by the time it ended she would have learned to live with the pain.
In the distance, she heard the sound of a helicopter. She scrambled off the cushioned lounger and stood, staring upwards, her hand shading her eyes, her heart thumping against her ribcage.
It came in low enough for her to be aware of a figure—a face looking down at her—then descended towards the pad on the far side of the main house.
She took a deep, steadying breath, and thought, He’s here.
And now, as Vassilis had tactfully indicated, she must wait to be summoned.
Fright and excitement warred inside her for control. After a moment, she resumed her place on the lounger. She didn’t want to be found standing beside the pool as if she was planning to drown herself.
She picked up the magazine she’d been glancing through and tried to concentrate on it as the minutes dragged by.
It was over an hour later when Vassilis’s upright figure appeared in the gap in the high flowering hedge that divided the bungalow from the rest of the grounds.
He said in his careful English, ‘Mr Viannis presents his compliments to you, madam, and asks if you will dine with him this evening. He suggests ten o’clock.’
Six hours to go, Cressy thought. Draco was playing it cool. Whereas she might well become a nervous wreck.
Aloud, she said sedately, ‘Please thank Mr Viannis, and tell him I’d be delighted.’ She paused. ‘Am I to join him at the main house?’
‘Yes, madam. I shall conduct you there.’ He made her a small half-bow, and turned away.
Well, what had she expected? she asked herself with self-derision as she went back to her magazine. That Draco was going to rush to her side and smother her with kisses?
She was being taught her place, she thought, in one unequivocal lesson.
But, she told herself forlornly, she would have preferred the kisses.
She spent a lot of time that evening deciding what to wear. In the end she chose a cream silk shift, with boot-lace straps and a deeply slashed neckline that skimmed the inner curves of her breasts. The minimum of underwear and a pair of cream strappy sandals with high heels completed the outfit.
Dressing the part, she thought, as she brushed her hair to fall in a silky curtain on her shoulders. But wasn’t that what he was paying for?
She noticed that Vassilis kept his eyes discreetly lowered when he came to collect her.
It was a warm, sultry night, and the cicadas were busy as she walked through the garden. There were lights on inside the villa, and on the terrace which surrounded it.
One massive pair of sliding glass doors stood open, leading, she knew, to the saloni, and Vassilis paused outside, indicating politely that she should precede him into the lamplit room.
Lifting her chin, she obeyed, aware of him closing the doors behind her. Shutting her in.
He was standing at a side table, pouring himself a drink. He was wearing jeans, and a dark polo shirt, unbuttoned to reveal the shadowing of hair on his chest, and for a brief moment her heart lifted as she saw the lover she’d first met.
Then he turned and studied her, the firm mouth unsmiling, and she knew she was mistaken.
He said softly, ‘So, here you are.’
‘As you see,’ she said, masking her real emotions with flippancy. ‘Stripped, bathed, and brought to your tent.’
His tone was flat. ‘You are not amusing.’ He pointed to the cloudy liquid in his glass. ‘I am drinking ouzo. May I get you some?’
‘I’d prefer plain water.’
He gave her a cynical look. ‘How abstemious of you, agapi mou,’ he drawled. ‘You don’t feel that alcohol might dull the edge of your coming ordeal?’
‘Is that how you regard it?’
Draco shrugged. ‘I want you very badly.’ The dark eyes met hers in a frankly sensual challenge. ‘And I am not in the mood to make allowances.’
Her throat tightened. She was aware that her skin was tingling, her entire body stirring with irresistible excitement under its thin silken covering.
Faint colour rose in her face, but she didn’t look away.
She said, ‘I’ll take the risk.’
He lifted a sceptical brow, then turned back to the table, dropping ice cubes into a tumbler and filling it with water.
When he came across to give her the glass, Cressy felt her pulses surge. She thought that he would touch her, run his fingers down her bare arm, take her hand, kiss her mouth.
But he stepped back, lifting his own glass in a mocking salute. ‘To courage, pethi mou,’ he said, and drank.
They had dinner on the terrace, the table lit by glass-shaded candles. Vassilis brought them a light creamy soup, delicately flavoured with lemon, then fish baked with herbs, served with tiny potatoes and a green salad.
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