was conscious of how small and slender her hand felt in his as she stepped down onto the rocky earth, shading her eyes with her other hand as she gazed round the island.
‘Is this a private island?’ she asked.
‘Yes, it is my home. But you will have everything you need. The villa is well supplied by nearby Naxos.’
She nodded slowly, letting out a breath she must have been holding for a while. ‘Okay,’ she said, and she sounded as if she were talking to herself. ‘Okay.’
Angelos led the way from the helipad to the villa. The salt-tinged sea breeze buffeted him and the sun was hot above and for a moment he breathed in the air and let himself relax. Let himself believe that he had things under control, that Sofia was safe.
That he’d done the best he could, even when he hadn’t before.
* * *
Talia took several deep breaths of fresh sea air as she followed Angelos and Sofia down the winding path to the sprawling whitewashed villa by the beach. The tension that had been throbbing in her temples since she’d stepped into the helicopter was finally starting to ease.
From the vantage point of the helipad she’d been able to see how small the island was: a large villa with extensive gardens, a staff cottage and a stony, hilly rise to a beach on the other side. Small. But small could be good, she told herself. She didn’t have to feel claustrophobic here. She wasn’t in a closed space, with the open air and sea all around her, and at least she wouldn’t have to deal with a lot of strange people.
Still she felt tense. She felt like sprinting back to the safety of her grandfather’s estate, the quiet studio with its views of sea and sky, where she could paint in blissful solitude. Where she didn’t have to come up hard against all her old fears and insecurities.
She took a deep breath and tilted her face to the sun. She could do this. She was doing this. She’d survived a plane trip, a taxi ride through a heaving city, a helicopter ride and near constant interactions with strangers. It was more than she’d had to deal with in seven years, and it had exhausted her, but she’d survived.
‘Are you all right?’ Angelos called, and Talia realised she’d stopped walking, and had dropped behind Angelos and Sofia.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, and hurried down the path to join her employer and his daughter.
As they came into the villa, the rooms airy and spacious and light, a housekeeper bustled up to them, exclaiming in Greek as she kissed Sofia on both cheeks. Then she stopped in front of Talia and, planting her hands on ample hips, gave her a thorough once-over with narrowed eyes. She spoke to Angelos, who answered in Greek. Talia had no idea what they were saying, but she suspected she’d come up wanting in the housekeeper’s well-trained eye.
‘Do I pass?’ she asked Angelos when there was a break in the conversation. She’d meant to sound teasing but it came out anxious instead. Tension knotted her stomach muscles again as she realised afresh how strange this all was. And she really didn’t like strange.
Angelos looked startled, and then his mouth compressed in a way she was already finding familiar. ‘My housekeeper’s opinion is of no concern. I have already hired you.’
‘It’s that bad, huh?’ Talia only half joked. At least this time she sounded light, even if she didn’t feel it. ‘I know my dress is wrinkled, but I have been on a plane.’
He inclined his head towards the stairs. ‘Maria will show you your room. You will have time to refresh yourself and dress appropriately before dinner.’
The man had no sense of humour, Talia decided as she followed Maria up the stairs. No sense of compassion or friendliness or sensitivity. He was a machine. A robot. A drone...
She was so busy thinking she almost slammed into Maria’s substantial form as the housekeeper stopped in the doorway of a bedroom.
‘Your room,’ she said in heavily accented English, and Talia peeked around her to see a gorgeous room decorated in sea-green and cream, the louvered shutters of the windows open to the beach.
‘It’s lovely,’ she said. ‘Efharisto.’ Maria grunted her grudging approval at Talia’s passable Greek, and then with her fingers mimed seven o’clock. ‘Dinner at seven?’ Talia guessed, and as the housekeeper nodded and left she wondered if she could take a crash course in Greek.
She moved to the windows, taking in the spectacular sight. Gardens bursting with bougainvillea and heliotrope ran down a sloping hill to the beach, a stretch of white sand that met up with the blue-green water, just like in Sofia’s picture.
The housekeeper had directed Sofia to the kitchen as soon as they arrived, and judging from the tantalising baking smells coming from that direction, Talia had suspected there was a snack in store. Her own stomach growled at the thought and she checked her watch. Two hours until dinner. Time, hopefully, to make herself presentable, although she had a feeling Angelos Mena would judge her wanting no matter what she wore or how much effort she took with her appearance. But at least he’d hired her.
Still Talia relished a soak in the huge marble tub, washing away the grime of nearly twenty-four hours of travel and reviving her tired spirits. She unpacked her single suitcase, realising belatedly that she had not brought nearly enough for six weeks. In fact, she’d packed nothing but serviceable T-shirts and shorts, a single fleece and a pair of jeans, and the crumpled sundress she’d worn on the plane.
Biting her lip, Talia acknowledged she had nothing remotely appropriate to wear for dinner that night. In her normal life she never needed to dress to impress, and her career as an artist meant work wear was usually paint-splattered jeans and old T-shirts. She hadn’t even considered bringing something businesslike to wear for her meeting with Angelos Mena; in truth, she hadn’t thought much beyond surviving the journey. She hadn’t had the heart or head space for more.
Sighing, she wondered if she had time to wash her sundress and let it dry in the sea breeze.
She discovered that she almost had time, when she headed out of her bedroom at five to seven, the dress clean and far less wrinkled, but slightly damp across the shoulders. Hopefully Angelos wouldn’t notice.
The villa was quiet as Talia came down the stairs, the rooms darkened and empty. She peeked into an enormous living room scattered with linen sofas in natural shades, and then a masculine-looking study with a huge mahogany desk and book-lined walls. Finally she found the dining room towards the back of the house; Angelos was already standing in the room, gazing up at a large portrait of a woman hanging on the far wall.
He turned as Talia tiptoed in, his face snapping into its usual frown. ‘You’re late.’
‘I’m sorry. I was looking for the dining room.’
His frown deepened as he took in her outfit. ‘You have not changed.’
‘Actually, I have. I washed my dress and put it back on.’ For some reason that made her blush, and to cover it she did a ridiculous little twirl. ‘Can’t you tell?’ She stopped, her dress swishing around her legs, and saw that Angelos’s frown had morphed into a positive scowl, grooves visible from nose to mouth, eyes dangerously narrowed.
Even scowling, the man was devastatingly attractive. He’d changed his grey business suit for a crisp white shirt, open at the throat, and dark trousers. The
