show was rough and ready but it was enough to satisfy the crowd. They sang a couple of duets, Denny told some jokes and they invited some of tourists to sing along karaoke-style.
Gemma caught a brief glimpse of Angelo in the back of the bar halfway through the evening. He was waiting for her and she found herself accepting his invitation to dinner. At first she fretted that he might try to kiss her…seduce her…but her worries proved to be unfounded. Angelo behaved like the perfect gentleman.
Lying in bed that night, Gemma covered her eyes and moaned out loud. She was so confused. Who was the real Angelo Apollonides?
By Friday Lucie’s temperature was raging and Dr. Natos, the resort doctor, had prescribed bed and rest.
Gemma and Denny met for another rehearsal. During a brief break, she found Angelo at her elbow, holding two paper cups. “Coffee? I’m sure you could use it.”
“What’s that saying about not trusting Greeks who come bearing gifts?” She slanted him a provocative glance.
“Hardly a gift. Consider it an apology.”
After a moment’s pause she took the paper cup. “An apology?”
He looked abashed. “For my behaviour the other night. I should have apologised over dinner yesterday. But I didn’t.”
“Oh.” She took a sip. It was strong and sweet and pungent.
He frowned. “I’m confused.”
That made two of them! She slanted him a wary glance. “Why?”
“I had no intention of having anything to do with you. But I keep thinking you’ve changed. Then something happens—like seeing you with Jean-Paul—and I think I’m wrong. You’re still the same.” He raked his fingers through his golden hair. “Have you changed?”
She shut her eyes. God. How on earth was she supposed to respond to that? Not honestly. It was too late for that. She had to soldier on. And then there was the fact that she wasn’t ready to face the rage and scorn in his eyes when he discovered her treachery. Not yet.
She’d tell him when she was about to leave. When her contract had ended. And she had uncovered the truth about Mandy. Whatever that might be.
He waved a hand. “Forget it. That’s a stupid question. Sit down, you could probably use the break.”
Gemma followed him dragging her feet as he led her to the cluster of seating in a small lobby.
His cell phone rang. Fishing it out his pocket, he studied the caller ID. “My mother,” he said. “Excuse me.”
Angelo could feel Gemma’s eyes resting on him as he responded to his mother’s well wishes. He listened with half an ear to a story about the car her latest husband had bought, laughed when expected. Conscious of keeping Gemma waiting, he cut the conversation short.
“For a playboy, you have a good relationship with your mother,” Gemma said, her eyes curious.
He didn’t rise to the bait. “Even playboys have mothers. And, despite all the wealth in the world, her life has not been easy,” he answered guardedly. “She fell pregnant with me when she was very young. The man abandoned her. I never met him.”
Not my father, but the man, Gemma noticed.
“Oh.”
It must have been hell for a young boy.
“So is today your birthday?”
“Yes—I’m blessed with two celebrations in one month. Last week it was my name day.”
“Name day? What’s that?”
“A day all people bearing the name of a particular saint celebrate. So on the eighth of November anyone called Angelo celebrates. My mother thought I was an angel when I was born.” He gave her a sardonic smile.
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