his condolences had apparently gone a long way to mending the rift between them.
A more cynical man might wonder if Sam’s amazing change of fortune had had anything to do with his daughter’s change of heart. Despite the fact that his background as a wine importer in England had had little to do with the actual cultivation of the grapes, meeting Maya and subsequently taking over her family’s failing vineyard had made him a wealthy man. During the past ten years, Ambeli Kouros , as the vineyard was known, had gone from strength to strength and Sam Campbell had become a much respected man on the island.
A girl appeared as the ferry was docking, pushing her way through the crowd of passengers to join Helen at the rail. Not her daughter, he assured himself, despite their apparent familiarity. In a black tee shirt with some logo sprawled across the front and baggy black jeans that pooled around her ankles, she was the type of visitor Milos thought the island could well do without. Black lipstick, hair sprayed a lurid shade of green, a semi-circle of piercings etching her ears, she was as different from Helen as it was possible to be.
Skata , he thought, waiting for her to be claimed by the group of backpack-toting teenagers that were hustling to disembark. This was one of those occasions when he wished his family owned the whole island and not just a large part of it.
A wooden gangplank was run out from the quay and as the passengers moved towards it Milos saw the girl speak to Helen. He couldn’t make out what she said, of course, but it appeared it wasn’t something Helen wanted to hear. There was a brief heated exchange and then they both joined the rapidly decreasing exodus.
Milos blew out a breath. No, he told himself shortly. He was prepared to accept that travelling could promote the most unlikely friendships and that creature could not be Helen’s daughter.
Whatever, they were coming down the gangplank now and his eyes were irresistibly drawn to Helen’s flushed face. Was she hot? he wondered. Certainly, the skirt and jacket she was wearing were unsuitable attire for this climate. But was that the only reason she looked so distrait?
She’d cut her hair, he noticed, with a pang he quickly suppressed. But she was still as slim and lovely as ever. Would she recognise him? It had been over fourteen years, after all. Was he flattering himself in thinking she might remember him as well as he remembered her?
And then their eyes met and held, and the breath he’d hardly been aware he was holding got caught somewhere in the back of his throat. Theos , she remembered him all right. Why else would there be such a mixture of fear and loathing in her eyes?
‘Who’s that?’
Without her being aware of it, Melissa had noticed her distraction, and Helen managed to drag her eyes away from Milos’s and say with admirable restraint, ‘Who’s who?’
‘That man,’ said Melissa flatly, hauling her backpack higher on her shoulder. ‘Come on, Mum. He’s staring at us. He’s not your dad, is he?’
Helen gave a nervous little laugh. ‘Hardly,’ she said, acknowledging that only she could know the irony of that statement. ‘His name’s Milos Stephanides. Your grandfather must have sent him to meet us.’
‘Yeah?’ Melissa arched dark brows that were so exactly like her father’s that Helen felt a momentary pang. ‘So how do you know him?’
‘Oh…’ This was not a conversation Helen wanted to be having right now. ‘I met him—years ago. Your grandfather asked him to look us up when he was on a visit to England.’ She moistened her dry lips. ‘That—that was before you were born, of course.’
‘And he still remembers you?’ Melissa reflected consideringly. ‘What happened? Don’t tell me my stiff-assed mother actually had a thing for a sexy Greek labourer!’
‘No!’ Helen was horrified, glancing about her to make sure no one else had heard her daughter’s coarse words. ‘And as far as I know, he’s not a labourer. He just works for your grandfather, that’s all.’
‘Well, what else is there to do on a farm?’ asked Melissa impatiently, and Helen sighed.
‘It’s not a farm.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Melissa gave her a sardonic look. ‘You’re not going to tell me.’ She snorted. ‘I should have had more sense than to ask.’
Helen had no time to answer that. They’d reached the stone quay and Milos was coming towards them. He was wearing a loose-fitting shirt, open halfway down his chest, she noticed, and black chinos that hugged his narrow hips and only hinted at the power of his long legs. He looked good, she thought uneasily. Dear God, it was devastating how good he looked. Cool and dark—was his hair a little longer than she remembered? But so horribly familiar, his lean handsome face the one that had haunted her dreams for all these years.
She badly wanted to turn tail and get back on the ferry. She’d known all along it was a risk coming here, but how had she been supposed to know that his would be the first face she’d see? But with Melissa breathing down her neck and her pull-along suitcase nudging at her heels, there was no alternative but to go on. She had to go through with this, she told herself. If only to prove to this smug, unsmiling stranger that she’d got over him and made herself a life.
It didn’t help that in spite of her high heels—heels she’d worn in a futile attempt to boost her morale—she still had to tilt her head to look up at him. It reminded her too painfully of the past and for a moment she thought she wasn’t going to be able to do this. But then sanity returned, and with admirable control she said, ‘Hello, Milos. How kind of you to come and meet us. Did my father send you?’
The dig was unmistakable, but he was unperturbed by it. ‘No one sent me,’ he said, revealing the faint trace of accent she remembered so well. ‘I am not an item of mail.’
Helen’s lips tightened. No, you’re not, she wanted to say grimly. You’re far more dangerous. But all she actually said was, ‘You know what I mean.’ Her eyes flicked to his and swiftly away again. ‘Is my father with you?’
‘No.’ Milos negated that hope with a cool arrogance. ‘Did you have a good journey?’
‘You have got to be kidding!’
It was Melissa who answered him and Helen saw Milos’s eyes move beyond the girl without even acknowledging she’d spoken. ‘Your daughter?’ he said thinly. ‘I thought she was coming with you.’
‘I’m her daughter,’ announced Melissa shortly, clearly resenting his attitude. ‘Who’re you? My grandfather’s chauffeur?’
Milos’s expression didn’t change, but Helen was aware of the sudden withdrawal that stiffened his lean, muscular frame. ‘No, yours,’ he responded, without turning a hair. ‘Is this all the luggage you have?’
Helen resented it, but she felt uncomfortable now. It was bad enough having to deal with a man she had once made a fool of herself over without having to feel ashamed of her daughter’s attitude.
So, ‘Yes,’ she said, giving Melissa a killing look. ‘Is—is it far to Aghios Petros?’
‘Not very,’ Milos replied, taking possession of her suitcase. ‘Follow me.’
‘Shouldn’t you say ilthateh sto Santoros ?’ asked Melissa, undaunted by her mother’s embarrassment. ‘That’s welcome to
