do I, thespinis. You know that you are young, so accept that you are also beautiful. And my name is Draco.’ He smiled at her. ‘Now eat your food, and don’t be afraid any more.’
But that, thought Cressy, looking down at the pattern on the towel—or anywhere rather than at him—that was easier said than done.
CHAPTER THREE
IN SPITE of all Cressy’s misgivings about the risks of her situation—and they were many and various—she supposed she had better accept Draco’s offer of food. One placatory gesture, she told herself, and then she would go.
If she was allowed to, said a small, unpleasant voice in her head. She’d seen his athleticism when he was dancing. She might be able to out-think him, but did she really imagine she could outrun him up that lethal track?
So much for striking out and being independent, she derided herself. She should have stayed safely in the hotel precincts.
She had expected she would have to force a few mouthfuls past the unremitting tightness of her throat, but to her astonishment the lamb, which had been roasted with herbs and was served with a light lemon dressing and sliced black olives, tasted absolutely wonderful, and she finished every bite.
‘It was good?’ Draco asked as Cressy wiped her lips and fingers on a tissue.
‘It was terrific,’ she admitted. She gave him a taut smile. ‘You speak English very well.’
His own smile was slow, touched with overt reminiscence. ‘I had good teachers.’
‘Women, no doubt,’ Cressy heard herself saying tartly, and could have bitten her tongue in half. The last thing she needed to do was antagonise him, and his personal life was none of her business anyway, so what had possessed her to make such a comment?
She saw his face harden, the firm mouth suddenly compressed. For a moment she felt the crackle of tension in the air between them like live electricity, then, totally unexpectedly, he began to laugh.
‘You are astute, thespinis.’ Propped on one elbow, he gave her a long and leisurely assessment, missing nothing, making her feel naked under his agate gaze. ‘But my grammar—my pronunciation—are not perfect. I am sure there is room for improvement—with the right help.’
Cressy was burning from head to foot, and it had nothing to do with the sun.
She said, ‘I’m afraid that you’ll have to find another tutor, kyrie. I’m not in the market.’
‘Life has taught me that most things are for sale, kyria—if the price is right.’
There was real danger here. Every instinct she possessed was screaming it at her.
She said coolly and clearly, ‘But I am not. And now I think I’d better go.’
‘As you wish.’ The powerful shoulders lifted in a negligent shrug. ‘But understand this. I take only what is freely given. Nothing more. And, in any case, you are the stranger within my gates, and you have eaten my bread, so you have nothing to fear.’
He lifted himself lithely to his feet. ‘Now I am going to swim. Naturally, I hope you will still be here when I return, but the choice is yours, kyria.’
For a moment he stood looking down at her. He said softly, ‘So beautiful, and such a sharp tongue. And yet so afraid of life. What a pity.’
The damned nerve of him, Cressy seethed, watching him lope down the sand. Translating her natural caution into cowardice.
And, for all his assurances, it was quite obvious that he was just another good-looking Greek on the make. She’d seen it happening at the hotel. Watched them targeting the single women, the divorcees, the ones with hunger in their eyes.
Cressy had avoided their attentions by being busy and absorbed.
But I should have known I couldn’t escape for ever, she thought angrily.
Except that she could. Draco was swimming strongly away from the beach. She could see the darkness of his head against the glitter of the sea.
All she had to do was grab her things, put on her shoes, and she would be free.
Free to go back to the village and wait for the evening ferry, at any rate, she reminded herself with an inward groan. Where Draco would know exactly where to find her…
She was caught in a trap of her own making, it seemed. And to sneak away as if she was genuinely scared appeared oddly demeaning anyway.
It would certainly be more dignified to stay where she was. To treat any overtures he might make with cool and dismissive courtesy. And then return to the village in time for a meal at the taverna and her homeward boat trip exactly as she’d planned.
Maybe Draco needed to learn that, for all his good looks and sexual charisma, not all tourists were pushovers.
And he’d virtually guaranteed that she was safe with him, that traditional Greek hospitality would remain paramount, and, in a strange way, she believed him.
Unless, of course, she chose differently. And there was no chance of that.
So she would stay—for a while. Because she was in control of the situation.
But only because he’s allowing you to be, niggled the small, irritating voice.
Ignoring it, Cressy reapplied her sun cream, put on her dark glasses and reached for the book she’d brought with her.
When Draco came back he’d find her composed and occupied, and not prepared to be involved in any more verbal tangles.
Distance was the thing, she told herself. And this beach was quite big enough for both of them.
She did not hear his return up the beach—he moved with the noiseless, feline grace of a panther—but she sensed that he was there, just the same. She kept her shoulder slightly turned and her eyes fixed rigidly on the printed page, a silent indication that the story was too gripping to brook interruption.
At the same time she’d expected her signals to be ignored. That he’d at least make some comment about her decision to remain. But as the soundless minutes passed Cressy realised she might be mistaken.
She ventured a swift sideways look, and saw with unreasoning annoyance that Draco was lying face down on his towel, his eyes closed, apparently fast asleep.
She bit her lip, and turned her page with a snap.
But it was all to no avail, she realised five minutes later. She simply couldn’t concentrate. She was far too conscious of the man stretched out beside her.
She closed her book and studied him instead. She wondered how old he was. At least thirty, she surmised. Probably slightly more. He wore no jewellery—no medallions, earrings or other gifts from grateful ladies. Just an inexpensive wristwatch, she noted. And no wedding ring either, although that probably meant nothing. If part of his livelihood involved charming foreign woman holidaymakers, he would hardly want to advertise the fact that he was married.
And she could just imagine his poor
