The last speech ended, the applause died and, after the obligatory farewells, Stavros murmured his excuses.
He noticed the arch looks and the speculative murmurs. These were his people and they’d accepted both the dramatic end to his betrothal and the news of his marriage with barely a ripple, though behind the scenes no doubt tongues still wagged. Right now they’d assume he was leaving early to be with his pretty young wife. They’d be right.
He suppressed a grin as he strode to the car. He’d never looked forward to going home as much as he did now; knowing Tessa was there, waiting for him.
He felt Petros’ eyes on him in the rear-vision mirror as the car pulled out onto the road that led over the hills to the villa. Instantly, and for no good reason, anxiety punched hard in his stomach.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s Kyria Denakis. You know she went to visit your father this morning?’
Stavros shrugged. ‘She often visits my father.’ And if she was up and about that meant she’d shrugged off the headache completely.
‘Dimitri reported that she had her luggage with her. Her backpack. He was told not to wait for her return.’
What? Stavros braced himself against the seat as the air sucked out of his lungs in a whoosh of disbelief.
‘Are you sure?’ Stupid question.
‘Yes, kyrie. Absolutely sure. Dimitri called me.’
Blood pounded an urgent rhythm in Stavros’ ears and his pulse ratcheted up to a frenetic beat.
‘We’ll call in at my father’s house on the way home,’ he said, then sat back, crossing his arms tight across his pounding chest. What the hell was she up to? And why did she need her luggage?
Four hours later Stavros paced the bedroom in the vain hope that this time he’d find something, anything, that could explain Tessa’s flight.
For flight it had been. She’d left everything behind except for the few shabby clothes she’d worn when she arrived. She’d even left the Denakis emerald. The pendant that had so obviously enchanted her last night. The pendant that might have been designed for her.
His stomach cramped at the memory of her at dinner last night, so heartbreakingly lovely. One minute aglow with happiness, the next white with pain.
Fear shuddered through him. Was she sick? What if she was ill, alone, with no one to care for her?
He gripped the velvet jewel case tight in his hands, as if somehow he could wrench Tessa’s secrets from it.
Why had she left?
Why now, when everything was so perfect between them?
Sto Diavolo! He hadn’t realised exactly how perfect until he’d come home to an empty house and no hint as to why she’d left or where she’d gone.
His father had been no help, merely telling him his wife had every right to travel if she wanted to, and then berating him for holding her passport all this time. As if he’d needed a passport to keep her here, when there was such passion between them! She’d stayed of her own free will, of course she had.
Stavros turned and paced back to the window, crushing the pathetic hope that when he reached it he’d see Tessa out in the villa gardens. Here, where she belonged.
But there was no chance of that.
His father’s words echoed in his head, like a recording he couldn’t stop or erase.
‘She’s left you. Gone back to Australia.’
The old man hadn’t even the decency to pretend he regretted helping her leave the island.
Far worse, though, was the punch of guilt and the raw scouring pain of knowing she’d left in tears. So upset that she’d been barely coherent. Desperate. Frantic, his father had said.
Slamming the jewel case down on the window sill, Stavros stared out across the gardens and the bay to the dark, smudged shadow of the mainland in the distance. Once they picked up her trail he’d follow her there.
It was taking all his resolve to stay here, do the sensible thing and wait for news. He wanted to be out there, looking for her himself. Yet if she called he wanted to be here to speak to her.
Why had she gone?
He’d offered her everything she wanted. Safety, security, financial certainty. A family, an indulgent husband, a physical intimacy he knew she revelled in as much as he did.
Stavros rubbed his hot, gritty eyes then thrust his fingers through his hair, desperately wondering what it was he’d missed.
There’d been no visitors, no phone calls or letters this morning. She hadn’t logged on to the computer. So whatever had caused her flight, it wasn’t news she’d received today.
He swung round and strode for the door, too wired to stay here, waiting for news.
Impossible that his staff hadn’t yet picked up a trace of her.
As soon as the Australian embassy opened tomorrow he’d be there, waiting. He’d plant himself where she couldn’t avoid him. She had nowhere else to go. He was certain she hadn’t reached it before his investigators put the premises under surveillance. But how could he wait so long, knowing she was alone and unprotected in a country where she didn’t even speak the language?