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.

Apollo’s Seed
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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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

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

IT was the air she had forgotten, its softness and clarity, the translucent light that made the colours more vivid, and the contrasts more pronounced. Then there was the smell—a distinctive aroma of lemon groves and pomegranate trees, and vines, luscious with ripening fruit. There was nowhere quite like it, and although her love for the islands had been tempered by other emotions, Martha still found it impossible not to respond to their seductive appeal.

She had awakened very early that morning, a not unusual circumstance considering she had gone to bed before ten, she had told herself, ignoring completely the fact that she had not slept well. Not even the two glasses of ouzo she had swallowed, in an attempt to get a good night’s rest, had succeeded in ridding her mind of the problems she faced in the morning, and the night had been spent in uneasy remembrance of a life she had left more than five years ago.

But it was morning now, and from the balcony of her hotel she had a magnificent view of the blue-green waters of the Aegean, with the shadowy coastline of Turkey only a dozen or more miles away. A haze hung on the horizon, a promise of heat to come, but already the air was pleasantly warm and audible with the persistent hum of the cicadas.

She had chosen this hotel because it was near enough to the small town of Rhodes to permit her to ride there in a taxi in less than ten minutes, and not as far along the coast road as the hotel where she and Sarah had stayed almost eight years ago. It would have been too painful, she acknowledged, to stay at the same hotel—primarily, she added bitterly, because it reminded her so strongly of the youth she had wasted.

The swimming pool in the grounds of the hotel below her was already attracting several of the guests, and watching a pallid-skinned teenager do an energetic crawl across its depth, she glanced down at her own pale arms and legs, visible below the candy-stripe of her nightshirt. Wintering in northern climes was certainly a drain on any tan she had had left from the previous year’s trip to the Scilly Isles, and she envied those dark-skinned people who never looked pale and anaemic. Like Dion, she thought, and then grimaced when she realised his name had come automatically to mind. But, considering why she was here, that was not so surprising, she told herself severely, as she left the balcony to bathe and dress.

Nevertheless, having breakfast in the hotel dining room, she felt rather less sure of herself. It wasn’t the first time she had wished she had not allowed herself to be persuaded to come here, and she doubted it would be the last. She wanted to help Roger, of course she did, but this particular demand was surely too much to expect. There must be some other way he could tackle it. And yet wasn’t that exactly why she was here? Because there was no other way? Because the Myconos family had already blocked every other overture he had made?

She sighed, spreading the contents of a tiny tin of apricot conserve across a rather rubbery roll. If only it had been anywhere else than Mycos. Almost any other island! But Roger’s research had led him to believe that Mycos might have given refuge to the Minoans, fleeing the tidal wave that devastated Crete when the volcanic island of Santorini erupted almost three thousand years ago. And although Martha had not wanted to get involved, his persistent assertion that the reason she wouldn’t help him was because she was afraid to contact Dion again had gradually eroded her opposition.

Aware of the dark eyes of a waiter resting upon her, she felt an unwelcome shiver of apprehension slide down her spine. Greek men could be so contemptuous of Western European women. Their eyes admired their slender long-legged beauty, they showered extravagant compliments upon them—but secretly they despised their freedom and independence, even while they were taking advantage of it. Their own women were treated much differently. A Greek girl was still a virgin when she got married, and although her position was in no way equal to that of her husband, she was given his loyalty and fidelity, and the respect due to the mother of his children.

Martha pushed her plate aside half impatiently, and reached for the coffee pot. What was she doing? she asked herself, thinking about such things. They were not her concern—not any longer, at any rate. She had had enough of that kind of confinement, the cloistered life that left a man free to do as he wished, and a woman to do as she was told. If so total a commitment was respect, she could do without it. It was sad for Josy, of course it was, but at least she would have the freedom to do as she liked, and not as her father willed.

The guilt that invariably accompanied this silent defiance spilled over her once again. In all these years, she had not learned the art of self-deception. No matter what she said, no matter how she defended herself, she could never entirely destroy the feeling that she had deliberately deprived the child of her birthright. It was easy enough to state the facts—that Dion hadn’t wanted to listen to her, that he had jumped to reckless conclusions without any proof, that he had driven her away by his absurd jealousy—but there was no denying that she had not denied his belief, had actually enjoyed his almost homicidal fury, and felt a certain smug satisfaction in thwarting him at last.

Those feelings had not lasted long. Indeed, she knew that had he come looking for her in those early days, she would have capitulated and told him the truth. She had loved him, after all, in spite of his faults, and it was not her nature to inflict pain. But he had not, and her hopes had turned to anger, and her anger to resentment, and resentment into bitterness. By the time she did receive a communication from him, Sarah had had her accident, and it was too late then to listen to reason. She had wanted nothing from him. His willingness to condemn her was unforgivable, and later, as her daughter developed into an adorable little girl, she had realised that if Dion ever learned that Josy was his, he might well take her from them, as well as everything else …

Leaving the table, she crossed the tiled floor to the arched exit which gave access to the verandah. It was too early yet to take the taxi into town, and she had no desire to stand about for hours, waiting for Aristotle Myconos.

‘Kalimera, thespinis!’

The waiter who had been observing her earlier had stepped into her path, and was looking down at her with evident admiration. He was a handsome young man, she had to admit, short and stocky like some Greeks, with bulging biceps visible through the sleeves of his thin cotton shirt. He was obviously well used to having success with the unmarried girls who stayed at the hotel, and the arrogance in his face reminded her painfully of that other occasion when she and her sister had accepted a similar invitation.

‘Kalimera,’ she said now, shortly, the tightness of her lips betraying her anger to more discerning eyes. ‘Me sinhorite …,

‘Ah!’ The man’s eyes widened at her casual use of his language. ‘You are Greek?’

‘No. I’m English,’ retorted Martha coldly. ‘Now—if you’ll please get out of my way …’

‘Poli kala …’

The Greek spread his hands expressively, and aware that they had attracted the attention of some of the other waiters, who were watching with amused eyes, Martha walked out of the dining room with burning cheeks.

On the verandah, however, her sense of humour asserted itself. It was ridiculous to get so worked up just because a young man had made a pass at her. What did it matter if he was Greek? It should be good to know that she was still attractive enough to warrant that kind of treatment on her first morning at the hotel, and she had no reason to feel oppressed by it. All the same, it had come too close on the heels of the thoughts that had plagued her during breakfast, and she walked uneasily along the balcony, aware of an increasing state of restiveness. She would be glad when it was ten o’clock, and she could get this interview with Dion’s father over. It was a nerve-racking prospect, and not one she relished, and the determination she had felt in England to show Roger she had no qualms about meeting any of the Myconos family was rapidly waning. Not because she was afraid, she quickly told herself, but simply because she resented having to ask them for anything.

On impulse, she decided to go into town after all. She could always wander round the shops for a while, she thought reasonably. She needed some sun-tan oil. Her skin would quickly blister if she did not take the proper precautions, and that kind of discomfort she could do without.

She went back to her room first to check that her plain denim skirt and blue cotton shirt were suitable, and viewing her reflection in the mirror above the vanity unit, she wondered if her erstwhile father-in-law would notice the shadows beneath her eyes. The light make-up she wore did little to disguise the hollows where dark lashes swept the pale transparency of her cheeks, and she wished for once that she was not so slim. But the care of a five-year-old, an invalid, and a full-time job, was not designed to put flesh on her bones, and since her break-up with Dion, she had had little time to worry about her appearance. Only the heavy silken swathe of honey-coloured hair remained the same, a concession to vanity, and, confined in its single thick braid, an easy extravagance. There was seldom enough money for the luxury of a hairdresser, and Martha had grown used to washing her own hair and letting it dry naturally. Josy’s hair, which Dion had found so unacceptable, was now almost as dark as his, although she had to admit that in other ways, her daughter was much more like herself.

Riding along the coast road in the taxi, Martha was glad her hair was confined. With all the windows open, the stiff breeze would quickly have disordered any hairstyle, but the few strands that blew across her pale forehead only added to her appearance, gentling the somewhat anxious severity of her expression.

‘Mandraki?’ enquired the driver over his shoulder, and Martha gathered her thoughts and nodded.

‘Efharisto,’ she agreed with a small smile, and the driver’s brows lifted in silent approval. The smile erased the shadows from the wide grey eyes and brought an unconscious allure to features that in repose lacked that revealing candour.

Rhodes, or Rodos as the locals called it, was full of tourists. It was the start of the busiest season of the year, and the narrow streets were thronged with people. Open-air bars and tavernas were doing good business, and down by the harbour, there were the usual groups of older Greeks, gathered about the tables on the square, drinking the thick sweet Greek coffee, and arguing the politics of the day.

Martha tipped the driver and left the cab, walking across the road to where a handful of caiques were waiting to transport tourists to the tiny island of Khalki, or to Lindos, on the eastern coast of Rhodes, where the Acropolis attracted more and more visitors every year. She remembered visiting Lindos, and how she and Sarah had fallen about with laughter after jogging halfway up the hillside on donkeys.

Beyond the moorings, the harbour opened out to where the iron deer, Rhodes’ emblem, were perched on top of the harbour pillars. The mighty Colossus of Rhodes was supposed to have bestridden the entry years ago, one of the seven wonders of the ancient world, and without anything to remind one of the twentieth century, it was incredibly easy to imagine oneself back in another older time. Only a car ferry, steaming imperturbably across the horizon, destroyed the illusion, and Martha walked on to where the sea wall provided a buttress against the breeze.

It was nearing ten when she strolled back again, trying to ignore the butterflies in her stomach. She had occupied the last half hour by thinking of Josy, wondering what she was doing at playschool, and whether Sarah was coping in her absence. But now she was forced to think of her reasons for being here, and even to her ears they sounded suspect. It was going to be difficult to explain her gratitude to Roger, without Dion’s father imagining their relationship to be something it was not. How could she expect him to understand that without Roger’s friendship, she and her sister would never have been able to afford the apartment they lived in? That Sarah depended upon him? She could not tell him about Sarah’s accident; that was something too painful to contemplate. And besides, she shrank from any suggestion of appealing for sympathy. Dion must not think she wanted any charity from him or his family. All she hoped for was that Roger should be given the chance to excavate at Simos.

She had written to Aristotle Myconos deliberately. After all, the island belonged to Dion’s father, it was the family estate, and the reason why Roger, and all other archaeologists, were refused permission to work there. Not that either Aristotle, or the members of his family, spent much of their time on Mycos. His shipping concerns meant he, and his three eldest sons, travelled the world quite extensively, and when he was not visiting the Myconos offices in New York or London or Tokyo, he was living in Athens, at his villa, which had a magnificent view of the Acropolis, within easy reach of his headquarters there.

The extent and complexity of the Myconos’ wealth had always been a source of amazement to Martha. She liked money, of course she did, she liked spending it, but the extent to which money played a part in their lives had constantly bewildered her. Her needs had not been extravagant. Food to eat, clothes to wear, a car to drive—and even that had been a luxury, and not essential. It had always amused Dion that she had asked for so little, that she had been embarrassed when he offered her a trousseau from Balmain, or a necklace valued at several thousand pounds, from Tiffanys in New York. He had found it difficult to understand her apparent lack of ambition, the pride which forbade his desire to display her as his possession, and the lingering independence, which had ultimately led to their separation.

It was just as well, she acknowledged now, that she had not adapted too readily to that rarified atmosphere, that sybaritic way of life. It would have been far harder for someone without her streak of stubbornness, someone who had married for money, and not for love. Dion had never really believed that, she had realised long ago. He must always have suspected her feelings for him, been suspicious of her eagerness to become his wife. Deep inside, he had fostered jealousy and uncertainty, and she had finally come to the conclusion that he had confused love with a selfish desire for possession. His feelings had erupted on the night Josy was born, sweet innocent Josy, with that cap of russet-red hair, that had crystallised all Dion’s suspicions into a hard core of distrust.

Aristotle Myconos’s response to her letter had been brief. He refused, he said, to discuss any matter with her in a letter. If she wished to speak to him, she should come out to the islands, and much against her better judgment she had been forced to agree. Besides, she had argued, what could happen to her in Rhodes? She would meet her father-in-law, tell him of Roger’s ambitions and the debt she owed to him, and hope that he would be generous. It was not so much to ask, surely. Roger and his assistant would not bring any disruption to their way of life. And it would be such a coup for the university if he could produce new evidence of what happened to the survivors of that ancient disaster.

The market, across the road from the harbour, was a meeting place for locals and tourists alike. Looking up an alleyway, Martha could see stalls, weighted down with oranges and peaches, and the enormous red and yellow melons, that were so much juicier than the fruit they bought back home. There were toy stalls and clothes stalls, stalls selling leather goods and pottery, and the exquisitely ornamented dolls in traditional costume. She wondered if she ought to buy one of them for Josy, but she couldn’t decide. Might it promote questions she was still not yet ready to answer? Josy had accepted the fact that she did not have a father without too much curiosity so far, but her daughter was an intelligent child, and Martha was constantly aware that sooner or later some more satisfactory explanation would be demanded. That was when the strength of her decision would be tested, and she acknowledged that deep inside her she had doubts as to whether she had the right to lie about the child’s parentage. Since her agreement to speak to Aristotle Myconos on Roger’s behalf, she had wondered whether this might be her opportunity to view the situation objectively, but every time she thought of offering Dion the right to share his daughter, a sense of panic gripped her. She loved Josy so much. Surely that was the important thing—not some nameless sum of money that offered security but nothing else! But if she gave Josy into her father’s care, would the child be able to tell the difference?

She glanced at the watch on her wrist. It was after ten, she saw with some misgivings. The butterflies in her stomach responded with an increasing burst of activity, and she glanced about her anxiously, wondering whether she had mistaken the directions she had been given.

‘Martha!’

The accented masculine tones made her heart skip a beat, and as she turned to face the man who had addressed her, her knees felt ridiculously weak. The similarity to Dion’s voice was unmistakable, but to her intense relief the man confronting her was not her husband, but a stockier, younger facsimile.

‘Alex!’ Martha’s voice betrayed her agitation, and she cast a worried look about her. ‘Alex, what are you doing here?’

Dion’s youngest brother surveyed her unsmilingly. He looked much older somehow than when she had last seen him, and although she realised that five years would have wrought some changes, Alex’s transformation from an easygoing teenager into this serious-looking young man was quite startling. Gone were the jeans and sweat shirt, and in their place was an immaculate cream lounge-suit, and a matching silk shirt and tie. In her simple skirt and cotton shirt, Martha felt absurdly youthful, and she wished she had worn something more formal.

‘Martha,’ he said again, inclining his head, but making no move to kiss her, or shake her hand, or offer her any greeting other than his use of her name. ‘If you will come with me …’

He gestured towards a sleek limousine that was waiting at the kerb a few yards further on, and Martha gave him a curious glance before saying doubtfully:

‘Your father? He’s waiting in the car?’

‘Come.’ Alex spread his hands politely. ‘I will explain.’

Martha hesitated. ‘Your father said he would meet me here,’ she insisted, faint colour invading her cheeks as she realised he was not the ally he had once been. ‘Alex, what’s going on? Where is your father? Can’t you at least tell me that?’

Alex pushed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, and rocked back and forth on his heels and toes. Then, with a sigh, he said: ‘My father is not here, Martha. I am to take you to him. That is all. Now, will you come?’

Martha still resisted. ‘Where is he?’

‘Mycos. Where else?’

‘Mycos!’ Martha gasped. ‘Oh, Alex, I can’t come to Mycos!’

‘You do not wish to see him?’

‘Of course I do.’ Martha’s tongue appeared to moisten her lower lip. ‘Alex, I arranged to meet your father in Rhodes. Not Mycos. I—well, visiting the island was not what we agreed.’

Alex shrugged, the dark brows drawn together over darker eyes. ‘So you are refusing to come?’

‘Alex, Mycos is at least five hours from here!’

‘Not by air.’

‘You have a plane?’ she exclaimed, aghast.

‘A helicopter,’ he amended evenly. ‘Endaksi?’

‘No! That is …’ Martha put an uncertain hand to her forehead, ‘I would rather not meet your father at the villa.’

There was silence for a few moments after she had made this statement, a silence during which she became aware of the people going on with their lives around her, unaware of the intense upheaval she was suffering.

At last Alex spoke again. ‘That is your final word?’ he enquired. Then, after a pause: ‘Dionysus went to Amsterdam—two days ago.’

Martha expelled her breath, hardly realising until that moment that she had been holding it. So she was not to meet with her husband. It was quite a relief. Despite what she had told Roger and Sarah, she had been apprehensive of seeing him again, not least because of the rawness of the wounds he had inflicted, and their vulnerability to any kind of abrasion. They were healed, but the scars remained, and she was not yet ready to test their strength.

Alex shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing expressively towards the car. He was growing impatient, and she had still to come to a decision.

‘How long will your father be at the villa?’ she asked, wondering whether she ought to telephone him, but Alex was not helpful.

‘My sister Minerva is to be married in three days,’ he declared. ‘My father will be returning to Athens tomorrow for the wedding.’

‘Minerva?’ For a moment Martha was distracted. ‘Little Minerva is getting married?’ It hardly seemed possible.

‘She is eighteen,’ declared Alex flatly. ‘In our country, marriage is the natural ambition of every woman.’

‘Oh!’ Martha accepted this with a rueful sigh. It was becoming increasingly obvious where Alex’s sympathies lay, and no doubt in his eyes, she had committed an unforgivable sin by leaving her husband.

‘Etsi …’ He spread his hands now. ‘What will you do?’

What could she do? Martha’s palms were moist as she looped the strap of her bag over one shoulder. ‘I’ll come with you,’ she said, and Alex strode away abruptly towards the car, swinging open the nearside door so that she could climb inside.

The car was chauffeur-driven, and, as Alex climbed in beside her and the windows were rolled up, air-conditioned. It was quite a relief to get out of the heat of the sun, and she remembered belatedly that she had not bought herself the oil for her skin as she had intended. Still, she would have little enough time to sunbathe today, and if all went well she would be returning to England tomorrow.

It was a good half hour to the airport, and realising she could not sit in silence for the whole of that time, Martha decided she would have to try and break down Alex’s unnatural restraint. They had been such good friends. She couldn’t believe he had condemned her so completely.

Turning towards him, she began by asking him whether he, too, was working for his father these days. ‘I always thought you wanted to be a lecturer,’ she commented. ‘All that classical literature we used to read. Do you remember teaching me about Aeschylus and Sophocles, and how we used to act out those plays on the beach——’

‘We all change,’ Alex interrupted her shortly. ‘We grow older—and wiser.’

Martha controlled the automatic rejoinder that sprang to her lips, and said instead: ‘So you’ve given up your ideas of philosophy? You’ve decided that the material world has more to offer than the mythical one?’

Alex shifted impatiently in his seat. ‘I do not think it matters to you what my opinions may be, Martha. I was a boy when you went away, now I am a man. That is all there is to it.’

‘I see.’ Martha made a negative gesture. ‘In other words, I should mind my own business, hmm?’

Alex moved his shoulders dismissingly. ‘You have not cared what has happened to us for five years. It is unreasonable to expect me to believe you care now.’

Martha accepted this broadside with a deep pang of regret. ‘You may not believe this, but I have had my problems, too, you know,’ she ventured. ‘And as for our relationship—you were already planning on going to university. There was no way I could write to you without—without your brother and your father knowing. And in the circumstances I don’t think that would have been a good idea, do you?’

Alex bent his head, pressing his lips together as he straightened the crease in his pants. He was obviously considering what she had said, but his loyalty to his brother, and to his family, was warring with the logic of her explanation.

‘It has not been easy—for any of us,’ he said at last, looking sideways at her. ‘We have all to make our own judgment of events.’

‘And what is your judgment?’ asked Martha quietly.

Alex shook his head, and resumed his interest in his trouser leg. ‘It is not up to me to say anything,’ he replied at last. ‘But I know what your leaving meant to my brother, and that I cannot forgive.’

Martha weathered this body blow with less fortitude. She had believed that of all of them, Alex might have kept an open mind. But it seemed he was as biased as the rest, and she did not look forward to this meeting with his father with any degree of anticipation.

A new airport had been built on Rhodes, far superior to the airport Martha remembered, whose approach between two hills had been a source of danger to larger aircraft. The new airport lay on the coast, to the south of the island, with a big new runway suitable to take the powerful jumbo jets that used it daily throughout the summer months.

The Myconos car was known to the airport staff, and they were passed through with the minimum of delay. The helicopter awaited them, and Alex dismissed the chauffeur before assisting Martha up the steps and into the aircraft.

She recognised the pilot. He used to help crew the ocean-going yacht that Aristotle kept moored at Piraeus, and it was strange to hear herself addressed as Madame Myconos once more. Dion had never petitioned for a divorce, and she had assumed he had wanted to avoid the publicity it would undoubtedly attract, but she used her maiden name in England because it was easier that way.

She had never flown in a helicopter before. She seemed to remember a small hydroplane, but not a helicopter, and the curious lifting sensation she felt as they took off made her wish they had used the boat after all. Still, once they started moving forward, she forgot her fears, and the advantages it possessed over an aeroplane soon became evident. Flying at only several hundred feet instead of several thousand, she was able to distinguish the contours of every island they passed, and in her excitement she forgot that Alex had been offhand with her earlier.

‘Isn’t it tremendous?’ she asked, raising her voice above the level of the engines. ‘I mean, you can actually see how shallow the sea is in places. Oh, and look! Isn’t that a dolphin down there? That black thing in the water?’

‘I think it is more likely to be a fishing boat,’ remarked Alex drily, unable to completely hide his amusement. ‘We are not so low, you know. From this height a dolphin would hardly be visible.’

‘Oh!’ Martha pulled a rueful face, and for a moment Alex shared her disappointment. Then, quickly, he looked away again, but not before Martha had felt a slight uplift in her spirits. Given time, she was sure she could change Alex’s opinion of her, and it was good to know that he still had a sense of humour.

There were sails below them now, white sails, pristine pure against the aquamarine water. They reminded Martha of the ketch Dion had sailed, and of weekends spent cruising these waters, far, in spirit at least, from the problems their marriage was facing.

‘You’re not married, Alex?’ she enquired now, turning to look at her brother-in-law, and he shook his head.

‘No,’ he conceded, his voice almost inaudible beneath the throbbing of the propellers, and Martha guessed he was regretting his momentary lapse.

They were descending now, coming in low over the rocky contours of a headland, below which a narrow thread of sand glinted with burnished grains. There was a wooded hinterland rising to a barren summit, and then falling again more shallowly to a sheltered bay and a small harbour. The village, the island’s only community, nestled round the bay, colour-washed cottages set in gardens bright with hibiscus and oleander. Martha could see the windmill that had once irrigated the terraces, where grapes grew with such profusion, and the deserted monastery of St Demetrius, high on the hillside. It was all so real and familiar, despite the absence of years, and once more she wondered how she could justify depriving Josy of this.

The Myconos villa was of typically Greek design. Palatial terraces, set about with gardens and fountains, and lily pools, thick with blossom. Marble pillars supported a first floor balcony, and shadowed the Italian tiles that covered the floor of the hall, and urns of flowering shrubs spilled scarlet petals across the veined mosaic of the entrance. Built on several levels, it sprawled among its pools and arbours, with all the elegant abandon of a reclining naiad.

A car took Martha and Alex from the landing field near the harbour, up the winding road to the villa. The chauffeur was another of the household staff, and like the pilot of the helicopter, he recognised his employer’s daughter-in-law. Martha seemed to recall that his name was Spiros or Spiro, she wasn’t certain which, but there had been so many names to remember, so many employees, who seemed to count it an honour to work for the Myconos family. And it was a family, in every sense of the word, a close-knit family, welded together by Aristotle Myconos’ influence, where sons—and daughters-in-law, daughters—and sons-in-law, all came within the suffocating circle of his omnipotence. Maybe, if she and Dion had had a home of their own, things would have been different, she mused, and then squashed the thought. Aristotle had not been to blame for Dion’s possessiveness, his absurd jealousy, his desire to confine his wife within the web of his family, and destroy all connections with her own …

Nothing could prevent her nerves from tightening as the limousine turned between the stone gateposts of the villa. There were no iron fortifications here, as there were at the villa in Athens. No visible guards, no burglar-proof locks to keep out intruders. The main access to the island was through the harbour, but just in case, Aristotle had the coastline patrolled both day and night.

Thick shrubs hid all but the roof of the villa as the car followed the winding curve of the drive, but eventually they emerged before its white-painted façade, and Martha saw again the imposing entrance of Dion’s island home. She remembered the first time she had seen it. She had been enchanted then—enchanted and bemused, that a man like Dionysus Myconos should want her for his wife.

The car stopped, and Alex thrust open his door to get out. The chauffeur alighted and opened Martha’s door, and with a feeling of unease she stepped out on to the gravelled forecourt.

It was slightly cooler here than in Rhodes, the soft breeze bringing a pleasant relief in the heat of the day. Yet the smell was the same, that tangy citrus smell, that mingled here with the salty taste of the sea. And it was quiet, so quiet after the noisy harbour at Rhodes, without even the peal of voices to disturb the stillness. She had thought Dion’s older sister, Helene, might be there, with her two sons, but there were no voices echoing from the pool as there would have been if there were children about.

‘My father is in his study,’ Alex said, at her elbow, and she looked up at him anxiously.

‘Is no one else here?’

‘You forget—I told you, my sister is getting married on Friday. The family are gathering in Athens for the celebrations.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Martha had forgotten. ‘Well, shall we get it over with?’

Alex raised his dark eyebrows, but he made no comment, merely led the way beneath the marble pillars, and into the cool, spacious hall.

Martha had forgotten the long windows at the back of the hall, which gave a magnificent view of the curve of the hillside, stretching up to the mellowed walls of the monastery. The hall itself was on two levels, with an iron-railed balcony providing an oasis of plants in the heart of the building. Alabaster balusters supported the rail of the staircase, that curved to the upper storey, and overhead a crystal chandelier glinted dully below the arch of the ceiling.

Aristotle’s study was some distance from the entrance hall, along corridors that gave tantalising glimpses of the sea between stone panels. The Aegean lay below them, somnolent in the noonday sun, a deeper blue than the sky above. It was so beautiful here, she thought with a pang. If only people were like places!

Her knees were knocking as they reached the leather-studded door, and in a spurt of panic she decided to dismiss any other motive she might have had for coming here. She would speak to Dion’s father on Roger’s behalf, and that was all. If he refused, she had done her best, and no one could do more. So far as her feelings towards Josy were concerned, they would have to wait. Maybe back in England, with the journey behind her, she would be able to view things less emotionally, but right now she wanted to turn and run, and that was not the frame of mind in which to come to a rational decision.

Alex knocked, and then gave her a faintly appealing look. It was as if for a moment he regretted their estrangement as much as she did, and impulsively, she put her fingers on his arm taut beneath the fine material of his suit.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, with a little rush of nostalgia. ‘I did miss you, Alex—honestly!’

His lips were parting to make some response, when the door beside them opened. In that moment they were frozen in their adopted attitudes, caught for that fleeting split second in time, like two lovers planning an assignation. Then Martha’s head turned, her hand dropped away, and her eyes widened in chilling disbelief as she gazed up at the man confronting them. This was not Aristotle Myconos, not this tall man, with thin, slightly haggard features, and a lean, loose-limbed body. Aristotle was more like Alex, shorter, stockier, greyer—although this man’s dark hair was liberally sprinkled with that betraying filament. Besides, this man was younger, too young to have sired four grown sons and two daughters, yet like Alex, he too had suffered badly from the passage of years. His eyes seemed darker, deeper-set, his cheeks hollower, his frame more angular, thinner. This man was Dionysus Myconos, her husband, yet not her husband, but the man she had least wanted to meet.

CHAPTER TWO

SHE had misunderstood Alex’s appealing look, she thought bitterly, trying to maintain some semblance of composure. It was sympathy, not understanding, she had glimpsed in his face, and she was tempted to turn on him angrily, scorning the lies he had told her to get her here. He had said Dion was in Amsterdam—or had he? All he had actually said was that he had gone there two days before.

‘Will you not come in, Martha?’ intoned her husband now, his voice as cold as the censure in his eyes. ‘Alex, we will talk later.’

‘Yes …’

Alex turned away, but not before he had given Martha another of those reluctantly compassionate looks, though she was too intent on the interview ahead to notice it. With a stiffening of her backbone she stalked past her husband into the room, and then stopped short at the sight of her father-in-law, seated behind his square mahogany desk. Somehow she had expected Dion to be alone, and her step faltered as she heard her husband close the heavy door behind them.

‘Martha!’ Aristotle Myconos got heavily to his feet, and she saw he limped as he came round the desk to greet her. Like his sons he had aged, but although she eyed him warily, there was nothing but polite courtesy in his eyes. ‘I am so glad you agreed to come here. As you can see, I am not so young as I used to be, and I leave most of the legwork to my sons these days.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Martha’s response was clipped, but she couldn’t help it. Whichever way she looked at it, she had been tricked, and she didn’t like it.

‘Please …’ Aristotle indicated a dark green leather armchair, placed to one side of his desk. ‘Will you not sit down? I realise you are feeling we have deceived you, but it was not reasonable for you to expect me not to tell Dion about your letter.’

Martha drew a deep breath. She was at a distinct disadvantage here. Before her was this old man, looking every one of his sixty-odd years, and behind her, boring into her shoulder blades, was the malevolent gaze of her husband. What was Dion doing here? What did he have to say to her? And why did she have the feeling she had been manipulated once again?

Composing her words carefully, she said: ‘I told Alex I didn’t want to come here. What we have to say to one another could have been said just as well in a letter——’

‘Could it?’

The harsh tones that interrupted her were so unlike Alex’s that Martha wondered how she could ever have mistaken them, however briefly. As she clutched her handbag as a sort of lifeline, Dion strode from the door to join his father, standing before the desk, feet slightly apart, arms folded across the muscled leanness of his chest. Like his brother and his father, he too was wearing formal clothes, but the dark colours he chose accentuated the alien cast of his skin, and clung to the narrow outline of his hips.

Facing him, Martha half wished he had remained where he was. In the years since their separation, she had succeeded in banishing his image to the farthest recesses of her mind, but now here he was again, tearing the veils aside, exposing her futile hopes and deepest fears.

‘I wrote to your father because this is his island, and I hoped he might understand the position I was in,’ she said now, realising she had to answer him. ‘Roger—that is, Mr Scott—has—has been a good friend to—to us——’

‘You mean—to you and your daughter?’ enquired Dion coldly, and his father put a restraining hand on his arm.

‘To—to Josy and me, yes. And—and to my sister.’

‘Oh, yes, your sister,’ Dion nodded. ‘We must not forget her, must we?’

Martha drew a trembling breath and appealed to Aristotle, ‘Is the answer no? Is that what you’re about to tell me? Because if it is——’

‘Will you not sit?’ Aristotle gestured towards the chair again, and although the last thing Martha wanted to do in her husband’s presence was to increase his advantage, she realised her father-in-law was finding the standing too much, and he would not sit down unless she did. With a hesitant little shrug she took the seat he offered, and with obvious eagerness he sought the relief of his own chair.

‘Now,’ he said, resting his palms on the desk, ‘let us be honest with one another, hmm?’

‘Pateras!’

‘Ohi, Dionysus.’ His father ignored his angry remonstrance. ‘It must be said, and at once. It is not fair to keep the reasons for this interview from your wife. If, as you say, you wish to be free of this marriage, then it is right that Martha should understand from the outset.’

Martha could feel all the colour draining out of her cheeks at Aristotle’s words. She had been shocked to see her husband, naturally, but it had not been entirely unexpected. This was! That Dionysus might be considering divorce had never entered her head. Not for years. And what was more, the idea was not even acceptable to her. What about Josy? she wanted to cry, but she didn’t. She sat in frozen silence, trying desperately not to show how completely stunned she felt.

‘So …’ Aristotle surveyed her across the desk with quiet courtesy. ‘You understand now why Dionysus is here. When you wrote to me concerning this matter of an archaeological survey, we took the opportunity to promote this meeting. These things are better said face to face. It has been in his mind for some time, I know, and your correspondence made it easier for us all.’

‘I—I see.’ Martha’s mouth was horribly dry, and she had difficulty in articulating at all. ‘And—and Roger’s survey?’

‘Mou theos!’ snapped Dion angrily, even while Martha realised her words must sound incredibly foolish. But she couldn’t bring herself to speak of anything else at this moment, and even his anger could not take away the feeling of disorientation that was gripping her.

‘Be calm, my son.’ Aristotle’s controlled tones were a contrast to her husband’s. ‘Will you summon Andros? We all need a drink, I believe.’

While Dion crossed the floor and jerked open the door, Martha tried to get a hold on her emotions. But it wasn’t easy with Aristotle’s thoughtful eyes upon her, and without asking permission, she rose from her chair and crossed to the windows, staring out unseeingly at the terraced gardens below the villa. Dear God, she thought unsteadily, and she had thought Dion was there to make some demands upon her! She couldn’t have been more wrong.

She heard the clink of glasses on a tray, and turned as Dion, accompanied by another manservant, re-entered the room. The man set the tray he was carrying on the desk, and bowed his head politely before making his departure. Then Dion crossed to the desk and with evident brusqueness asked her what she would like to drink.

There was lemonade there, and Martha picked that, unwilling to stretch her nerves any further by the introduction of alcohol. Dion and his father both chose gin, and her husband swallowed half his at a gulp before refilling his glass. As the chair she had been occupying was too close to the tray for comfort, Martha decided to perch on the window seat, and the cooling breeze the open window emitted helped to keep the faintness she was feeling at bay. This interview which had started so badly had suddenly got worse, and she had little confidence in her own ability to handle it.

‘Now …’ Aristotle spoke again. ‘First of all I suggest we clear up this matter of—Mr Scott? Is that right? Ah.’ He nodded, as Martha agreed with his identification. ‘I am sure you know, without my having to tell you, Martha, I never allow any historians to visit Mycos.’

‘But that was not why you came, was it, Martha?’ enquired her husband, with cold accusation, and with a shock she realised that there was more to this even now than she understood.

‘I—I’m afraid——’

‘Oh, please do not attempt to deceive us with your lies!’ Dion grated angrily. ‘You did not write to my father because you felt some—some philanthropic desire to help this man you speak of.’

‘Then why did I write?’ she found herself asking, unable to prevent the question from spilling from her tongue, and once again it was Aristotle Myconos who tried to cool the situation.

‘Dionysus, let us not jump to conclusions,’ he said, and there was a warning in his eyes that Martha failed to comprehend. ‘Let Martha tell us her reasons. Then we can discuss this matter.’

‘I’ve told you my reason,’ she exclaimed, coming to her feet again. ‘What other reason could there be?’

Dion’s narrow lips curled. ‘You did not consider perhaps that, now the child is older, it might be possible for you to sue for maintenance?’

‘Maintenance?’ Martha was horrified. ‘No! No, of course not.’

‘Dion …’ Again that warning note in his father’s voice, but this time he ignored it.

‘I should tell you,’ he said coldly, ‘I have been to England. I have seen the circumstances in which you live. And it is no surprise to me that you have finally decided that independence is not everything you thought it to be.’

His words temporarily numbed Martha. Dion had been to England! He had seen the circumstances in which she lived! What did that mean? Had he seen Josy? Did he know about Sarah? His next words enlightened her.

‘You have not sued for divorce. This man, whoever he is, has not made any apparent effort to marry you, to father the child he seeded in you. You must be getting desperate to give the child a name!’

‘You are wrong,’ she declared now. ‘Totally and utterly wrong! I—I—if you think Roger is—is Josy’s father, then you’re crazy!’

Dion took a step towards her at this piece of insolence, but as if mindful of his father’s watching presence, he halted. ‘Then who is he? Tell me that?’ he demanded. ‘And tell me why you dared to write to my father asking for a permission you knew would be denied you!’

Martha’s breathing was shallow and uneven, but she managed to say what she had to. ‘After—after I left you, I stayed with Sarah for a while, but her apartment was tiny, just a bed-sitter, and her landlady didn’t take too kindly to having a baby’s nappies hanging in the bathroom. Then—then——’ She broke off, still unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing about Sarah’s accident, and of how useless the apartment had become to someone confined to a wheelchair, and went on less convincingly: ‘We needed somewhere else, somewhere I—I could wheel a pram. Roger offered us the ground floor of his house.’

Dion regarded her through lowered lids. ‘Why should he do that?’

‘Would you believe—kindness?’

Dion’s lips thinned. ‘You ask too much.’

‘Obviously.’ Martha held up her head. ‘Well, if that’s all there is to say …’

‘It is not.’ Dion cast brooding eyes in his father’s direction. ‘There are still things we have to say to one another.’

His father rose abruptly to his feet. Pushing back his chair, he came round the desk, but when Martha began to accompany him to the door, he waved her back again, saying:

‘You will eat lunch with us before you leave, Martha. You must be hungry. I will go and speak with Maria myself.’

‘Oh, no—please—I mean——’ Martha glanced awkwardly at her husband. ‘I think it would be better if I left right away.’

‘You forget, there is still the matter of the divorce to discuss,’ put in Dion bleakly, and his father bowed his head politely and left the room, alone.

With his departure, Martha felt an increasing weight of tension. Dion in his father’s company was barely tolerable, Dion alone was terrifying. It wasn’t that he frightened her exactly, although his anger did send frissons of apprehension along her spine, but she was afraid of the power he had over her, the dark power that both attracted and repelled, and which had driven her to the very edge of sanity during those first weeks after she had left him.

Dion, for his part, seemed curiously loath to break the silence that had fallen between them, and while Martha sipped nervously at her lemonade, her eyes darting anxiously about the room, he walked heavily over to the windows and stared indifferently out to sea. She thought he was composing how next he might humiliate her, and she was shocked when he asked suddenly:

‘Why did you do it, Martha? Why did you leave me? Did I ask you to go? Did I threaten you with divorce? If this man meant so much to you, why did you not tell me before the child was born?’

Martha put her glass down carefully on the corner of the desk, and then, arming herself with what little composure she had left, she said: ‘You know why I left you, Dion. You couldn’t possibly expect me to stay with you after the things you said. I may not have the Myconos money, but I do have some pride, and no one——’ her voice cracked ignominiously, ‘—no one, least of all my husband, is going to call me a tramp and get away with it!’

‘Poli kola, what would you call it?’ he demanded, turning then to face her, his eyes narrowed and provoked. ‘How was I supposed to react? Should I have said—of course, I understand about these things! It is natural that my wife—my liberated English wife—should need the admiration of more than one man! No!’

Martha drew an uneven breath. ‘It’s hopeless. You’re unreasonable! You just won’t listen——’

‘Oh, parndon!’ His features were hard and angry. ‘But what am I supposed to listen to? More lies? More evasions? You dare to come here pleading for this man, knowing you are causing nothing but pain and embarrassment to me and my family, and you think I am unreasonable!’

Martha sighed. ‘Roger Scott is a family friend,’ she said wearily. ‘Just a family friend.’

Dion left the window to join her by the desk, regarding her coldly as she stood her ground. ‘And is he the father of your child?’ he asked bleakly. ‘This family friend?’

‘No!’

Martha’s denial was automatic, but she realised as she spoke that it might have been simpler not to answer him. She was getting into deep water, and until she had had time to think about the divorce, time to consider what she was going to do about Josy, she should not make such unequivocal statements.

‘Then who?’ Dion was relentless. ‘Someone in London, that I know. Someone your sister introduced you to, perhaps? She never wanted you to marry me, did she? That was never in her scheme of things. She would enjoy hurting me through you, wouldn’t she?’

Martha gasped. ‘That’s a rotten thing to say! And it’s not true. Sarah’s not like that. She cares about me, that’s all. She knew that money was your god, and she was afraid I might be stifled by it. She wanted me to be happy, but she was not to blame for our incompatibility.’

Dion’s face darkened ominously. ‘We were not incompatible!’ he declared angrily. ‘At least, not before she interfered.’

Martha trembled with indignation. ‘You could always find excuses for your own inadequacy, couldn’t you, Dion?’ she taunted, and then gulped convulsively as his hands fastened on her upper arms.

‘Have a care what you say to me, Martha,’ he grated harshly. ‘You are my wife still, and in my country that counts for a little more than it does in yours!’

‘Are you threatening me, Dion?’

She squared her shoulders bravely, but the pressure of his fingers through the thin cotton of her shirt was agonising. She would have bruises there tomorrow, she thought tremulously. Dion did not know his own strength, and once she would have gloried in the raw passion of his nature. But now she was aware of so many other things, of the savagery in his face, and the anger in his voice, of the power he possessed to destroy her at will, and the painful awareness that he was the only man who could make her run the whole gamut of so many conflicting emotions.

He looked down at her and saw the apprehension in her face, the uneasy anticipation of what form his retribution might take, and a low groan escaped him. He had never struck a woman, and despite the chasm that yawned between them, he could not strike her now. His eyes, boring into hers, clouded with impatience, and her lips parted to allow a tiny gasp of relief to escape her.

‘I should kill you!’ he muttered, his teeth grating together. ‘You tell me you do not want a child yet, that it is too soon, that we need time to be alone together, before we assume such a responsibility. And I agree with you! I am happy to have you to myself——’

To possess me,’ put in Martha unevenly, and winced as his fingers tightened.

‘Etsi—to possess you, as you say,’ he agreed harshly. ‘And was not that possession to your liking also?’

‘Dion, please …’ Martha’s cheeks flushed, but he ignored her.

‘No matter,’ he said, his lips twisting. ‘The truth is, you betrayed me with another man, you let him give you the child that you denied me. And for that you deserve more than my contempt!’

Martha shook her head. ‘There’s no point to this discussion——’

‘Is there not?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Why should you care if I enjoy—torturing myself in this way?’

Martha tried to twist away from him, but it was to no avail, and with a feeling of desperation she exclaimed: ‘You’re not torturing yourself, Dion. You’re torturing me! You’re hurting me! Will you please let go of my arms?’

‘Why should I?’ Instead of doing so, he jerked her towards him, and now she could feel the bones of his legs against her shaking knees, could smell the clean masculine aroma of his body, mingling with the heat of his breath. ‘I have anticipated this moment since your letter to my father arrived. I wanted to hurt you, to humiliate you, to see your disappointment when we saw through your puny schemes.’ He paused, his eyes dropping briefly to the panting rise and fall of her breasts. ‘And I wanted to see how the years had treated you, to see whether you had suffered, as you made me suffer!’

‘Dion!’

She gazed up at him helplessly, conscious that against her will, he was arousing her awareness of him as a man, a man moreover who had been her husband, and who had once been able to weaken her limbs by the simple exchanging of a glance. She didn’t want to remember these things, she didn’t want to acknowledge that instinctive attraction between them, that had tom down the barriers of race and society, and made them both prisoners of its urgent expression. It was not love, it had never been love, on his part at least, she exhorted herself, but that didn’t prevent the devastating effect he was having on her senses.

‘The child?’ he muttered huskily, holding her eyes with his. ‘Is she like you? Does she have your colouring? Your slenderness? Your determination?’

Martha trembled, pressing her hands against her chest, keeping them away from him with a supreme effort of will power. ‘Y-yes,’ she admitted at last, ‘she is like me. She’s quite tall for her age, and slender, and she does have a very definite will of her own.’

He nodded, slowly, his mouth taking on a downward curve, as remorse twisted his expression. ‘I knew she would,’ he averred hoarsely, as the hostility faded from his eyes to be replaced by a tormented bitterness. ‘Your daughter was bound to be like you. Just as wilful, just as independent, and just as beautiful …’

Martha’s breath caught in her throat. There was no mistaking the violent emotion that dragged that word from his lips, and she was scarcely surprised when their mutual awareness became too much for him, and with a moan of self-disgust, he brought her body close to his. She could not avoid touching him now. Her hands were crushed against the hardness of his chest, only lightly disguised beneath the maroon silk of his shirt, and as his hands slid down her spine, she could feel the stirring muscles of his thighs.

It was his mouth that truly possessed her, parting her lips beneath its moist invasion, exploring and searching and inspiring a response that she had no will to resist. Maybe if she had had more time, she thought, hanging on to coherence with only a shred of control, if she had been prepared for the effect he would have on her. But she would never have believed that he could do this to her, and all the old magnetism came flooding back, to envelop her in a drowning web of sensual feeling. The pressure increased, became passionate, enfolding them both for a spell in hungry, mindless abandon. His hands were on her thighs, arching her body, moulding her to his maleness with an ease born of their knowledge of one another. And she wanted him, she realised. Wanted him so badly there was a physical ache inside her, as there had been in those awful weeks after she left him.

‘Martha,’ he groaned, releasing her mouth to seek the scented hollows behind her ear. ‘Who is the father of your child? Don’t I have the right to know?’ and in the emotive tenor of the moment, she betrayed herself completely and whispered huskily:

‘You are!’

His withdrawal was so abrupt, it left her bemused and speechless, staring at his contorted face without really understanding why he looked so balefully furious.

‘Theos!’ he grated disbelievingly. ‘Mou theos! Say it is not so?’

Martha blinked, and put a dazed hand to her head. It was difficult to bring her mind to normal things, when every nerve and tissue in her being was still crying out for a satisfaction it had not received. Her hair felt reasonably tidy, she thought unsteadily, and her fingers fumbled to fasten the button of her shirt which had come loose in their ardent exchange. Her face was probably bare of all make-up, but that didn’t really matter, although her lips felt bruised from the hungry pressure of his. What did matter was that somehow he had tricked her once again, and this whole fiasco had been staged to discover the truth behind Josy’s conception. It was cold and ruthless, but typical of the man he had become, and she felt soiled and abused, and totally abased.

‘Martha!’ He was speaking to her again, but she refused to answer him, turning away, picking up her handbag which had fallen to the floor, extracting her handkerchief to scrub the taste of his lips from her mouth.

‘Martha!’ His response to her ignoring of him was to snatch the bag and the handkerchief out of her hands, throwing them to the floor with a cold disregard for their well-being. ‘Martha, I demand an answer!’

She backed away from him, too stunned to say anything. He had seduced her into betraying herself, and her thoughts ran wildly in all directions, seeking escape from the awful implications of the situation. Did he believe her? How could he not, when she had confessed so emotionally? She had sworn he would never get that information from her, not unless she had chosen to tell him, and now he had cajoled it from her, in the most degrading circumstances ever.

The study door opened suddenly and Aristotle reappeared. His shrewd dark eyes took in the scene he had interrupted—his son’s grim countenance, Martha’s pale desperation, and the handbag and square of linen lying like a gauntlet on the floor between them. Then, with the discretion born of years of boardroom diplomacy, he said calmly:

‘A cold buffet has been prepared. Martha …’ he addressed the young woman holding weakly to the back of a chair, ‘if you would like to come with me …’

Martha wanted to refuse him. She did not want to take anything from the Myconos family. But it was an escape from Dion, from the suffocating menace of his presence, and with a little helpless shrug of her shoulders she turned towards the door.

The corridor stretched ahead of her, endlessly, and as if sensing her uncertainty, Aristotle offered his arm. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘My son will follow. We will walk together, and you can tell me about your life in England, and about that sister of yours of whom you were so fond.’

It was a polite way of gaining her compliance and Martha, much against her better judgment, took his arm, and they walked slowly down the cool, arched passageway. When Helene’s boys were here, or Nikos, with his family, these halls rang with the excited laughter of children, but today they were cloistered, quiet, echoing the brooding violence of Dion’s anger.

It was a relief to get outside, beneath the perspex awning, whose slatted leaves shaded the noonday sun. The scent of mimosa mingled with the perfume of the flowering vines that overhung the trellises, and the blue-green tiles of the swimming pool, were visible between their blossoming stems. A circular, glass-topped table was set with dishes of meats and salads, savoury eggs and stuffed tomatoes, lobster and anchovies, and various other Greek dishes, that Martha had once found much to her taste. There was a jug of freshly-squeezed orange juice, and another of grapefruit juice, and tall frosted glasses beside a bucket of ice containing a bottle of champagne. She had forgotten Aristotle’s love for champagne, she realised, trying to concentrate on the moment, and dreading the inevitable dénouement that Dion was sure to make.

‘Kathiste, parakalo,’ Andros invited politely, moving from his stance beside the table to offer Martha a chair, and she sank into it gratefully.

‘Thank you,’ she said, giving him the benefit of a wavering smile, and his eyes warmed her after the cold brilliance of Dion’s.

Aristotle seated himself opposite her, and while Andros offered the various dishes for Martha’s selection, he opened the champagne. The cork burst from the neck of the bottle, but he caught the Dom Perignon expertly in his glass, raising the frothy wine to his lips, and toasting her in its potency.

Martha accepted only a slice of ham flavoured with honey from the slopes below Parnassus, and a little of the Greek salad, that mainly comprised huge slices of tomato and cucumber, tossed in a little light oil. She was not hungry, but she was feeling a little faint, and she hoped the food might restore her equilibrium. Right now, she felt confused and unbalanced, and completely incapable of anticipating what might happen next.

Dion appeared as she was sipping a glass of orange juice. She had refused Aristotle’s offer of champagne, realising anything alcoholic might aggravate the sense of unreality that was gripping her, but her husband’s appearance had an intoxicating mesmerism all its own. She felt like a rabbit, hypnotised by a snake, her limbs frozen into attitudes of helplessness and supplication.

‘Ah, Dionysus! We were beginning to wonder if you intended to join us,’ his father observed, with mild acerbity. ‘As you can see, we have started without you. Will you have some champagne? Or would you prefer a less stimulating substitute, like Martha?’

Dion’s glance flickered over his wife’s bent head, and then he walked to where a low stone wall provided a manmade barrier between the patio area and the terraces that fell away gently below them. He leant against the low wall, resting his hips on its weather-worn stones, and ignoring his father’s offer of refreshment, he said:

‘Where is Alex? I wanted to speak with him.’

Martha’s nerves stretched as she heard Aristotle explaining that his youngest son was waiting for a telephone connection to Athens. ‘There has been some difficulty in getting through,’ he remarked, moving his shoulders in an offhand gesture. ‘And I wanted those figures from Stavros for you to work on this evening.’

‘Mum.’ Dion’s response was less enthusiastic, and listening to him, Martha waited in agonised expectation for him to tell his father what he had just learned. But he didn’t. Instead, he left the wall to take a seat at the table, near enough to Martha for her to be constantly aware of him, but not near enough to intimidate her.

‘Endaksi.’ His father handed him a glass of champagne, and dismissed Andros with a flick of his fingers. ‘Now, you can tell me what you have decided.’

Martha looked down at her plate, pushing the ham round with her fork, but Dion did not immediately reply. He leant across the table and helped himself to a circle of toast, liberally spread with the dark brown roe his father found so palatable, and then, with his mouth full, he queried in a muffled voice: ‘About what, in particular?’

Aristotle’s greying brows descended, and for the first time since Martha had joined them he displayed a little of the Myconos temper he normally controlled so well. ‘You know the subject to which I am referring, my son,’ he essayed brusquely. ‘What arrangements have you made? Did you explain to Martha that the settlement need not be ungenerous, in spite of all the circumstances, providing she does not defend the suit, ne?’

Dion took a taste of his champagne, emptied his mouth, and then rubbed his lips on the back of his hand. ‘I think I need more time to consider the matter,’ he said finally, leaning back in his chair, and studying the sparkling liquid in his glass with thoughtful deliberation. ‘You understand, Papa?’

‘Yon are saying that Martha has refused to give you a divorce?’ Aristotle demanded, in ominous tones, and Martha, bewildered by this unexpected turn of events, hastened to deny it.

‘We didn’t discuss—divorce,’ she said tightly, unwilling to suffer the suspense any longer. ‘We spoke about——’

‘—many things,’ broke in Dion, sharply, cutting her off before she could commit herself. ‘Enough to know there is more to the destruction of a marriage than a few words written on a sheet of paper!’

‘Dionysus!’ His father rose to his feet with quivering dignity. ‘What are you saying? What foolishness is this? What hold does this woman have over you, that you cannot be in her presence for more than fifteen minutes without you change the decision of weeks—months! Have done with it! Do not allow her to bewitch you once again. Make the incision! Break loose from those chains that have bound you to the past for five long years!’

Martha was trembling as he spoke. She had guessed Dion’s father had only tolerated her for his sake, and she had known of the initial opposition both his parents had raised to their marriage. Yet their love had seemed so strong then, so worthy of any strains which might be put upon it. That was before she learned of the demands the Myconos corporation put upon its executives, before she had found herself alone for days—weeks—on end, with Dion at one side of the world and herself at the other. Of course, even that would not have been so bad if she had been free to do as she wanted. But she was not. She was expected to conform, like all the other Myconos wives, and her prevailing streak of stubborness and independence had eventually been her downfall …

She came back to the present with a start to find Dion was on his feet too now, and although the exchange he was having with his father had reverted to their own language, Martha was able to understand most of what was being said.

‘You overreach yourself, Papa,’ her husband was stating bleakly, subjecting his father to the same piercing scrutiny she had suffered earlier. ‘I take care of my own affairs, and you would do well to remember it. You are not my counsel, nor are you my keeper. You are my father, and as such, I offer you my respect. I appreciate that your opinions may differ from mine, but do not make the mistake of thinking that because I listen to you, I think as you do. I am no longer a child, Papa. I am a man. I heed advice—but I make the decisions, you understand?’

The lines on Aristotle’s face had become more deeply drawn as Dion spoke, and although he drew himself up to his full height, he was still several inches shorter than his son. Martha, tense and nervous as she was, could still find it in her heart to feel sorry for him, and she realised with a pang that her husband had changed more than she had ever imagined. Once he would not have contradicted his father, would not have argued with him, or denied him the right to state his opinions, would not have used his superior wit and intelligence to make the old man appear frailer than he actually was. This man was harder, shrewder, more ruthless, every inch the arbiter of his fate, and that of the Myconos corporation, and Martha realised that while his father might still nominally hold the reins, Dion had inherited in everything but name.

‘So,’ his father said now, resting his palms upon the table. ‘Does not your wife—does not Martha have any choice in this?’ He turned to his daughter-in-law, and spread his hands. ‘Dare I say that I cannot believe she wants to prolong this situation?’

‘Martha and I will have plenty of time to talk of this,’ declared Dion abruptly, without even glancing at his wife. ‘I intend to have her belongings collected from her hotel in Rhodes, and——’

‘No!’ It was Martha who interrupted now, struggling to her feet and facing him defensively. ‘There is nothing to discuss, Dion. The situation was—was decided for us. Five years ago! I came here to speak to your father, and I’ve done so. That’s all. I’ll leave as soon as the helicopter is ready to take me.’

‘If you insist.’ Dion’s indifference was disturbing. ‘But we are going to talk, Martha. Whether you wish it or not.’ His eyes held hers. ‘Either here or at your hotel, it makes no difference to me. But remember, you came here of your own free will. And I should consider your proverb about fools and angels, before you say any more.’

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