‘I got your message, Isobel,’ her mother said impatiently. ‘“I’ve gone out for while,” does not really cover a three-hour disappearance, does it? Having dragged me all the way to Athens, I did think you would have spared a little time to be with me.’
‘But I thought…’ she began, then changed her mind. Her mother was right and attempting to shift responsibility on to the fact that Clive was supposed to be taking her out for the day wasn’t good enough. Especially when it only took a glance at Clive to know he was wishing he hadn’t invited himself along on this trip.
‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, and bent to press a contrite kiss on her mother’s cheek. It felt warm and she looked flushed. It occurred to her that they all looked flushed. Clive was sweating and Lester Miles had lost his suit jacket and tie and was fanning himself with an ancient-looking magazine.
It was then that she realised the air-conditioning wasn’t working, and that it was as warm inside as it was out.
‘It’s broken,’ Clive offered, noticing the way she’d glanced up at the air-conditioning vents set in the walls.
Broken, Isobel echoed wearily. No wonder her mother was cross. She had promised her faithfully that the hotel would be cool when she’d bullied her into coming here with her. With a deep breath she braced herself. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we go upstairs and all take a nice shower, then we can find somewhere to—?’
‘We can’t go upstairs, either.’ It was Lester Miles that spoke this time. ‘The lift has broken down as well.’
‘As well?’ she gasped. ‘You have to be joking.’
‘Nope.’ It was Clive again. ‘We are in the middle of a power cut, in case you haven’t noticed. No lights, no air-conditioning and no lift,’ he pointed out. ‘Apparently it happens all the time.’
‘So you tell me, Isobel,’ Silvia said crossly, ‘how a wheelchair-bound, feeble woman climbs four flights of stairs to get her much-needed cool shower?’
I don’t know, she thought, and wondered what they would do if she plonked herself down on the floor and had a good weep? Nothing had gone according to plan from the moment she’d left here this morning. She wished she hadn’t come to Athens. She wished she was still at home in rainy England, plodding away at her mundane photo-imaging job! She certainly wished she hadn’t had to set eyes on Leandros again. He cut her up, he always had done. She lost her calm and steady sense of proportion whenever she was around him.
‘You two men don’t have to stay down here if you prefer to go and cool off in your rooms,’ she murmured a trifle unsteadily. ‘I’ll see if Mum and I can find—’
‘Trust me, Isobel,’ Clive put in deridingly, ‘we are sitting in the coolest place right now.’
‘This place is a dump,’ her mother added.
‘I’m sorry,’ her daughter apologised once again, realizing she was going to cry. She placed a hand to her aching head and tried to think. ‘Just give me a few minutes—all of you—and I’ll see if I can find us another hotel to—’
‘Is there a problem here?’ another, deeper voice inserted.
If it was possible, Isobel’s spirits sank even lower as she turned with fatalistic slowness to face her nemesis. Leandros didn’t look hot, she noticed. He didn’t look anything but cool and smooth, suave and handsome and…
‘What are you doing here?’ It was her mother who asked the abrasive question.
‘And good day to you, too, Silvia.’ Leandros smiled, but his eyes remained fixed on Isobel’s pale face. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked her gently.
Gentle did it. Her mouth began to wobble. The tears bulged in her eyes. ‘I…’ She tried to think but found that she couldn’t. ‘I…’ She tried to speak again and couldn’t even do that. It wasn’t fair. He wasn’t fair. He’d spun her round in circles until she didn’t know what she was doing any more.
Leandros’s hand came out in front of him. She saw he was holding her camera case out by its strap. She must have left it at Vassilou’s restaurant. Maybe she’d left her courage there too. She reached out to take the camera back, missed the strap and found herself clutching at a solid male wrist instead. He didn’t even hesitate, but just used her grip to propel her towards him and the next moment her face was pressed into his shoulder and she stayed there, not even caring who watched her sink so easily into the enemy.
One of his hands was gently cupping her nape; the other just as gently curved her waist. The camera was knocking against the back of her leg and her fingers were clutching at a piece of his shirt. He felt strong and reassuringly familiar and, though she did not want to feel it, there was not another place that she would rather be right now.
Someone was talking, someone was tutting. Someone else was also sobbing quietly and she knew it was her. He didn’t speak. He just stood there and held her and listened.
Then she heard her mother snap, ‘This it is all your fault, Leandros.’
‘Quite,’ he agreed, the single word vibrating in his deep chest and against Isobel’s hot forehead. ‘Mr Miles,’ he spoke to her lawyer, ‘would you do me a great favour and go over to that excuse for a hotel receptionist and tell him that Leandros Petronades wishes to speak to him?’
This blatant bit of name-dropping brought Isobel’s face out of his chest. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.
‘What you once told me I am good at,’ he replied. ‘Which is solving other people’s problems.’
It was an old gripe, and it stiffened her spine to be reminded of it. ‘I can do that for myself.’
‘Stay where you are.’ The hand at her waist slid up her back to keep her still. ‘This is turning out to be one of the best days of my life, and you are not going to spoil it by turning back into the tough-lady I know so well.’
Her worst day, his best day. That just about said it all for Isobel.