to the inquisitive stare of the passport officer, he urged her forward. ‘Do it,’ he said. ‘Show him your identification. I will wait for you in the Customs hall.’
Still a little unnerved, Sylvie did as she was told, mildly alarmed by her tacit obedience to his wishes. Was this what Margot had meant when she said Greek men were not like Englishmen? Certainly she could not imagine any man of her acquaintance behaving so arrogantly towards a virtual stranger. It all added to the feeling of alienation that had possessed her, ever since she saw him standing there, as she now knew waiting for her—or waiting for Margot, which was just the same—and she was beginning to realise just how reckless she had been in agreeing to come here.
He was waiting for her beside her suitcases, apparently having arranged that she should be discharged with the minimum amount of fuss. Another man was with him, and her heart sank at the expectation that this might be yet another brother, come to censure her, but his black uniform dispelled her apprehensions. He was evidently a chauffeur, and she hoped with eager urgency that he might be in Leon’s employ, and that her interrogation by Andreas Petronides would soon be over.
‘Come.’
Clearly that time wasn’t quite yet, and Sylvie was obliged to accompany Leon’s brother out into the brilliant sunshine that bathed the airport. The chauffeur had taken possession of her cases, and they were stowed into the boot of a silver-grey limousine waiting for them, and then Andreas stood back politely to allow her to precede him into the capacious back of the car.
Sylvie hesitated. ‘Leon—–’ she began, feeling the need for some reassurance, but Andreas merely gestured more forcibly, and she was obliged to obey him once again.
The limousine was air-conditioned, and after the sticky heat outside Sylvie could not suppress the sigh of relief that escaped her. It was only as the chauffeur seated himself behind the wheel in the partitioned driving compartment, and the car began moving, that she realised she had asked for no identification, and her lips parted anxiously at the awareness of her folly.
But, even as she turned towards the man beside her, he spoke, and what he said temporarily robbed her of any other consideration. ‘Now, you will tell me when Margot intends to join us,’ he ordered harshly, ‘or is she so without conscience that not even the knowledge of her husband’s illness is sufficient to bring her home?’
SYLVIE stared at him for several minutes after he had finished speaking, and then, realising her scrutiny might be misconstrued, she looked down blindly at her hands gripping her bag. Was he serious? Was Leon really ill? And Margot knew about it!
‘Now you are going to tell me you did not know, am I right?’ he intoned contemptuously, shifting restlessly in his seat. ‘Do not bother. I shall not believe you.’
‘But it’s true!’ She looked up then, forced to defend herself, and met the disturbing impact of sceptical dark eyes. ‘I didn’t know. How—how could I?’ She paused. ‘Does Margot know?’
‘Does Margot know?’ he repeated grimly, settling himself lower in his seat and spreading his drawn-up knees, confined by the limitations of the space available. ‘Oh, yes, Margot knows. Why else did she send you here?’
‘I thought I was coming to look after Nikos for a few weeks,’ Sylvie retorted, stung by his insolence and his hostility. ‘Margot didn’t tell me anything else.’ She hesitated. ‘But if I’m not needed, why don’t you take me straight back to the airport? I believe there’s a flight—–’
‘Wait!’ His tone was less aggressive than weary now, and she looked at him apprehensively, prepared for another outburst. ‘Do you expect me to believe that you knew nothing about Leon’s operation? That Margot told you only that Nikos needed a nursemaid?’
Sylvie shrugged. ‘It’s the truth, whether you believe it or not.’
He said a word then in his own language, that even she, with her minuscule knowledge of Greek, knew was not polite. But, after resting his head against the soft leather upholstery for a few moments, he levered himself upright in his seat.
‘Poli kala,’ he said, and it was only when he spoke his own language that she realised how little accent he possessed in hers, ‘I believe you. But that does not solve the situation.’
To evade her own awareness of his disturbingly intent gaze, Sylvie hastened into speech. ‘Leon,’ she said, torturing the strap of her bag, ‘what’s wrong with him? I—I can’t believe that Margot thought it was anything serious.’
Andreas’s thin mouth turned down at the corners. ‘Do you not? But are not all heart operations serious, ohi?’
‘Leon has a heart condition?’ Sylvie gasped. ‘I—I don’t know what to say.’
Andreas studied her troubled features for some minutes, bringing a wave of hot colour up her neck and over her face, and then, as if taking pity on her, he looked down at his hands hanging loosely between his knees. ‘Leon had rheumatic fever when he was a child,’ he said, without expression. ‘Recently it was discovered that the valves of his heart were not functioning properly, so an operation was advised.’
Sylvie shook her head. ‘And—and Nikos?’
Andreas shrugged. ‘Nikos is—Nikos. He has been staying with my mother and father, while Leon was in the hospital.’ He sighed. ‘Now that Leon has left the hospital, Margot was to accompany them home.’
‘Oh God!’
Sylvie could not have felt worse. How could Margot have done this—to her, and to Leon? Didn’t she care how he was? Hadn’t she felt the need to go and see him, while he was in the hospital? It was no wonder that Andreas had been stunned to find her at the airport. And she dreaded to think what his parents would say when she turned up in Margot’s place.
Turning her head, she stared blindly out of the window. The eight miles between the airport and the city were over, and already they were climbing through the narrow streets that formed the suburbs. Seedy hotels, and uninspiring shops and cafés, gave way to the modern heart of the city, where tree-lined squares were lined with canopied chairs and tables, and marble buildings, breathing an air of antiquity, jostled with tourist stores and travel agencies, and the pseudo-Renaissance palace, used for official functions.
Sylvie started, when Andreas suddenly leaned forward and rapped on the glass partition. The chauffeur slid the partition aside, and they exchanged a few words in their own language. Then, after giving Sylvie a vaguely speculative look, the chauffeur closed the partition again, and braking abruptly, turned off the main thoroughfare into a sun-dappled square. There were trees in the middle of the square, providing a shadowy oasis, where mothers could walk their children; but towering above it was one of the new skyscraper blocks, whose concrete and glass influence could be felt in all the capital cities of the world.
The chauffeur brought the Mercedes to a halt at the foot of the shallow steps leading up to the swinging glass doors of the tall building, but when Sylvie would have moved to get out Andreas’s hand, more gently this time, stayed her.
‘This is not where my parents live,’ he said, slowly and deliberately, and while she was absorbing this he went on heavily: ‘I think it would be best if I spoke to my parents—to my brother—first, before
