But her cheeks were flushed and she was happy. The doorbell sounded and two minutes later another visitor stepped onto the sunny terrace. ‘My God, I don’t believe it,’ Leandros gasped in warm surprise—while everyone else was thrown into silence by the sight of the dauntingly aloof Felipe Vazquez, while he appeared taken aback by so many curious faces. ‘When did you get into town?’
‘My apologies for the intrusion,’ he murmured stiffly.
‘No intrusion at all,’ Leandros assured and took him to meet his beautiful wife, who stared up at his friend as if what she was seeing lit a vision in her head.
Leandros grinned as he watched it happen. ‘No,’ he bent to murmur close to her ear. ‘Felipe is Spanish, not Venezuelan.’
‘Oh,’ she pouted up at him. ‘What a terrible shame.’
The afternoon took on a festive
quality. By the time everyone drifted away again, Isobel was looking just a little bewildered. ‘We seem to have become very popular all of a sudden,’ she said.
‘Too popular,’ he answered. ‘After Nikos’s wedding you and I are flying to the Caribbean to gatecrash his honeymoon,’ he said decisively.
‘But we can’t do that!’ Isobel protested.
‘Why not?’ he countered. ‘He intends to cruise on my yacht. I intend that we stay so stationary that it will be an effort to move from the bed to the terrace. But for now,’ he began to stalk her, ‘you owe me something I am about to collect.’
‘Owe you what?’ she demanded.
‘Humble pie?’ he softly reminded her.