tion id="u0834b813-1b53-5346-ab8e-3102e786ddfe">
Moon of Aphrodite
Sara Craven
MILLS & BOON
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Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
‘I’M not going and that’s final,’ Helen said.
Hugo Brandon gave a worried sigh and pushed a hand through his thick thatch of greying hair. The letter lay between them on the breakfast table, flimsy, foreign-looking, the handwriting spiky and black, managing to convey an impression of autocracy.
He said, ‘Don’t be too hasty, darling.’
‘Too hasty?’ Helen’s eyes flashed fire. ‘Dad, you can’t be serious! After the way he treated you and Mother—cutting her off completely like that. Refusing all communication, even when she was so ill and begged him to write and say she was forgiven?’
Her father was silent, staring down at the tablecloth, his fingers drawing a restless pattern on it.
She said, ‘Or that’s what you’ve always told me, Dad, dozens of times. Are you going to say now that it wasn’t true?’
‘Oh, it was true. And more.’ Hugo’s voice was heavy. ‘But he’s an old man, Helen, a sick old man. You’re his only grandchild, and he wants to see you. It isn’t that extraordinary.’
‘My God!’ Helen said explosively, and there was a tense silence.
The letter from Grandfather Korialis had come like a bolt from the blue. Helen had read it twice and she still could hardly believe the contents. For nearly nineteen years, her Greek grandfather had chosen to forget her existence. He had not even acknowledged the news of her birth. And now this demand for her presence at his villa on the island of Phoros, just off the Greek mainland. Surely he couldn’t really believe that after all this time, all this bitterness, she would simply present herself to order.
But perhaps he did. Perhaps when you owned a chain of hotels like Michael Korialis, when you said ‘Jump’, everyone jumped.
Well, she, Helen, was neither his employee nor beholden to him in any way. On the contrary, she thought broodingly, she would be the exception to the Korialis rule. She would not jump.
Hugo said gently, ‘Has it occurred to you to think what your mother would have wanted you to do?’
Helen had a brief unhappy image of her mother not long before her death six years previously, the sweet high cheekbones, which Helen had inherited, thrown into prominence by the haggard thinness of her face.
She knew what Maria Brandon would have wanted—had wanted all her married life, happy though it had been. She had wanted to be reconciled with the stern man in Greece who had cast her off from him completely when she had defied him and the marriage he had arranged for her, to elope with the tall English artist who had been staying in a nearby village.
She knew that if it had been to her mother that this unexpected olive branch had been extended, then she would have accepted it without a second thought, and joyfully too.
But I’m not capable of that kind of generosity, Helen told herself flatly. After years of slights and neglect, I can’t just perform an about-face and pretend that it all never happened. All this time, he’s ignored the fact that I’m alive, yet now he wants to see me. It makes no sense.
But at the same time, having read her grandfather’s letter, she was uneasily aware that it made all the sense in the world. The letter had not been long, but it had been very much to the point.
He had suffered a severe heart attack, he wrote, and wished before he died to see his only grandchild. An air ticket to Athens would be provided, transport to the island arranged, and all her expenses met. He would expect her to stay at his villa for a minimum of one month.
The tone of the letter had been so much like a business contract that she had almost looked for the inevitable dotted line on which to sign.
She glanced up and saw her father watching her, his face grave and a little compassionate, as if he sensed her inner struggle.
She said reproachfully, ‘You’re not being fair. But it makes
