that she’d been completely out of her depth—but no one could stop themselves from falling in love. She hadn’t been the first naïve young girl to do it, and she wouldn’t be the last—only in most cases it would have just been a short, passionate affair instead of a foolhardy marriage.
‘He’s just—’
‘Spoiled!’
‘Well, maybe—if spoiled means having been given everything you wanted all your life, which of course he has.’ But spoiled made him sound like a little boy—and if there was one thing that Alexei was, it was all man. Very definitely. She shuddered. ‘He’s just operates in a different league, that’s all. His life is nothing like mine—and it’s about time I was free of him.’
‘But you are!’
Victoria shook her head so that her silky mane of blonde hair caught the light and shimmered. ‘That’s just it—I’m not—not really. As long as I remain married—even if it’s only in name—then I remain tied to him. And that’s hopeless. I have to move on,’ she said, but she was aware that just speaking to him again had stirred up all kinds of troubled emotions.
Caroline handed her a tube of suncream. ‘How do you feel about seeing him again?’ she asked suddenly.
‘I’m dreading it,’ said Victoria truthfully.
She felt churned-up as she boarded a Greece-bound flight on a budget airline and settled herself back into her cramped seat—thinking how differently she had travelled to Greece in the past.
This time around she was surrounded by young backpackers who were happy to purchase their own sandwiches and drinks from the aircrew who wheeled trolleys up the narrow aisle. Yet when she’d been married to Alexei they had flown in style. And what style! The first time he’d taken her to his homeland Victoria hadn’t quite believed what was happening to her. It had been like stepping onto the set of a film—the kind of Hollywood blockbuster where the director had said there was no limit on the budget.
One of the Christou family jets had been made available to them, along with its own fleet of glossy crew. But even in the midst of her personal happiness at having married the man she had fallen in love with Victoria had begun to feel the first goose-bumps of foreboding. An outsider. An English girl. And poor, to boot. The gorgeous stewardesses had given her barely-concealed looks of amazement. As if to say—Why the hell has he married her?
She remembered thinking the same thing herself.
Self-consciously she had smoothed down the skirt of the brand-new dress Alexei had bought for her, remembering what her mother had said—Fine feathers make a fine bird. Did they? Did she look good enough for her Greek billionaire?
Perceptively, he had tilted her chin to look at him, the black eyes narrowing and bathing her in their ebony light. ‘My wealth—it intimidates you a little, agape mou?’ he had asked softly.
Some of his vigour had flowed to her through his fingertips, and Victoria had suddenly felt as strong as he was. ‘I don’t give a stuff about your wealth!’ she’d declared passionately. ‘I would love you if you didn’t have a drachma to your name!’
He had looked at her with purring approval, but maybe Victoria would have done herself a favour if she’d confided to him that the people who surrounded him did intimidate her. That it wasn’t easy when everyone was wondering what your new husband saw in you and how long it would last. And if he had known—might it have changed things?
Victoria viciously snapped off the ringpull from a can of cola and drank from it thirstily. Stop it, she told herself. Don’t remember times like those. Remember the reality. Which was hell. You’re going to Athens with one objective in mind. To see Alexei and to draw a line underneath the marriage. And he has forced this situation on you. He’s as controlling as he ever was—so remember that, too.
She stared out of the window as the plane flew over the impossibly blue Aegean sea and then began to descend on the high looming clutter of buildings which was Athens itself. As the ground rose up to greet them she could see the crazy architecture and the congested traffic on the streets below. Everyone had a view of Athens as noisy and hot and dusty. But Victoria knew of another city—a secret Athens—one which had been shown to her by Alexei and one tourists were seldom privvy to.
He had opened her wondering eyes to the small green parks hidden away from the busy life of the main drag. She had eaten in lively little family-run tavernas which were lit at night by strings of coloured lights looped through the trees, while people danced as if they had fire in their veins and beckoned for you to join them. And there had been Alexei—barefoot and dancing, too—his black head thrown back in laughter.
Despite her determination not to indulge in sentimentality or nostalgia, she felt a pang of regret as the plane touched down in his homeland. In England it had been simpler to try and put him into the darkest recesses of her mind and to think of the whole experience of her marriage as another faraway life she had once lived. But she was going to have to accept that this trip was bound to throw up painful reminders of all that he had meant to her.
She had just better be prepared for it—forewarned meant forearmed—and instinct told her that she was going to need all her wits about her. If she weakened—allowed misplaced emotion to make her vulnerable—then she would be easy prey for her clever, calculating husband.
Picking up her overnight bag, Victoria went outside to where the heat was bouncing off the tarmac and beating down on her pale skin—even though it was only June. Her skin was sheened with sweat as she climbed into the back of a yellow cab, and her cotton dress just beginning to stick to her body, but thankfully the taxi was air-conditioned, and she leant back on the seat with a sigh of relief.
The radio was blaring, the driver was singing, and worry-beads were swinging from the mirror with a little clatter. Outside, the traffic was bumper-to-bumper, but the sky was blue, and unwillingly Victoria remembered that this was the home of the Parthenon and the Acropolis, that this was where legend said the goddess Athena had invented the olive tree.
And she found herself wishing she were just an ordinary tourist—geared up to having a fabulous holiday in the sun—instead of going cap in hand to her wealthy ex.
It was stop-start most of the way, until the taxi stopped outside the impressive steel and glass tower of the Christou headquarters. Nervously, she over-tipped the driver, and could feel the palms of her hands growing clammy as she stepped inside the revolving doors which delivered her into a space-age foyer.
The air-conditioning hit her like an ice-cube. Tiny goosebumps began to appear on Victoria’s arms as the sleek brunette at Reception stared at her as if she had just landed from Mars.
The woman rattled off a question in Greek and then, as Victoria frowningly attempted to translate, she spoke again—this time in perfect fluent English.
‘Can I help you?’ she questioned, in a tone of voice which suggested that Victoria might be in the wrong building.
‘I’m here to see Kyrios Christou,’ said Victoria.
‘Kyrios Christou?’
‘Ne,’ agreed Victoria, dredging up a word in Greek from its dusty memory bank.
‘What is your name, please?’
‘It’s Victoria.’ She forced herself to
