that stiffened his lean, muscular frame. ‘No, yours,’ he responded, without turning a hair. ‘Is this all the luggage you have?’
Helen resented it, but she felt uncomfortable now. It was bad enough having to deal with a man she had once made a fool of herself over without having to feel ashamed of her daughter’s attitude.
So, ‘Yes,’ she said, giving Melissa a killing look. ‘Is—is it far to Aghios Petros?’
‘Not very,’ Milos replied, taking possession of her suitcase. ‘Follow me.’
‘Shouldn’t you say ilthateh sto Santoros ?’ asked Melissa, undaunted by her mother’s embarrassment. ‘That’s welcome to Santoros,’ she added, for Helen’s benefit. ‘Good, eh?’
Milos glanced at her, but if she’d expected an angry reaction, she was disappointed. ‘I am pleased you’re keen to learn my language,’ he said smoothly. ‘ Then to ixera .’
‘Yeah.’ But Melissa was nonplussed now, and, shoving the phrase book she’d pulled out of her backpack into the pocket of her jeans, she adopted her usual belligerence when faced with opposition of any kind. ‘Well, I’m not really interested in learning Greek,’ she said rudely. She glanced about her. ‘Come on. Can we get moving? I need to pee.’
Helen clenched her teeth. Melissa was impossible and she saw that Milos had noticed how pushing the phrase book into her pocket had exposed a generous wedge of olive skin between her waistband and her cropped tee shirt. It had also exposed the navel ring that they’d had a row about just the night before and she dreaded to think what kind of a mother he must believe her to be.
The quay had virtually emptied while they were talking and only the porters unloading supplies from the hold of the vessel were still working in the hot sun. Helen wished she were just wearing a vest instead of the heavy blazer, but she’d had no idea it would be so hot.
As if taking pity on her, Milos spoke again. ‘Your father can’t wait to see you,’ he said. Then, with a careless gesture, ‘My car is over here.’
‘I’m looking forward to seeing him, too,’ Helen confessed, keeping pace with him with some difficulty. ‘Is he very ill?’
Milos halted then and gave her a stunned look. ‘He’s—as well as can be expected,’ he said, after a moment. ‘For his age, that is.’ He paused and then added stiffly, ‘I was sorry to hear about your husband’s accident.’
‘Yes.’ But Helen didn’t want to talk about Richard. Particularly not to him. She strove for something else to say and found the perfect response. ‘How is your wife these days?’
Milos’s jaw hardened. ‘We are divorced,’ he said tersely, obviously resenting her question just as much as she’d resented his. ‘Your—husband must have been very young when he died.’
‘He was—’
‘’Course, he was stoned at the time,’ put in Melissa, apparently growing tired of being ignored. Then, before either of the adults could respond, ‘Wow, are these your wheels? Cool!’
Helen met Milos’s eyes without really being able to stop herself. She could almost see what he was thinking. He was wondering what kind of genes had spawned such a monster, and she couldn’t blame him. She couldn’t even blame it on Richard’s premature demise. Melissa had been out of control long before then.
Making no response, Milos swung open the door of the sleek Mercedes before saying tersely to the girl, ‘Get in the back.’
There was an unmistakable edge to his voice and predictably Melissa responded to it. ‘Who are you talking to?’ she demanded, making no effort to do as he’d asked. She propped her hip against the car and ran a black-lacquered nail over the gleaming silver paintwork. ‘You can’t tell me what to do, Milos. I’m not your daughter.’
A look of savagery crossed Milos’s face at that moment and Helen guessed he was thinking that no daughter of his would ever act like this. If he only knew, she thought, unaware she had let anything of her feelings show in her face until he threw her an uncomprehending look. But, ‘Just do it!’ was all he said, daring Melissa to argue with him again, and, with a muffled swear word, Melissa straightened from her lounging position.
‘Please,’ Helen appended, dreading another scene. ‘Melissa, please!’
‘Oh—all right.’
Melissa sniffed, but finally she gave in. Forcing the front seat forward, she flung her backpack onto the soft Moroccan leather and climbed in after it. But she made no attempt to keep her scuffed trainers from scraping across the back of the seats in front and Helen’s teeth were on edge by the time she’d settled down.
‘Happy now?’
Helen was far from happy, but this wasn’t the time to voice it. She was too aware of the dangers Milos represented, and of her own pitiable ability to keep the truth from him. The day had started badly, after that sleepless night on the ferry, and it had suddenly got a whole lot worse.
She got into the car when Milos indicated that she should, but she noticed that he was far from relaxed when he flung open his door and got in beside her. What was he thinking? she fretted. Had he seen anything in Melissa’s face, in her words, to give him pause? Oh, God, what was she going to do if he had?
Her skirt had ridden up her thighs as she got into the vehicle and she concentrated on pulling it down as Milos thrust the car into drive and depressed the accelerator. But she couldn’t help being aware of him beside her, of his lean strength coiled behind the wheel, of his long fingers on the controls. Long fingers that had once…
‘I’m gonna have a car like this when I’m older,’ declared Melissa from the back seat, and Helen wondered if she’d sensed the tension between them.
‘You’ll have to do some work first,’ she said, anything to distract herself. ‘Cars like this cost money.’
‘I could always find myself a rich husband,’ remarked her daughter irrepressibly. ‘Even one who’s more than twice my age.’
Helen sucked in a breath. But she refused to let herself be drawn by Melissa’s unsubtle reference to her employer. ‘Do—er—do you live at Aghios Petros, too?’ she asked, addressing Milos, and, although she sensed his reluctance, he was forced to look her way.
‘I live—not too far from there,’ he replied at last. ‘But I don’t spend all the year on Santoros. I also have a home in Athens.’
‘You do?’ Helen was surprised. If he did work for her father, he was evidently paid very well.
‘My family isn’t involved in winemaking,’ he told her flatly, successfully shattering her preconceived ideas about him. ‘My father owns—ships.’
‘Ships?’ It was Melissa who broke in again. ‘What? Like that leaky old crate that brought us from Crete?’
‘Melissa!’
Helen cast another impatient look at her daughter, but Milos had apparently had enough of her insolence. ‘No,’ he said harshly. ‘Not ferry boats, thespinis .’ He emphasised the word. ‘Tankers. Oil-tankers. Regrettably, I am one of those rich old men you spoke of so scornfully a few minutes
