didn’t go down to dinner; Anna without comment brought her a crab salad on a tray an hour later, but she didn’t eat any of it. She went to bed early and didn’t sleep much.
She got up at dawn and went down to the beach as usual in the first primrose light of day, half hoping that Max might be there, half nervous in case he came. If they could talk, surely he would see—realise—that the years between them didn’t matter that much. He had thought she was older, hadn’t he? The essential person she was hadn’t changed just because he now knew she was only seventeen. How old was he? she wondered, as she had wondered all night, during her waking hours of darkness. Late twenties? Thirty? Not much more than that.
OK, it was a big gap, but when she was twenty-five he would still be in his thirties, so it wasn’t so terrible, was it? Men often married girls who were much younger than themselves. A lot of the businessmen who visited her father here brought much younger wives along with them.
If she could only talk to Max—but time passed, and he didn’t show up; the beach was as empty as usual. She sunbathed and swam, sat staring out to sea feeling depressed. It would have been such fun to sail that beautiful white bird of a boat again today, to feel the sea swell under their feet and the wind in their hair, the maquis scent drifting out to meet them from Paki, to go diving maybe, when they arrived, and investigate the underwater caves. Olivia was a trained diver; she loved to explore the depths of the lake she lived beside, or the clear blue seas around Corfu.
She sighed, remembering the feel of Max’s waist in her arms, the feel of his thighs pressing against hers as they rode along on the bike.
She should have known it couldn’t be real—that exciting feeling in the pit of her stomach, the quiver of awareness every time he looked at her. She had been kidding herself. She was crazy.
Or was she?
Hadn’t Max felt something too? He wouldn’t have been so angry otherwise, would he, if he hadn’t been attracted to her? She thought of the way his eyes had smiled at her, the way he had watched her on the beach early that morning, the way he had kissed her, his hands lingering as they touched her cheek, her throat, that soft brush of his fingers over her breast.
Colour crept up her face at the mere memory. She had been so deeply aware of him as a man, how could he not have been aware of her in the same way? Maybe she had imagined it. After all, she had never had a real boyfriend—only danced with boys at discos and had the odd kiss in a dark corner at a party. But could she have imagined everything that happened? The looks, the smiles, the tone of his deep, inviting voice?
Oh, what was the use of fooling herself? He had probably been nice to her for her father’s sake! And now he knew that, far from pleasing her father, he had annoyed him, he would probably be distantly polite to her for the rest of his stay.
She walked back up to the villa and showered and changed for breakfast. As she was coming downstairs again she met her father, who gave her a hard, frowning glance.
‘I want a word with you. Come into my study.’
Like a schoolgirl in front of the headmaster she stood while her father leaned against his desk, his arms folded. His gaze flicked down over her in that cold distaste he had shown when she returned with Max the previous day.
In a remote voice Gerald Faulton said, ‘You should not have gone off all day with Max Agathios. You know that, don’t you? It was reckless and foolhardy. You know nothing about the man.’
Flushed and upset, she burst out, ‘We sailed to Paki, he caught some fish and we cooked it and ate it on board, then sailed back. Nothing else happened.’ That wasn’t the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but she wasn’t telling him about the tenderness of that kiss, the brief brush of Max’s hand on her breast. Her father wouldn’t understand; he would leap to all the wrong conclusions.
‘I’m relieved to hear it,’ her father said, still distantly, then added in a dry voice, ‘But he has something of a reputation with women. I might trust him as a businessman, but not with a woman, and he knew very well that he shouldn’t take you out without getting my permission first.’ Gerald’s mouth twisted sardonically. ‘Believe me, if he were your father, Max Agathios would never trust you with a man like himself!’
Red-cheeked, Olivia muttered, ‘You’re making too much fuss about nothing. In this day and age it is ridiculous…’
‘I assure you, most Greek men would be just as protective towards their young daughters. They wouldn’t allow them to go off sailing alone, especially with someone like Max Agathios. They have more sense, and they understand their own sex. Left alone with an attractive woman, any man is tempted and, believe me, Max would never try this on with the daughter of one of his Greek friends.’
That wounded her. She knew it was true; she had far more freedom than many of the daughters of her father’s local business friends. It hurt to think that Max had treated her with less respect than he would treat a Greek girl.
‘What am I to do when I see him, then?’ she asked miserably. ‘Ignore him? After all, he is your guest…’
‘Not any more,’ her father said curtly. ‘He has left and he won’t be coming back.’
Olivia had been nerving herself to see Max again; she had sat on the beach and tried to work out what to say to him, how to thaw that hard, angry face back into human warmth. Now she felt as if a trapdoor had opened under her feet and she had dropped through into black, empty space.
He had gone, without even saying goodbye. She would probably never see him again.
Her father watched her pale face. ‘And I shall have to be leaving tomorrow too, I’m afraid. Urgent business in Athens. There is no point in coming back either, my holiday is more or less over. So I’ve booked you on a flight tomorrow too, back to England.’
MONTHS later, Olivia discovered why Max Agathios had paid that sudden, unexpected visit to her father. One of her friends at school showed her a newspaper whose business pages carried a story about Max’s shipping company.
‘Your father sold this Greek guy some old ships, Loll, and now he’s been made a director of the Greek company, it says here. And just look at the photo of the Greek guy!’ Julie sighed noisily, gazing at the rather fuzzy picture of Max at the centre of the newsprint. ‘If you ever meet him, tell him I think he’s dead sexy.’
Olivia took the paper and sat down on the grass beside the tennis court on which they would shortly be playing. Julie turned her attention to the game in progress.
‘Come on, you two! Speed it up! We’re booked in here in five minutes!’ she shouted at the girls playing, who yelled back rudely.
Olivia was reading the story with intent concentration. Julie had given her the gist of it succinctly enough: Max had bought two freight ships and a car ferry from her father earlier this year, the story ran, and now her father had been appointed to the board of directors of Agathios Kera, the shipping line operated by Max.
The story also told her something else—that Max and his brother Constantine had quite separate companies, and were in direct competition with each other, running ferries and freight ships between
