that?’
‘Melissa!’
Helen tried to restrain her, but Milos decided she was wasting her time. ‘It means the Kouros vineyard,’ he told her patiently. ‘Kouros was your grandfather’s wife’s family name. When he took over, he retained it.’
Melissa was reflective for a moment. ‘My grandfather’s wife,’ she said at last. ‘That would be that evil bitch Maya , right?’
‘For goodness’ sake, Melissa—’
Helen was obviously horrified, but Milos recognised Helen’s mother’s voice in that description. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘So be warned. Maya doesn’t take any prisoners.’
Melissa huffed, but she sat back on her seat, clearly disappointed she hadn’t aroused a more explosive reaction. Helen felt obliged to intervene. ‘I’m afraid Maya’s name isn’t particularly welcome in my family,’ she said. ‘I have to admit, my mother didn’t want me to come.’
So, what’s new? thought Milos drily. Sheila Campbell hadn’t liked him either. ‘I expect she doesn’t trust Sam,’ he ventured mildly. ‘Either that, or she thinks it’s too soon for you to be thinking of starting over.’
‘You mean, since Richard died?’ Helen queried, her lips folding together in a thin line. ‘No. She—er—she’s of the opinion that I should get married again.’ And he could make what he liked of that! she seemed to add silently.
‘Yeah, she wants Mum to marry a wrinkly,’ put in Melissa, before Milos could make any comment. Which was just as well. Helen’s statement had thrown him for six. ‘Mark Greenaway. He must be sixty if he’s a day. Like I’d want him for a daddy !’
Helen caught her breath. ‘Mark is not a wrinkly,’ she protested hotly. ‘And he’s nowhere near sixty.’ She cast Milos an awkward glance. ‘He’s my boss. He owns an engineering company and I’m his personal assistant.’
‘Really?’ Milos managed to sound only marginally interested. ‘Does he have family, too?’
‘If you mean, is he married, then no,’ said Helen stiffly. ‘He’s a widower, without any children of his own.’
‘Oh, bliss!’ muttered Melissa contemptuously. ‘The man’s a wimp and you know it. If it wasn’t for the fact that Dad never did any work, you’d never have considered taking a job with him.’
‘That’s not true!’
Helen was embarrassed, and Milos wondered how she could let her daughter get away with saying what she did. It was as if Helen was scared of what Melissa might do next, and, judging by the girl’s attitude, she might have a point.
Suddenly aware that he was staring at her, Milos dragged his eyes away. Was it only nervousness that was stopping her from making any attempt to get out of the car, or was there something else she wanted to say?
His stomach tightened, but before he could identify the reason Melissa broke the uneasy silence that had fallen. ‘Well, duh—are we getting out or what?’ she asked, and Milos steeled his expression and swung open his door.
By the time he’d circled the car, Helen had got out, too, her long legs, in the ridiculously high heels, attracting his unwilling gaze. ‘ Iseh kala?’ he probed. ‘Are you okay?’
There’d been a reluctant concern in his voice and she responded to it. Though not in the way he’d anticipated. ‘Do you care?’ she exclaimed, exposing her real feelings for the first time. ‘Do you care about anyone but yourself? Forget it, Milos. It’s too late to pretend you have a conscience now.’
Milos’s jaw dropped, but the angry retort that sprang to his lips was stifled by the sight of Melissa clambering over the seats to the front of the car.
‘Do you mind?’ she demanded as he stared at her now instead of her mother. ‘I want to get out. You’re in the way.’
Milos was too stunned by the way she was trashing his vehicle to do anything but reach for Helen’s hand with the intention of drawing her aside so that the girl could open the door.
But he’d acted without thinking, and before his fingertips could register the silky feel of her skin or the palpitating pulse at her wrist Helen had yanked her arm away, rubbing her hand as if he’d contaminated her.
‘Don’t—don’t touch me!’ she said accusingly, and for once he was grateful to Melissa’s overloud, ‘Thanks a bunch!’ for drowning out her mother’s choked words.
They’d been given rooms at the back of the villa. Pale tiled floors, high ceilings, and lots of dark wood furniture, contrasting their coolness with the shimmering heat outside. A balcony with white painted chairs and a table invited inspection, and beyond the hillside fell away to the coastal plain.
What a view, thought Helen, cupping the back of her neck with hands that were still damp from the emotions she’d felt earlier when she’d met her father’s second wife. Dealing with Milos had been hard enough, but Maya had proved another matter entirely.
It was obvious she didn’t want them here. She’d made that perfectly plain, despite her almost sickening treatment of Milos. He was evidently persona grata at the villa. They were not, and she’d wasted no time in letting them know it.
But what had really shocked Helen was the news that her father was working. Working! When she’d imagined him wheelchair-ridden or worse. That was the impression he’d given her in his letters. That he desperately wanted to see her again before he—
Before he, what? He’d stopped short at saying he was actually dying, she remembered. He’d just let her believe he was seriously ill; that he didn’t know how long he had left.
‘What do you think?’ Melissa had come to lean in the doorway of her room that adjoined Helen’s suite. For once, there was a look of uncertainty on her young face. ‘Are we gonna stay or do we just spit in his eye and catch the next ferry out of here?’
‘Melissa!’ Helen spoke automatically, but her heart wasn’t really in it. The girl was only voicing things she’d thought of herself. Was staying here really an option? Being brought here under false pretences didn’t augur well for her future relationship with her father.
‘Well, you’re not exactly enthusiastic about it, are you?’ Melissa countered. She nodded towards her mother’s suitcase. ‘You haven’t even started to unpack.’
‘And you have?’
Helen swung about to face her and Melissa pulled a face. ‘Hey, a few tees and a spare pair of jeans don’t need much unpacking. I unzip my pack, haul out my stuff, and shove it in a drawer. That’s it.’
Helen’s mouth compressed. ‘You haven’t just brought jeans and tee shirts!’
‘Haven’t I?’
Helen gave up. ‘Have it your own way,’ she said, too weary to even remember how optimistic she’d been about taking this trip. It wasn’t just for her father, she acknowledged. It was for her and Melissa, too. Anything to get her daughter away from the unfavourable influences that were making life so difficult at home.
She
