“What?”
“I haven’t spoken to my father for twenty years.”
“Twenty—” Her jaw dropped. “Did you even tell him we were coming to visit?”
Stavros’s hand tightened on the steering wheel as he drove the convertible swiftly around the thread of road clinging to the edge of the island’s cliffs. He said evenly, “My assistant told the housekeeper. I presume she let him know.”
Holly was scandalized. “But it’s rude!”
“Rude,” he growled. “What about—”
Stavros cut himself off, staring stonily ahead at the sea.
“What about what?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s not like you to censor yourself.”
“Forget it,” he said abruptly. “Ancient history.”
But he stomped on the gas, driving the red convertible faster along the cliff road of this small island in the Aegean.
Holly looked at him, from his tight shoulders to the grim set of his jaw. She said slowly, “Why haven’t you spoken to your—”
Her voice cut off as they went past a grove of olive trees to a guarded gate. A white-haired guard approached the convertible, scowling. Then his eyes went wide. “Stavi?”
“Vassilis,” he replied, smiling up at him. They spoke in Greek. Stavros indicated Holly and Freddie, mentioning their names. The guard replied, nearly jumping in his excitement, before he waved them through.
“You know him?” Holly said as Stavros drove the car past the gate.
“He was kind to me when I was young.” His voice seemed strained. He roared the convertible up the hill, finally parking in front of a grand villa, whitewashed and sprawling across the cliff, on the edge of t
he sea. With a deep breath, Stavros abruptly turned off the engine. He stared up at the villa.
“Are you all right?” Holly asked.
He seemed almost as if he dreaded what was ahead. Which Holly didn’t understand. What could there be to dread about a lavish villa on a Greek island paradise?
Unless it was the same thing that had made Stavros not speak to his father in twenty years. Holly suddenly wondered what they were getting into.
“Stavros,” she said slowly, “I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.”
Without looking at her, he got out of the car. Unlatching the baby seat in the back seat of the convertible, Holly followed with Freddie.
They hadn’t even reached the imposing front door of the villa before it flew open, revealing a plump, white-haired woman. She cried out, clasping her hands over her heart. “Stavi!”
Looking at her, his eyes went wide.
“Eleni?” he whispered.
Rushing forward, the petite, round woman threw her arms around him with a sob. She was much shorter than Stavros. Awkwardly, he patted her on the back. His expression was stricken. Holly couldn’t look away from the raw emotion on his usually stoic face.
The white-haired woman spoke in rapid Greek, tears filling her eyes. He answered her slowly in the same language. She turned to the baby in Holly’s arms.
Stavros said in English, “Holly, this is my father’s housekeeper, Eleni. She’s worked here since I was a child.” Reaching out, he stroked his baby’s soft dark head. “Eleni, this is my son, Freddie.”
“Your son!” the housekeeper cried in accented English. She patted the baby’s plump cheek with tears in her eyes. Eleni turned to Holly. “You are Stavros’s wife?”