‘I can’t believe it,’ Isobel said to Leandros as they prepared for bed. ‘My mother has caught the eye of the wealthiest man in Greece!’
‘His roving eye,’ Leandros extended lazily. ‘My uncle Theron is an established rake.’
‘But he’s got to be seventy years old! Surely he can’t be looking at my mother and seeing…’
Her voice trailed away in dismay as a dark eyebrow arched. ‘I share the same blood.’ He began to stalk her with a certain gleam in his eyes. She was wearing nothing but the family heirlooms. ‘Do you think you will be able to keep up with me when I reach seventy and you will be…?’
‘Don’t you dare tell me how old I will be!’ she protested.
But, as for the rest, well, she was more than able to keep up with him throughout the long, dark, silken night. This time it was different, like a renewal of vows they made to each other four distant years ago. There were no secrets left to hide, just love and trust and a desire to hold on to what they had found.
The morning brought more sunshine with it and breakfast laid out on the terrace for two. Silvia was taking breakfast in her room today before she got ready for her date. When it came time for Leandros to go and spend a few essential hours in his office, he left her with a reluctance that made her smile. Theron arrived. A big, silver-thatched, larger-than-life kind of man, he was polite to Isobel, flirtatious with her mother and somehow managed to convince Silvia that her wheelchair was required today, which earned him a grateful smile from Silvia’s daughter.
Left to her own devices, Isobel asked Allise for a second pot of tea, then sat back in her chair and tried to decide what she wanted to do with the few hours she had going spare while Leandros wasn’t here.
She was wearing the green combat trousers and a yellow T-shirt today. The sum total of the wardrobe she had brought with her from England had now been exhausted and she was considering going out to do a bit of shopping, when Allise arrived with the promised pot of tea and an envelope that she said had just been delivered by hand.
Maybe Isobel should have known before she even touched it that it could only mean trouble. Everything was just too wonderful, much too perfect to stay that way. But the envelope did not come with WARNING printed on it, just her name typed in its centre and the fizz of intrigue because she could think of only one person who would do this, and he had been gone only half an hour.
He was up to something—a surprise, she decided, and was smiling as she split the seal.
But what fell into her hands had her smile dying. What she found herself looking at had her fingers tossing the photographs away from her as if she were holding a poisonous snake and she lurched to her feet with enough violence to send crockery spilling to the ground. Her chair toppled over with a clatter against the hard tile flooring, her hand shot up to cover her shaking mouth. Her heart was pounding, eyes that had been shining were now dark with a horror that was curdling the blood.
She stepped back, banged her leg on the upturned chair. She was going to be sick, she realised—and ran.
CHAPTER NINE
ALLISE found Isobel sitting on the floor of the bathroom which lay just off the terrace, her cheek resting against the white porcelain toilet bowl. On a cry of dismay the housekeeper hurried forward. ‘Kyria, you are ill!’
It was a gross understatement. Isobel was dying inside and she didn’t think she was going to be able to stop it from happening.
‘I get the doctor—the kyrios.’
‘No!’ Isobel exploded on a thrust of frail energy. ‘No.’ She tried to calm her voice when Allise stood back and stared at her. ‘I’m all right,’ she insisted. ‘I just need to—lie down for a wh-while.’
Dragging herself to her feet, she had to steady herself at the washbasin before she could get her trembling legs to work. Stumbling out of the bathroom, she headed for the stairs, knew she would never make it up there and changed direction, making dizzily for the only sanctuary her instincts would offer up as an alternative—her mother’s room.
Back to the womb, she likened it starkly as she felt the housekeeper’s worried eyes watch her go. She was going to ring him; Isobel was sure of it. Allise would feel she had failed in her duty if she did not inform Leandros as to what she had seen.
But Leandros didn’t need informing. At about the time that Isobel received her envelope, he was receiving one himself. As he stared down at the all-too-damning photographs the phone began to ring. It was Diantha’s father; he had received an envelope too. Hot on that call came one from his mother, then an Athens newspaper with a hungry reputation for juicy gossip about the jet set. It did not take a genius to know what was unfolding here.
Leandros was on his way home even as Isobel paused at the table where the photographs lay amongst the scattered crockery. His mobile phone was ringing its cover off. With an act of bloody, blinding frustration he switched it off and tossed it onto the passenger seat with the envelope of photos. Whoever else had received copies could go to hell because if he was certain about anything, then it was that Isobel had to be looking at the same ugly evidence.
His car screeched to a halt in the driveway, kicking up clouds of dust in its wake. He left the engine running as he strode into the house. Watching him go, the gardener went to switch off the engine for him, his eyes filled with frowning puzzlement. Allise was standing in the hall with her ear to the telephone.
‘Where is my wife?’ he demanded and was already making for the stairs when the housekeeper stopped him.
‘Sh-she is in her mama’s rooms, kyrios.’
Changing direction, he headed down the hallway. He lost his jacket as he hit the terrace. His tie went and he was about to stride past the debacle that was the breakfast table and chairs, when he saw the envelope and scatter of photographs, felt sickness erupt in his stomach and anger follow it with a thunderous roar.
Pausing only long enough to gather up the evidence, he continued down the terrace and into the rooms allotted to his mother-in-law. He had not been in here since Silvia took up residence and was surprised how comfortable she had managed to make it, despite the clutter of Isobel’s photographic equipment still dotted around. Not that he cared about comfort right now, for across the room, lying curled on her mother’s bed like a foetus, was his target.
His heart tipped sideways on a moment of agony—then it grimly righted again. Snapping the top button of his shirt free with angry fingers, he approached the bed with a look upon his face that promised retribution for someone very soon.
‘Isobel.’ He called her name.
She gave no indication that she had even heard him. Was she waiting for him to go down on his knees to beg for understanding and forgiveness? Well, not this man, he thought angrily and tossed the photographs down beside her on the bed.