He snapped his mind away. His hand squeezed on Demos’s shoulder.
‘Trust me,’ he said again, and took his leave.
But even then his problems hadn’t been over. The Atrides jet had been stranded on the tarmac. UK airspace had been in chaos—the air traffic control system had gone down again. It wasn’t until well into the next day that Theo had finally been able to get airborne.
Then, when he’d landed in Athens, he’d found Sofia’s father, Yannakis Allessandros, had heard the Atrides jet was due and assumed it was Demos at last. Calming a justifiably exasperated Yannakis, and trying to assure him that Demos’s continued absence was not an insufferable slight to his patiently waiting daughter, had taken yet more precious time.
The next blow had been to discover that the Atrides corporate helicopter stationed at Athens had developed a fault, and the others were scattered at other locations on various company business. Hiring a replacement he proposed to pilot himself—the fewer people who knew about Leandra Ross’s illicit presence on his island the better!—had meant having his own pilot documentation exhaustively vetted by a helicopter company extremely nervous of letting the head of one of the country’s largest companies fly and possibly crash himself.
By the time he finally headed east out to sea the bright Mediterranean sun was low in the sky and Theo Atrides was in the worst mood he’d been in for a very, very long time.
Leandra sat on a rock, the sunlight pounding down on her. She stared doggedly out into the blinding sky, constantly scanning the heavens, then dipping back to the horizon again.
Her face was set, skin stretched tight. Her head ached.
In her stomach, fear coiled like a snake.
She had surfaced earlier that day to discover, through her drugged and groggy senses, that she was lying on a bed in a cool, shady room. Although there were few furnishings, it was very luxurious. The large double bed she’d been lying on was covered by an exquisite hand-stitched quilt, and the furniture was dark wood with an antique patina.
Her terror had been absolute. She’d fought for memory.
There was a car. I was pushed inside. Everything went black…
Fear had crammed in her throat. She’d staggered to her feet, lurching towards French windows dimmed with wooden slatted blinds. She had pulled them open. Beyond was a terrace, flooded with sunlight much brighter than it could ever be in England at this time of year. And the scent of flowers was wrong for England—heady and pungent, coming from fragrant blooms tumbling out of ceramic pots. She had lifted her eyes further forward. Beyond the terrace was vegetation—Mediterranean vegetation—and beyond she’d glimpsed bright azure sea.
The house she had emerged from seemed to be built as a long, low series of rooms, one after another, their French windows all closed. Then, suddenly, those of the room at the end of the terrace, where it ended in a vine-shaded patio, had opened, and an elderly woman had come out. She was dressed in black and carrying a bucket and mop.
She’d seen Leandra and nodded her head, smiling. She had set her things down and made some gestures with her hands, clearly ushering Leandra into the room.
Suddenly it had dawned on Leandra where she must be.
Greece! I’m in Greece!
And if she were in Greece, there could be only one reason why…
Demos. This had something to do with Demos Atrides. It had to—it just had to.
Emotions had coursed through her. One, she knew, was relief. At the back of her mind a dark, hideous fear had been lurking, that she had been abducted and taken away to be white slaved to the Middle East, or worse…
But why had Demos brought her here? And by such extreme means? She wanted answers—fast!
‘Demos?’ she croaked.
But the woman only smiled and nodded, and made those movements with her hands again. With chilling realisation Leandra understood. The woman was deaf; she was signing.
A bubble of hysteria beaded in Leandra’s throat. There was no way she could communicate in sign language with a deaf Greek woman! Then, as a wave of faintness washed over her, the woman was taking her arm and gently guiding her inside the room, sitting her down on a large, soft sofa in front of an empty stone fireplace.
Leandra shut her eyes in confusion and faintness, only to open them again a few minutes later when the woman brought in a tray of food. Hunger clawed in her stomach, and she fell to, swiftly devouring the delicious freshly made bread and soup, washing it down with hot coffee.
A magazine on the lower shelf of the coffee table caught her eye. It was a fashion magazine in Cyrillic. More relief washed through her. She was definitely in Greece and this must definitely have something to do with Demos! But where was he?
She combed the villa. It wasn’t large, and it didn’t take long to realise the only person in it other than herself was the elderly housekeeper. Fighting back fear, Leandra headed off outside. Demos had to be somewhere!
The grounds consisted of an attractively landscaped Mediterranean-style garden, with no lawn but a lot of little stone-paved paths and beautifully tended plants and shrubs. Olive trees were dotted here and there, perhaps remnants of an original olive grove. Instinctively she headed towards the sea, making her way down a little stone path until she emerged some few minutes later on to the edge of a perfect crescent beach.
Leandra stopped dead. It was absolutely exquisite! Gentle waves broke on golden sand. On either side of the beach the land curved protectively, white gleaming limestone brilliant in the sun.
Looking back, she glanced towards the little villa, half hidden by the olive trees.
It was a gem of a place! Very private, very rustic, but with a simplicity that caught at the heart as much as the eye.
But of Demos there was no sign.
Apart from the housekeeper the only other human being was an elderly man watering plants, who must be her husband—and from the way he would only sign to her Leandra realised that he too was deaf.
Her face tightened and she felt fear claw at her again. Instinctively she skirted around the villa, determined to make her way to a public highway and thence to a village or taverna with a phone she could call London from and find out what on earth was going on! At least she had her purse with her, and somewhere she must be able to change money.
She halted dead. She could see no entrance to the villa, no drive leading to a public roadway. Nothing.
The grounds just seemed to stretch on, rising slightly as the contours of the land led gently upwards. She found a pathway and set off. Maybe she could cut across land and find a road further inland. There must be some sort of traffic passing, however remote this villa was. Judging by the absolute silence—not the hint of a sound of traffic, even from far away—it must be pretty remote, Leandra found herself thinking worriedly.
Resolutely she went on, gaining the top of the rise. She paused and looked down. There, below, nestled close to the beach, was the little villa. Beyond it she could see a flat, bare area of ground, the modern metal-framed hangar and windsock declaring it to be a helipad. Just below the helipad was a small cove, with a
