it would be pointless to plead that she had already fallen in love with Hugo Brandon. Her father would dismiss her plea as a young girl’s fancy, or more probably, become very angry.
To his credit, Hugo had not wanted a hole-and-corner affair; he had been quite prepared to face Michael Korialis and endure his wrath. But Maria knew her father, and how vengeful he could be, and she persuaded Hugo that the risk would be too great. Time, too, was growing short. A big party was being planned to celebrate her betrothal, and the hour was approaching when Maria would have to meet her intended husband for the first time.
‘I cannot see him. I cannot face him,’ she had sobbed to Hugo. ‘How can I greet another man, let him touch me, when it is you that I love?’
Two nights later she had left her father’s house for ever, leaving a note imploring his forgiveness. She had never heard another word from him as long as she lived.
Helen tried to imagine herself abandoning Hugo without a backward glance for Christopher, or any of the men who had occupied her attention, however briefly. It was a ridiculous thought, she decided scornfully.
And she was enjoying life. She liked her work, and there was very little to disturb her—with the exception of her grandfather’s letter, which had been disposed of, she thought with satisfaction.
A little of his own medicine, she told herself as she dried her hands, and hung up the tea towel before going down to the gallery to start her day’s work. And that’s the end of it.
Nor was there any premonition—any pricking of her thumbs—to warn her that it was only the beginning.
The gallery had the tired, slightly rumpled look it always had after the opening of an exhibition, especially a successful one as that day’s had been, Helen thought.
She moved about, a slim figure in her cream dress, straightening chairs, picking up the occasional cigarette end which had escaped an overflowing ashtray, and returning glasses to the trays which the catering firm would collect presently.
It had been a good day, she thought, staring round at the numerous red ‘sold’ stickers on the paintings, and pieces of sculpture on display. Paul Everard, who had stayed away from the gallery for his usual pre-exhibition nervous breakdown, would undergo an instant revival when he saw them, she told herself smilingly. He might even be persuaded to start painting again, if anyone could only convince him there was a permanent and enthusiastic demand for his work—which there was. She sighed a little. So many of the successful artists they handled seemed to suffer from these doubts—the failures, who came to Hugo demanding that their work be given notices, status, respect, seemed to have no such misgivings. And that, she supposed, was life.
She gave a final glance round as she prepared to depart, and frowned. One of the paintings was hanging a little askew, and that was a thing she could not endure. She went over and stood on tiptoe, trying to straighten it, but only succeeded in making matters worse. There was a small pair of steps in the office, but fetching them seemed too much trouble after a long and tiring day. Besides, Hugo was in the office, working on the accounts, and she did not want to disturb him.
She dragged forward one of the small velvet-covered chairs which were dotted about the gallery. It was fragile, but it should support her weight for the moment or two that was all she would need.
She adjusted the picture to her satisfaction, and leaned back a little to make sure it was exactly level again. The shift of her weight caused the chair to rock on its narrow legs, and she knew with a sudden shock that it was going to fall over, and that she would fall with it.
She gave a little breathless cry, and in the same moment felt a pair of strong arms go round her and lift her clear. She was briefly aware of the scent of some expensive cologne, and the faint aroma of cigars before she was set safely down, and turned to thank her unexpected rescuer.
Very unexpected, she thought at once, her brows lifting unconsciously as she registered him fully. Tall, but not overpoweringly so, with broad shoulders and a muscular chest, tapering down to lean hips and long legs, with a rugged strength about him that no amount of expensive tailoring could conceal. His suit was silky, lightweight and foreign-looking, but then he was clearly not English himself. He was too dark, and his skin was too swarthy for that. Not a conventionally handsome face, either, but one that with its strongly marked features and dark, heavy-lidded eyes would not be easily forgotten. A faint smile played about the man’s firm lips as he watched her—watching him, she realised with sudden dismay, and felt herself blush.
She said hurriedly, ‘I have to thank you, monsieur. You saved me from a nasty accident.’
‘The pleasure was mine, believe me, Miss Brandon.’ There was a faint trace of an accent in the deep voice, but it certainly wasn’t French. In fact, she didn’t know what it was.
She was moved by a sudden inexplicable uneasiness. She hadn’t seen him in the gallery before; in fact she would have sworn he hadn’t been at the exhibition at all. He was not the kind of man to be overlooked, even in a crowd. And he knew her name.
She said rather primly, ‘I’m afraid the gallery is closed for the day. Didn’t they tell you so downstairs?’
‘I didn’t come to look at pictures, Miss Brandon, good as many of these are. I came to look at you.’
A strange stillness seemed to encompass her.
She said carefully, suddenly thankful that Hugo with within earshot, ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand. Do you—know me? I don’t think we’ve met before?’
‘Never—until this moment,’ he said. ‘But I have seen pictures of your mother when she was a girl and you are very like her.’
Her voice sharpened. ‘What do you want? What are you doing here? Who are you?’
‘Such a lot of questions!’ There was faint mockery in his voice. ‘I’ll start with the last. My name is Damon Leandros, and I am here, quite simply, to persuade you to return to Greece with me to visit your grandfather.’
‘He sent you?’ She was rigid with disbelief, then she managed a short laugh. ‘And what role do you fulfil in his exclusive little set-up—one of the heavy mob?’
The words uttered, she wondered almost hysterically what Hugo would have said if he could have heard her being so abysmally rude to a stranger. It was out of character to say the least, and her only excuse could be this sudden, inexplicable nervousness the presence of this man was engendering in her. But why should I be nervous? she demanded inwardly. He can hardly kidnap me bodily.
His eyes narrowed slightly, indicating that her words had got to him, but his tone was light as he said, ‘As I told you, my role is that of persuader. If I was what you imagine, I would threaten—perhaps even use force, but that’s not my way.’
‘I suppose I must be thankful for small mercies.’ Helen resisted an impulse to step away from him. ‘But you’re wasting your time, Mr Leandros.’
‘You read your grandfather’s letter?’
‘Of course.’
‘Yet you did not reply to it.’
‘As you seem to be aware of most of the family secrets—no, I didn’t. Mr Korialis should recognise the technique. He employed it often enough with my mother’s letters to him.’
He
