letting her head crane around, taking in her surroundings, as if the man at the desk were of no interest to her. Her heels clicked loudly.
She reached the front of the desk, and only then did she deign to look at the man who had summoned her.
It was the eyes she noticed first. They were deepset, in sunken sockets. His whole face was craggy and wrinkled, very old, but the eyes were alight. They were dark, almost black in this dim light, but they scoured her face.
‘So,’ said Yiorgos Coustakis to his granddaughter, whom he had never set eyes on till now, ‘you are that slut’s brat.’ He nodded. ‘Well, no matter. You’ll do. You’ll have to.’
His eyes went on scouring her face. Inside, as the frail bud of hope that maybe Yiorgos Coustakis had softened his hard heart died a swift, instant death, Andrea fought to quell the upsurge of blind rage as she heard him refer to her mother in such a way. With a struggle, she won the battle. Losing her temper and storming out now would get her nowhere except back to London empty-handed. Instead, she opted for silence.
She went on standing there, being inspected from head to toe.
‘Turn around.’
The order was harsh. She obeyed it.
‘You walk perfectly well.’
The brief sentence was an accusation. Andrea said nothing.
‘Have you a tongue in your head?’ Yiorgos Coustakis demanded.
She went on looking at him.
Was a man’s soul in his eyes, as the proverb said? she wondered. If so, then Yiorgos Coustakis’s soul was in dire condition. The black eyes that rested on her were the most terrifying she had ever seen. They seemed to bore right into her—and, search as she would, she could see nothing in them to reassure her. Not a glimmer of kindness, of affection, even of humour, showed in them. A feeling of profound sadness filled her, and she realised that, despite all the evidence, something inside her had been hoping against hope that the man she had grown up hating and despising was not such a man after all.
But he was proving exactly the callous monster she had always thought him.
‘Why did you bring me here?’
The question fell from her lips without her thinking. But instinctively she knew she had done the right thing in taking the battle—for this was a battle, no doubt about that now, none at all—to her grandfather.
He saw it, and the dark eyes darkened even more.
‘Do not speak to me in that tone,’ he snapped, throwing his head back.
Her chin lifted in response.
‘I have come over a thousand miles at your bidding. I am entitled to know why.’ Her voice was as steady as she could make it, though in her breast she could feel her heart beating wildly.
His laugh came harsh, scornful.
‘You are entitled to nothing! Nothing! Oh, I know why you came! The moment you caught a glimpse of the kind of money you could spend if you came here you changed your tune! Why do you think I sent you that store card? I knew that would flush you out!’ He leant forward, his once-powerful arms leaning on the surface of the polished mahogany desk. ‘But understand this, and understand it well! You will be on the first plane back to London unless you do exactly, exactly what I want you to do! Understand me?’
His eyes flashed at her. She held his gaze, though it was like a heavy weight on her. So, she thought, Tony had been right—he did want something from her. But what? She needed to know. Only when she knew what the man sitting there, who by a vile accident of fate just happened to be her grandfather, wanted of her could she start to bargain for the money she wanted from him.
Play it cool, girl…play it cool…
She lifted an interrogative eyebrow.
‘And what is it, exactly, that you want me to do?’
His brows snapped together at the sarcastic emphasis she gave to echo his.
‘You’ll find out—when I want you to.’ He held up a hand, silencing her. ‘I’ve had enough of you for now. You will go to your room and prepare yourself for dinner. We will have a guest. With your upbringing you obviously won’t know how to comport yourself, so I shall tell you now that you had better change your attitude! In this country a woman knows how to behave—see that you do not shame me in my own house! Now, go!’
Andrea turned and left. The walk back to the door seemed much further than it had in the opposite direction. Her heart was pounding.
It went on pounding all the way back upstairs to her room. She shut the door and leant against it. So, that was her grandfather! That was the man whose son had had a brief, whirlwind romance with her mother, who had thrown her, pregnant and penniless, out of the country, and left her to bear and raise his grandchild in poverty, refusing to acknowledge her existence.
She owed such a man nothing. Nothing! Not duty, nor respect—and certainly not loyalty or affection.
What does he want of me?
The question went round and round, unanswered. Fretting at her.
In the end, to calm herself down and pass the time, she decided to make use of the opulent bathroom. Inside its lavish, overdone interior she could not but help revel in the luxury it offered.
The bath was vast, and it had, she discovered, sinking into its deep scented depths, whirling jets that massaged her body, easing the aching muscles in her tense legs. Blissfully, she gave herself to the wonderful sensation. Towering bubbles from the half a bottle of bath foam she’d emptied in veiled her whole body, from breasts to feet.
You walk perfectly well…
She heard the harsh accusation ring in her head again, and her mouth tightened.
When she emerged from the bathroom, entering her lavishly decorated bedroom suite, swathed in a floor-length towel, it was to see a maid at the open door of her closet, hanging up clothes. The girl turned, bobbing a brief curtsey, and hesitantly informed Andrea that she was here to help her dress.
‘I don’t need any help,’ said Andrea tersely.
The girl looked subdued, and Andrea immediately regretted her tone of voice.
‘Please,’ she said temporisingly, ‘it’s quite unnecessary.’
She walked past the huge bed, covered in a heavy gold and white patterned bedspread, and across to the room-sized closet. Whatever Yiorgos Coustakis had imagined she’d bought with her gleaming gold store card, all she was going to appear for dinner wearing was a chainstore skirt and blouse. But suddenly she stopped dead.
The racks were full, weighed down with plastic-swathed clothes.
‘What—?’
‘Kyrios Coustakis ordered them to be purchased for you, kyria. They were delivered just now by a personal shopper. There are accessories and lingerie as well,’ said the maid’s softly accented voice behind her. ‘Which dress would you like to wear tonight?’
