The Divided Child (24 page)

           
I
emerged from these worrying reflections to find him gazing at me with an
expression that made me realize wrestling him for the keys might not be my
biggest problem.

           
"Spiro,"
I said a little desperately, as he poured the last drops from the bottle into
his glass and seemed about to order another one, "it's getting late.
 
Shouldn't we head back soon?"

           
He
flashed me a decidedly wolfish grin.
 
"An excellent idea," he said, gesturing somewhat unsteadily
for the waiter.
 
The waiter ignored
him.
 
Spiro signaled again.
 
Again, the waiter pretended not to
see.
 
I glanced at my watch and
silently swore.
 
It was almost twelve.
 
Geoffrey might already be waiting.

           
I
was contemplating going after the bill myself, when Spiro rose carefully to his
feet, crossed to the waiter, lifted him several feet off the ground, and in
rather colorful language asked the man if he'd been struck deaf, dumb, and
blind, because if not, Spiro wanted the
logariasmós
-- now!

           
I
was so relieved to be going, I had little pity to spare for the waiter, and
didn't even protest when Spiro slid an arm around me as we walked up the stairs
to the street.
 
Truth be told, I
thought it would at least steady him and help me to get him back more quickly
to the car.

           
However,
as we staggered down the main street (by this time, he was holding me so
tightly I felt welded to his side), Spiro suddenly veered course and started
for the beach, and no amount of reasoning or coaxing on my part could turn him
back toward the car.
 
We were
almost to the lapping sea when he abruptly stopped of his own volition; I was
so unprepared for the sudden halt I almost fell on my face, but drunk though he
was, Spiro caught me and swung me around to face him.

           
"Have
you ever made a swim naked in the sea, Christine?" he asked, a wicked grin
plastered across his face.
 
"With the moonlight shining on the water?"

           
I
shook my head, remembering with sudden empathy the waiter squawking in mid-air.

           
He
bent down slowly, swaying a bit, and touched his fingers to the incoming
surf.
 
"The water is
warm," he invited.

           
"No,
thank you.
 
I'd rather not."

           
He
straightened up and gave his shoulders an uneven shrug.
 
"A pity," he murmured.
 
"I would have liked to see you
rise like Aphrodite from the foam."
 
Then leaning precariously forward, he planted an amazingly accurate kiss
on my mouth.
 
Before I could
remember to protest, he began sliding to the ground, completely passed-out.

           
I
stared at his neatly collapsed form in despair.
 
"How am I ever going to get you back to the car
now?"

           
A
voice called out behind us.
 
"'Scuse us, Miss, but you in some kind of trouble?"

           
I
turned around to find a trio of young Englishmen, dressed in shorts and
T-shirts.
 
The closest one, the one
who'd spoken, was regarding me with a mixture of curiosity and concern.
 
His two friends were merely curious.

           
"As
a matter of fact," I said, "I am, rather.
 
And I think you three are just the help I need."

           
Even
with four of us, it was an awkward job to haul Spiro all the way back to the
car, but eventually we had him strapped into the passenger seat of the
Lamborghini.
 
Keys in hand, I
turned to warmly thank my rescuers, but they merely nodded and the first who'd
spoken assured me they were pleased to be able to help.

           
"Don't
s'pose you need someone to drive this beauty for you?" asked one of his
comrades, wistfully.

           
Smiling,
I shook my head.
 
"No, I think
I can handle it."

           
"Well,
g'night then," they called out.
 
"And good luck!"

           
Though
at first I was intimidated by the Lamborghini's power, I was soon enjoying the
drive, and I managed to get us and the car back to the villa in one piece.
 
To my dismay, however, it was almost
one o'clock by the time we got there, and I still somehow had to get Spiro into
the house before I could head down to the beach for my rendezvous with
Geoffrey.

           
I
drove the car into the garage.
 
For
a moment my breath caught as a figure detached itself from the shadows and came
round to my door.
 
Then I realized
it was just Paul.
 
He opened the
door and helped me out.

           
"Date
end early?" I snapped irritably.
 

           
He
nodded nonchalantly.
 
"And
yours?"
 
He gazed in amusement
at my unconscious companion.

           
"Stop
smirking and help me get him to his room."

           
Paul
clicked his heels together, saluted, and then crossed to the passenger side of
the car and heaved Spiro out, tossing him over his shoulder like a bag of
potatoes.
 
I scurried ahead,
fumbling through Spiro's keys in search of the one to the front door lock.
 
Breathing hard, Paul merely pounded on
the door; it was soon opened by Maria, looking remarkably awake considering the
hour.
 
Paul pushed past her and
made a beeline toward Spiro's room.
 
I ran ahead, opening the door for him, and he dropped Spiro onto the bed
with a gasp.

           
"
Evharistó
,"
I thanked him.

           
"
Parakaló
.
 
Do you need help with anything
else?"
 
His expression was
bland, but his mouth seemed to twitch suspiciously as he looked from me to the
man sprawled on the bed.

           
"No,
thank you," I said tartly.

           
He
shrugged and left, and I quickly followed.
 
I decided it would be safer to slip down to the beach
through my own room.

           
It
was dark, and I had to fumble around a bit searching for the light switch.
 
When I finally found it, I pressed the
curved toggle, and for a moment the light flickered.
 
Then it flared full force, illuminating . . . everything.

           
I
gasped for breath, feeling as if I'd just been punched in the stomach.

           
Both
of my suitcases were slung open on the bed, and clothes had been strewn all
over the floor.
 
Three dresses that
Maria had just washed and pressed had been torn to shreds and splattered with a
deep red liquid that turned out, to the relief of my pounding heart, to be only
nail polish.
 
Two of the books I'd
bought in Corfu had been flung against the wall, and a third had been ripped up
completely, the torn pages tossed about the room like so much confetti.
 
I found my purse in the corner.
 
It had been turned inside out and
sliced to pieces.

           
My
passport had survived unharmed.
 
I
found it carefully propped up on the bureau, underneath a single Greek word
that had been scrawled on the mirror in pink lipstick.

           
"
Fighasete!
"
it read.

           
"Get
out!"

Chapter Twelve

           
I
stood there staring at the angry message for several minutes, before my numbed
mind remembered Geoffrey waiting down on the beach.
 
Stumbling toward the French windows, I pushed them open and
started running.

           
I
didn't really expect him to still be there.
 
I burst from the pines and went skittering along the shingle
fully expecting to find myself alone.

           
"So,
you finally decided to come," said a voice in the dark.
 
Like a compass needle homing north, I
spun towards the sound of it.
 
"I trust you and Skouras had a good time."
 
A familiar silhouette stepped out into
the bright moonlight, and without thinking I launched myself toward it.

           
“
Geoffrey
!”
I cried, barreling into him.

           
He
uttered a startled exclamation as his arms swung up and enfolded me.
 
Then he pushed me back so he could look
into my face.
 
“Christine,” he said
sharply, “what’s wrong?”

           
I
stared up at him and suddenly wondered what to say.
 
If I told him about the attack on my room, he might insist
on my leaving the villa.
 
I listened
to the soft lapping of the water on the rocks and tried to think of a safe
answer.

           
"Christine,
answer me!
 
What's happened?
 
Are you all right?"

           
The
night had grown colder.
 
"I-I'm f-fine," I assured him through chattering teeth.

           
"Like
hell you are!" he growled, pulling me close and wrapping his arms around
me a second time.
 
"You're
shaking like a leaf!"
 
The
comforting warmth of his skin radiated through the thin cloth of his shirt, and
succumbing to temptation, I buried my face against his chest.

           
His
hand reached up and stroked my hair.
 
"It's all right," he murmured anxiously.
 
"You're safe now.
 
You're home and dry."

           
The
strong beat of his heart and the steady rise and fall of his breathing soothed
me.
 
"Strange thing to say to
a girl from California standing on a damp Greek beach," I murmured into
his shirt.
 
He laughed, and his
embrace tightened.

           
"You'll
have to excuse me.
 
It isn't every
night I have you fly into my arms like this."

           
I
looked up at that.
 
Suddenly all
amusement fled his face.
 
He
brushed the edge of his hand across my cheek, then slid a finger down and ran
it softly across my lips.
 
The
gentle touch seemed to ripple through me -- like waves across an

 
all-too-still pond.
 
Without thinking, I reached up and curled my arms around his neck,
pulling his head down and pressing my mouth to his.

           
His
lips were cool, but his breath was warm and smelled faintly of mint.
 
For a moment his mouth was still and
motionless against my own, and I felt like a rider on a roller coaster who had
just climbed to the top of a steep precipice only to hang uncertainly over a
drop I could not see.
 
Then his
lips began to caress me, his tongue to explore me, his mouth to claim me with a
ferocity that chased all fear away and hurtled me safely down a blissful trail
of sensation.

           
I
have no idea how long the kiss lasted; I only remember the sensation of being
dropped much too abruptly back to earth when Geoffrey tore his mouth away from
my lips and whispered huskily in my ear, “Fond as I am of this beach, my dear,
do you think we could find someplace a tad drier and a bit more comfortable to
continue this very pleasant demonstration of your affection?”

           
His
tone was teasing, but his words were like a slap.

           
With
a feeling almost akin to panic, I realized I was doing it again.
 
Acting on impulse, betraying my
feelings, exposing my heart like a naive idiot so that, when the inevitable
rejection came, it would all the more easily be ripped in two.
 
With a shudder, I pulled away.

           
“Christine?"

           
Mutely,
I retreated another step.

           
“What’s
wrong?”
 
He tried to draw me
closer.

           
I
resisted.
 
"Please.
 
Let me go."

           
He
complied so quickly I stumbled.
 
With the withdrawal of his touch, apprehension gave way to regret, but
it was too late to admit that, even to myself.

           
"I
did not fly into your arms," I insisted with the intensity one reserves
for statements one knows are false.