grew lighter as memories crowded close. Happy memories, for it was here her family had gathered year after year for a month’s vacation.
Drops of bright colour in the olive grove caught her eye and she remembered picking wildflowers there, plonking them in her grandmother’s priceless crystal vases, where they’d be displayed as proudly as if they were professional floral arrangements. Swimming with her parents down in the clear green waters of their private cove. Sitting under the shade of the colonnade that ran around three sides of the courtyard while Papou had taught her to play tavli, clicking the counters around the board so quickly his hand seemed to blur before her eyes.
They were gone now, all of them.
Emma stumbled to a halt, pain shearing through her middle, transfixing her.
She took a deep breath and forced herself to walk on. Yes, they’d died, but they’d taught her the value of living life to the full, and of love. Even now she felt that love as if the old estate that had been in Papou’s family for years wrapped her in its embrace.
Rounding the curve in the long drive, she caught sight of the villa. It showed its age, like a gracious old lady, still elegant despite the years. Its walls were a muted tone between blush-pink and palest orange that glowed softly in the afternoon light. The tall wooden window shutters gleamed with new forest-green paint but the ancient roof tiles had weathered to a grey that looked as ancient as the stone walls edging the olive grove. Despite being a couple of hundred years old, the place was well-maintained. Papou wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Nor would Emma. She was its owner now. She stood, looking at the fine old house and feeling a swell of pride and belonging she’d never felt for her grandparents’ Melbourne place. This was the home of her heart, she realised. With precious memories of her parents.
A tickle of an idea began to form in her tired brain. Maybe, just maybe, this could be more than a temporary refuge before she returned to Australia. Perhaps...
Her thoughts trailed off as the front door opened and a woman appeared, lifting her hand to shade her face.
‘Miss Emma?’
The familiar sound of Dora Panayiotis’s heavy accent peeled the years right back. Suddenly Emma was a scrawny kid again. She left her bag and hurried forward into sturdy, welcoming arms.
‘Dora!’ She hugged the housekeeper back, her exhaustion forgotten. ‘It’s so good to see you.’
‘And you, Miss Emma. Welcome home.’
* * *
Emma flicked her sodden hair off her face as she reached for the towel, rubbing briskly till her skin tingled. Early rain had cleared to a sparkling bright afternoon and she hadn’t been able to resist the lure of the white sand cove at the bottom of the garden. Turquoise shallows gave way to teal-green depths that enticed far more than the pool up beside the house.
Since arriving she’d sunk into the embrace of the villa’s familiarity, feeling that, after all, part of her old life remained. How precious that was.
For four days she’d let Dora feed her delicious food and done nothing more taxing than swim, sleep and eat.
Until today, when she’d woken to discover her brain teeming with ideas for her future. A future where, for a change, she did what she wanted, not what others expected.
A future here, at the villa that was her birthright.
For the first time since the funeral and her disastrous wedding day, Emma felt a flicker of her natural optimism.
Her training was in business and event management. She was good it and had recently won a coveted job at an upmarket vineyard and resort that she’d turned down when she married because she planned to move to Athens with Christo.
Emma suppressed a shiver and yanked her thoughts back to her new future.
She’d work for herself. The gracious old villa with its private grounds and guest accommodation was perfect, not only for holidays but as an exclusive, upmarket venue for private celebrations. That would be where she’d pitch her efforts.
Corfu was the destination of choice for many holiday makers. With hard work and good marketing, she could create a niche business that would offer a taste of old-world charm with modern luxury and panache.
It would be hard work, a real challenge, but she needed that, she realised.
Wasn’t that what she’d always done? Kept herself busy whenever she faced another loss so that she had no choice but to keep going? It was her way of coping, of not sinking under the weight of grief. She’d adapted to a new life in a new state with her grandparents after her parents had died. She’d taken on the challenge of supporting Papou after her grandmother’s death.
It was easier to focus on the ideas tumbling in her brain than the searing pain deep inside. To pretend Christo hadn’t broken her heart and undermined her self-confidence with his casual dismissal.
Emma’s mouth set in a tight line. She was still angry and hurt but now she had a plan, something tangible to work towards. That would be her lifeline. Today for the first time she no longer felt she’d shatter at the slightest touch.
Today she’d contact a lawyer about a divorce and getting back her property and—
‘Miss Emma!’
She turned to see Dora hurrying around the rocks at the end of the private beach. Her face was flushed and her hands twisted.
Emma’s heart slammed against her ribs. She knew distress when she saw it, had been on the receiving end of bad news enough to recognise it instantly. Foreboding swamped her. She started forward, hand outstretched, her beach towel falling to the ground. Was it her aunt or uncle? Not Maia, surely?
‘I came to warn you,’ Dora gasped. ‘Your—’
‘There’s no need for that, Mrs Panayiotis.’ The deep voice with its bite of ice came from behind the housekeeper. ‘I’m perfectly capable of speaking for myself.’
Then he appeared—tall, broad-shouldered and steely-eyed. Christo Karides.
Emma’s husband.
Her heart slammed to a stop, her feet taking root in the sand. The atmosphere darkened as if storm clouds had covered the sun. Was it the effect of his inimical stare? For a second she couldn’t breathe, an invisible band constricting her lungs as she stared into that face, so familiar and yet so different.
Then, abruptly, her heart started pumping harder than before. She sucked in a faltering breath.
He was still the most handsome man she’d ever seen with his coal-black hair and olive-gold skin contrasting with clear, slate-blue eyes. Eyes that right now seared her right down to the soles of her feet.
Desperately Emma tried for dispassionate as she surveyed those proud features that looked like they’d been etched by a master’s hand. Strong nose, square jaw, the tiniest hint of a cleft in that determined chin. Only the small silvered scar beside his mouth, barely visible, marred all that masculine perfection. Perversely, it accentuated how good-looking Christo really was.
Handsome is as handsome
