Nikos named a couple of spectacular musicals running in the West End currently—obviously he was no stranger to London, Andrea thought. She shook her head. Tickets for such extravaganzas were even more expensive than for ordinary theatre.
'I prefer Shakespeare,' she said.
She could tell, immediately, she had given the wrong answer. She glanced warily at her grandfather. His eyes had altered somehow, and she could sense his disapproval focussing on her. Now what? she wondered. Wasn't it OK for her to like Shakespeare, for heaven's sake?
She got her answer a moment later.
'No man likes a woman who is intellectually pretentious,' the old man said brusquely.
Andrea blinked. Liking Shakespeare was intellectually pretentious?
'Shakespeare wrote popular plays for mass audiences,' she pointed out mildly. "There's nothing intellectually elite about his work, if it isn't treated as such. Of course there are huge depths to his writing, which can keep academics happy for years dissecting it, but the plays can be enjoyed on many levels. They're very accessible, especially in modem productions which make every effort to draw in those who, like you, are put off by the aura surrounding Shakespeare.'
Yiorgos set down his knife and fork. His eyes snapped with anger.
'Stop babbling like an imbecile, girl! Hold your tongue if you've nothing useful to say! No man likes a woman trying to show off!'
Astonishment was the emotion uppermost in Andrea's reaction. She simply couldn't believe that she was being criticised for defending her enjoyment of Shakespeare. Automatically, she found herself glancing across at Nikos Vassilis. Did he share her grandfather's antediluvian views on women and their 'intellectual pretensions'?
To her relief, as she met his eye she realised that there was a distinct gleam of conspiratorial humour in it.
'So,' said Nikos smoothly, coming to the girl's rescue after her grandfather's reprimand, 'what is your favourite Shakespeare play?' He ignored the glare coming from his host at his continuing with a line of conversation he disapproved of. Andrea ignored it too, glad to find her grandfather's dinner guest was more liberal in his expectations of female interests.
'Much Ado About Nothing,' she replied promptly. 'Beatrice and Benedict are my favourite hero and heroine! I just love the verbal warfare between them—she always answers back to every jibe he puts on her, and never lets him put her down!'
The humour vanished from Nikos's eyes. A bride with a penchant for a heroine specialising in verbal warfare with her future husband was not his ideal. However stunning her auburn looks, he found himself wishing that the Coustakis heiress was all-Greek after all. A pure Greek bride would never dream of taking pleasure in answering her husband back!
Andrea saw his disapproval of her choice, and her mouth tightened. Nikos Vassilis might be a drop-dead smoothie, but scratch him and he was cut from the same metal as her grandfather, it seemed. Women were not there to be any
thing other than ornamental and docile.
She gave a mental shrug. Well, who cared what Nikos Vassilis thought women should be—let alone her grandfather? She wasn't here to win the approval of either.
She went back to eating her dinner. Across the table, Nikos was distracted from thinking further about the woman he had elected to marry by Yiorgos peremptorily asking his opinion on some aspect of global economic conditions. Clearly he had heard quite enough from his granddaughter. It was obviously time for her to revert to being ornamental and docile. And silent. Knowing nothing about global economic conditions, only a great deal about her straitened personal ones, Andrea tuned out.
Then, after the final course had been removed—and she felt as if she could never look another rich, luxurious dish in the face again—her grandfather abruptly pushed his chair back.
'We will take coffee in the salon, after I have checked the US markets,' he announced. He looked meaningfully at Nikos as he stood up. 'Join me in twenty minutes.'
He left the dining room. Nikos glanced after him, then back at Andrea.
'Even at his age he does not relinquish his mastery, not for a moment,' he said. He sounded, thought Andrea, almost approving.
'Surely he's got enough money,' she said tartly.
Nikos, who had got to his feet as the older man had risen, looked down at her.
'Easy to say that,' he observed evenly, 'when you have lived in luxury all your life.'
She stared at him. Again, astonishment was uppermost in her breast. Was this more of her grandfather's fairytale at work? She said nothing—Nikos Vassilis was the dinner guest of the man who was going to fund her mother's removal to Spain. Baring her family's unpleasant secrets to him was unnecessary.
He came around to her side of the table and held out his hand, a smile parting his lips. 'Come,' he said. 'We have been given twenty minutes to ourselves. Let us make the most of them.'
Thinking that the company of Nikos Vassilis was a good deal more bearable than that of her grandfather—even if he clearly didn't like her approving of Shakespeare's feisty heroine Beatrice!—Andrea went along with him. He escorted her, hand tucked into the crook of his arm again—a most disturbingly arousing sensation, she rediscovered—from the dining room, opening large French windows to emerge out on to the same terrace where she had first seen him that afternoon. After the brightness of the dining room the dim night outside made her blink until she got her night vision. She glanced up.
The night sky was ablaze with stars. Though it was early summer still, the air was much warmer than it would have been in England. She gave a little sigh of pleasure and walked forward, disengaging herself to place her hands on the balustrade and look out over the dim gardens.
All around in the darkness she could hear a soft chirruping noise.