a tone that was a little sterner. ‘Do you, for instance, ever fantasise about being tied up?’

She watched as his eyes darkened, and saw there was a flare of black humour at their depths.

‘You, beautiful lady, can do whatever you want with me,’ Iannis told her with a compliant sigh, stretching his arms above his head to grip hold of the sturdy cast-iron fender.

Reaching for his discarded belt, Charlotte returned quickly to his side and, kneeling down, started to wind it around his wrists. ‘I shall have to make you quite secure,’ she observed reluctantly, ‘but not so tight that it hurts.’

‘Feel free,’ Iannis encouraged her, sighing with contentment, even moving a little to make it easier for her.

‘Oh, I will,’ Charlotte assured him, flashing a glance to each side of the fender. Seeing that it had been built into the fabric of the wall, she knew she could have tethered a bull to it without a moment’s fear of it escaping.

‘There,’ she said at last, sitting back on her haunches to approve her handiwork. ‘That should do it.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Iannis agreed huskily. ‘Now, why don’t you take your clothes off and make yourself more comfortable?’ he suggested, testing his bonds.

Charlotte held her breath as she watched him flex both hands. The belt remained firmly in place. Stroking his stomach lightly, she returned the ironic challenge in his gaze, and then quickly moved on to his caress his arms and shoulders. Running the tips of her nails across his chest, she circled his taut nipples through the dark hair.

‘You temptress,’ he husked, bucking towards her.

‘Naughty,’ Charlotte warned softly, casting a glance at the belt again, just to make sure it remained firmly in place. ‘You are not allowed to do anything at all—except lie there and take it.’

‘Suits me,’ Iannis conceded.

‘But I shall still have to punish you for that small rebellion,’ she informed him, dipping her head to nibble on one hard brown nipple whilst teasing the other mercilessly between thumb and forefinger.

‘Punish me some more,’ Iannis begged when she stopped.

‘If you insist,’ Charlotte said, and she reached for her top.

‘Why are you putting it on?’ he said, frowning.

Charlotte paused. ‘Because,’ she said silkily, ‘I’m going, Iannis. Enjoy,’ she added on her way out of the door.

Maybe she had been wrong about that bull, Charlotte thought, running out of the villa with Iannis’s bellow of rage ringing in her ears. She could still hear the fender rattling when she reached the cliff-top.

Fear and excitement made her reckless, and she didn’t notice any pain as she slid down the steep path on her backside. She felt as if all the dogs of hell were on her heels, and knew Iannis would not be far behind her—even if he had to take the wall of the villa down stone by stone.

Making it to the beach, she raced across the cool, firm sand to the place she knew Iannis left his rowing boat. Panic and desperation gave her strength, and by tugging and rocking she finally managed to get it afloat. Up to her waist in water, she clambered aboard, using the rocks as a lever to make sure the small craft didn’t turn turtle as she heaved herself over the side. She could hardly believe how much strength it took just to keep the rowing boat pointing out to sea, and, standing with her legs apart, she was forced to press against the rocks in her battle to clear them and get away from the shore.

When Iannis was in control it looked so easy, Charlotte realised as she freed the oars and dipped them into the water. It took her a few moments to get the hang of things, and she was grateful for the strength in her arms, thanks to all the swimming she did.

Once she was underway Charlotte began to relax. Cutting straight across the horseshoe bay would be the shortest route to Marianna’s home. Throwing back her head exultantly, she closed her eyes. ‘I did it!’ she cried to the answering gulls. The warm air felt good on her face. She had proved herself more than a match for Iannis Kiriakos.

But maybe she had gone a bit too far. Charlotte’s eyes snapped open as she conjured up a selection of horrific possibilities. What if he couldn’t get away? What if there was a fire? What if something happened to him? She’d have to go back.

She spun around and her heart stopped. He was standing on the cliff edge, staring down at her, a menacing black silhouette, tall and forbidding against the relentless blue of the sky.

Charlotte’s start of alarm had made the boat rock perilously. For a few moments she was fully occupied trying to steady it, and when she looked up again he had gone.

It seemed to take for ever to row across the bay. Charlotte had to battle a weak but insistent current as well as her own nervous exhaustion. Only sheer determination kept her going, kept her resolve fixed on reaching the opposite shore.

It was too late to realise she should have thought to bring something to drink and a hat. And as the day wore on the sunlight only grew stronger. Soon she was suffering from the effects of dehydration as well as sunburn. Her eyes felt as if they were glued together with salt, and she could hardly see from the effects of the harsh light bouncing off the surface of the water.

She was almost crying with relief by the time she reached the small wooden jetty and tied up the boat. Then, tumbling into the water fully dressed, she submerged herself completely in the lazy, rolling surf and felt the cool water soothe her. But thirst quickly drove her out of the sea and, finding her feet on the pebble floor of the tiny harbour, she pulled herself upright and waded back to shore.

Marianna’s home lay exactly where Charlotte had supposed it would—just across the wall from Iannis’s cottage. Freshly painted in white, it had bright blue shutters, and the walls were festooned with bright pink bougainvillaea.

As she drew closer she heard children shouting and glasses clinking together. There was a constant hum of laughter and chatter. It was clearly the social hub of the neighbourhood, she realised as she stumbled up the path. She was past caring what she looked like. She wasn’t about to give up now and go back to be held against her will by Iannis.

Maybe they were both in the wrong, but Charlotte knew she had spent enough of her life caving in—and Iannis was not the type of man to admit he had made a mistake. He could accept her as an equal or not at all, Charlotte thought, firming her lips. Remembering his pride, she knew that meant she had probably seen the last of him.

She managed a sound of gratitude as a young woman came from the house and took hold of her arm. Staring at Charlotte with concern, the girl exclaimed in Greek, and then began speaking rapidly to her in the same language.

‘I’m sorry…I don’t—’ Charlotte got no further, and, shaking her head in frustration, bit down on her lip in an attempt to stem the flow of tears down her cheeks.

‘Mama, Mama!’ Still holding on to her arm, as if she might try to get away, the young woman called urgently through the open door before turning back again to Charlotte.

‘I’m fine, really. I’m absolutely fine,’ Charlotte insisted, drying her cheeks on the back of her hand. She discovered that her face stung like mad. Tracing her cheekbones with her fingertips, she found that her whole face was on fire.

Marianna burst out of the front door and, quickly summing up the situation, she took hold of Charlotte’s arm and ushered her into the house. Without a word needing to be said, everyone who was gathered there quietly left.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to spoil your party,’ Charlotte said. ‘I just didn’t know where else to go—’

Holding her at arm’s length, Marianna slowly shook her head from side to side as she clicked her tongue. ‘What have you done?’ she exclaimed softly.

If you only knew! Charlotte thought, wanting to feel her face again to check the damage.

But Marianna took hold of her hand in a firm grip. ‘You must not touch your face,’ she instructed. ‘I shall apply some balm to soothe the skin, and then you must rest. But first you must have a cooling bath to wash all this salt off.’ She clicked her tongue again as she examined Charlotte more closely, and when she saw the cuts and bruises on her legs from the rapid flight down the cliff she exclaimed softly in Greek. ‘What were you thinking of?’ she murmured, leading Charlotte out of the kitchen.

‘I’ve done a terrible thing,’ Charlotte admitted as Marianna led her down a shady passage.

‘You should know better than to stay out in the sun for so long.’

‘No, no—not that—something far worse,’ Charlotte said, needing to confess.

Marianna didn’t answer right away. Taking her into a small bathroom, she began to run the water, testing the temperature as it gushed into a large white bath. Then, straightening up, she planted her hands on her hips and levelled a look of concern on Charlotte’s face. ‘What have you done that is so terrible—apart from getting yourself badly burned by the sun? You had better say before I leave you. I can see it is eating you up inside.’

‘I tied Iannis up,’ Charlotte blurted.

Marianna looked suitably incredulous, but then, Charlotte noticed, she almost smiled. ‘You did what?’

‘I wrote an article about him,’ Charlotte explained, trying to make Marianna understand how serious it was. ‘He became very angry when he found out—so I tied him up.’

Marianna covered her mouth with her hand to hide her smile, then, drawing her brows together in concern, she said, ‘And where is he now?’

‘He is coming after me—he broke free.’

‘Ah, I see,’ Marianna said, her lips turning down at the corners as she thought about it.

This was not the time to be contemplating a long, relaxing soak in the bath, Charlotte realised, going to peer anxiously out of the small window.

‘Come away from there,’ Marianna insisted. ‘This is no time to worry about Iannis Kiriakos. First you must do as I say, or you will suffer very badly as a result of this sunburn.’ ‘But what if—’

Marianna held up her hand. ‘You are safe here with me. This is my home. Iannis respects that. He will not see you if I do not wish him to.’

‘You don’t know what he’s like—’

Marianna raised her eyebrows quizzically. ‘I can assure you I do,’ she said. ‘I have known Iannis Kiriakos from the moment he was born.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I was his nanny,’ Marianna said, her eyes brightening at the memory.

Charlotte looked at her as another piece of the jigsaw slotted into place. ‘And you’ll keep him away from me?’ she asked dubiously.

‘Believe me,’ Marianna assured Charlotte as she studied her face again, ‘I would not dream of allowing Iannis to see you tonight.’

Charlotte couldn’t wait to get to the mirror after Marianna left the bathroom. She was horrified by what she saw—especially as she had been so careful with her fair skin. For nearly four weeks she had been sensible, only to end up now looking like a bright red tomato.

‘You will sleep on your back,’ Marianna advised later in a bedroom, after she had applied some soothing balm to Charlotte’s burning skin.

‘But if Iannis should come looking for me—’

‘Leave Iannis to me,’ Marianna insisted firmly, closing the shutters before she went out. ‘Goodnight, and sleep well,’ she said, turning to smile at Charlotte. ‘And stop worrying about Iannis—about anything. You are quite safe now.’

Charlotte gusted a heavy sigh, knowing there was little chance she would sleep. But the white cotton sheets were crisp and cool, and the pillowcases carried a faint scent of lavender. She uttered one more sigh as she snuggled down, and then knew nothing more until the strutting general of the chicken run called his troops to order at dawn the next morning.

Coming slowly out of a deep sleep, Charlotte listened to everything carefully with her eyes firmly shut. There was a symphony of sound out in the yard that told her Marianna was giving the animals their first feed of the day. Once she had sifted through the various strands of sound Charlotte knew that the cottage itself was deep in silence.

Slowly the events leading up to her arrival at Marianna’s home seeped into Charlotte’s thoughts, spoiling the short, relaxing interlude she had been enjoying between sleep and consciousness. Putting her hands up to her face, she tentatively pressed her fingertips into the flesh. There was hardly any pain there now, and, opening her eyes, she sat up to reach for the small pot of balm Marianna had left on the table by the side of the bed.

Padding barefoot across the cool tiled floor, Charlotte examined her reflection in the small mirror hanging on the wall. Her face was still pink, but not red and shiny as it had been the previous night. There was a distinct improvement. Taking the lid off the pot and scooping up some balm, she tested it between her fingers. It was like a white chalky paste, but the smell was not unpleasant. Applying it thickly, she left two pink circles around her eyes. The effect was quite startling, but that hardly mattered. All she cared about was the soothing effect and the balm’s healing properties, and she could feel it taking effect already.

Returning the pot to the bedside table, she thirstily drained the last drop of water Marianna had left for her and then crossed the room to get some more.

She felt like a galleon in full sail as she hurried down the passage towards the kitchen. The nightdress she had borrowed from Marianna was like a tent, and just as concealing. Down to her ankles and high at the neck, it had long sleeves that finished in a neat buttoned cuff. ‘Voluminous’ wasn’t the word for it, she thought with amusement, swirling the skirt like a Spanish dancer as she pushed open the kitchen door.

She froze on the threshold. Iannis stood facing her in the centre of the room.

Iannis could never have been prepared for the way his heart lurched at the sight of Charlotte. He had given his word to Marianna that he would do nothing to alarm her; that had been his ticket into the house. But he was well within his rights to slap her with a lawsuit. She had betrayed him, led him on—tied him up! His hands balled into fists as he stared at her. With all her false bravado stripped away and her gauzy hair billowing around her shoulders like a shimmering gold cape she was mesmerising. But her face! He watched her hand fly up in consternation as he looked at her.

‘Where’s Marianna?’ Charlotte demanded hoarsely. ‘What have you done with her?’ Her heart was thundering. She had brought nothing but trouble to a woman she really cared about.

‘Nothing has happened to Marianna,’ Iannis said, more sharply than he had intended. ‘She is tending the animals. She knows I am here.’

As Charlotte stared at Iannis her thoughts were in confusion. There was so much history between them. They had packed a lifetime into such a short period. She was overwhelmed by feelings. And had she really tied him to a fender? For goodness’ sake! She was glad of the mask provided by Marianna’s balm—at least Iannis couldn’t see her face reddening beneath it. But then she remembered Marianna saying she would not allow Iannis to see her.

‘I don’t know how you tricked her, but—’

‘I tricked Marianna?’ Iannis demanded, proudly drawing himself up. ‘You amaze me, Charlotte,’ he said, enunciating each word with glittering clarity. ‘If anyone is adept at trickery it is you, and not me.’

‘Then why are you here, if you have such a poor opinion of me?’

If only that was the case, Iannis reflected bitterly. She looked so young, so vulnerable. And the face mask, clearly something of Marianna’s concoction, only added to that impression. Even the shapeless garment she was wearing made him want to sweep her up in his arms and keep her safe beside him for ever. But he could not do that. Not after what she had done to him.

‘Why have you come here?’ Charlotte asked again, her eyes widening with apprehension.

‘I brought something for you to have a look at,’ Iannis said, pointing to a state-of-the-art laptop on the table.

Her eyes were astonishingly beautiful, Iannis registered, even if at this moment they were a vivid, wary green. It gave him some small satisfaction to see how they clearly mirrored her dawning realisation that something very bad was about to happen. With one flick of his wrist he spun the laptop around so that she could see the screen.

Charlotte crept close enough to read the text.

Iannis watched as her lips fell apart. She could not have faked that, he realised, firming his own mouth. She could not have faked that expression of absolute surprise.

‘I don’t understand,’ Charlotte whispered fiercely. ‘It just can’t be possible—’

‘Well, I can assure you it is possible,’ Iannis said harshly. ‘You are reading the front page of today’s Daily Messenger.’

‘But I don’t understand,’ Charlotte repeated, her eyes wide with concern as she turned to face him. ‘I promise you, I had absolutely nothing to do with this…’

Her voice trailed away as she turned back to the screen again in confusion. She certainly hadn’t misread it. The banner across the top of the daily newspaper read: Greek Tycoon Unmasked! And next to the garish red print there was a picture of Iannis, half-naked, with the waves lapping over his feet, hauling nets with the other fishermen.

‘You said an article in a magazine,’ he reminded her in a voice that jabbed at her heart. ‘And you made a promise to me that you would have it pulled. You e-mailed your editor,’ he reminded her when Charlotte remained silent. ‘But I have just been reading something in that newspaper that purports to be the first in a series of articles about me.’

If he had shouted and raged it might have been easier to handle. As it was, Charlotte felt like Alice—shrinking so fast she would soon disappear beneath his scorn.

‘You have no understanding of what it feels like to be constantly hounded,’ he went on steadily. ‘To have no privacy at all, to have every aspect of your life scrutinised, analysed and judged by strangers.’

‘Iannis, I’m—’

‘What? Sorry?’ he demanded tensely. ‘It’s a bit late for remorse, Charlotte.’

He was right. It was far worse than she had imagined. Even the photographs she had taken in the early part of her stay, before she met him, had been used to embroider the story of the so-called double life of Iannis Kiriakos, handsome Greek billionaire.

But she had only sent them to her chums at work because she’d wanted to share her time on Iskos with them, Charlotte remembered. Her editor must have pounced on them, put two and two together and sold them to the newspaper along with her article. She should check her e-mails for confirmation.

‘Could I use your laptop to check my incoming mail?’ she said as calmly as she could manage, in an attempt to keep a lid on the situation.

Iannis folded his arms across his chest in apparent unconcern, but she saw a muscle working in his jaw as he fought to keep his feelings under control.

‘Please yourself,’ he agreed, in a voice that suggested it would do her no good at all.

Charlotte watched him move towards the window as she started to key in all the necessary information. Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she hurried to uncover some evidence that might help to put her in the clear. But all she found was mail that seemed to add to her guilt.

‘Have you found what you were looking for?’ Iannis asked coldly, swinging around when he heard Charlotte’s small cry of despair.

‘I’ve found some mail from my editor,’ she admitted, straightening up to face him, ‘but I’m afraid it will do me no good in your eyes. Apparently my contract with the magazine allows them to sell excerpts where they choose—I should have known. It’s quite a coup, apparently,’ she said, embroidering the remark with a helpless gesture. ‘My editor thought I would be pleased.’

‘Do you always treat business contracts with such casual disregard?’ Iannis queried icily.

He looked every bit the tycoon now, Charlotte thought, feeling her heart leap in response and then plummet again in the same tortured instant. Imposing, but relaxed, his hair neatly groomed and his tanned face freshly shaved, Iannis looked—As the knife of regret stabbed deep into her heart Charlotte put a hand up to her own face and knew what a sight she must be. What a fool she had been to imagine a man like Iannis Kiriakos could ever be interested in her…

‘You do know what you have done, don’t you?’ Iannis said. His voice was frighteningly calm and dispassionate. ‘At best I shall be ridiculed, at worst my state of mind will be questioned, and then the share prices of my companies will dive and jobs will be put in danger.’

‘Aren’t you exaggerating just a little?’ Charlotte demanded with alarm.

‘Would that I were,’ Iannis murmured. Glancing at his slim gold wristwatch, he observed, ‘The London stock market and several of my major companies open for business very shortly. May I suggest that you go and get yourself washed and dressed, and then return to determine for yourself whether what I am saying is true or not?’

Charlotte’s shorts and tee shirt had already been washed and pressed by the tactfully elusive Marianna. She found them lying on her bed when she returned from the bathroom and, after quickly putting them on, she looked at her naked face in the mirror. Marianna’s balm was a miracle cream, but there was still a suggestion of redness across her cheekbones and on the tip of her nose. She had no make-up with her so could do nothing about it—not that she supposed Iannis would even look at her now. In the light of the disaster she had set in motion her appearance was the last thing that mattered.

Iannis turned to face her as she entered the room. ‘Theos! What happened to your legs?’

Charlotte frowned in bewilderment and followed his stare down to where her legs were sunburned, the backs covered in bruises and criss-crossed with dried blood after her panic-driven slide down the cliff to get away from him. Her mind was full of the crisis about to unfold—the crisis she was responsible for.

‘Has Marianna seen this?’ Iannis demanded in a more insistent tone, hunkering down to take a closer look.

‘Yes, yes,’ Charlotte said vaguely. ‘She gave me some cream.’

‘And where is it?’

‘Here.’ Charlotte showed him the pot she was clutching in her outstretched hand.

‘Give it to me.’

‘But the stock market—’

‘The stock market can wait; this can’t. Give me the balm now,’ Iannis insisted brusquely.

As their gazes clashed, Charlotte looked away.

‘What have you done?’ he said, and his voice had gentled, as if he was asking about so much more than just the damage to her legs.

Charlotte bit back tears and didn’t even try to answer as Iannis got to work. Having applied the cooling balm to the worst of the scratches, he got to his feet and stood looking down at her. She had forgotten how tall he was.

Charlotte met his gaze steadily. ‘We should look at your share prices and—’ She stopped, seeing his lips had tugged up in a crooked smile.

‘Only you,’ he murmured, cupping her chin in one hand. As he traced the line of her cheekbone with one fingertip he added softly, ‘It could have been so different between us.’

‘Believe me, Iannis, if I had known any of this would happen… I’m so sorry…’

He made a sound with his lips that insisted she stop. ‘And I’m sorry I drove you to the point where you felt the only way to leave Iskos was to tie me up and run away to sea.’

There was something approaching humour in his ebony gaze, but more regret than anything. ‘It wasn’t quite like that,’ Charlotte protested softly. ‘I shouldn’t have left you tied up—anything might have happened to you—’

‘Indeed,’ he agreed, cutting across her. ‘And would you have cared?’

‘Of course I’d care,’ Charlotte admitted in a whisper. She watched as one of his sweeping ebony brows lifted in enquiry.

‘Why?’ Iannis demanded softly.

Charlotte mashed her lips together, but the words refused to be stopped. ‘Because I’m in love with you, I suppose.’

‘You only suppose?’

‘Because I love you,’ she said in a louder voice, knowing she had nothing to lose. ‘And now I’ve ruined everything with this.’ She gestured helplessly at the laptop screen. Before he could say anything in reply she walked away to stare blindly out of the window. ‘Let me know when you have the site you’re looking for on screen,’ she murmured, bracing herself for the worst.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

‘I HAVE something to say too, Charlotte,’ Iannis said evenly. ‘Please show me the courtesy I have afforded you by turning around and listening to me.’

There was a quiet authority in his voice that made Charlotte turn to face him.

Iannis indicated the seat to one side of the hearth. ‘I will put some more of Marianna’s cream on your sunburn while we talk. Come and lie down over here. Come,’ he insisted, holding out a hand towards her.

Considering the damage she had done, bringing his empire crashing down, the least she could do was listen to what he had to say, Charlotte conceded. Walking over to the sofa, she lay down carefully on her stomach, not wanting to get the cream he had already applied to her legs on the fabric.

The balm was soothing, his touch intoxicating, but Charlotte knew he was only tending her wounds and wished it could be something more. ‘I can’t do this, Iannis,’ she said, suddenly trying to pull away.

‘Can’t do what?’ he demanded softly, resting his hand on the swell of her buttocks.

‘I can’t let you do this.’ It’s too intimate, and I can’t bear that when I know it’s all over for us.

‘Someone has to,’ he pointed out, lifting his hand away.

‘No, I mean it, Iannis. All I can think about is how much damage will be done by those articles in the newspaper.’

‘It’s too late to think of that now,’ he said bluntly. ‘I shall just have to wait and see how bad it gets and then deal with it.’

‘Don’t make light of it. Too much has gone wrong. Too many people are involved. There’s too much history between us—’

‘Less than a week.’

Was that really all it was? ‘And now so many people are going to suffer because of my stupid mistake.’

‘No one who works for me will be allowed to suffer because of your article,’ Iannis said evenly. ‘I will not allow it.’

‘Then you lied?’ Charlotte said, her voice rising.

‘Not about the repercussions if I am ridiculed,’ he said. ‘The world’s money markets are merciless forums. If any of the big players show the slightest weakness, the rest of the pack pounce.’

Hearing Iannis describe himself in such unemotional terms told Charlotte he was not exaggerating. ‘So?’

‘I have always taken care of the people who work for me, and nothing has changed there,’ he said. ‘We just have to wait until the markets open and then I can see what I’m dealing with.’

‘I’ve no intention of running away,’ Charlotte assured him.

‘Not this time?’ Iannis murmured.

‘We’ll see it through together,’ Charlotte informed him, stubbornly avoiding his gaze.

‘That suits me just fine.’

He actually meant it, Charlotte realised with a rush of emotion.

Before he had a chance to change the screen his mobile rang. ‘My office,’ Iannis mouthed.

Charlotte waited tensely, watching his face grow serious. Maybe it was even worse than she had imagined. What had she done? Charlotte’s imagination slipped into overdrive as she pictured a catastrophe that even Iannis would find beyond his powers to contain.

He didn’t speak right away. Looking thoughtful, he turned to put the mobile down on the table. Sensing the turmoil he must be going through, Charlotte felt lonelier than she had ever done in her life.

Without saying a word to her, Iannis settled himself down in front of his laptop and began to key in the address for the site he wanted to view. ‘Come and join me,’ he said as images began to fill the screen.

Charlotte drew a deep, steadying breath. She had promised to share this with him.

‘It seems you have touched a nerve here,’ Iannis remarked dryly.

Charlotte tensed in readiness to read the screen and discover the extent of the damage she had done.

The financial press had already picked up the story. She exhaled raggedly as her eye skimmed the columns. Iannis Kiriakos—the man who’s got it all…the man who’s got it right…balance is good for business—as proved by rocketing Kiriakos share price… Charlotte blinked in bewilderment. It was the absolute opposite to everything she had been dreading. The fact that Iannis liked to return to his roots seemed to have captured everyone’s imagination.

He rested his finger against Charlotte’s lips, as if to ensure her silence, and then she remembered he had wanted to say something to her earlier.

‘Just tell me one thing, Charlotte.’

‘Anything.’

‘Would you have stayed here on Iskos with Iannis Kiriakos the fisherman, had he asked you to do so?’

What could she say to make him believe her? Charlotte wondered. ‘I would,’ she said simply.

‘Would you have married him—had he asked you?’

‘Yes, I believe I would.’

‘So, you do love me?’ His voice was steady, and his eyes seemed to be watching her to see how far she could be pushed.

‘I adore you,’ Charlotte whispered, her eyes filling with tears of regret. But I cannot make the same mistake again.

‘That is good,’ Iannis murmured, taking hold of her hands, ‘because I have discovered that without you I am nothing. My business, my life, this island—none of it means anything to me without you by my side.’

‘What are you saying?’ The thought of spending her life as the plaything of the man she adored was almost worse than not having any time with him at all. And if he meant more than that—if he meant they should marry…Charlotte told herself not to be so foolish—not to forget she had failed as the wife of a successful man quite miserably once before.

‘I’m saying I love you,’ Iannis said bluntly. ‘Iskos was my haven, but you are my haven now, Charlotte. I am asking you to marry me,’ he said simply, ‘to be my wife—to share everything with me—’

‘Stop, Iannis,’ Charlotte cut in, pulling away from him. ‘You don’t understand. I can’t—’

‘I don’t understand?’ he said incredulously. ‘How can you accuse me of not understanding after everything we have been through this week?’

He had just asked her to marry him! Iannis Kiriakos, the man she adored…and must refuse. If Iannis the fisherman had asked her that same question Charlotte knew she would have said yes without hesitation.

‘What? What are you thinking about?’ Iannis demanded, bringing her into the circle of his arms. What was there to think about? he wondered, feeling a pang of concern, even resentment. They loved each other—although adored would have been a better way to describe how he felt about Charlotte. Why was she hesitating now?

‘I don’t belong in your world.’

Iannis tensed. She sounded so remote, so certain. ‘How can you know that?’

Remembering the way success had changed her ex-husband, remembering how it had felt to be nothing more than a trophy that was wheeled out on display once or twice a year and then forgotten, Charlotte shuddered.

‘Charlotte?’

Iannis’s voice cut through her thoughts like a blade. After all the trouble she had caused him, he deserved better than this. She had to give him a straightforward answer. ‘I’m so sorry, Iannis,’ Charlotte said softly, feeling as if her heart had just withered in her chest. ‘I can’t marry you.’

‘Can’t?’

The strident peal of his mobile phone distracted them both.

‘Not bad news?’ Charlotte said anxiously, trying to read his expression.

‘That depends if you want a fisherman for a husband or not.’ Iannis gave a wry smile and shook his head to see her smile, the hope that came into her eyes. ‘You do want to marry a fisherman, don’t you?’ he said with amusement.

‘Don’t laugh at me, Iannis. You heard what I told you,’ Charlotte said, the pain in her heart showing in her eyes as she gazed up at him. ‘Whatever has happened to your business empire, if it has all gone wrong…’ She paused as her imagination ran riot. Maybe there had been a backlash—something they hadn’t yet read. ‘If you have lost everything, and if you really still want me, you know I will always stand by you.’

‘I want you,’ Iannis confirmed steadily. ‘So, do I take it that’s a yes to my proposal?’

Reaching up to cup his face in her hands, Charlotte stared long and deep into her fisherman’s eyes. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ Iannis said with satisfaction, taking hold of her hands and kissing each finger in turn, ‘because it seems shares in the Kiriakos shipping line have reached an all-time high. No,’ he warned, when Charlotte tensed in his arms and stared into his eyes for confirmation. ‘You cannot change your mind now you know I have not lost the Kiriakos fortune. You have already given me your word.’

‘But you made me think—’

‘Let’s just call it good business practice,’ he murmured, cutting across her protest firmly. ‘And I haven’t deceived you, Charlotte, in any way. The news that I ground myself by returning to my roots has been so well received it seems I must continue to fish,’ he said wryly, ‘for the good of my business as well as my soul. So,’ he said, dropping a kiss on her mouth, ‘I’ll ask you again, just so that there can be no misunderstanding. Will you marry me, Charlotte Clare—regardless of my occupation?’

‘As long as you are always Iannis Kiriakos the fisherman of Iskos for me,’ Charlotte agreed softly, ‘I will.’

‘Is it really just six short days since we met?’ Iannis murmured, staring deep into Charlotte’s eyes.

‘Seven,’ Charlotte corrected him. ‘I saw you first on Tuesday.’

‘So long,’ Iannis teased, smiling into her eyes. ‘You saw me on Tuesday, we met on Wednesday, and now, the following Monday, you agree to marry me—would you describe yourself as a fast woman?’

‘No—just someone who can keep up with you,’ Charlotte warned him, feeling happiness flood through her.

‘So much has happened in so short a time,’ Iannis said tenderly, brushing some strands of hair from her face. ‘You have turned my world around in a week, Charlotte Clare.’

‘And you mine, Iannis Kiriakos.’

‘It seems that even a man who appears to have everything in the eyes of the world has nothing until he knows the value of love,’ Iannis observed wryly, and, drawing Charlotte back into the safe harbour of his arms, he kissed her.

EPILOGUE

‘MAMA, Mama!’

Charlotte looked up fondly as the small dark-haired boy erupted out of the kitchen at the taverna, with Mikos hot on his heels.

‘Papa!’ the child cried, plucking at Iannis’s hand, where it had been resting on the swell of Charlotte’s stomach. ‘Listen to me, Papa,’ Manos Kiriakos insisted, putting his face very close to his father’s as Iannis swung him onto his lap. ‘I have something very important to tell you.’

‘Hasn’t Mikos fed you enough yet?’ Iannis murmured, dropping a kiss on his young son’s head and winking at Mikos, who had just arrived breathless and flustered at their table.

‘This is really important, Papa,’ Manos said seriously. ‘Mikos wants to take me fishing tomorrow. He says I can be a fisherman one day, like him. What do you say, Papa?’ he demanded excitedly. ‘Can I go?’

‘All true Greeks are fishermen at heart,’ Iannis agreed, planting a kiss on his son’s glossy black curls. ‘What does your mother say?’

Charlotte’s gaze met with her husband’s dark enquiring stare across the table, and she smiled deep into his eyes before she answered. ‘Yes, you can go, Manos,’ she said, reaching out to clasp the hands of her husband and her firstborn. ‘I have always had the greatest respect for the fishermen of Iskos. In my eyes they are, without doubt, the very best of men.’

The Spaniard’s Seduction

Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

CHAPTER ONE

IT HAD rained in the night, and when Enrique stepped out onto his balcony at six o’clock the morning air brought a feathering of goosebumps over his flesh.

Of course it was very early, too early for the pale thread of the rising sun to give any warmth to the day. He should still be in his bed—or rather in Sanchia’s bed, as she had expected—instead of standing here, brooding over something that alone could bring an unwelcome thinning of his blood.

His long fingers curled impatiently over the iron railing. It was still much warmer here, even at this ungodly hour of the morning, than it had been in England, he recalled, not altogether wisely. Despite the fact that early June in Andalusia meant blue skies and long days of hot sunshine, London had been cool and overcast while he was there, making him glad to be boarding the plane to come back home.

Only to find that letter waiting for him…

He scowled. He didn’t want to think about that now. He’d spent far too many hours thinking about it already and it was all too easy to allow his anger to overtake his common sense. The realisation that, if his father hadn’t been so ill, the letter would have been delivered to him filled him with outrage. It was only because Julio de Montoya was in the hospital in Seville that the letter had lain unopened on his desk until Enrique’s return the day before.

His hands tightened on the railing, his fingertips brushing the petals of the morning glory that climbed the pillars beneath his balcony. Raindrops sparkled, creating a rainbow of colour on the pearly-white blossoms, drawing his eyes lower to where a veritable waterfall of jasmine and bougainvillaea spilled their beauty in the courtyard below.

Enrique had always believed his home was the most beautiful place on earth, but this morning it was difficult to empty his mind of intrusive thoughts, destructive thoughts. Even the sunlight glinting on the spire of the church in the valley below the palacio brought him no pleasure today, and he turned back into his apartments with a barely controlled feeling of frustration.

The letter was lying on the floor beside his bed, thrown there after he had read it for the umpteenth time at three o’clock that morning, but he ignored it. Even though the temptation was to pick it up and read it once again, he put the impulse aside and, stripping off the silk boxers which were all he wore to sleep in, he strode into the adjoining bathroom.

He ran the shower hot at first, using its pummelling spray to warm his chilled flesh. Then, after thoroughly cleansing his hair and body, he turned the thermostat to cold. The shock of the ice-cold water sharpened his senses, and, feeling more ready to face the day, he turned off the taps and stepped out.

A pile of towels were stacked on a rack beside the shower cubicle and Enrique wrapped one about his hips before taking another to dry his straight black hair. His jaw was rough, evidence of the night’s growth of beard, and, slotting a towel about his neck, he studied his reflection in the mirror above the handbasin with a critical eye.

He looked as rough as his jawline, he thought grimly, scraping a hand over his chin. His olive skin had a sallow cast and his deep-set dark eyes were hollowed by the dark circles that surrounded them. Narrow cheekbones flared above thin lips that were presently set in a forbidding line, and although women seemed to find his appearance appealing he could see no attraction in his hostile face.

But then, that was what came of burning the candle at both ends, he conceded. He’d flown back from London only the previous morning, and had spent the afternoon in meetings that would have been exhausting at the best of times. Then Sanchia had expected him to spend the evening with her; more than the evening, as it had turned out. Though much to her disappointment he had declined. Nevertheless, it had been after two o’clock when he’d crawled into bed—but not to sleep. The letter had made sure of that, and he scowled again as he thought of it lying there, waiting for him to pick it up, waiting for him to deal with it.

And he would have to deal with it. Soon. Before his father came home from the hospital, which might be in the next few days. When he’d spoken to his mother yesterday evening, she’d been overjoyed to report that the surgery her husband had undergone had proved so successful. Now, with care and a certain amount of luck, Julio de Montoya should have several more years of active life ahead of him. That was so long as nothing untoward happened to hinder his recovery.

Like that letter.

Enrique’s jaw compressed and, after smothering the lower half of his face with foam, he reached for his razor. Dammit, what did that—bruja—hope to achieve? And who was the child—if there really was a child—who had reputedly written the letter? No kin of his, he was sure. Or of Antonio’s. Cassandra had probably invented the whole thing. So what game was she playing?

Cassandra…

His hand slipped and the razor sliced into his cheek. Swearing as blood dripped onto the towel around his neck, Enrique groped for the tap. Then, after sluicing his face with cold water, he waited for the blood to congeal. What the hell was wrong with him, he wondered, letting that letter cause him such grief? He had to get a hold of himself, and damn quick. He’d done it ten years ago and he could do it now. He had no intention of letting that woman ruin his life. Again. She might be Antonio’s widow, but she had no connection with this family. None at all.

The cut had stopped bleeding by the time he’d dressed in loose cotton trousers and a black tee shirt. Deck shoes slipped easily onto his narrow feet and he used a comb on his still-damp hair. Then, despite his unwillingness to do so, he bent and picked up the letter and opened it once more.

It was only a short letter, written in a distinctly childish hand. Had Cassandra used her left hand to write it? It might explain the immature scrawl, the evident effort taken to form the letters. A child of nine could have written it, he supposed, but as he refused to accept its content he couldn’t accept its validity.

The temptation to tear the letter into shreds was appealing. He doubted if even Cassandra would have the nerve to write again, and once it was destroyed he could forget all about it.

But he couldn’t do it. Despite his suspicions, despite the fact that Antonio’s untimely death meant he had no nieces or nephews, a sick kind of curiosity demanded to know what was at the bottom of it.

Even the paper offended his sensibilities. A single sheet of lined notepaper, the kind a stenographer might use to take notes at a meeting, or, more likely, a sheet torn from a child’s notepad, just to reinforce the illusion of innocence.

Innocence!

His lips curled as he spread the page between his fingers and read again the message that had so angered him.

Dear Grandpa,

You don’t know me and Mum says you don’t want to but I don’t believe that. I’d like us to be friends and that’s why I’ve got Mum to bring me to Spain on holiday this year. We’re coming on June 12 and we’re staying in Punta del Lobo at the Pensión del Mar. I know it’s by the sea, but I don’t know if it’s a long way from Tuarega, but anyway you could come to see us. I’m sure Mum would like to see you whatever she says.

With love from your grandson, David de Montoya.

Enrique’s teeth clenched. How dared she call her child de Montoya? he thought savagely. If indeed there was a child, he reminded himself again. But, if so, he had to be some bastard born after Antonio was dead and buried. And Enrique knew—

But that was a path he had no intention of being drawn down. Whatever he knew or didn’t know about Cassandra was not in question here. His only concern was in ensuring that his father never saw the letter, never suffered the pain of knowing that once again Cassandra Scott—de Montoya, dammit—was trying to insinuate herself into his family.

His fingers curled about the cheap sheet of paper, screwing it into a tight ball in his palm. He didn’t want to look at it. He never wanted to see it again. But he had the feeling that, whatever he did, nothing would erase the memory of the words.

He aimed the ball of paper at his wastebin, and then dropped his arm again. If he left the letter there, someone might be curious enough to wonder what it was and unravel it. Unless he was prepared to tear it into pieces and put it into the lavatory, or set fire to it, he would have to dispose of it elsewhere.

Which was what he would do, he decided, neither of the other alternatives having much appeal to him. He refused to consider he might have any unacknowledged motive for hanging onto the missive. It was, after all, the only evidence he had that Cassandra had tried to reach his father.

Smoothing the letter out again, he opened a drawer in his bedside cabinet and slipped it between the pages of his missal. An ironic smile touched his lips at the incongruity of its resting place, but at least he was fairly sure that no one else was likely to find it there.

That still didn’t solve the problem of what he was going to do about it, he reflected later, after the maid had served him strong black coffee and warm brioche at a table set beneath the arching canopy of the colonnade. At this hour it was extremely pleasant eating breakfast outdoors, and normally this was the time of day when Enrique reviewed the work that had been done the previous day and consulted his managers’ reports of work in progress. As his father’s deputy—and in recent weeks the nominal head of the de Montoya corporation— Enrique took his responsibilities seriously. It was infuriating to think that this morning his thoughts were constantly bombarded by the knowledge that it was already June the fifteenth and Cassandra—and possibly her son—were only thirty miles away at Punta del Lobo.

Had the boy—if there was a boy—already found out how far it was from Punta del Lobo to Tuarega? Was it conceivable that Cassandra might go so far as to come to the estate?

Unable to sit still with such a prospect for company, Enrique picked up his coffee and walked restlessly across the courtyard to where a stone nymph cooled her heels in the waters of the fountain. He paused beside the stone basin and tried to calm his thoughts with the sight of the cream waterlilies that floated in the pool. The palacio circled three sides of this central courtyard, the fourth edged with purple azalea and scarlet oleander, whose mingled perfumes found little favour with him this morning. A warm breeze blew up from the valley, tumbling the drying strands of his thick hair over his forehead, and he thrust them back with impatient fingers.

Dammit, why now? he wondered, taking an absent mouthful of his coffee. After almost ten years, why choose this time to break her silence? Was it possible she’d read about his father’s illness? Did she think the old man might be more—approachable now, having been faced with his own mortality?

It was possible. Indeed, it was the only explanation that made any sense. Putting aside the unlikely premise that this boy, David de Montoya—he baulked at using that name—had written the letter, what else did he have? So what did he intend to do about it?

Cassandra stood on the sand, shading her eyes as she watched her son playing in the water. He’d made friends with a German boy who was also staying at the pensión and they’d spent the past couple of hours competing with each other on the plastic floats they’d hired from the beach attendant. This cove was the ideal place for children, and, although she’d had misgivings when she’d booked the holiday, there was no doubt that they were both benefiting from the break.

But it was already nearly five o’clock and Cassandra could feel her shoulders prickling in spite of the layering of sun-screen she’d applied and reapplied during the afternoon. Three days was not long enough to become completely acclimatised, and, although her skin wasn’t as sensitive now as it had been when they’d arrived, she knew better than to risk getting burned.

David didn’t have that problem. His skin already possessed a stronger pigment, and, even though she’d insisted on his wearing some protection, he didn’t seem to be affected by the sun. Which wasn’t unexpected considering his ancestry, Cassandra thought wryly. Not even nine years spent in a cool northern climate could significantly alter the pattern of heredity, and his skin was already acquiring a deeper tan.

Which she couldn’t hope to emulate, she reflected, brushing the sand from her arms with slim fingers. She rarely tanned, her pale skin turning pink or red, depending on the circumstances, and then reverting to a creamy white again as soon as the heat subsided. But at least she didn’t suffer the ignominy of freckles, even if her unruly mass of hair was more red than copper.

She glanced about her and noticed that the beach was emptying fast. Most people were making their way back to the hotels and pensiónes that dotted the hillside below the small town of Punta del Lobo, and Cassandra mimed to her son that it was time they were leaving, too. The beach was used almost exclusively by tourists and, like her, Cassandra guessed they were all looking forward to a cool shower and a change of clothes before venturing out for the evening meal.

Because of David, Cassandra ate earlier than many of their fellow guests. Europeans often had dinner at nine or even ten o’clock in the evening, but as David was invariably up at dawn, by ten o’clock Cassandra was wilting, too.

Still, it was nice to eat at one of the outdoor cafés or tapas bars that thronged the small square, and Cassandra looked forward to the glass of wine she usually allowed herself with the meal. Well, she was on holiday, after all, she defended herself, bending to pick up her beach bag and the towels lying on top of it. It had taken long enough, goodness knew, for her to feel sufficiently confident to make the trip.

She straightened and looked about her once again. Despite the fact that this bay was at least an hour’s drive from Tuarega, she couldn’t completely dispel the apprehension that gripped her when she was alone like this. This was the de Montoyas’ territory, after all, and it wouldn’t do to forget it.

Not that she truly expected to see anyone she knew. None of them knew they were here and she was a fool to anticipate anything unexpected happening. It would be too much of a coincidence if any member of the de Montoya family turned up in Punta del Lobo. She was worrying unnecessarily.

All the same, when David had once again broached the idea of them coming to Spain on holiday, she had demurred. She supposed he’d been six or seven years old when he’d first asked if they could go to Spain, and it had been comparatively easy at that time to find excuses not to go. This year she hadn’t been able to put him off, and, telling herself that Spain was a big country, she’d given in.

She’d had second thoughts, of course, when David had chosen Andalusia, but she’d had to admit that it was one of the most attractive areas in the brochure. And, not wanting to provoke more questions, she’d swallowed her inhibitions and booked it. Despite her fears, no one at the pensión had questioned their identity. After all, Punta del Lobo was not Cadiz. She was sure they would be safe enough there.

Her father thought she was mad, of course. But then, Mr Scott had always maintained that she should never have told David his father had been a Spaniard. Though how could she not? she argued. His name was so distinctive. It was only now, as David got older, that she could see her father might have had a point.

But not now, please God, she mused, as her son ran up to her, spraying her with seawater. Horst was with him and Cassandra smiled at the German boy with genuine warmth. Horst’s parents had gone to Seville for the day, but the boy had wanted to stay with David and Cassandra had agreed to look after him. He was a nice boy and far more biddable than her son.

No surprise there, then…

Cassandra cut herself off. She had no intention of getting into the reasons for that; no desire to remind herself of the generations of proud arrogant genes that ran in his blood. God knew, it was hard not to think about it every time she looked at him, but somehow, over the years, she had managed to subjugate all her bitterness where her son was concerned.

And she couldn’t imagine life without him; that was part of the problem. The fear that one day the de Montoyas might find out she had had a son was an ever-present anxiety, but after nine years she was becoming a little less apprehensive. One day, maybe, when David was fully grown and able to make his own decisions, she might tell him who his father had been. But that was far in the future and not something she even wanted to contemplate at this moment.

‘Do we have to go?’

David had picked up his towel and was rubbing it vigorously over his hair. Cassandra smiled and handed Horst his towel before replying, ‘I’m afraid so. It’s getting late. Haven’t you noticed? We’re practically the last people on the beach.’

David grimaced. ‘So?’ he said, arching an imperious brow, and just for a minute Cassandra was reminded of his father’s ruthless face.

‘So, it’s time we were getting back to the pensión,’ she declared tersely, angry with herself for putting that connotation on him. It was because they were here, because of what she had been thinking, she realised, hiding her irritation. It wasn’t David’s fault that she was on edge.

‘It has been a good day, Mrs de Montoya,’ said Horst, his precise English almost better than David’s. ‘It was most kind of you to let me stay.’

‘No problem,’ said Cassandra, jockeying her son into putting on his shorts. ‘We were happy to have you, weren’t we, David?’

‘What? Oh, yeah.’ David grinned, and he and Horst exchanged a high-handed slap. ‘I like showing him what a ditz he is when it comes to board racing.’

‘Ditz? What is that, a ditz?’ queried Horst, and then grinned himself when he realised the joke was at his expense. ‘Jerk,’ he said succinctly. ‘I will not tell you what I could call you if your mother was not here.’

‘Feel free,’ taunted David, and, giving the other boy a push, he darted off along the beach.

Horst followed him, and pretty soon they were rolling and tumbling together, with a complete disregard for the clothes they had just donned.

Cassandra sighed, and after returning the two boards the boys had left to the attendant she started after them, easily overtaking them with her long-legged stride. Her ankle-length voile skirt was showing the effects of sand and seawater, too, and she draped David’s towel about her shoulders to protect her smarting shoulders as she reached the cliff path.

The boys went up ahead of her, David the taller and therefore the quicker of the two. He was already a good-looking boy and she could imagine what a heartthrob he was going to be when he was older. So long as he didn’t do what his father had done, she mused sombrely. That was one problem she did not want to have to deal with again.

The Pensión del Mar was situated near the top of the cliff path, a narrow-fronted building with a striped awning protecting its pristine white façade. Cassandra had been favourably impressed with its appearance and with the service offered which, considering what they were paying, was considerably cheaper than similar accommodation back home. The proprietor, Señor Movida, was a charming man, too, and he was doing everything he could to make their stay a happy one.

To Cassandra’s relief, the small Fiat that the Kaufmans had hired was parked on the gravelled forecourt of the pensión, which meant that Horst’s parents were back. In fact, Herr Kaufman was standing in the doorway to the pensión, watching for his son, and Horst bounded ahead to greet his father.

‘Lucky dog,’ muttered David enviously, and Cassandra cast a startled look his way.

‘What did you say?’

‘I said Horst is lucky having a father,’ declared David gruffly. Then, before his mother could make any response, ‘I wonder if there’s been any post for us.’

‘Post?’ Cassandra blinked. ‘Do you mean a letter? Who would be writing to us? We just spoke to your grandfather last night on the phone.’

David shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, not altogether convincingly, and Cassandra knew a sudden chill. But then Herr Kaufman was coming towards them and she was forced to put her own doubts aside.

‘Thank you for looking after Horst, Mrs de Montoya,’ he said warmly, his eyes moving appreciatively over her slender figure so that she became intensely conscious of her damp skirt. ‘Has Horst been good?’

‘He’s been very good,’ Cassandra answered swiftly, wondering if she was only imagining the avidity of his gaze. ‘Did you enjoy your trip?’

‘It was most enlightening,’ replied the man, nodding. ‘We visited many of the palaces and museums. Not something my son would be particularly interested in, I think.’

Cassandra forced a smile. ‘I think not,’ she agreed. ‘I can’t imagine David being interested in old buildings either.’

‘I might be,’ protested her son, but Herr Kaufman wasn’t listening to the boy.

‘Did you know that your name, de Montoya, is quite a famous one in Andalusia?’ he asked conversationally. ‘We have been reading some literature about this area, and it seems the de Montoya family is well-known both for the quality of the fortified wines they produce and for the magnificent bulls they breed on their estate just north of here. I do not suppose you are related to them, Mrs de Montoya?’

‘No,’ said Cassandra quickly, aware that David was now listening to Herr Kaufman with unusual interest. She gestured towards the pensión. ‘Is that likely?’ she asked, trying to make a joke of it, and then felt the fizzy soda she had consumed in the middle of the afternoon rise into her throat.

A man had just emerged from the building behind Horst’s father and she felt the colour drain out of her face. Almost convulsively, she clamped a desperate hand on David’s shoulder. The boy objected, but for once she was unaware of him. Her eyes were riveted on the newcomer. It couldn’t be, she thought sickly. But it was. Enrique de Montoya had paused in the doorway of the pensión and was presently surveying the scene that greeted his cold dark eyes with a mixture of satisfaction and contempt.

Dear God, how could this be? she fretted weakly. She’d told no one but her father that she was coming here, to this particular address. People knew she was holidaying in Spain, of course. Her boss at the bookshop where she worked knew, for example. She’d had to tell him what she was doing when she’d arranged for the time off. But he wouldn’t have told anyone. No one here, anyway. Certainly not the de Montoyas.

Her mouth dried. He looked just the same, she thought painfully: just as proud, just as arrogant, just as condescending as before. And just as attractive, though her attraction to him had been as crazy as that of the rabbit to the snake. He’d used that attraction, too, ruthlessly, and then expected her to do exactly as he’d wanted.

‘Is something wrong?’

Herr Kaufman had noticed her pale face and Cassandra hoped with a desperate longing that it was only a terrible coincidence that Enrique was here. He’d seen them, but perhaps he hadn’t recognised them. Well, her actually. He’d never seen David, didn’t even know of his existence.

She had to get away. The urge to run was irresistible, and, without considering what David might think of her sudden change of plan, she tightened her hold on his shoulder.

‘I’ve got a headache,’ she told Herr Kaufman swiftly. ‘It must be the sun. David, come with me. I need some aspirin. We’ll just pop along to the farmacia—’

‘Oh, Mum!’ David was predictably awkward. ‘Do we have to? We’ve just got back from the beach. I want a shower.’

‘David!’

‘Perhaps I can be of some assistance,’ broke in Herr Kaufman, possibly seeing a chance to compensate her for looking after his son. ‘I’d be happy to go to the farmacia for you.’

‘Oh, no. I—’

But it was too late. Before she could formulate a convincing excuse, one which would allow her to escape before Enrique recognised them, a tall shadow fell across their little group. And a voice, one which she would have sworn she’d forgotten, cut into their exchange.

‘Cassandra?’ Even the way he said her name was horribly familiar. ‘It is Cassandra, is it not? I am not mistaken?’

As if Enrique de Montoya would ever admit to being mistaken about anything, thought Cassandra wildly, forced to tip her head back to look up at him. He knew exactly who she was, and before she could do anything to protect her son Enrique’s dark eyes had moved almost dismissively to the boy at her side.

‘And this must be—David,’ he continued, only to suck in a strangled breath when he saw the boy.

David! Cassandra blinked. How had he known her son’s name? But before she found an answer to this, she saw the devastation his identity had wrought in Enrique’s stunned expression. Yes, look at him, she wanted to scream accusingly. See what you did; see what you’ve lost!

But of course she didn’t do anything of the kind. The de Montoyas were too polite for that. Besides, Herr Kaufman was still there, looking at Enrique with considering eyes, glancing from him to Cassandra and back again with obvious enquiry. He was probably wondering what someone who looked like Enrique de Montoya—who dressed like Enrique de Montoya—could have in common with a rather dishevelled English housewife. Enrique’s three-piece suit and grey silk shirt were obviously designer-made, whereas Cassandra’s clothes had never been particularly stylish, even when they were new.

‘You are a friend of Mrs de Montoya?’ It was the German who spoke, although David was close on his heels.

‘Do you know my grandfather?’ he demanded, and even as Cassandra was absorbing the shock of learning that her son knew something about this Enrique found his tongue.

‘I—yes,’ he said through clenched teeth, the look he cast at Cassandra full of emotions she couldn’t hope to identify. ‘I— I am your—’ His harsh voice was strained. ‘Your uncle,’ he got out tightly. ‘Enrique.’ He took a laboured breath. ‘I am—happy to meet you at last.’

‘You are Enrique de Montoya? The Enrique de Montoya?’

Herr Kaufman was persistent, and although Cassandra could hardly blame him for being curious, she wished he would show some discretion.

Enrique was gradually recovering his composure, however. She could see it in the way he straightened his shoulders and looked at the other man with bleak assessing eyes. He’d weathered the blow she’d dealt him and now he was exercising damage control. He had no intention of allowing anyone else to see his real feelings, and his thin lips lifted in a cold smile.

‘I have that privilege,’ he said now, in answer to the other man’s question. ‘And you are?’

‘Kaufman,’ said the German eagerly. ‘Franz Kaufman, señor.’ He held out his hand. ‘It is a great pleasure to meet you.’

Enrique hesitated long enough to make the other man uneasy before accepting the gesture. ‘How do you do?’ he responded, and then turned back to Cassandra.

‘Are you really my uncle?’

David had been silent long enough, and at last Franz Kaufman seemed to realise he was intruding. ‘If you will excuse me, Horst and I must go and see if my wife is ready to go into town,’ he declared, and Cassandra saw Enrique’s brow arch in acknowledgement.

He’d probably thought the other man was with her, she brooded bitterly. God, she wished he was, she thought, forgetting her own discomfort with Kaufman’s familiarity earlier. But she wished she had some weapon to use against Enrique, something to hurt this man who had attempted to destroy her life.

CHAPTER TWO

THE silence after Franz Kaufman’s departure was deafening. Enrique guessed it was up to him to answer the boy’s question, but for all his appearance of calm he was as taut as a violin string inside.

God! He’d been so sure he knew what he was doing when he’d decided to come to the Pensión del Mar and confront Cassandra with her sordid little deception. So sure it was the only thing he could do to keep her away from his father. Instead, he was left with the distinct suspicion that he should have left well enough alone.

‘I—yes,’ he said, after deciding there was no point in denying their kinship. ‘Antonio de Montoya was my brother,’ he conceded obliquely, aware that Cassandra was looking almost as sick as he felt. ‘You are David, I presume?’

Before the boy could answer, however, Cassandra grasped her son’s arm and pulled him round to face her. ‘What have you done?’ she demanded harshly, her voice thick with emotion. ‘What have you done?’

The boy had the grace to blush at his mother’s obvious distress. ‘I told you there might be some post for us,’ he mumbled, trying to drag himself away from her. ‘I didn’t know—he—was going to turn up, did I?’

No, he hadn’t known that, admitted Enrique to himself. But perhaps he should have suspected that such a bombshell would secure more than a casual response.

Unless… Unless the boy had assumed that his paternal grandfather knew of his existence?

‘Did you really expect we might ignore your letter?’ he asked now, supremely conscious of Cassandra standing stiffly beside her son, her whole being emitting the kind of hostility he’d never thought to have to face again. It was hard to remember that she had brought this on herself. It wasn’t his fault that she’d chosen to keep her son’s existence from them.

‘No.’ David swung round, evidently relieved to be distracted from his mother’s fury. ‘I knew you’d want to see me. I told Mum ages ago that I wanted to meet my Spanish grandfather, but she said you weren’t interested in us.’

‘Did she?’ Enrique couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. ‘But she told you how to get in touch with us, no?’

‘No!’ Cassandra was incensed. ‘I wouldn’t do such a—’

But David’s excited voice overrode her protest. ‘No, Mum didn’t tell me anything. I got your address from my dad’s passport,’ he explained proudly. ‘Mum keeps it in a box upstairs.’ He gave his mother a defiant look as she tried to interrupt him. ‘You do,’ he insisted, clearly deciding he might never have another chance to defend himself. ‘You know you do. Along with all that other stuff: Dad’s wallet and letters and things.’ He sighed ruefully. ‘I’m sorry.’ Although he didn’t look it. ‘I found the box when I was looking for—for something else.’

‘What?’ Cassandra’s demand promised retribution, and David hunched his thin shoulders.

‘My catapult,’ he muttered, and she stared at him.

‘You were looking for your catapult in my wardrobe?’ she exclaimed scornfully. ‘You expect me to believe that?’

‘It’s true.’ David was defensive now. ‘I’d already looked in your knicker drawer and—’

Cassandra uttered something unrepeatable, and despite the seriousness of the situation Enrique felt his lips twitch with uncontrollable mirth. There was something so ludicrous in talking about catapults and knicker drawers when moments before his whole life had shifted on its axis.

But his humour must have shown in his face because Cassandra turned on him, her anger dispersing any pretence of courtesy he might have made. ‘You find it funny?’ she demanded caustically. ‘Well, of course, why would I expect anything different from you? No doubt you find the whole thing hilarious. You and your father can have a good laugh about it when you get home. Which I suggest should be sooner rather than later. Whatever you may think, there’s nothing for you here.’

Enrique sobered. ‘You think not?’ he asked succinctly, and knew a momentary satisfaction when anxiety replaced the fury in her eyes. ‘I beg to differ.’

Cassandra held up her head, and he had to admire the way she overcame her obvious dismay. ‘I think we’ve said all there is to say,’ she insisted tensely, but Enrique shook his head.

‘Not nearly,’ he responded coolly. ‘And I have to tell you that the only reason I am here is because my father is in the hospital in Seville. He had what they call a triple bypass—yes?—ten days ago. Had he not had this operation, he would have received David’s letter himself.’

Cassandra was obviously taken aback at this explanation, but although her lips parted she didn’t say anything. It was left to David to express his concern and to ask if his grandfather would be home soon. ‘We have to go home in less than two weeks,’ he explained earnestly. ‘Do you think he’ll be back before then?’

‘It doesn’t matter whether he will or not,’ declared Cassandra, proving that whatever Enrique had thought she had had nothing to do with the letter. ‘I have no intention of allowing you to associate with—with the de Montoyas, David. We’ve managed without their involvement in our lives for the past nine years. I have no desire to change the status quo.’

‘But I have,’ cried David indignantly, a sulky curve pulling down the corners of his lips. Lips which were distinctly like his own, noticed Enrique unwillingly. ‘They’re my family, just as much as you and Grandad are.’

Enrique had never thought he would ever feel sorry for Cassandra, but he did then. Her face, which had been flushed with anger, became almost dangerously pale, and the hand she lifted to push back the heavy weight of her hair was trembling.

‘But they don’t want you, David,’ she said, her voice breaking under the strain. ‘Do you?’ She looked at Enrique with eyes he was uneasily aware were filled with tears. ‘Do you? Dammit, tell him the truth, can’t you?’

It was after eight o’clock before Enrique got back to Tuarega. It hadn’t been that late when he’d left Punta del Lobo, but he’d spent at least an hour driving aimlessly along the coastal road, trying to come to terms with what he’d learned.

God! His hands tightened on the wheel of the Mercedes. He couldn’t quite believe what had happened. At no time had either he or his father imagined that the woman who had married his brother and who had been widowed less than twenty-four hours later could have conceived a child. And yet she had. There was no doubt that David was a de Montoya.

But she hadn’t known a thing about the letter. Her reaction had proved that. As the boy had said, he’d taken it upon himself to write to Julio de Montoya. The letter had been posted before he and his mother had left England.

He groaned.

Of course, it was tempting to shift all the blame onto Cassandra. She should have known what her son had done. He was only nine years old, por el amor de Dios. How difficult could it be to keep track of his movements?

But he also knew that he was not speaking from personal experience. And just because the sons and daughters of his close friends were fairly biddable that was no reason to suppose all children were the same. Indeed, he thought wryly, it could be argued that David was already exhibiting facets of his de Montoya heritage.

At the same time he felt a searing sense of injustice that Cassandra had kept the boy’s existence from them. And that, without David’s intervention, they might never have learned that Antonio had had a son.

Yet could he wholly condemn her for it? After what had happened—after what he had tried to do—she probably thought she’d had every right, after Antonio was killed, to cut the de Montoyas out of her life.

But, God, his father was going to get such a shock. If he’d known of the boy’s existence, Enrique knew he would have moved heaven and earth to gain custody of the boy. Whatever he’d thought of Cassandra, whatever he’d done to try and stop their marriage, David was his grandson. His only grandson to date. And, where Julio de Montoya was concerned, blood was everything.

Which was probably one of the main reasons why Cassandra had kept the information from them, Enrique acknowledged shrewdly. She knew better than anyone how ruthless his father could be—how ruthless he had been in pursuit of his father’s wishes.

But he didn’t want to think about that now. This was not the time to be feeling the twinges of conscience. He had to remember how Cassandra had seduced Antonio away from his family, his duty, and the girl he had been engaged to marry. She hadn’t shown any conscience, any remorse, not even when—

He took a deep breath. No. He would not get into his own role in the affair. The fact that it had ended in tragedy was enough to warrant any sense of outrage he might feel. Cassandra had destroyed so much: Antonio’s honour, his loyalty, his future. Was it possible that his brother had found out what a faithless bitch his new wife was and that was why he’d crashed the car as they drove to the south of England on honeymoon?

No! Once again, he couldn’t accept that. If he did, it would mean that Antonio had found out what Enrique and his father had tried to do. Surely, in those circumstances, Cassandra would have wanted him to know, would have wanted him to suffer as she was surely suffering now.

His jaw compressed. Thankfully he had succeeded in hiding the extent of the devastation David’s appearance had had on him. As far as Cassandra was concerned his shock had been short-lived, swiftly superseded by the anger he’d felt at her deception. No doubt she believed him to be entirely without feeling, and perhaps it was better if it stayed that way. But how the hell was he going to tell his father?

He shook his head. It would have been so much easier ten years ago. Then, Julio de Montoya had been a strong and dominant man, perfectly capable of handling any situation, with a merciless disregard for anyone who got in his way. He had ruled Tuarega with a rod of iron, and that was why he had found it so hard to accept when Antonio had defied him and insisted he wanted to marry the English girl he’d met while he was at college in London. Julio would have done almost anything to stop that marriage, even to the extent of sending his elder son to England with orders to use any means at his disposal to prevent it.

Enrique’s nostrils flared with sudden self-derision. That he hadn’t succeeded had always been a source of bitterness between himself and his father. He doubted Julio had ever forgiven him entirely for his failure, but his father had never known what had really happened, why Enrique had returned home without achieving his objective.

He could have stopped the wedding. If he’d told Antonio the truth, he was fairly sure his brother would have called it off. But he hadn’t said a thing. Because he’d been too ashamed of what he’d done; because he’d had only disgust for his part in it. He’d flown back to Spain knowing that Cassandra had won.

But had she? Now he was not so sure, and he despised himself for his weakness where she was concerned.

It was dark as he drove up through the valley where his family had lived for hundreds of years. Lights glinted from narrow windows in the village and the floodlit spire of San Tomás’s church was a reassuring sight. It was easy to believe that nothing changed here, that the ghosts of his ancestors would see and recognise the sights and sounds of other centuries in the immediacy of the twenty-first, but he knew better. There had been many changes, most particularly during General Franco’s years as president. But fortunately the political climate in this rural area had never mirrored that found in the cities, and as he accelerated past the fields and paddocks where his toros bravos, or fighting bulls, were grazing, he felt a sense of pride in his family’s achievements.

But that was short-lived. Thinking of his family reminded him that he had promised to ring his mother this evening. She was staying at the apartamento in Seville while her husband was in the hospital there and Enrique had said he would ring no later than seven o’clock. It was long past that time now, and he was ashamed to admit that for the past few hours he had given little thought to his responsibilities.

His mother would be sure to think that he’d forgotten, or that he simply didn’t care. Since Julio’s illness Elena de Montoya had become over-sensitive, looking for slights where none were intended, as if she was afraid that her husband’s incapacity somehow affected her authority. Perhaps she feared that if Julio died Enrique would no longer have respect for her, which was ridiculous.

Still, it was true that since Antonio’s death she had come to depend on him more and more. Julio’s heart attack some months ago had only increased her demands on his time, and, although Enrique knew it was only to be expected in the circumstances, it wasn’t always easy to balance his own needs with those of his parents.

Enrique brought the powerful car to a halt beside the arched colonnade that had once fronted a coach house and which now provided garaging for the estate’s many motor vehicles. Years ago, Enrique’s grandfather had kept a shining Hispano-Suiza here, and he remembered being allowed to ride in the front of the car on special occasions. He also remembered the punishment he’d received when the old man had found out he had taken the car out alone. He’d been afraid he’d never be allowed to have a car of his own.

But now was not the time to be having memories about the past. He knew it was seeing Cassandra again, meeting the boy, remembering what had happened ten years ago, that was responsible for his reminiscing about happier times. But the past wasn’t going to help him now. Somehow he had to decide what he was going to do about the present, and, although he intended to ring his mother, there was no way on earth he could tell her where he had been.

Or what had happened, he conceded, nodding to the man who had emerged from the building to take charge of the car. As he strode across the forecourt to the magnificent entrance of the palacio his mind was already busy finding excuses for his tardy behaviour.

Hardly noticing the intricately carved doorway, with its wrought-iron façade, he strode through a high-ceilinged entry that was distinctly Moorish in design. With a carved ceiling and tiled walls, this was the oldest part of the palacio and displayed its heritage in a dozen different ways. Enrique had always believed that Tuarega owed its name to the wild tribe of the Sahara, whose influence had spread beyond the shores of North Africa. But, whatever its history, there was little doubt that it owed its origins to the Saracen invaders who had occupied this part of Spain at the time of the crusades.

Generations of Spanish conquerors had followed them, of course, and much of the present building had been erected in more recent centuries. But the palacio had retained its atmosphere of light and coolness and space, successive craftsmen sustaining the delicacy of design that had characterised its Muslim architecture.

The courtyard, where he had eaten breakfast that morning, was immediately ahead of him, but Enrique turned left before reaching the outer doors, mounting a flight of marble stairs to an upper landing. One of the palacio’s many retainers stopped him to ask if he had eaten, but Enrique wasn’t interested in food. First he had to ring his mother, then he had to try and take stock of what his options were. And what he was going to do about them.

Cassandra had given him no latitude. As far as she was concerned he was sure she would prefer to consign him and all his family to hell. She hadn’t even let him talk to David, with or without her presence. She’d dragged the boy away into the pensión, probably hoping that she never had to see him again.

Which was decidedly naïve, he conceded grimly, thrusting open the door into his apartments and consigning his tie to the nearest surface. Whatever his own feelings in the matter might be, there was no way he could ignore the fact that David was his nephew. His parting words to the boy—that they would meet again, and soon—had been met with a cold ‘Over my dead body!’ from his mother, but Enrique was not deterred. Whether Cassandra chose to make this easy or not was of no interest to him. David was a de Montoya. Sooner or later he would have to learn what that meant.

CHAPTER THREE

CASSANDRA propped her chin on her hands and stared wearily across the table at her son’s sulky face. She ought to be really angry with him, and she was, but she couldn’t help feeling the tiniest bit of sympathy, too.

After all, it wasn’t his fault that she’d never told him the truth about his de Montoya relations. She’d always avoided any discussion of her late husband’s family, hoping, pointlessly as it had turned out, that David would accept the fact that they and his mother just didn’t get on. It wasn’t as if he was short of an extended family. Cassandra’s two sisters were both married with children of their own. David had aunts and uncles and cousins, as well as his maternal grandfather to call on. Foolishly, she had thought that would be enough.

Clearly, it hadn’t been. Like his father before him, David was far too intelligent to accept her prevarication. But to go through her things, to seek out Antonio’s passport and write secretly to Julio de Montoya without even telling her what he’d done… Well, she didn’t know how she was going to forgive him for that.

She sighed, wondering what the chances were of them getting an earlier flight home. Not very good, she surmised, remembering how full the plane had been on the journey out. Besides, she’d paid for a two-week holiday package and if she wanted to change the return date she would obviously have to pay extra for their seats.

Not an option she wanted to consider. She had already spent over her budget in coming here and she was loath to ask her father to bail them out. That, too, would entail more explanations than she was prepared to face at present.

‘Are you going to maintain this ridiculous silence for much longer?’ she enquired at last, forcing her son to look up from the scrambled eggs and bacon he had ordered in spite of her protests. A fried breakfast was far too heavy in this climate, in her opinion, but David had not been in the mood to compromise. ‘Because if you are,’ she added, ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

David emptied his mouth of food, took a gulp of orange juice, and then regarded her with accusing eyes. ‘Do I get a choice?’ he enquired insolently, and Cassandra knew a totally uncharacteristic desire to smack him.

‘I won’t be spoken to like this, David,’ she said, folding her napkin and placing it beside her plate. She, herself, had eaten nothing, and the sight of the greasy food was enough to turn her stomach. ‘I realise you think you have some justification for acting this way, but you’ve got no idea what a nest of vipers you’re uncovering.’

‘A nest of vipers,’ scoffed her son, around another mouthful of egg. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. If you ask me, you’re just jealous because Uncle Enrique liked me.’

Jealous!

Cassandra’s nails dug into her palms. ‘You think so?’ she said, the urge to wipe the smug look off his face becoming almost overwhelming. ‘And what would you know about it?’

‘I know Uncle Enrique is nice, really nice,’ declared her son staunchly. ‘Gosh, you were so rude to him, Mum! It’s a wonder he even wants to see me again.’

Cassandra pressed her lips together, feeling the unwelcome prick of tears behind her eyes. Oh, yes, she wanted to say, Enrique de Montoya wants to see you again. Now that he knows I have a son, he’ll do everything he can to take you away from me.

But, of course, she couldn’t tell her son that. She couldn’t be so cruel. Apart from anything else, it was unlikely he would believe her. In David’s world, people were exactly what they appeared to be; they said what they thought. They didn’t lie or cheat, or use any means in their power to destroy someone else. Why frighten him unnecessarily? He would learn soon enough that the de Montoyas would do anything to gain their own ends.

‘Anyway, I think you should tell him you’re sorry when you see him again,’ went on David, scraping up the last of his eggs with his fork. He looked up, his dark eyes a haunting reminder of the past. ‘We are going to see him again, aren’t we, Mum?’

Cassandra hesitated. ‘I don’t think so. I’ve decided to cut the holiday short,’ she said, even though she hadn’t decided any such thing until that moment. ‘I’m going to find out whether we can get a flight home later today—’

‘No!’ David sprang up from his seat in dismay, and the family of holidaymakers at the nearby table turned curious eyes to see what was going on. ‘I won’t go,’ he said, not caring what anyone else thought of his behaviour. ‘You can’t make me.’

‘Sit down, David.’

Cassandra was embarrassed, but her son was beyond being reasoned with. ‘I won’t sit down,’ he declared. ‘I want to see Uncle Enrique again. I want to see my grandfather. Why shouldn’t I?’

‘Sit down!’

This time Cassandra got half out of her seat and, as if realising he wasn’t doing himself any favours by making it impossible for his mother to face her fellow guests, he subsided unwillingly into his seat.

‘Now, listen to me,’ said Cassandra, her voice thick with emotion, ‘you’ll do exactly as I tell you. You’re nine years old, David. I have every right to demand that you do as I say.’

David’s expression was sulky, but Cassandra was relieved to see that there were tears in his eyes now. ‘But why are you being so awful?’ he exclaimed huskily. ‘You always said you loved my father. Was that just a lie?’

‘No!’ Cassandra gave an inward groan. ‘I did love him. More than you can ever know.’

‘Then—’

‘But your father wasn’t like the rest of his family,’ she continued urgently. ‘He was—sweet; gentle. He—he was prepared to risk the wrath of his own family just so we could be together.’

David frowned. ‘Are you saying they tried to stop you getting married?’

Cassandra’s stomach lurched. ‘Something like that.’

‘So when you said you didn’t get on with Dad’s family, what you really meant was that they didn’t get on with you?’

God, Cassandra really didn’t want to talk about this.

‘I—suppose so,’ she agreed tensely.

‘But that doesn’t mean they don’t want to know you now,’ protested David, his eagerness showing in his face. ‘Dad died, what? Ten years ago?’

‘Nearly.’

‘So…’ He shrugged. ‘They’ve obviously changed their minds. Why else would Uncle Enrique come here to meet us?’

‘Because of you,’ cried his mother fiercely, realising too late that she had spoken a little too vehemently. ‘I mean,’ she said, modifying her tone, ‘naturally they want to meet you. You’re your father’s son.’

‘And yours,’ put in David at once. ‘And once they get to know you—’

‘They’re not going to get to know me,’ said Cassandra desperately. ‘Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said? I never want to see any of the de Montoyas again.’

David’s face crumpled. ‘You don’t mean that.’

‘I do mean it.’ Cassandra felt dreadful but she had to go on. ‘I know you’re disappointed, but if we can’t get a flight home, I’m going to see if it’s possible for us to move to another pensión along the coast—’

‘No!’

‘Yes.’ Cassandra was determined. ‘I’m prepared to compromise. I know you’ve been looking forward to this holiday, and I don’t want to deprive you of it, so perhaps we can move to another resort.’

‘I don’t want to move to another resort,’ protested David unhappily. ‘I like it here. I’ve made friends here.’

‘You’ll make friends wherever we go.’

‘No, I won’t.’

‘Of course you will.’

‘But—’

‘But what?’

David shook his head, apparently deciding he’d argued long enough. ‘Nothing,’ he muttered, and then looked considerably relieved when Horst Kaufman and his parents stopped at their table.

The German family had been having breakfast on the terrace and now they all smiled down at David and his mother.

‘Good morning, Mrs de Montoya,’ said Franz Kaufman cheerfully. ‘It is another lovely day, yes?’

‘Oh—yes.’ Cassandra managed a polite smile in return. Then, noticing their more formal clothes, ‘Are you going off for the day?’

‘Yes. We are going to Ortegar, where we believe there is a leisure facility for the children.’ It was Frau Kaufman who answered, and Cassandra couldn’t help but admire their grasp of her language. ‘A water park and such. We wondered if you would permit David to come with us?’

‘Oh.’

Cassandra was nonplussed. She hardly knew the Kaufmans and the idea of allowing David to go off with them for the day was not something she would normally countenance. But, she reminded herself, she was going to spend the day trying to change their hotel arrangements, and going off with Horst and his family might be just what her son needed to put all thoughts of the de Montoyas out of his head.

‘Can I, Mum? Can I?’

David was clearly enthusiastic, and, putting her own doubts aside, Cassandra lifted her shoulders in a helpless gesture. ‘I— I don’t know what to say.’

‘We would take great care of him, of course,’ put in Franz Kaufman heartily, patting David on the shoulder. ‘And as he and Horst get along together so well…’

‘We do. We do.’

David gazed at her with wide appealing eyes, and deciding that anything was better than having him dragging after her all day, making his feelings felt, Cassandra sighed.

‘Well, all right,’ she agreed, earning a whoop from both children. ‘Um—where did you say you were going?’

‘Ortegar,’ said Frau Kaufman at once, and Cassandra frowned.

‘Ortegar?’ she said. ‘Where is that exactly?’

‘It is along the coast. Near Cadiz,’ answered Franz a little impatiently. ‘Maybe twenty miles from here, that is all.’

And probably twenty miles nearer Tuarega, thought Cassandra, moistening her lips. She knew that because she had scanned the map very thoroughly before agreeing to David’s choice of destination.

Her heartbeat quickened. David’s choice of destination, she realised unsteadily. Goodness, how long had her son been planning to write to his grandfather?

‘I’ll go and get ready,’ said David eagerly, and she wondered if he suspected what she was thinking. ‘I won’t be long.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ murmured Cassandra, getting up from her chair and giving the Kaufmans another polite smile. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’

‘We will be waiting out front.’ Franz Kaufman nodded his approval, and Cassandra was left with the uneasy feeling that she had been out-manoeuvred by her son again.

David had already bundled a towel and his swimming trunks into his backpack by the time she reached their room. He had evidently raced up the stairs and she tried not to wonder if he was desperate to get away.

‘Do you need any money?’ she asked, picking up a discarded tee shirt from the floor, but David only shook his head and edged towards the door.

‘I’ve got four hundred pesetas. That’s enough,’ he said quickly, and his mother stared at him.

‘That’s less than two pounds,’ she exclaimed. ‘You don’t know how much it will cost to get into the leisure park.’

‘You can pay Herr Kaufman when we get back,’ said David impatiently. ‘Come on, Mum. They’re waiting for me.’

Not that urgently, thought Cassandra unhappily, but she had given her word. ‘All right,’ she said, accepting his dutiful peck on her cheek. ‘Be good.’

‘I will.’ David headed out of the door with a triumphant grin on his face. ‘See you later.’

Sanchia’s red sports car was just pulling up outside the palacio when Enrique came out of the building. Sanchia herself, tall and dark and exotically beautiful, emerged from the vehicle, smoothing down the narrow skirt of the green linen suit that barely skimmed her knees.

Once his brother’s fiancé, Sanchia had swiftly recovered from that fiasco. Within a year, she had married a distant relative of the Spanish royal family, and when her elderly husband died leaving her a wealthy widow, she had immediately transferred her affections to her late fiancé’s brother, making Enrique wonder if that hadn’t been her objective all along.

But perhaps he was being conceited, he thought now. Sanchia had been heartbroken when Antonio had married an Englishwoman and had then been killed almost before the ink on the marriage licence was dry. She had turned to him then, but he hadn’t imagined that her plea for his affection had been anything more than a natural response to the circumstances she’d found herself in. After all, Sanchia’s family had never had a lot of money and it must have been quite a blow when her wealthy fiancé abandoned her less than three months before their wedding.

In any event, Enrique had made it quite plain then that he was not interested in taking up where his brother had left off. He liked Sanchia well enough, he always had, but the idea of taking her to bed because his brother had let her down was anathema to him. He had been grieving, too, and not just because his brother was dead. He had let Antonio down, and he’d found it hard to live with himself at that time.

Now, things were different. Sanchia had been married and widowed, and he himself was that much older and more willing to accept that life could all too easily deal you a rotten hand. The relationship he had with Sanchia these days suited both of them. He doubted he would ever get married, despite what his father had had to say about it, and, although Sanchia might hope that he’d change his mind, she was not, and never could be, the only woman in his life.

Which was probably why he felt such an unexpected surge of impatience at her appearance this morning. His thoughts were focused on what he planned to do today and Sanchia could play no part in that.

She, of course, knew nothing of the events of yesterday. Even though there’d been a message from her waiting on his answering machine when he’d got back last night, he hadn’t returned her call, which probably explained her arrival now.

‘Querido!’ she exclaimed, her use of the Spanish word for ‘darling’ sounding warm and intimate on her tongue. She reached up to kiss him, pouting when her lips only brushed his cheek, before surveying his casual appearance with some disappointment. ‘You are going out? I was hoping we might spend the day together.’

‘I am sorry.’ Enrique was aware that his navy tee shirt and cargo trousers were not his usual attire, but they were less likely to attract attention in a holiday resort than the three-piece suit he’d worn the day before. ‘I have got—some business to attend to.’

‘Dressed like this?’ Sanchia twined her fingers into the leather cord that he’d tied at his waist. ‘I cannot see you visiting one of your clients in a tee shirt.’

‘Did I say I was going to visit one of my clients?’ asked Enrique rather more curtly than he had intended. He disentangled her fingers from the cord and stepped back from her. ‘It is a personal matter,’ he appended, feeling obliged to give her some sort of explanation. ‘Really. I have got to go.’

‘Is it another woman?’ she demanded, and just for a moment he felt a surge of resentment that she should feel she had the right to question his actions.

But then common sense reasserted itself. Why shouldn’t she feel she had some rights where he was concerned? They had been seeing one another for months, after all.

‘Not in the way you mean,’ he assured her, his thin smile hardly a reassurance. Then, belatedly, ‘Perhaps I can ring you later?’

Sanchia’s lips tightened. ‘You are not going to tell me where you are going?’

‘No.’ There was no ambivalence on that score.

Her mouth trembled now. ‘Enrique…’

His irritation was totally unwarranted, and he despised himself for it. But, dammit, he wanted to get to Punta del Lobo before Cassandra had time to disappear again. ‘Look,’ he said reasonably, ‘this does not concern you—us. It is—something to do with my father. A confidential matter I have to attend to.’

Sanchia’s jaw dropped. ‘Your father has been having an affair?’

‘No!’ Enrique was horrified that she should even think such a thing.

‘But you said it did involve another woman,’ she reminded him, and Enrique wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

‘I also said, not in the way you mean,’ he declared shortly. ‘It is just—’ Dios, what could he say? ‘—an unexpected complication.’

‘That involves a woman?’

‘Only indirectly.’

That, at least, was true, although Enrique could feel his stomach tighten as he thought of confronting Cassandra again. Dios, he hated that woman, he thought savagely. If only he could tell Sanchia how he really felt, she would have no further cause for concern.

‘Muy bien.’ She pivoted on her high heels and, waiting for him to fall into step beside her, she started towards her car. ‘But you will ring me later this morning, sí?’

‘Make it this afternoon,’ said Enrique, suppressing a sigh. ‘If I cannot reach you at home, I will call your mobile.’

‘Which will not be switched off as yours was last night,’ remarked Sanchia waspishly, inspiring another twinge of irritation. Dammit, when had they got to the point where every move he made had to be justified?

‘I will ring,’ he assured her, making no promises of when that would be. He swung open the door of the scarlet convertible. ‘Adiós!’

CHAPTER FOUR

CASSANDRA trudged back to the lodging house with a heavy heart. She had wasted the whole morning waiting to see her holiday representative to try and get David and herself transferred to an alternative pensión, but she was no further forward.

The trouble was, the kind of accommodation she and her son could afford was in short supply and, without paying a huge supplement and moving to a hotel, they were stuck. The young rep who was based at the nearby Hotel Miramar had been very polite, but after spending the morning dealing with other holidaymakers’ complaints, she was naturally puzzled by Cassandra’s request. Particularly as the only excuse she could offer for wanting to leave the Pensión del Mar was because Punta del Lobo was too quiet. The girl had probably thought she was used to frequenting bars and nightclubs, thought Cassandra unhappily. And what kind of a mother did that make her appear to be?

It was all Enrique de Montoya’s fault, she thought resentfully. If he hadn’t turned up and ruined what had promised to be the first really good holiday they had had in ages, she wouldn’t have had to tell lies to anyone, or now have to face the prospect of David’s disappointment when he discovered their options had narrowed. As far as she could see, she only had one alternative: to bring the date for their homeward journey forward. Whatever it cost.

And, as she approached the pensión, she was forced to admit that it wasn’t just the de Montoyas’ fault that she was in this position. David had to take his share of the blame. All right, perhaps she should have been more honest with him right from the beginning, but surely he had known that what he was doing was wrong? Wasn’t that why he had kept the letter a secret from her?

She turned in at the gate of the pensión, tipping her head back to ease the tension in her neck, and then felt a quivering start in the pit of her stomach. As she looked ahead again, she saw a man rising from the low wall that bordered the terrace, where chairs and tables offered an alternative to eating indoors. The striped canopy, which gave the Pensión del Mar its individuality, formed a protective shade from the rays of the midday sun, but it also cast a shadow that Cassandra at first thought had deceived her eyes. But, no, she was not mistaken. It was Enrique who had been sitting there, waiting for her, like the predator she knew him to be.

But, as always, he looked cool and composed, his lean muscled frame emphasised by a tight-fitting navy tee shirt and loose cotton trousers. Despite herself, she felt her senses stir at his dark, powerful masculinity, and it was that much harder to steel herself against him.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, taking the offensive before he could disconcert her, and he gave her a retiring look.

‘Where is he?’ he demanded, looking beyond her, and she was inordinately grateful that the Kaufmans had taken David out for the day.

‘He’s not here,’ she said, deciding to let him make what he liked of that. ‘You’ve wasted your time in coming here.’

Enrique’s eyes grew colder, if that were at all possible. He was already regarding her with icy contempt, and she was unhappily aware that again he had found her looking hot and dishevelled. But after a morning sitting in the open foyer of the Miramar, which was not air-conditioned and where she had not been offered any refreshment, she was damp and sweaty. Her hair, which she should really have had cut before she came away, was clinging to the nape of her neck, and her cropped sleeveless top and cotton shorts fairly shrieked of their chainstore origins.

But what did it matter what he thought of her? she asked herself impatiently. However she looked, he was not going to alter his opinion of her or of David, and, even if she’d been voted the world’s greatest mum, the de Montoyas would still be looking for a way to take David away from her.

‘Where is he?’ Enrique asked again, and this time she decided not to prevaricate.

‘He’s gone out with friends,’ she replied, making an abortive little foray to go past him, but he stepped into her path.

‘What friends?’ His dark eyes bored into her. ‘The Kaufmans?’

‘Got it in one,’ said Cassandra, acknowledging that Enrique never forgot a name. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me…’

Enrique said something that sounded suspiciously like an oath before his hard fingers fastened about her forearm. ‘Do not be silly, Cassandra,’ he intoned wearily. ‘You are not going anywhere and you know it.’

She didn’t attempt to shake him off. It wouldn’t have done any good and she knew it. But perhaps she could get rid of him in other ways and she widened her eyes challengingly at him as she opened her mouth.

But the scream she’d been about to utter stuck in her throat when he hustled her across the gravelled forecourt of the pensión, his words harsh against her ear. ‘Make a scene and I may just have to report Señor Movida to the licensing authorities.’

Cassandra stared at him. ‘You can’t do that. Señor Movida hasn’t done anything wrong.’

‘I am sure my lawyers could come up with something, if I paid them enough,’ retorted Enrique unfeelingly, propelling her around the corner from the pensión to where his Mercedes was parked. ‘And you, I am equally sure, would not risk that.’

Cassandra trembled. ‘You’re a bastard, Enrique!’

‘Better a bastard than a liar, Cassandra,’ he informed her coldly, flicking the switch that unlocked the car. ‘Please get in.’

‘And if I don’t?’

Enrique regarded her with unblinking eyes. ‘Do not go there, Cassandra. You are only wasting your time and mine. We need to talk, and you will have to forgive my sensibilities when I say I prefer not to—how is it you say it?—wash my linen in public?’

‘Dirty linen,’ muttered Cassandra, before she could stop herself, and Enrique’s mouth curved into a thin smile.

‘Your words, not mine,’ he commented, swinging open the nearside door and waiting patiently for her to get into the car. And, when she’d done so with ill grace, unhappily conscious of her bare knees and sun-reddened thighs, he walked round the back of the vehicle and coiled his long length behind the steering wheel. Then, with a derisive glance in her direction, ‘Do not look so apprehensive, Cassandra. I do not bite.’

‘Don’t you?’

Now she held his gaze with hot accusing eyes and then experienced a pang of anguish when he looked away. Was he remembering what she was remembering? she wondered, despising herself for the unwelcome emotions he could still arouse inside her. God, the only memories she should have were bitter ones.

His starting the engine caught her unawares. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she cried, diverted from her thoughts, and he lifted his shoulders in a resigned gesture.

‘What does it look like I am doing?’ he enquired, glancing in the rearview mirror, checking for traffic. ‘You didn’t think we were going to sit here and talk?’

‘Why not?’

‘Humour me,’ he said tersely, and although Cassandra was fairly sure that nothing she said or did would change his mind, she bit down on her protests. Why should she object when he was leaving the pensión? She might even be able to persuade him not to come back.

Or not.

‘I’m not going to Tuarega with you,’ she blurted suddenly, and Enrique gave a short mirthless laugh as he pulled out of the parking bay.

‘I have not invited you to do so,’ he observed drily, and she felt the flush of embarrassment deepen the colour in her cheeks. ‘I suggest we find a bar where it is unlikely that either of us will meet anyone we know.’

‘Don’t you mean anyone you know?’ she snorted, and he gave her a considering look.

‘Does it matter?’

‘Not to me,’ she assured him coldly. ‘I just want to get this over with.’

Enrique shook his head. ‘We both know that is not going to happen,’ he replied flatly. ‘You should not have written to my father if you wished to keep your selfish little secret.’

‘I didn’t write to your father,’ Cassandra reminded him fiercely. ‘I wouldn’t do such a thing.’

‘No.’ He conceded the point. ‘I believe that now.’

‘Now?’ Cassandra was appalled. ‘Do you mean you had any doubts?’

Enrique shrugged. ‘I had my reasons.’

‘What reasons?’ Cassandra stared at him, and then comprehension dawned. ‘My God, you did think I’d written the letter, didn’t you? You honestly thought I’d want anything from you! Or your father!’

Enrique didn’t answer her and she was left with the shattering discovery that his opinion of her hadn’t changed one bit. He still thought she was a greedy little gold-digger, who had only latched onto his brother because she’d known what his background was.

Pain, like a knife, sliced through her, and she reached unthinkingly for the handle of the door. In that moment she didn’t consider that they had left the small town of Punta del Lobo behind, that the car was in traffic and that they were moving at approximately sixty kilometres an hour. Her only need was to get as far away from him as possible as quickly as possible, and even the sudden draught of air that her action elicited only made her feel even more giddy and confused.

She didn’t know what might have happened if Enrique hadn’t reacted as he had. At that moment she didn’t care. But, with a muffled oath, he did two things almost simultaneously: his hand shot out and grasped her arm, anchoring her to her seat, and he swung the big car off the winding coast road, bringing it to a shuddering stop on a sand-strewn verge above towering cliffs.

‘Estas loco? Are you mad?’ he demanded, and she realised it was a measure of the shock he’d had that he’d used his own language and not hers. Then, when she turned a white tear-stained face in his direction, his eyes grew dark and tortured. ‘Crazy woman,’ he muttered, his voice thick and unfamiliar, and, switching off the engine, he flung himself out of the car.

He went to stand at the edge of the cliffs, the warm wind that blew up from the ocean flattening the loose-fitting trousers against his strong legs. He didn’t look back at her, he simply stood there, gazing out at the water, raking long fingers through his hair before bringing them to rest at the back of his neck.

Perhaps he was giving her time to regain her composure, Cassandra pondered uneasily, as sanity reasserted itself. But she didn’t think so. Just for a moment there she had glimpsed the real Enrique de Montoya, the passionate man whose feelings couldn’t be so coldly contained beneath a mask of studied politeness, and she suspected he had been as shocked as she was.

Nevertheless, however she felt about him, there was little doubt that he had saved her from serious injury or worse. He’d risked his own life by swerving so recklessly off the highway, taking the car within inches of certain disaster, just to prevent her from doing something which, as he’d said, would have been crazy.

What had she been thinking? She trembled as the full extent of her own stupidity swept over her. What good would it have done to throw herself from the car? What would it have achieved? If she’d been killed—God, the very thought of it set her shaking again—who would have looked after David then? Whose claim on her son would have carried the most weight? She didn’t need to be a psychic to know that in those circumstances her own family would have been fighting a losing battle.

So why hadn’t Enrique let her do it? Or was that what he was doing now? Reproving himself for allowing a God-given opportunity to slip through his fingers? No. However naïve it might make her, she didn’t think that either.

She took a breath and then, pushing open her door, she got out of the car. She steadied herself for a moment, with her hand on the top of her door. Then, closing it again, she walked somewhat unsteadily across to where he was standing. The wind buffeted her, too, sending the tumbled mass of her hair about her face, but she only held it back, her eyes on Enrique’s taut profile.

‘I’m—sorry,’ she said after a moment, but although she knew he’d heard her, he didn’t look her way.

‘Go back to the car.’ The words were flat and expressionless. ‘I will join you in a moment.’

Cassandra caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘You’re right,’ she said, forced to go on. ‘What I did was crazy! I could have killed us both.’

Now Enrique did look at her, but she gained no reassurance from his blank expression. ‘Forget it,’ he told her. ‘I have.’

Cassandra quivered. ‘As you forget everything that doesn’t agree with you?’ she asked tremulously. ‘And everyone?’

Enrique’s features contorted. ‘I have forgotten nothing,’ he assured her harshly, and she shrank from his sudden antagonism.

‘Then how do you live with yourself?’ she was stung to reply, and with a muffled epithet he brushed past her.

‘God knows,’ he muttered in his own language, but she understood him. He headed for the car. ‘Are you coming?’

The bar he took her to was in the next village. A whitewashed building on the road, it was open at the back, spilling its customers out onto a wood-framed deck above a pebbled beach. Further along, a black jetty jutted out into the blue water, and several small fishing smacks and rowing boats were drawn up onto a strip of sand. Old men sat mending their nets, and, judging by the clientele in the bar, this was not a venue for tourists.

Contrary to what Enrique had said earlier, the bartender knew exactly who he was, and it was obvious from the man’s manner that he welcomed his customer. Cassandra guessed, nonetheless, that he was curious about who she was and why Enrique should choose to bring her here, but he knew better than to ask questions. Instead, he escorted them personally to a table on the deck that was shaded by a canvas canopy, and enquired politely what he could get them to drink.

‘Wine?’ suggested Enrique, looking at Cassandra, and at her indifferent nod he ordered two glasses of Rioja. ‘It is served from a barrel here,’ he explained as the man walked away, and Cassandra guessed he was only behaving courteously for the other man’s benefit.

‘What is this place?’ she asked, taking her cue from him, and Enrique glanced towards the jetty before looking at her.

‘San Augustin,’ he said in the same civil tone. ‘I used to come here a lot when I was younger. While I was a student, I worked behind the bar for a while until my father found out.’

‘And stopped you?’ suggested Cassandra unthinkingly, and he nodded.

‘My father said a de Montoya should not—well, it is not important what he said,’ he appended shortly. ‘It is many years now.’

‘Yet the bartender remembers you.’

‘I did not mean it is so many years since I was here,’ he explained. ‘José and I, we know one another quite well.’

Cassandra began to smile and then pulled her lips into a straight line again. She was starting to relax with him and that was not good. She had no doubt it would suit him very well, but she had to remember why he had brought her here and it wasn’t to exchange anecdotes about the past. Well, not that past anyway, she amended, with a sudden spurt of hysteria.

The bartender returned with their wine and a large plate of what she realised were tapas. But not the mass-produced tapas that were available in the bars in Punta del Lobo. Something told her that this was the real thing, the fat juicy olives, spiced with herbs, the batter-dipped prawns, the bite-sized pieces of crisply fried fish bearing little resemblance to what she’d seen so far. They smelled wholesome, too, and in other circumstances the cheese that was oozing out of the paper-thin rolls of ham would have made her mouth water.

‘Is good, señor?’ the man enquired, obviously having heard them speaking in English, and Enrique inclined his head.

‘Muy bien, José,’ he responded in his own language. Very good. ‘Gracias.’

The bartender smiled and went away, and Enrique indicated the food. ‘Are you hungry?’

‘Hardly,’ said Cassandra, reluctantly taking a sip of her wine. She hoped it wasn’t too intoxicating. She’d had nothing to eat that day and her stomach was already bubbling with apprehension. ‘Why did you want to speak to me?’

Enrique hesitated. She noticed he wasn’t interested in the food either and, like her, he seemed quite content to concentrate on his wine. His hands, brown and long-fingered, played with the stem of his glass, and she was mesmerised by their sensitive caress. It reminded her far too acutely of how those fingers had felt gripping her wrist, grasping her arm, stroking her naked flesh…

She took a laboured breath as somewhere nearby a guitar began to play. Its music, poignant at times, at others vibrantly sensual, tugged at her emotions, fanning the flames of memories she desperately wanted to forget. She should not have come here, she thought unsteadily. She was still far too vulnerable where he was concerned.

‘I think you know why we have to talk,’ Enrique said at last, his eyes intent. ‘David is a de Montoya. You had no right to keep that from us.’

Cassandra pursed her lips. ‘You’re sure of that, are you?’

‘What? That he is Antonio’s son? Of course.’

‘What makes you so certain?’

Enrique lay back in his chair, giving her a sardonic look. ‘Cassandra, do not play games with me. We both know that he is the image of his father at that age.’

‘Is he?’

‘Do you wish me to produce a photograph as proof? No, I did not think so. The boy shows his Spanish blood in every way. His eyes, his colouring, his mannerisms. His honesty.’

Cassandra stiffened. ‘His honesty?’ she demanded caustically. ‘Oh, right. You’d know a lot about that.’

A muscle in Enrique’s jaw jerked angrily. ‘Do not bait me, Cassandra. What is it they say about glass houses? It is not wise to throw stones, no?’

Cassandra rested her elbows on the table, hunching her shoulders and curling her fingers behind her ears. It would be so easy to burst his bubble, she mused, so easy to explode the myth that David was Antonio’s son, but it was seldom wise to give in to temptation, as she knew only too well. Much better to wait to allow the situation to develop, to keep that particular revelation up her sleeve. She had reason to believe that she might need it.

‘All right,’ she said, allowing him to make what he liked of that, ‘perhaps I should have informed your father when David was born. But I had every reason to believe that he—that all of you—wanted nothing more to do with me.’

Enrique’s nostrils flared. ‘So you decided to take your revenge by keeping the boy’s existence a secret from us?’

‘It wasn’t revenge,’ exclaimed Cassandra fiercely, her voice rising. And then, aware that she was attracting the attention of other patrons in the bar, she lowered her tone. ‘I mean it. I—I wanted nothing more to do with the de Montoyas.’

‘Even though my father was Antonio’s father, too? That he is David’s grandfather? That David is his only grandson?’

‘I didn’t know that, did I?’ muttered Cassandra, taking a reckless gulp of her wine and almost choking herself. She coughed painfully and her eyes watered and it was several minutes before she could continue. ‘I assumed that you’d have married and had children of your own,’ she got out at last.

‘Did you really?’ He was sceptical.

‘If I ever thought about it,’ she declared defensively. ‘I—have to admit, it’s not something that’s given me sleepless nights.’

Which wasn’t entirely true, but Enrique didn’t need to know that.

‘No,’ he said now, his lips twisting. ‘Why should you waste your time on something that meant so little to you?’

Cassandra arched brows that were several shades darker than her hair. ‘Do you blame me?’

Enrique shrugged, and with sudden urgency she added, ‘I’ve always wondered, what did you tell Antonio?’

Enrique shook his head. ‘Why should I tell you? He obviously did not believe me.’

‘No.’ She looked doubtful. ‘He never said anything about it to me.’

‘Why would he?’ Enrique was harsh. ‘My brother, too, was an honourable man.’

‘Too?’ she mocked him. ‘I hope you’re not including yourself in that statement.’

‘I meant my father,’ he retorted coldly. ‘And my nephew David, at least understands that family means something.’

‘David has a family.’ Cassandra quivered in remembrance of why they were here. ‘An English family. Who love him.’

‘He also has a Spanish family who would love him just as much,’ replied Enrique inflexibly. ‘Oh, this is getting us nowhere.’ He raised his hand and summoned the bartender, but although Cassandra knew a moment’s panic that he had decided not to continue their conversation, he merely ordered two more glasses of wine.

The bartender, who brought his order, looked a little dismayed to see that they hadn’t touched the tapas, but he held his tongue. Cassandra guessed he had taken one look at Enrique’s dark face and decided now was not the time to make comments. Instead, he sauntered away with a decidedly defiant swagger.

‘Now,’ said Enrique, when they were alone again, ‘I suggest we try to find some common ground here.’ He took a breath. ‘We are agreed, are we not, that David is Antonio’s son, yes?’ And, getting no argument from Cassandra, he continued, ‘Very well. It is therefore a question of deciding how and when I am going to break this news to my father.’

Cassandra’s throat closed up. ‘And then what?’ She had the sensation of things moving too fast for her here, of them getting out of control. And she wasn’t altogether sure what she could do to stop them. ‘We have to go back to England in a couple of days.’

‘No.’ Enrique was very definite about that. ‘You will not be going back to England until this affair is settled. And, just to put the matter straight, I have to tell you that before you and the boy appeared yesterday I spoke with Señor Movida at the pensión. He was kind enough to tell me that your booking is for two weeks. Do we understand one another?’

Cassandra’s mouth quivered. ‘You think you’ve got it all worked out, don’t you?’ She rubbed the end of her nose with a trembling finger. ‘You can’t tell me what to do.’

‘Oh, Cassandra.’ Now he sounded weary. ‘You must have known how it would be. David wants to know his family—all his family. Do you honestly think you have the right to deny him that?’

Cassandra didn’t know what to think any more. Her attempt to get away from Punta del Lobo, to return to England without Enrique’s knowledge, seemed pointless now. The de Montoyas knew of David’s existence. A few hundred miles would not prove any obstacle if they wanted to see him. Besides, it was David’s life, David’s decision. His letter had proved that. So did she have the right to prevent him from meeting his grandfather if that was what he wanted?

‘Will you take me back to the pensión?’ she asked tightly, her doubts weighing heavily on her conscience. ‘David will be back soon.’

‘And what will you tell him?’

Cassandra gave him a bitter look. ‘Anything but the truth,’ she said coldly. ‘Can we go?’

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