‘You spoke in Greek first...to me. It seems like it’s your mother tongue.’
They were silent for a moment, and then Darius said, ‘It’s so quiet here. A kind of quiet I feel like I haven’t experienced for a long time. If ever.’
Sofie made a face. ‘Sometimes it’s too quiet.’
‘It’s peaceful.’
At that moment, as if to prove Darius wrong, a low, puttering engine noise filled the air. Sofie saw her neighbour’s small fishing boat appear. She waved a hand and he waved back.
She said, ‘That’s Jamie. He fishes here most days.’
When there was no response from Darius she looked at him. His face was ashen, his eyes fixed on the boat.
She turned to him, concerned. ‘Are you okay?’
For a long moment he didn’t speak, and then colour returned to his face. He said tersely, ‘I’m fine.’
‘Are you remembering something?’
He shook his head, jaw gritted. ‘No. Nothing.’
He turned and walked back up the lawn to the house, Pluto trotting loyally by his side.
Sofie frowned and looked back out to where her neighbour had stopped his boat and was getting his fishing gear organised. She waved again and turned away herself, wondering what had made Darius react like that.
That night, when Darius lay in bed trying to sleep, he still had that awful sick sense of dread in his gut. The sense of dread that had gripped him as soon as he’d seen the boat earlier. The smallest, most innocent-looking boat. And yet that first sight of it had impacted him like a punch to his gut, and it had loomed large in his mind all day and evening. Like a malevolent thing.
He was disgusted with himself. How could he be scared of a boat? Especially if he did come from Greece, where shipping was one of the most important industries and where island-hopping via boat was as common as taking a bus for most commuters.
He didn’t understand it and he hated not understanding it. It had ruined his appetite, in spite of the delicious stew Sofie had cooked. Not even the couple of glasses of wine seemed to be blurring the edges of this dread that coiled inside him like a live thing.
Sofie’s concerned gaze had caught at him too. Making him feel exposed and claustrophobic. The pity she’d so clearly felt had scraped along his nerve-endings. He despised pity. He had a visceral reaction to any hint of pity. Utter rejection.
He’d wanted to haul her up against his body so that she wouldn’t be looking at him with pity or concern any more. But with something far more appealing. Surprise. Desire. He knew she felt it too. It throbbed in the air between them like a live current.
So he’d come to bed to avoid temptation. But now he still couldn’t relax. He craved oblivion, but the oblivion he craved was with his sweet, kind, compassionate hostess. His innocent hostess. Darius might not remember the first thing about himself, but he knew with bone-deep certainty that he was as experienced as she was innocent, and therefore seducing her was not an option.
Maybe, he surmised grimly, being aware that it would be wrong to seduce her was an indication that he had some kind of a conscience. It didn’t bring much comfort.