her right ankle. “Lean on me.”
Such was his effect on her, it simply never occurred to her to refuse. Pathetic, docile fool that she was, she complied without protest, resting a hand on his shoulder to keep her balance and raising first one foot, then the other.
“There,” he said, swiftly completing his task. “How’s that?”
The sand drifted cool and soft as flour against the soles of her feet and between her toes. “Heavenly,” she admitted on a sigh of relief. But oh, how disturbing, that he could so easily bend her to his will!
Releasing her left ankle, he grasped the full skirted hem of her dress and slid it up her calf. “Be careful not to trip over this. It would be a pity to see such a lovely thing damaged.”
He sounded matter-of-fact enough, but there was nothing the least bit matter-of-fact about the way she turned limp with pleasure as his fingers whispered impersonally against her leg. “What next?” she asked faintly, bunching the yards of filmy fabric in her fist.
“We’ll walk along the water’s edge and make our way back to the village. It’s only about three kilometers, and won’t take more than half an hour.”
In fact, it took close to two. How did it happen that, during that time, she found herself holding hands with him? That she frequently caught him looking at her as if he couldn’t get enough of the sight of her? That, every once in a while, he grazed his mouth over hers in a fleeting kiss?
When did she abandon the dry sand and decide instead to let the waves splash cool around her ankles, and not care that they sometimes soaked the bottom of her dress? At what point did he remove his shoes and socks, roll his trouser legs up to midcalf and join her?
She couldn’t say, nor did she care. It was enough that, for a few short hours, she believed in fairy tales; in a handsome prince discovering Cinderella and freeing her, just for a little while, from the cares of real life.
Even when the tile roofs of the village rose up against a horizon faintly touched with the hint of dawn, the magic didn’t end. Mikos led her past a fleet of fishing boats rocking against a wooden pier, to a kafenion set right on the beach itself. Its window shutters stood open, releasing the aroma of strong Greek coffee, and spilling yellow light onto several small iron tables and chairs set on a cobbled terrace.
“Have a seat,” Mikos invited, pulling back one of the chairs.
She sat and gave an involuntary shiver. The metal struck cold through the thin stuff of her dress, and now that she wasn’t moving, the morning air struck unpleasantly against her damp legs and feet.
Noticing, he removed his jacket and draped it around her shoulders before taking his place opposite. Like her, he was barefoot still. His bow tie hung loose around his neck, his shirt collar open at the throat. Damp and salt-stained, his trouser legs hung in wrinkles about his ankles, their former knife-sharp crease washed away by the sea, but although he might have ruined what was surely a thousand-dollar dinner suit, he still carried himself with that leisurely self-confidence that made him stand out from the crowd.
Just then, the coffee shop owner appeared. “This is probably stronger than what you’re used to,” Mikos remarked, after the man had served them each a glass of water and a thimble-size cup filled with a black, evil-looking brew topped with a light layer of brownish foam, “but it’s how we Greeks like our coffee, especially when we’ve been up all night.”
“It’s fine,” she said, controlling a grimace as it ate a corrosive path over the lining of her stomach. “Um…do you have to work today?”
“No. My weekends are mine to do with as I please. What about you?”
My time’s my own, as well, she thought, swallowing half the contents of the water glass in one gulp. Then remembering why she was supposed to be in Athens, said, “I’ll go over my notes and get started on my article.”
“After you catch up on your sleep, of course.”
“Of course,” she echoed, her fairy tale morphing into reality when he didn’t follow up by suggesting they meet later on in the day.
Instead he cradled his demitasse in his hand—the cups hadn’t come with saucers, she noticed—settled his big frame on the uncomfortable little chair with the casual grace of a cat lounging on a cushion, and gave her his undivided attention. “Were you able to get enough material to satisfy your editor?”
You don’t have to bring me back anything, Gina, you know that, Lorne MacDonald, her former boss had told her, when she appealed to him for a press pass to get her into the Tyros birthday bash. I’m happy to help you out any way I can. But if it clears your conscience any, give me something I can publish—names of the rich and famous, what the women wore, what they were eating and drinking, who was cosying up to whom. You know the drill. You did it well and often enough in the old days.
“Not really,” she told Mikos. “I was hoping I’d get the chance to interview Mr. Tyros in person, but I suppose that was expecting too much.”
“Definitely,” he said. “Angelo seldom grants private interviews anymore. But if you have questions, I can probably answer them, so fire away.”
Oh, she had questions, although she seriously doubted he, or anyone but Angelo Tyros himself, could provide the answers! But this much she did know: one way or another, she’d find a way to corner the miserable old goat and force him to meet her demands. She hadn’t depleted her savings account and come all this way, just to go home empty-handed. There was too much at stake.
CHAPTER THREE
HE WATCHED her closely, veiling his scrutiny behind dark, reflective glasses as the sun conveniently inched above the horizon just enough to warrant his wearing them. “Don’t be shy, Gina,” he said. “Ask me anything. Anything at all.”
She took another sip of coffee and shuddered at its taste. “You mentioned he was a widower. Was he married just the one time?”
He couldn’t hold back his grin. His employer’s appetite for women was legendary. At the same time, it struck him as odd that she’d been sent on foreign assignment and not bothered to do her research beforehand. Five minutes on the Internet would reveal that Angelo had definitely been to the altar more than once. “Make that five times,” he told her. “His first wife, the mother of his son, died in her forties. He divorced the second and third within a year of marrying them, the fourth after six months and outlived the fifth who passed away eight years ago.”
“Is he likely to marry again, do you think?”
“It’s entirely possible. Angelo doesn’t like being alone, and he does very much like beautiful women.”
Gina’s laugh, brittle as ice cracking under pressure, struck a discordant note. “In other words, he uses them.”
“No,” he said flatly. “That is not what I said, and I caution you to exercise great accuracy when quoting me.”
Bright spots of color stained her cheeks. Clearly stung by his rebuke, she turned to study the fishermen tending their nets. “I apologize. Rest assured I shall treat my subject with all the respect he deserves,” she replied stiffly.
His jacket had slipped to reveal her long, graceful neck and sweetly rounded shoulders. She wore her
