her explanation. ‘Don’t you understand, Iannis? It was an ideal that captured my heart, my imagination. You remain anonymous all the way through. The fisherman of Iskos is never named—’
He cut her off with a sharp sound of derision. ‘If you believe that, you are more of a fool than I took you for. You claim to be a journalist—’ He put up his hand to silence her when she tried to interrupt. ‘By your own admission you work for a magazine.’
‘Yes—yes, I do.’
‘Then you can hardly claim to be ignorant of the term paparazzi.’
‘Paparazzi!’ Charlotte’s short laugh touched on hysteria and she raked stiff fingers through her hair. Wheeling away from him, she struggled to make some sense of his accusation.
‘Don’t pretend innocence now,’ Iannis warned. ‘You are in far too deep.’
‘I am in too deep,’ Charlotte agreed, hearing her voice break as she whirled around to face him. ‘And you’re quite right—it does show what a fool I’ve been. But let me put your mind at rest, Iannis. I am a bona fide journalist. I am not a member of the paparazzi, nor have I ever been one. I can assure you of that. How dare you accuse me of such a thing? Take my article,’ she said, thrusting it towards him. ‘Show it to anyone you choose. But why don’t you read it yourself first? Really read it. Then perhaps you will see how much I admire you. And when you have read it—if you can understand anything I have written—then perhaps you’ll regret what you’ve done here. Or maybe not—maybe you’re just not capable of feeling anything at all. Now, get out! Get out!’ she repeated furiously when he just stood looking at her.
She had no intention whatsoever of letting him see her cry.
IANNIS poured himself another beer, and then sat down again at the small dining table in the cottage. After the worst day of his life—a day he had spent doing all the normal things he’d promised himself he would get through before reading anything she had written—he had been up all night with the pages of Charlotte’s article spread out in front of him. His mobile phone was by his side, the number already keyed in, but he couldn’t bring himself to ring—not yet. Not until he had read every word she had written once more, and slowly this time. He owed Charlotte that much before he set the wheels in motion to bring her whole world crashing down around her ears.
It was almost dawn. Charlotte knew that because she could hear the first bird singing outside her bedroom window. Soon it would be light—the strange lemon-tinted light that always heralded a new day on Iskos. She buried her head into the pillows, wishing the night could last for ever. But it wouldn’t, and Charlotte tossed the thought away as her survival instinct kicked in.
She had to look on the bright side: with no distractions she could polish the article, tidy the villa and pack. What had happened the day before seemed like a bad dream now—a nightmare. But if she was in over her head with Iannis Kiriakos she had no one to blame but herself.
In over her head? Charlotte padded across the cool tiled floor to open the shutters, knowing without any doubt at all that she was in love with Iannis. What was the use in pretending? Leaning out of the window, she gave a wry grimace. Irony had triumphed in the end. She had been so busy wondering whether she could adapt to a simpler life—his pride was something she had never even considered.
She frowned, remembering how Iannis seemed to imagine everyone would ridicule him for choosing to live a simple life, and drew a shuddering breath to think how mistaken he was. ‘They…would…envy…you!’ she called to the empty seashore. But only silence came back at her—the same silence Charlotte knew would be hers until she left Iskos for good.
Iannis glanced at his wrist-watch, as he had been doing every few minutes for the past hour. It was just after five. Charlotte would be asleep, but how much longer could he wait?
He had combed her article meticulously throughout the night, looking for any hint of sensationalism or ridicule, but had come to the same conclusion every time. She had written a love story with the simple fisherman of Iskos at its heart. Far from the exposé he had feared, Charlotte had taken a tender and sometimes whimsical look at his life—and her view of it, had it been only half true, would have meant he was indeed the happiest and most fortunate of men. But it was flimflam—nothing more than the wishful thinking of an impressionable young woman.
Harsh reality would intrude soon enough, he realised bitterly. After a shower and a change of clothes he would go up to the villa to see her—have it out with her, explain why the article had to be pulled. Then at least his conscience would be clear.
But as he picked up the small film card and turned it over in his hand a spear of doubt entered his mind. Maybe she had only intended to use the photographs for the article —but how could he be sure? And could he afford to take that risk? Words could be dealt with—withdrawn before the magazine went to print, discredited by dismissing them as gutter-press drivel. But photographs were impossible to refute, and could be sold on to others with a very different agenda. They supplied hard evidence that even he would find impossible to deny. Experience proved photographs could be flashed around the world at the click of a mouse. How many more cards like this one did she have stashed away?
Trust was the one luxury he could not afford, Iannis thought grimly as he pushed back from the table.
Charlotte was certain Iannis was close by. She knew from the change in the air and from the subtle current that swept through her, leaving her more aware, more alive.
She froze in the middle of sweeping under the bed. There was, of course, nothing to sweep. Marianna had finished work for the week, and always left the villa spotlessly clean, but Charlotte had to do something to fill in the time before she left. It hardly seemed possible that only a day ago she had been trying to hold time at bay. Now she was ticking off the minutes to her departure.
Straightening up, she went across to the window. Iannis was almost at the door, dressed casually in jeans, a shirt and desert boots, his hair still damp from the shower, his face unshaven. There was no time to do anything about her own appearance, Charlotte realised self-consciously, bringing a hand up to smooth her hair. Her feet were bare. She had dressed for cleaning—nothing more.
She saw the manuscript in his hand, as well as the film card. He had come to apologise! A bubble of anticipation formed inside her, only to burst when she opened the door and saw the expression on his face.
‘May I come in?’
Charlotte felt a chill sweep over her as she moved aside to let him pass.
He walked straight into the kitchen and, moving aside the bowl of fresh flowers she had put there, left the article next to her laptop. Swinging around, he showed her the film card in the palm of his hand.
‘Thank you for returning—’
‘Are there any more of these?’ he demanded coldly.
‘I’m sorry—?’
‘You will be, if you’re hiding any more.’
Before she could stop him he went over to the kitchen drawers and started dragging them open.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Charlotte exclaimed angrily. ‘Stop
