Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous

collection of fantastic novels by

bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun— staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Innocent Obsession

Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘I don’t think I can do it, Margot,’ said Sylvie carefully, breaking off a spear of celery and biting into its crisp heart. Margot’s table was always liberally spread with low-calorie foods, and after a lunch of only cottage cheese and fresh pineapple, Sylvie’s healthy young stomach was still far from satisfied.

‘Why can’t you do it?’ her sister demanded impatiently, fairly snatching the bowl of celery out of Sylvie’s reach and gazing at her penetratingly. ‘What do you plan to do from now until October? Vegetate?’

Sylvie shrugged, causing the corn-gold curtain of her hair to swing forward around her cheeks. ‘I was going to try and find a job,’ she admitted, reduced to blotting up the crumbs of cottage cheese that still lingered on her plate, and Margot leaned towards her triumphantly, pointed elbows resting on the table.

‘There you are, then,’ she declared. ‘This is a job I’m offering you. Go out to Alasyia, look after Nikos for six weeks. I’ll pay you, and I’ve no doubt Leon wouldn’t be averse to—–’

‘No, Margot.’

‘Why not?’

Sylvie shook her head. ‘Margot, Leon asked you. Nikos is your child. Don’t you want to help your own son?’

Margot’s fashionably thin face gained a little unbecoming colour as she sank back in her chair, long, scarlet-tipped nails tapping irritably on the arm. ‘Sylvie, you’re being unreasonable,’ she said, drawing in her breath and expelling it again with emphasis. ‘You know perfectly well that I can’t leave London at this time. Maurice has just found me this part—and it’s a good one. I won’t—I simply won’t be dictated to by you or anyone else!’

Sylvie tilted her head to one side and considered her reflection in the silver-plated coffee pot. As sisters they weren’t very much alike, she acknowledged, without rancour. Margot, nine years her senior, was at least three inches taller, and slender as a reed, while Sylvie’s five feet four inches were infinitely more rounded. Margot’s hair was silver blonde, and she wore it in a gamine cut that gave her a boyish air, totally belied by slanting green eyes and curling lashes. Sylvie, on the other hand, couldn’t afford the expense of a regular trip to the hairdresser, and in consequence, her hair was long and thick, and abysmally straight, and the colour of wheat at harvest time. Still, she reflected, her skin was good, and she tanned quite easily, which Margot never had, and if her looks were only interesting, whereas Margot’s were striking, that was only fair when Margot’s appearance was so much more important to her.

‘I think you should write to Leon,’ Sylvie said now, looking across the table at her sister again. ‘Explain the situation. Tell him that it’s impossible for you to get away at this time. Ask him if there isn’t someone else who could take care of Nikos.’

Margot’s lips tightened. ‘You think it’s that simple, don’t you?’ she demanded. ‘You really think if I write to Leon and explain the situation, he’ll make other arrangements?’

Sylvie grimaced. ‘I don’t see why not.’

Margot made an impatient sound. ‘You forget, Sylvie, Leon isn’t like us. He’s not English, he’s Greek. And Greek men have an entirely different idea of women from Englishmen.’

‘He married you, didn’t he?’ Sylvie frowned. ‘He knew you were an actress.’

‘He knew I was trying to be,’ retorted Margot shortly. ‘I hadn’t actually done anything. As a matter of fact, I was desperate. If Lewis hadn’t suggested I joined his modelling group for that trip, I’d never have met Leon, would I? Never have married him!’

Sylvie absorbed this. Seven years ago, when Margot married Leon Petronides, she had been eleven, and scarcely old enough to understand her sister’s situation. All she remembered was Margot’s elation when she came home from the modelling trip to Athens, her exuberance at having met Aristotle Petronides’ son, and later on, her excitement when Leon followed her to London. The wedding that followed soon afterwards had seemed like a dream come true. Despite his parents’ disapproval, Leon had refused to give Margot up, and their honeymoon in Fiji had been the envy of all her friends. It was only as Sylvie grew older, after Margot’s son, Nikos, was born, that the flaws in their relationship became evident, and although Margot’s life with Leon had seemed idyllic, she had begun to get bored.

Twelve months ago, things had come to a head. After six years of behaving as Leon’s parents expected their sons’ wives to behave, her own father had died, and as Leon was away at the time on a business trip to the United States, Margot had flown home alone to attend the funeral.

Unfortunately, she had not wanted to go back. Initially, using her mother’s grief as an excuse, she had stayed on, sharing the house in Wimbledon with Sylvie and her mother, littering the place with her make-up and perfumes, monopolising the bathroom in the mornings, when Sylvie was trying to get ready for school.

Eventually, of course, she had been unable to resist contacting her agent, Maurice Stockton, and as luck would have it, he had just the part for her, in a play that was about to go on tour. The actress who had originally accepted the role had been taken ill, and Margot had jumped at the chance. She had moved out of the house in Wimbledon, much to her mother’s relief, and by the time she returned to London, she had enough money to rent this furnished apartment, in a converted Victorian mansion in Bayswater.

Leon had objected, of course, and Mrs Scott, Sylvie’s mother, had tried to placate him on those occasions when he had rung the house; but she found it hard to be convincing when she objected, too, and was alternately worried about her grandson and the precarious state of her elder daughter’s marriage.

At Easter, Leon had come to London to take his wife home, only to find her embroiled in rehearsals for a new play. He had ranted and raved, but Margot had been all-appealing, all-persuasive, earning herself a further three months’ grace. But now, Leon was adamant. Margot must come home—not least, because the nursemaid who had taken care of Nikos since his babyhood was leaving to care for her sick mother.

‘Anyway,’ Margot went on now, ‘Leon won’t listen to me. Don’t you think I’ve tried? It’s that family of his, of course. They’ve put him up to it. Without their interference, I could probably have wheedled another six months out of him, but—–’

‘What about your son?’ Sylvie broke in protestingly. ‘It’s almost a year since you saw him. Don’t you care about him at all?’

Margot assumed a brooding expression. ‘Of course I care,’ she retorted sharply. ‘But I’m an actress, Sylvie. I have a career, and to succeed in any profession you have to be dedicated.’

‘Then get a divorce,’ declared Sylvie practically. ‘Tell Leon the truth. Tell him you don’t want to be married to him any longer. You’re a British citizen. He can’t force you to go back to Greece.’

Margot gave her sister an irritated look. ‘I didn’t say I didn’t want to be married, did I?’ she exclaimed, and while Sylvie stared at her incredulously, she continued: ‘I—well, I want to do both. Other women do. Other women have both a marriage and a career.’

‘Not when their husband lives in Greece, and they live in London,’ replied Sylvie crisply. ‘Oh, Margot, why won’t you be honest? What you really mean is, you don’t want to let Leon go because he’s a meal ticket, a sure-fire insurance to fall back on, when—if—your acting career falls flat!’

‘You little prig! Don’t you dare to preach to me like that,’ Margot declared angrily, her voice rising ominously. ‘You know nothing about it. Just because you’ve got a few academic qualifications, you think you know it all, don’t you? Well, you don’t. When it comes to the real world, you’re sunk! And don’t think three years at Oxford will make the slightest bit of difference, because it won’t!’

Sylvie sighed, shrugged her shoulders, and rose to her feet, glancing down at her uniform of jeans and tee-shirt without resentment. Margot was probably right. She was only eighteen, after all, and she had just finished her final exams. Going to Oxford was important to her, but she had to admit that compared to Margot’s experiences, her own were prosaic. She had never mixed with artistic people, gone on modelling assignments, had handsome men phoning her at all hours of the day and night; and no wealthy Greek was likely to defy his parents and marry her. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help thinking that such experiences seemed far more desirable from a distance, than they did close to.

‘So you won’t help me?’ Margot stated, looking up at her with cold accusing eyes, and Sylvie felt a moment’s contrition.

‘I can’t,’ she said, wishing she hadn’t such a soft conscience. ‘I’m sorry, but this is something you’re going to have to work out for yourself, Margot.’

‘Then I’ll ask Mummy,’ her sister declared, standing up also, tall and slim and vaguely intimidating, and Sylvie gasped.

‘You wouldn’t!’

‘Oh, I would,’ Margot nodded. ‘I’m desperate, Sylvie. One way or the other I’m going to do this play, and no one’s going to stop me.’

Sylvie sought about for words to dissuade her. ‘But—but Mummy would hate it,’ she exclaimed. ‘She doesn’t know Leon’s family. Why, she hardly knows Leon himself.’

‘I know that.’ Margot was unmoved.

‘But, Margot, she’s just making a life for herself here.’ Sylvie spread her hands. ‘Since Daddy died, you know how lonely she’s been, but now she’s joined the Women’s Institute, and she plays bridge every Friday—she’s even learning to play golf! You can’t take her away from all that.’

Margot moved across to the screened fireplace and took a cigarette from the pack lying on the mantel. Lighting it, she said, slowly and deliberately: ‘Do you think she would turn her back on Nikos? Do you think she would allow him to be cared for by strangers?’

Sylvie made a sound of impatience. ‘That’s blackmail, Margot!’

‘No, it’s not.’ Margot swung round, exhaling delicately. ‘If you won’t help me, there’s no one else.’

Sylvie’s shoulders hunched. ‘Leon will never agree—–’

‘We won’t tell him,’ declared Margot dispassionately. ‘You will simply arrive in my place—–’

‘No!’

‘No?’

Sylvie’s tongue circled her dry lips. ‘What will he think? What will he do?’

‘You’ll convince him that it was impossible for me to leave London at this time,’ said Margot relentlessly. ‘Leon won’t argue—he’s too much of a gentleman for that. And by the time he’s thought of a way to circumvent my plans, Dora will be back.’

‘Dora?’

‘The nursemaid. Her mother won’t remain sick for ever.’

Sylvie ran troubled fingers up the back of her neck and into the heavy weight of her hair. ‘Margot—–’

‘Well?’ Margot’s aristocratically thin features were cold. ‘Are you going to turn me down?’

Sylvie moved her head helplessly from side to side. ‘When are you supposed to leave?’

‘Next Tuesday.’

‘Tuesday!’ Sylvie sounded panic-stricken. ‘Margot, I can’t be ready to leave by Tuesday.’

‘Why not? What do you have to do? Pack a couple of swimsuits, and a dress for the evenings.’ Her sister’s lips curled. ‘Not, I trust, those disgusting denims you’re wearing at present. Do you have any idea how tight they are?’

Sylvie broke the news to her mother after dinner that evening.

She was going to a disco with Brian Jennings, and in her uncertain mental state she thought it would be easier if her mother got over the shock while she was not around. But to her astonishment, Mrs Scott’s reaction was one of relief, not disapproval.

‘I knew Margot was going to ask you,’ she said, causing Sylvie to catch her breath in confusion. ‘I told her there was no possibility of me going, after promising to help the vicar with the summer youth festival, but I thought you might enjoy it, as we haven’t booked a holiday this year.’

Sylvie was dumbfounded. Margot had tricked her. Far from hesitating over asking their mother to take her place, she had actually come to her first, and the threatening tone she had adopted towards Mrs Scott’s involvement had been just so much hot air.

‘But don’t you think Margot is being a little selfish?’ she ventured now, as Mrs Scott settled herself in her chair in front of the television set, hoping for an unfavourable reaction, but her mother only shrugged.

‘Margot must get this acting bug out of her system,’ she declared, flicking through the pages of a television magazine. ‘Turn on the set, will you darling? I don’t want to miss my serial.’

Sylvie was thoughtful at the disco that evening, and Brian took exception to her silent introspection.

‘What’s wrong?’ he demanded, drawing her into a corner and shielding her from the rest of the gathering with his stocky body. ‘Is it something I said, or didn’t you want to keep this date or something?’

‘No. No.’ Sylvie slipped her arms around his neck apologetically, smiling at his angry expression. ‘It’s just something that happened today, that’s all. Something I don’t much like—but which I’ve got to do now, because I promised.’

‘What?’ Brian was puzzled. ‘You didn’t agree to go on that dig, did you? I thought you said—–’

‘It’s not the dig,’ retorted Sylvie flatly, momentarily dispelling his frown. Mr Hammond, her history tutor, had invited her to join a dig he was organising in Northumberland: but in spite of her interest in antiquity, she had declined, mainly because she had felt the need to get a job, and contribute something to the family budget. Besides, Brian, whose own interests lay in a more technical direction, had objected to her spending several weeks camping up north while he was kicking his heels in London, and she realised his reaction to her proposed trip to Greece was going to be far harder to handle than her mother’s.

‘As a matter of fact, I am going away,’ she said now, distracting his attention from the soft curve of her neck, and Brian drew back.

‘Going away?’ he echoed. ‘You mean—on holiday? But I thought you said—–’

‘Not on holiday,’ Sylvie contradicted with a sigh. ‘It’s a job really.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m going to Alasyia to look after Margot’s little boy for a few weeks.’

‘Alasyia? You mean—Greece, don’t you?’

Sylvie nodded.

‘I see.’ Brian drew back completely, and Sylvie’s hands dropped to her sides. ‘When was this decided?’

‘Just today—I told you.’

Brian looked sceptical. ‘You mean—today was the first you heard of it?’

‘Well, not exactly. I mean—–’ Sylvie was finding it difficult to be honest, ‘Margot knew about it, of course, and I knew Leon wanted her to go—–’

‘Leon? That’s your brother-in-law, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ Sylvie nodded again. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, Leon asked Margot to go home, but she’s busy with a play at the moment—–’

‘—–so she asked you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you want to go?’

Sylvie grimaced. ‘You have to be joking!’

‘So why didn’t you refuse?’

‘I did, at first. But then—oh, Brian! She said she’d ask Mummy, and I thought Mummy would go, and she’d be miserable, so I had to agree.’

Brian’s mouth compressed. ‘It doesn’t matter about me, of course.’

Sylvie sighed. ‘Yes, it does—I’ve told you. I didn’t want to go. But now I’ve promised, so I have to.’

Brian frowned. ‘Why doesn’t this—Leon employ a nanny?’

‘He did. He does. Dora—that’s her name—she’s had to go and take care of her sick mother—–’

‘Her sick mother!’ Brian was scathing.

‘It’s true!’ Sylvie flushed. ‘Can’t you try and understand? This isn’t easy for me either. Leon expects Margot, and I’m going in her place!’

Brian sniffed. ‘For how long?’

‘I don’t know. Two or three weeks …’ Sylvie was doubtful, but unwilling to mention the six weeks Margot had stipulated.

‘Three weeks!’ Brian was aggressive. ‘That’s longer than the dig was going to last!’

‘I know it.’ Sylvie touched his sleeve tentatively. ‘I don’t want to go, Brian, honestly.’

Brian’s jaw jutted. ‘So you say. But what about me? What am I supposed to do for three weeks? Hang about, waiting for you to come back? I’m going to be a laughing stock!’

‘No, you’re not.’ Sylvie wriggled a finger through the buttonhole in his leather jacket. ‘Besides,’ she ventured a smile, ‘aren’t I worth waiting for?’

‘I don’t know, do I?’ Brian retorted. ‘You haven’t let me find out yet!’

Sylvie’s colour deepened. ‘There’s more to a relationship than sex,’ she said huskily. ‘And I don’t sleep around.’

‘I’m not asking you to sleep around,’ Brian countered, slipping his arms around her waist again and drawing her towards him. ‘Only with me.’

‘No, Brian.’

‘What do you mean? No—now, no—later, or no—for all time?’

Sylvie licked her lips. ‘Just no.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I can’t.’

‘Or won’t?’

‘Brian, why is it so important to you?’ Sylvie shook her head. ‘Everyone knows I’m your girl. Why should it matter whether or not we’ve been to bed together?’

Brian let her go with a smothered oath. ‘If you have to ask that, I’m wasting my time,’ he declared harshly. ‘Sylvie, don’t you ever—want to?’

‘Not—not specially,’ she admitted, wondering with a sudden pang whether there was something wrong with her. Brian was handsome and popular, and all the girls in school had tried to attract his attention, but for more than three months now he had been dating Sylvie. Their association had been good, at least so far as she was concerned, and his early attempts to take their lovemaking beyond the bounds she had set had given way to a steady relationship. But this evening, she realised, he had only been biding his time, and given the impetus of her proposed departure, he was being forced to precipitate his objective.

‘I don’t get you, do you know that?’ he said now, raking back his thick fair hair with an impatient hand. ‘You look such a sexy lady, but underneath I guess you don’t even know the score, do you?’

Sylvie absorbed this in silence, slightly amazed by his description of herself as a ‘sexy lady’. Was that how he saw her? She couldn’t believe it. Not after that unfavourable comparison with Margot this afternoon.

‘Come on,’ he said now, ‘I’ll take you home. There’s not much point in pursuing this, is there? I mean, what with you going away and all. Call me when you get back, and we’ll talk it over, hmm? Until then we’re free agents, right?’

You mean you are, thought Sylvie, but she didn’t say anything, and although she had a sinking feeling in her stomach when he left her at her gate, she couldn’t wait to examine her reflection once again, to see what she had missed.

Sylvie had never been to Alasyia before, but she knew of it from Margot’s descriptions. It was on a peninsular, south-east of Athens, a pine-clad promontory overlooking the blue-green waters of the Aegean. Leon’s parents lived in Athens itself, and Sylvie vaguely recalled Aristotle Petronides’ leathery-brown face, and his wife’s more aristocratic features. They had attended the wedding in London, with evident misgivings, and had insisted on a more orthodox ceremony taking place, once they returned to Athens. Leon’s brothers and sisters—he was the second son in a family of eight—had not all been at the wedding, but his elder brother, Andreas, had been best man, and two of his younger sisters had accompanied their parents. Sylvie hardly remembered them, engrossed as she had been in her own role as bridesmaid, and although she supposed she might meet them again, she was not in a hurry to renew their acquaintance. Leon she might be able to handle; Aristotle Petronides was another matter.

Her plane landed in Athens just after four o’clock in the afternoon, and in spite of the warmth of London in early July, nothing had prepared her for the heat wafting up from the tarmac as she stepped out of the aircraft. It was like a blanket, wrapping itself around her and stifling her, and she could well understand why a house at the beach was so desirable. She was glad she had taken her mother’s advice and worn a dress, instead of the inevitable trousers she was used to, although the liberal folds of Indian cotton were soon sticking to her legs. Her hair, too, felt hot and heavy, and she entered the airport buildings lifting its silky dampness up from her nape.

It was then that she saw him, a tall man, dressed formally in a grey silk lounge suit, standing beside a pillar, watching her. He was evidently Greek, although taller and leaner than many of the men around him, and his raven-dark hair was smooth, and not curly, his dark eyes long-lashed and hooded. He was certainly an attractive man, she acknowledged, and yet there was something about that intense scrutiny that troubled her, something vaguely menacing about that frank appraisal. It made her glance about her anxiously, hoping Leon was not far away, bringing an awareness of her own vulnerability, in a country that was unfamiliar to her.

She dragged her gaze away, concentrating on finding her passport in her shoulder bag, checking that she had all the necessary information. Leon had said that he would meet Margot at the airport. She had no reason to feel apprehensive. And it was obvious that a man like the man standing by the pillar would have some objective in coming to the airport in the first place, and not any intention of accosting a girl without any claims to sophistication.

‘Excuse me!’

She had been so intent on avoiding the man’s eyes, she had failed to notice that the queue she had joined had moved on, and the deep male voice that addressed her sent a ripple of awareness up her spine. Swinging round, she came face to face with her adversary, and her lips parted in dismay when she realised he was blocking her path.

‘If you don’t mind—–’ she began, uncaring as to whether or not he understood her, only eager to reach the comparative security afforded by the passport officer, and his somewhat thin lips compressed.

‘I think I know you,’ he insisted, to her consternation. ‘You are—Sylvana Scott, are you not? Margot’s sister?’ He frowned, as she gazed at him aghast. ‘But tell me, what are you doing here? Where is Margot? Is she with you?’

‘Wh-who are you?’

Sylvie’s lips could scarcely form the words. This wasn’t Leon. It certainly wasn’t Aristotle Petronides. And yet—and yet there was a resemblance.

‘Do you not remember me?’ he enquired, although he seemed loath to make the distinction. ‘I am Andreas Petronides, Leon’s brother. Now will you tell me where Leon’s wife is?’

Sylvie licked her lips. Andreas Petronides! Of course—Leon’s best man. She would not have recognised him, and yet he had recognised her. Was she so little changed from the child she had been?

‘Miss Scott?’

He was speaking again, demanding a reply, and she looked beyond him to where the passport officer was now waiting, the queue having cleared, waiting to clear her passport. Obviously the Petronides name enabled this man to move freely in an area where identification was all important, but that was scarcely important now.

‘I—I—shouldn’t I pass through passport control first?’ she ventured, seizing on the diversion, and his dark eyes narrowed.

‘First you will tell me where Margot is,’ he insisted, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth so that he should not see her indecision.

‘She’s not here,’ she admitted reluctantly, then gasped when he caught the softness of her upper arm between his fingers, painfully compressing the flesh.

‘What do you mean—she is not here?’ he demanded, and then with an eye to the inquisitive stare of the passport officer, he urged her forward. ‘Do it,’ he said. ‘Show him your identification. I will wait for you in the Customs hall.’

Still a little unnerved, Sylvie did as she was told, mildly alarmed by her tacit obedience to his wishes. Was this what Margot had meant when she said Greek men were not like Englishmen? Certainly she could not imagine any man of her acquaintance behaving so arrogantly towards a virtual stranger. It all added to the feeling of alienation that had possessed her, ever since she saw him standing there, as she now knew waiting for her—or waiting for Margot, which was just the same—and she was beginning to realise just how reckless she had been in agreeing to come here.

He was waiting for her beside her suitcases, apparently having arranged that she should be discharged with the minimum amount of fuss. Another man was with him, and her heart sank at the expectation that this might be yet another brother, come to censure her, but his black uniform dispelled her apprehensions. He was evidently a chauffeur, and she hoped with eager urgency that he might be in Leon’s employ, and that her interrogation by Andreas Petronides would soon be over.

‘Come.’

Clearly that time wasn’t quite yet, and Sylvie was obliged to accompany Leon’s brother out into the brilliant sunshine that bathed the airport. The chauffeur had taken possession of her cases, and they were stowed into the boot of a silver-grey limousine waiting for them, and then Andreas stood back politely to allow her to precede him into the capacious back of the car.

Sylvie hesitated. ‘Leon—–’ she began, feeling the need for some reassurance, but Andreas merely gestured more forcibly, and she was obliged to obey him once again.

The limousine was air-conditioned, and after the sticky heat outside Sylvie could not suppress the sigh of relief that escaped her. It was only as the chauffeur seated himself behind the wheel in the partitioned driving compartment, and the car began moving, that she realised she had asked for no identification, and her lips parted anxiously at the awareness of her folly.

But, even as she turned towards the man beside her, he spoke, and what he said temporarily robbed her of any other consideration. ‘Now, you will tell me when Margot intends to join us,’ he ordered harshly, ‘or is she so without conscience that not even the knowledge of her husband’s illness is sufficient to bring her home?’

CHAPTER TWO

SYLVIE stared at him for several minutes after he had finished speaking, and then, realising her scrutiny might be misconstrued, she looked down blindly at her hands gripping her bag. Was he serious? Was Leon really ill? And Margot knew about it!

‘Now you are going to tell me you did not know, am I right?’ he intoned contemptuously, shifting restlessly in his seat. ‘Do not bother. I shall not believe you.’

‘But it’s true!’ She looked up then, forced to defend herself, and met the disturbing impact of sceptical dark eyes. ‘I didn’t know. How—how could I?’ She paused. ‘Does Margot know?’

‘Does Margot know?’ he repeated grimly, settling himself lower in his seat and spreading his drawn-up knees, confined by the limitations of the space available. ‘Oh, yes, Margot knows. Why else did she send you here?’

‘I thought I was coming to look after Nikos for a few weeks,’ Sylvie retorted, stung by his insolence and his hostility. ‘Margot didn’t tell me anything else.’ She hesitated. ‘But if I’m not needed, why don’t you take me straight back to the airport? I believe there’s a flight—–’

‘Wait!’ His tone was less aggressive than weary now, and she looked at him apprehensively, prepared for another outburst. ‘Do you expect me to believe that you knew nothing about Leon’s operation? That Margot told you only that Nikos needed a nursemaid?’

Sylvie shrugged. ‘It’s the truth, whether you believe it or not.’

He said a word then in his own language, that even she, with her minuscule knowledge of Greek, knew was not polite. But, after resting his head against the soft leather upholstery for a few moments, he levered himself upright in his seat.

‘Poli kala,’ he said, and it was only when he spoke his own language that she realised how little accent he possessed in hers, ‘I believe you. But that does not solve the situation.’

To evade her own awareness of his disturbingly intent gaze, Sylvie hastened into speech. ‘Leon,’ she said, torturing the strap of her bag, ‘what’s wrong with him? I—I can’t believe that Margot thought it was anything serious.’

Andreas’s thin mouth turned down at the corners. ‘Do you not? But are not all heart operations serious, ohi?’

‘Leon has a heart condition?’ Sylvie gasped. ‘I—I don’t know what to say.’

Andreas studied her troubled features for some minutes, bringing a wave of hot colour up her neck and over her face, and then, as if taking pity on her, he looked down at his hands hanging loosely between his knees. ‘Leon had rheumatic fever when he was a child,’ he said, without expression. ‘Recently it was discovered that the valves of his heart were not functioning properly, so an operation was advised.’

Sylvie shook her head. ‘And—and Nikos?’

Andreas shrugged. ‘Nikos is—Nikos. He has been staying with my mother and father, while Leon was in the hospital.’ He sighed. ‘Now that Leon has left the hospital, Margot was to accompany them home.’

‘Oh God!’

Sylvie could not have felt worse. How could Margot have done this—to her, and to Leon? Didn’t she care how he was? Hadn’t she felt the need to go and see him, while he was in the hospital? It was no wonder that Andreas had been stunned to find her at the airport. And she dreaded to think what his parents would say when she turned up in Margot’s place.

Turning her head, she stared blindly out of the window. The eight miles between the airport and the city were over, and already they were climbing through the narrow streets that formed the suburbs. Seedy hotels, and uninspiring shops and cafés, gave way to the modern heart of the city, where tree-lined squares were lined with canopied chairs and tables, and marble buildings, breathing an air of antiquity, jostled with tourist stores and travel agencies, and the pseudo-Renaissance palace, used for official functions.

Sylvie started, when Andreas suddenly leaned forward and rapped on the glass partition. The chauffeur slid the partition aside, and they exchanged a few words in their own language. Then, after giving Sylvie a vaguely speculative look, the chauffeur closed the partition again, and braking abruptly, turned off the main thoroughfare into a sun-dappled square. There were trees in the middle of the square, providing a shadowy oasis, where mothers could walk their children; but towering above it was one of the new skyscraper blocks, whose concrete and glass influence could be felt in all the capital cities of the world.

The chauffeur brought the Mercedes to a halt at the foot of the shallow steps leading up to the swinging glass doors of the tall building, but when Sylvie would have moved to get out Andreas’s hand, more gently this time, stayed her.

‘This is not where my parents live,’ he said, slowly and deliberately, and while she was absorbing this he went on heavily: ‘I think it would be best if I spoke to my parents—to my brother—first, before they meet you, do you understand? It is a—how do you say it?—fragile situation, ohi?’

Sylvie nodded. ‘I understand that.’ She paused. ‘But don’t you think it would be better if—if I just went away again—–’

‘No!’ He spoke vehemently, expelling his breath as he did so, enveloping her in its wine-sweet odour, creating an intimacy she had never experienced before. How old was this man? she wondered. Thirty-five, thirty-six? Married, no doubt, judging by the rings he wore on his long brown fingers, and yet he aroused her awareness of him as a man, more strongly than Brian, or any of the boys she had known, had done.

‘You will stay here,’ he advised her now, indicating the building behind her. ‘This is my apartment. Oh, do not worry—–’ this as her eyes widened in surprise, ‘—my housekeeper, Madame Kuriakis, will take care of you until I return.’

Sylvie looked doubtful. ‘Is there any point? I mean—if Nikos doesn’t need me—–’

‘But he does,’ essayed Andreas flatly. ‘My parents are old, too old to have the care of a six-year-old. And if Margot does not intend to fulfil her responsibilities, it may be that you will be required to fill them for her.’

The chauffeur, who had been waiting patiently outside, responded to Andreas’s curt nod and swung open the door. He helped Sylvie out on to the pavement, then stood aside to allow his master to alight, his dark eyes veiled and enigmatic. Sylvie wondered what he was thinking. If he understood no English, did he know who she was, and what she was doing here? And what interpretation might be put upon this visit to Andreas’s apartment?

Apparently her luggage was to remain in the car, for Andreas indicated that she should accompany him, and they mounted the shallow steps and passed through the glass doors into the building. A row of lifts confronted them, and they entered the first that answered Andreas’s summons, confined in the small cubicle as it accelerated swiftly upward.

Sylvie was intensely conscious of his nearness in the lift, of the hard muscularity of his body, encased in the dark grey lounge suit, of the strength he had exhibited so painfully at the airport. He was not like Leon. Her memories of her brother-in-law were of a smaller man, a gentler man, and certainly a much less dangerous man. It was amazing how one’s opinions could change, she thought inconsequently. At eleven years of age, Andreas had been only another dark stranger at her sister’s wedding. Seven years later he was a man, and she was a woman—although she guessed he might dispute the designation.

It was deliciously cool when they stepped out into the corridor and found themselves confronting white-panelled doors, with the Petronides name spelt out in letters of gold. Andreas brought a handful of keys out of his pocket and inserted one in the lock, then urged Sylvie forward into the apartment.

Her first impression was of light and space, but almost immediately following on these thoughts was her breathless reaction to the view. She could see the Acropolis, the milky-white columns of the Parthenon towering over the city, and viewed over the rooftops of Athens, it had an almost fairytale beauty. She was drawn to the long windows, as if by a magnet, and for several seconds she was unaware that Andreas had left her to find the housekeeper.

When she eventually dragged her eyes away and looked about her immediate surroundings, she felt an uneasy sense of disorientation. Her experiences so far had not prepared her for the luxurious appointments of the apartment, and she drew her skirts aside from bronze miniatures on narrow plinths, and furnishings with the unmistakable veneer of age and antiquity.

It was a spacious room she was in, the floor softly tiled in russet and gold mosaic, and strewn with Bokhara rugs. A copper-shaded lamp was suspended over velvet-soft hide sofas, dotted with jewel-bright cushions, and a custom-built unit housed books and television set, stereo, and radio equipment. Strangely enough, the accoutrements to contemporary living blended well with their latter-day counterparts, and the atmosphere was one of comfortable prosperity—and understated opulence.

The door behind her opened, and she turned to find Andreas re-entering the room, accompanied by a woman, plump, and black-clad, who regarded Sylvie with some suspicion.

‘This is Madame Kuriakis,’ Andreas introduced them briefly, his dark eyes lingering longer than necessary, Sylvie thought, on hers. ‘Apo dho i Thespinis Scott, kiria.’

‘Hero poli, thespinis,’ Madame Kuriakis murmured politely, and then turning to her employer, she evidently asked him some question concerning Sylvie’s presence there.

‘Mia stighmi,’ Andreas responded, with a quelling gesture, before continuing in English: ‘My housekeeper wishes to know whether you would like something to eat or drink. And then, I am afraid, I must leave you. I shall endeavour not to be too long.’

Sylvie shook her head. ‘Perhaps some coffee,’ she ventured, unwilling to admit that she felt too churned up inside to eat anything. Then: ‘Are you sure I should stay here?. Your wife—–’

‘I have no wife, Miss Scott,’ he advised her, with a wry look. ‘Fere ligho kafe, kiria,’ this to Madame Kuriakis. ‘Herete, thespinis. Sto espanidhin!’

He left her with a faint smile, and after indicating that Sylvie should take a seat, Madame Kuriakis left her also. It was slightly unnerving being left in such magnificent isolation, and Sylvie felt a growing awareness of her own incongruity in being here. Margot had done this, she thought angrily. Margot had sent her here, to be insulted and humiliated, and the temptation to get to her feet again and escape from this luxurious confinement was almost more than she could bear.

The return of Madame Kuriakis, with a tray on which reposed a silver coffee pot and cream jug, a silver sugar bowl, and a dish of sticky sweetmeats, steadied her. The Greek woman put the tray down on the low table in front of Sylvie’s sandal-clad feet, and then knelt to pour the thick black beverage.

‘Krema, thespinis?’ she suggested, pointing to the jug, ‘zahari?’

‘No, no, nothing, thank you,’ answered Sylvie, waving her hand in negation, and with a little bob of her head the woman rose to her feet again and left the room.

The coffee was treacly-rich, and very strong, and after tasting it Sylvie was glad to resort to the cream and sugar. She added several spoonfuls of sugar to hide the bitter taste, and still grimaced behind her hand after swallowing a mouthful. Still, it was something to do, and she toyed with the tiny silver spoon, and admired the fragile china cup and saucer.

The sweetmeats were more to her liking, although their cloying texture stuck to her teeth. They were probably extremely fattening, too, she reflected, although Andreas didn’t appear to have suffered by it.

Thinking of Andreas brought her up from her seat again, and across to the windows. She didn’t know why, but she was curiously loath to allow him to occupy her thoughts, and she could only assume it was his attitude towards her which aroused such strong feelings. Margot had been right about one thing, Greek men were not like Englishmen, and she was not altogether sure she liked the distinction.

She wondered now what Leon’s letter to Margot had really said. She doubted her mother knew that Leon had been in hospital. Mrs Scott might be partisan in some things, but if she had suspected Leon was ill, surely she would have urged her daughter to return to Greece.

As for herself, Sylvie was still too disturbed to know how she felt. Caring for Nikos while his father was going about his normal business pursuits was one thing; becoming nurse, as well as nursemaid, for his father, too, was quite another. Besides, Leon would not want her there. It was Margot he wanted, Margot he had expected, Margot who should be here.

The time passed slowly, or perhaps it was that Sylvie was too conscious of the minutes, the hands on the ormolu clock crawling painfully towards six o’clock. At fifteen minutes past, the silver-grey telephone rang, and while Sylvie froze in anticipation Madame Kuriakis came to answer it.

She expected it to be Andreas, summoning her to the phone, explaining without the embarrassment of another confrontation, that Leon and his parents refused to see her. But Madame Kuriakis scarcely looked at her, speaking into the receiver with evident animation, reassuring, if it was possible to identify her tone, whoever was on the line that Andreas’s absence was regrettable.

When she replaced the receiver again, she glanced at Sylvie with reluctant courtesy. ‘Thespinis Eleni,’ she said, as if that should mean something, and Sylvie forced a smile even though she had no idea who Thespinis Eleni might be.

Left to herself again, she speculated about the caller. Eleni! That was a woman’s name, of course. But what woman? Not his wife; he had said he had no wife. His sister, perhaps. Or a cousin. Or more likely, a girl-friend, she reflected resignedly, realising that whatever else Andreas Petronides might be, he was not without attraction for the opposite sex.

The sound of a key in the lock brought her round with a start, to gaze apprehensively across the room. In the fading light there were shadows casting pools of darkness over the mellow floor, but the lean muscular figure of her host was unmistakable.

He came into the room economically, moving with the lithe easy grace she had noticed earlier. He closed the door, dropped his keys into his pocket, and then surveyed her position by the windows with wry contemplation.

‘I am sorry I have been so long,’ he said at once, unbuttoning his jacket to reveal the tailored lines of his waistcoat. ‘But there was much to discuss, as you may imagine. Arrangements to be made.’

‘Arrangements?’ echoed Sylvie faintly, touching the slender chain about her throat, which was all the jewellery she wore. ‘You—you mean, I’m to stay here? In Greece. I mean. But what did your brother say?’

Before he could reply, however, Madame Kuriakis appeared, eager to give him the message she had taken. Sylvie heard the woman’s name, Eleni, mentioned several times in their conversation, but apart from that she understood none of it, and stood there in silence, feeling unutterably de trop.

Eventually, however, Andreas silenced the housekeeper, and after he had given her some instruction, she disappeared again, leaving Sylvie to face whatever was to come.

‘So.’ Andreas expelled his breath noisily. ‘Now we can continue. And yes, you are to remain in Greece.’

Sylvie found her legs were strangely shaky and moving away from the windows, she sought the refuge of one of the sofas. Somehow she had convinced herself she would be returning to London, and now that she wasn’t, she felt curiously weak.

‘Your—your brother,’ she began, aware of his eyes upon her, and needing to say something to divert him, ‘what did he say?’

Andreas shrugged, and then, much to her dismay, he lowered his weight on to the sofa beside her, and giving her a disturbingly gentle look, he said: ‘Leon wants to see you. I have explained that you are not to blame for Margot’s behaviour,’ his lips tightened, ‘and he has agreed that you should stay and look after Nikos. As you had intended.’

Sylvie looked bewildered. ‘But how? I mean—am I to go to Alasyia with Leon?’

Andreas’s jaw hardened. ‘Unfortunately, that would not be at all acceptable.’

‘Acceptable?’ Sylvie was confused.

‘You are a young unmarried girl,’ declared Andreas roughly. ‘Sick as Leon is, he is still a man.’

‘Oh!’ Her colour deepened. ‘So—so what—–’

‘Arrangements have been made,’ said Andreas flatly, and somehow Sylvie knew who had been responsible for those arrangements. ‘Leon has been very ill. He needs time to convalesce. It has been arranged that he will continue his convalescence at Monastiros.’

‘Monastiros?’ Sylvie gazed at him uncomprehendingly. ‘Where—where is that?’

Andreas leaned back against the cushioned leather, unfastening the button beneath his silver-grey tie, loosening the knot almost imperceptibly. He looked more relaxed, even satisfied, but Sylvie was impatient to know exactly what he had planned for her.

‘Monastiros is an island, thespinis,’ he said, his eyes narrowed as he looked at her. ‘It belongs to—my family. You and Nikos will be happy there, and Leon will have all the care he needs. My aunt, Ariadne Petronides, will see to that.’

Sylvie sat up. ‘But why couldn’t we go to Alasyia? If—if your aunt is to provide a chaperon?’

‘You will go to Monastiros,’ he stated flatly. ‘It is all decided.’ He ran the palm of one hand over the roughening skin of his jawline. ‘And now you must excuse me while I change my clothes. My parents wish for us to dine with them this evening.’

Sylvie scrambled to her feet as he stood up, and her haste brought her less than a hand’s-breadth away from him. ‘I—I can’t go to dinner like this,’ she stammered, indicating the creased Indian cotton, and without hesitation his dark eyes dropped appraisingly down the full length of her body.

She had never been so conscious of her own shortcomings, she thought, with the blood rising hotly to the surface of her skin. He could not help but observe the palpitating rise and fall of her full breasts, or miss the anxious quivering of her stomach. Beneath the enveloping folds of her dress her knees were shaking, and she was sure she looked as hot and dishevelled as she felt. Nevertheless, his intent assimilation of her appearance did arouse a certain indignation inside her, and she clung to this as his eyes returned to her face.

‘Your suitcases are downstairs,’ he said at last, without emphasis, moving his shoulders in an indifferent gesture. ‘I will have Spiro fetch them up for you.’

The crisp detachment of his tone made Sylvie increasingly aware of her own lack of sophistication. She was over-sensitive, she told herself impatiently. She had no reason to object to his assessment. After all, they were virtually related, he as Leon’s brother and she as Margot’s sister, but nevertheless no man had looked at her in quite that way, and she was left feeling raw, and strangely vulnerable.

‘Th-thank you,’ she said now, linking her clammy fingers together, and as he moved away to summon the chauffeur she endeavoured to compose herself. But she couldn’t dismiss the trickling of moisture that had invaded her spine, or dispel her awareness of his alien personality.

Madame Kuriakis reappeared, and at Andreas’s instigation showed Sylvie into the bedroom she could use to change in. If the housekeeper had any misgivings about the girl’s continued presence in the apartment, she managed to conceal them, but Sylvie, with her increased sensitivity, suspected she had very definite opinions of her own.

Left alone, Sylvie explored her domain with genuine curiosity. So this was what Margot had been loath to abandon, she reflected with unusual cynicism, trailing her fingers over apple-green damask and the gleaming patina of polished wood. Even the adjoining bathroom had a sunken bath, with its own jacuzzi unit, and she acknowledged without envy that luxury here was an accepted part of living. She was almost regretful she had only time to take a shower, although perhaps it was just as well. It would not do to get too accustomed to so much comfort.

By the time she emerged from the bathroom, a fluffy green towel draped sarong-wise about her, her suitcases had been deposited on the carved chest at the end of the bed. Extracting her keys from her handbag, she opened the largest of them with a thoughtful air and studied its contents with evident indecision.

Expecting to stay at Alasyia, which was sufficiently remote from civilisation to need little in the way of formal clothes, she had brought mostly casual wear and swimsuits. But she could hardly turn up at the Petronides residence for dinner wearing a cotton smock or beachwear, and the nearest thing to an evening outfit she possessed was a waistcoat and matching pants in amber-coloured velvet. It was worn with a cream shirt with wide, flowing sleeves gathered into a lacy cuff, and a frilled jabot below her small determined chin, and Sylvie had always thought it was quite flattering. The amber colour matched her eyes, which were several shades lighter than the rich brown they should have been, and the close-fitting pants accentuated the slender length of her legs. Nevertheless, she suspected that Madame Petronides might not approve, and she viewed the rounded curve of her hips with some anxiety. Was Margot right? Did she wear her clothes too tight? Did she eat all the wrong things? She sighed half irritably. Well, it was Margot’s fault that she was here, and if she didn’t suit, Margot would have to give up her selfish pursuits and replace her.

She studied the fall of corn-gold hair without satisfaction. Should she braid it, or coil it into a chignon, or leave it loose? Plaiting her hair would only accentuate her immaturity, she decided impatiently, and she didn’t really have the time to do a good job of creating a more sophisticated style. With a resigned shrug she tied it at her nape with a length of black cord, then regarded her appearance with as much objectivity as she could muster.

Where was she expected to sleep tonight? she wondered, after dimissing her appearance with a careless shrug. Acting on impulse, she folded up the Indian cotton and re-locked her suitcases, guessing there was little chance that she would be allowed to stay here. The idea that she might be expected to stay with Margot’s mother and father-in-law had little appeal for her, but she doubted she would be offered any alternative. If it was unacceptable that she should stay at Alasyia with Leon, it was certainly unacceptable for her to sleep at Andreas’s apartment.

When she entered the living room again, Andreas was already waiting for her, his dark looks enhanced by a black mohair dinner jacket. He was in the process of pouring himself a drink from the selection available on a tray resting on a carved wooden table, but he straightened at her entrance and inclined his head politely.

‘Can I offer you something?’ he enquired, indicating the glass in his hand, but Sylvie shook her head. She was nervous enough as it was, without the effects of alcohol to weaken her confidence, and Andreas shrugged his acceptance and raised his glass to his lips.

Unwilling to appear to be studying him too closely, Sylvie allowed her eyes to move round the lamplit room. It was quite dark outside the long windows now, and the lights of Athens beckoned insistently. Instinctively she moved towards the windows, catching her breath as the floodlit Parthenon attracted her enchanted eyes. She thought she had never seen anything more magnificent than the tall white columns outlined against the velvety darkness of the sky, and her lips parted in unknowing provocation as she gazed upon its ancient symmetry.

‘You find it interesting?’

She had been unaware that Andreas had come to stand beside her until he spoke, and now she looked up at him with some of the fascination she had felt still in her eyes.

‘It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?’ she exclaimed, her voice husky with sudden emotion, and Andreas’s dark eyes were enigmatic as he met that ingenuous appeal.

‘How old are you, Sylvana?’ he asked, using her name for the first time, and warm colour surged into her cheeks.

‘I’m eighteen,’ she replied, answering automatically, but quickly too, as she turned her head away from his cool scrutiny. ‘And please call me Sylvie. Everyone does.’

Andreas shrugged. He had disposed of his glass, she noticed, and although she expected him to suggest that it was time they were leaving, he seemed curiously reluctant to abandon his position. Instead, he remained where he was, looking down at her, and it was she who shifted uneasily again, aware of her own lack of sophistication.

‘You do not mind—spending these weeks in Greece?’ he asked, with narrow-eyed interrogation, and Sylvie shook her head.

‘No. No, I don’t mind,’ she conceded. ‘At least—well,’ she qualified her statement, ‘it was the only thing I could do.’

‘You are not like Margot, I think,’ he opined dryly. ‘At eighteen, I could not imagine her giving up her time to look after her small nephew.’

‘Oh—–’ Sylvie managed a half smile of deprecation, ‘I’m not so noble. Who wouldn’t enjoy spending a few weeks in this climate!’ She made a gesture of dismissal. ‘Actually, I’m the lazy one of the family. Ask Mummy or—or Margot, they would tell you. I like lazing around—sunbathing, swimming, reading …’

‘You are still at school, yes?’ he suggested, and now her curiously tawny eyes flashed in annoyance.

‘I’m still at school, no!’ she retorted, unconsciously mocking his cultivated English. ‘I left school—some weeks ago. I’m going to university in October.’

Andreas’s lean mouth twisted. ‘My apologies, thespinis,’ he offered mockingly. ‘It was not my intention to insult you. Forgive me.’

Sylvie sighed. ‘You didn’t insult me. It’s just—well, I’m not a child, you know.’

Andreas inclined his head and how he did begin to move towards the door. ‘We must be leaving,’ he remarked, flicking back his cuff to consult the plain gold watch on his wrist. ‘We have a call to make on our way to my father’s house, and I do not wish to be late.’

Sylvie felt suitably chastened, although whether that was his intention, she had no way of knowing. With a feeling of irritation out of all proportion to the incident, she followed him across the room, then halted uncertainly when she remembered her suitcases.

‘I—oughtn’t we to take my luggage?’ she suggested, colouring anew when he turned to give her a preoccupied look. ‘I mean—I won’t be coming back here, will I?’ She hesitated. ‘Or will I?’

‘It is already arranged that you will stay here tonight,’ Andreas remarked, with faintly brusque resolution. ‘My sister Marina will return with us this evening, and she also will sleep at the apartment, so long as you are here.’

‘So long as I am here?’ Sylvie echoed, as she preceded him into the corridor outside, and Andreas closed the door behind them with definite precision.

‘It may take several days to reorganise my brother’s plans,’ Andreas told her, as the lift doors slid smoothly open. ‘Surely the prospect of staying in Athens for two or three days more does not distress you?’

‘N-o.’ But Sylvie was slightly disturbed by the prospect, and by the knowledge that she would be seeing a lot more of Andreas Petronides.

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