through here,’ Mrs Hall opened another door. ‘A private bathroom, of course,’ she added proudly, just as if she felt the house were really her own.
‘It's lovely,’ and so much more than Regan had expected! But then with wealth like Clive Western's she didn't suppose there was a less luxurious room that could be allocated to her.
‘Good,’ the housekeeper beamed her pleasure. ‘Lunch will be in half an hour, but I'm sure you'll see the master before then. In the meantime, I'll get a refreshing pot of tea sent up.’
‘Thank you,’ Regan smiled shyly, feeling completely welcome—by the staff at least. ‘I'd like that.’
She sat down on the bed once she was alone, hardly able to believe her good fortune, looking about her in a dazed fashion. Her room and bathroom were truly beautiful, much too beautiful for a mere companion.
She only hoped Helena Western wouldn't prove too difficult. What little Clive Western had revealed of his daughter made Regan aware that she would have to be firm from the start. Any sign of weakness and she had no doubt her charge would take advantage of it.
Regan slipped off her shoes, taking off the jacket that matched the pretty sundress she was wearing and putting it over a chair before she moved to open the window, breathing deeply of the fresh sea air.
She jumped nervously at the sound of a tray crashing down on to a surface, and turned slowly to face Helena Western. She knew it had to be her, sure that no maid under Mrs Hall's authority would dare to behave in such a manner.
‘I apprehended the maid bringing you this,’ the young girl with flashing green eyes informed her coldly. ‘She shouldn't be waiting on you, you're not wanted here,’ she said insultingly.
Yes, this was definitely Helena Western, although she must take after her dead mother in looks; she had none of her father's fair colouring. Thick dark hair, almost black, cascaded in wild disorder halfway down her back, those flashing green eyes, darkly olive skin, and a body that seemed to be growing too fast for her years, all made up the unruly adolescent Helena Western undoubtedly was. She would be a beautiful girl when she was older and more able to accept her femininity.
‘I suppose you consider yourself above poor Mary,’ she continued resentfully. ‘Well, as far as I'm concerned you rate far below the lowest servant here.’
‘Helena!’ a harsh voice rasped the girl's name in harsh disapproval, a husky male voice, the owner of which Regan couldn't yet see, as he was still out in the corridor. ‘You'll go to your room,’ he ordered. ‘Now!’
‘But Papa,’ Helena protested, ‘I don't want this woman here, you know I don't!’ The defiance seemed to have gone out of her now.
Papa? Regan frowned. That voice, slightly accented, didn't belong to Clive Western. But then when had he ever said Helena was his daughter? Hadn't she just assumed that was the case? She waited apprehensively for her first sight of Helena's father: he didn't sound at all like the pleasant man Clive Western had proved to be on the journey down here.
‘You will go to your room immediately,’ that harsh voice repeated the order. ‘I will not tell you again.’
‘Yes, Papa.’ Helena turned to give Regan one last resentful glare before disappearing out of the room.
Regan's eyes widened as a man stepped into the open doorway, a tall man who seemed to block out most of the daylight in the room. He stepped forward and she was able to distinguish his features properly. What she saw made her face pale and then turn grey, her legs no longer feeling as if they would support her. He was the avenging angel from all of her childhood nightmares, the man she had wished never to meet.
She would know that face anywhere—hadn't it haunted her for years, day and night? ‘Andreas Vatis …’ she said faintly.
He gave a cruel smile. ‘Right first time, Miss—Matthews.’
She sat down before she fell down, looking at Andreas Vatis like a mouse must look at a particularly cruel cat—before it ate it. That cruel hard face, with the pencil-thin scar that ran from the bridge of his hawk-like nose over his right eye and disappeared into the thick hair at his temple, black hair going grey over his ears. Green eyes looked at her contemptuously, with nothing to show that the scar and its internal injuries had rendered this man blind in his right eye, temporarily completely blind but now having regained the sight of his left eye. The firm mouth was bared in a smile of taunting humour, his teeth very white against his naturally dark skin.
Regan had never met this man before, and yet she knew so much about him. A Greek to his fingertips, he had been a rakish hell-raiser when the accident that had blinded him had taken place, an accident on the racing track that her father had also been involved in. It was after this accident that her father had lived openly with this man's estranged wife.
‘My—my name is Thomas now,’ she told him tonelessly. ‘My aunt and uncle adopted me.’
He nodded. ‘To save you the pain of your father's sins,’ he grated. ‘But a simple change of name cannot save you from me.’
If anything she went even greyer; this man's expression frightened her. ‘Save me …?’
‘Yes,’ Andreas Vatis rasped. ‘I am a Greek, Regan Matthews, and a Greek never forgets an insult or wrong done to him. It may take years to attain retribution for that wrong, but you can be sure we will always be avenged on our sworn enemies.’
Regan backed away from the glittering dislike in those green eyes, still finding it difficult to believe he was half blind. He didn't appear to be a man who would have patience with any imperfection, although his harsh good looks would never be forgotten by man or woman. How had her father dared to take this man's wife from him? By seeing him rendered blind first, that was how.
God, it still sickened her after all these years. Her aunt and uncle had tried to keep the truth from her, but they couldn't hide the fact that her father had taken this man's wife from him when he was in no position to stop him. Regan had learnt of her father's behaviour by listening to her aunt and uncle talking when they weren't aware she could hear.
A racing car driver, like Andreas Vatis, her father had seen Andreas Vatis’ wife and wanted her for himself. Of course Gina Vatis must have been a very shallow woman to have turned to the other man when it appeared her husband was going to be blind for life, but as far as Regan was concerned her father had been the biggest offender against the man. And now it appeared that Andreas Vatis wanted revenge in some way.
She gulped. ‘I—I have nothing, no money, nothing,’ she told him desperately, although what this man would want with more money when he must be a millionaire time and time again she had no idea.
The Vatis family, of which Andreas was now the head, had always been in shipping, although Andreas had chosen to enjoy himself racing cars until the accident had made that impossible. In time he had taken over the family business, and according to Clive Western, they had now expanded into hotels and holiday accommodation.
Andreas Vatis threw back his head in a harsh laugh, the column of his thickly corded throat deeply brown, the cream silk shirt and cream trousers he wore emphasising the slenderness of his waist and hips and the breadth of his muscular shoulders. He was a man in the peak of physical condition, much fitter than men half his thirty-five years. ‘I do not want money, Regan,’ he told her with a hard smile. ‘But you are right, I do want something. I want that which is
