discreet enquiries of Marianna, who worked at the villa and seemed to know everything about everyone on the island. So far, though, Charlotte thought confidently, the signs were looking good—delectable, unattached male with perfect body for lonely journalist’s entertainment. For research purposes only, naturally.
He could easily have passed for one of the Ancient Greek gods—except they’d been too petty and far too pretty, she decided. She cast him instead as Jason, the Argonauts’ legendary leader, instantly elevating the small blue and white fishing boat to the fifty-oared Argo—though it was too great a stretch even for Charlotte’s imagination to pass off her threadbare pyjamas as the Golden Fleece. And what was she going to do about her pyjamas? They remained firmly in his grasp.
She closed her eyes, waiting for her heart to calm down, and then, feeling his stare on her face, knew she hadn’t pulled back sufficiently behind the screen of rock.
Snapping her eyes open, Charlotte raised her voice so there could be no mistake. ‘Throw them over here!’
Glaring at him furiously when he made no response, she found herself caught in a hypnotic gaze. It was hard and cynical: the gaze of a connoisseur, disturbingly knowing.
Charlotte made one last attempt to call to him—in a softer voice this time, hoping to appeal to his better nature.
With a smile, she gestured airily towards the pyjamas.
He took a menacing step towards her.
‘Stay there!’ she shouted, alarmingly conscious of her own nakedness.
The fisherman stopped, and slouched comfortably on one hip.
He was enjoying her predicament, Charlotte realised, and, worse, appeared content to wait for as long as it took until she was forced to come out of hiding and claim her clothes.
She watched him shrug, and saw that the curve of his lips held no humour, that his dark stare was unwavering. But then an explanation occurred to her, and she knew she should have thought of it sooner. Of course—he didn’t understand what she was saying!
Hissing with frustration, Charlotte wondered what to do next. She didn’t speak Greek, so they were never going to get anywhere.
‘Why don’t you come here and get them?’ the fisherman suddenly challenged her, in barely accented English.
CHARLOTTE drew back abruptly. Whatever else she had been expecting it certainly wasn’t this easy command of her own language.
His voice was almost at the same level as the whispering surf, yet still managed to resonate with all the assurance she associated with rampant masculinity.
He spoke English so well… Tourists, Charlotte realised, cursing her sluggish brain cells. Of course he spoke English fluently—what had she expected him to speak? Ancient Greek?
No doubt he would have a good laugh about this encounter later in the local taverna. But if she was to make this the opportunity she had been waiting for she had to swallow her pride. With hardly any time left on the island, she still had an article to write and her self-esteem to rebuild. She had to make a start.
Now she knew he spoke her language she could be more direct. Tilting her chin in defiance, Charlotte stepped out of her hiding place. ‘Hand my pyjamas over right now! And don’t even think of accusing me of interfering with your catch. I’ve got every bit as much right to swim here as—’
The diatribe froze on her lips. The beach was deserted and the fisherman nowhere to be seen.
Frowning, Charlotte turned a full circle. But the man had disappeared as surely as if he really had been a figment of her imagination. The only proof he had ever existed lay in the fact that her pyjamas had been moved from the beach, where she had thrown them, to a rocky shelf protruding from the cliff-face. Relief and disappointment swept over her in turn until, remembering the fishing boat moored close by the shore, she snatched up her clothes and crawled between the rocks to get dressed.
Iannis climbed soundlessly and with the ease of long practice. Reaching for one final handhold, he swung himself over the cliff-edge and sprang to his feet.
Who was she? From his vantage point high above the beach he could see little more than the top of the young woman’s head. He watched as she flicked the water-slicked hair away from her face with the fast, fluid movements of a dancer.
He was forced to acknowledge that she had a graceful carriage, and gave a reluctant smile as he remembered how high and proud she had held her head when she emerged from behind her rock shelter. Not quite like Aphrodite from the waves—she was too rebellious for that—but just as beautiful. But she appeared utterly unconcerned by her actions, and that made him angry. If he had stayed behind to make something of the encounter, what then? Would she have remained so brazen?
A muscle ground in his jaw as he turned to go. Why should he care?
Because not only did she irritate him, she intrigued him, he realised, starting to move away from the edge. There was something undeniably provocative about a beautiful woman prepared to face him down. The way she flaunted herself was a challenge he couldn’t ignore: it urged him to test her boundaries. Perhaps she had none. Perhaps he would make it his business to find out. But first he had to find out who she was. Someone would be able to tell him: Iskos was a small island, and very few tourists came to visit in the autumn.
Before leaving he turned to watch her walking rapidly across the beach. She was making for the cliff path that led up towards the villa she must be renting. His eyes narrowed. She would have to come almost right past him if he stayed where he was.
There was something strangely vulnerable about her now, in contrast to the impression she had given down on the beach, Iannis realised, feeling his interest stir. Her pyjamas were wet with seawater and clumped wetly around her ankles—was that it?
As he continued to watch his mouth firmed. Had she never heard of swimming costumes? Or was it just too much trouble to put one on? Either way, it showed scant regard for the traditions of Iskos, where single women didn’t even go out unescorted, let alone bathe naked in the sea. Thank God she was no concern of his!
He made to go, then stopped again. Theos! She had the most provocative figure he had seen in a long time. It might not be fashionable to possess such well-shaped thighs, or such buttocks, but her lush curves defied fashion. And her breasts—! Iannis swung away, determined to push the troubling image aside.
But it was already too late. The face and form of the mystery woman were branded on his mind. She was a voluptuous temptress who had curled around his senses and left a calling card of desire, he realised, feeling his appetite sharpen. And he would call on her, he decided, slowing as he reached the fragrant shade of the pine trees. She was clearly a player—and if she was looking for a playmate he could certainly accommodate her. But at a time of his own choosing, not hers.
They were within yards of each other now, but Iannis had the cover of the trees to his advantage. The subterfuge gave him no satisfaction. When he saw a woman he liked he moved fast and in the open. But something about this one stood between them like an invisible barrier. Maybe the vulnerability he had sensed earlier. Whatever it was, it prevented him from confronting her as effectively as if she had used an army to keep them apart.
