The Highest Stakes of All (7 page)

Lifting her chin, Joanna obeyed, and paused, her eyes widening as she surveyed her new surroundings.

As rooms went, this one was pretty breathtaking, she admitted reluctantly. The gleaming satin bedspread covering the wide divan was patterned in green and gold, and those colours were repeated in the luxuriously quilted headboard, and the curtains that hung at the long windows.

The floor was tiled in ivory, and the range of fitted wardrobes and drawers that occupied an entire wall had been constructed from wood the colour of warm honey.

Hara crossed the room, still unsmiling, and opened a door revealing a cream marble bathroom, with a shower as well as a deep tub. Joanna swallowed deeply as she absorbed its perfection, from the gold-framed mirrors above the twin washbasins to the array of expensive toiletries and piles of fluffy towels waiting in mute invitation.

She supposed now, if ever, was the moment to use the
efharisto
word, but when she turned to speak the older woman had silently vanished, and she was alone.

Her first act was to check the wardrobes for male clothing, but they were empty, indicating to her relief that Vassos Gordanis usually spent his nights elsewhere. Or had done so in the past.

She walked across to the bed and tested the mattress with an experimental hand. Was it only yesterday that she’d longed to sleep on something even half as comfortable as this promised to be?

Yet now she would have given anything she possessed to be back at the hotel, facing another night on that penance of a sofa.

And even the knowledge that for the time being she would be sleeping alone was no consolation.

Green and gold, she thought. Springtime colours. Yet every minute she’d be forced to spend in this house would be harshest winter. As cold and unforgiving as the man who would ultimately claim her in that bed. She sat down on the edge of the bed and began to unfasten the trench coat. She was too tired to think any more and too angry to cry.

She dropped the rest of her clothes to the floor, and slid naked under the covers.

Persephone didn’t have to stay in the Underworld, she thought drowsily. But she ruined her chance to leave and go back to her old life when she succumbed to temptation and ate those pomegranate seeds.

But nothing and no one will ever distract me, she vowed grimly. Somehow, some day, I’m going to escape—and when I do, it will be for ever.

After three days, Joanna was reluctantly familiar with her new environment. She had begun by exploring the villa itself.

It was beautiful, with its wide marble floors and pale, unadorned walls, but everything she saw seemed to confirm her initial impression that it was cold—even austere.

The main living room, or
saloni,
offered the most comfort, with a large fireplace, where logs were clearly burned during the winter months, fronted by a fur rug, and flanked by two massive cream leather sofas, deeply and luxuriously cushioned. The presence of a hi-fi system and a television set added a kind of normality, too, as did the glass-fronted bookcase crammed with titles in Greek, French and English.

Elsewhere, the furnishings, although elegant, had been kept to a minimum, and there were few ornaments, bowls of flowers or any of the individual touches that might give a hint of the owner’s tastes. Yet this was his family home, so perhaps he was accustomed to this impersonal grandeur. But it seemed the last place where a man who sometimes looked like a pirate would come to relax.

There seemed no trace of him anywhere, she thought with faint bewilderment, nor, more tellingly, any mementoes of the woman who had been his wife.

Joanna looked in vain for a portrait on one of the walls, or even a photograph like the silver-framed picture of her mother that Denys always kept on the table beside his bed.

But perhaps Vassos Gordanis confined the poignant souvenirs of his marriage to his bedroom—the one place she had been careful to avoid.

And maybe, too, it wasn’t the house, she thought, but the attitude of the staff which gave her such a sense of chill.

Because, she’d soon discovered, the men on the beach who’d ignored her had apparently established a precedent. There were, she’d learned from Stavros, over fifty people employed at the house, and in the olive groves and citrus orchards around it, most of whom lived on Thaliki and were ferried across on a daily basis.

But she rarely caught a glimpse of any of them, apart from Andonis, who served her meals with a kind of studied if monosyllabic courtesy, and of course Hara, who had radiated ungracious hostility from the first morning.

Although that did not prevent her from doing her job, Joanna admitted wryly. The hated mini-dress and other garments had been removed from the floor, never to return, while she slept. Her case had been unpacked, and its inadequate contents stowed in a mere fraction of the wardrobe space. And she was woken in grim silence each morning with coffee and the freshly laundered clothes from the day before.

Surely, she thought, if she had to be waited on, there must be someone younger and more cheerful among all these people.

But she soon discovered her mistake the first time she encountered one of the young maids upstairs and smiled, only to find the girl looking away and spitting three times.

When Joanna went to Stavros to express her indignation, he’d only shrugged. ‘She cannot be blamed,
thespinis.
She was warding off the evil eye.’

‘But that’s ridiculous,’ Joanna said hotly. ‘There’s no such thing.’

‘Not in your country, perhaps. Here—is different. It is a strong belief,’ he added drily. ‘Be glad you do not have blue eyes.’

‘Is that what they all think?’ she demanded. ‘That I’m some kind of witch?’

‘Ne, thespinis.
Having learned from Hara a little of the harm you have done, that is indeed what they believe.’

‘From Hara?’ Joanna drew a furious breath. ‘Well, that settles it. Please find her something else to do. Because I don’t want her hanging round me any more, like some—geriatric Medusa.’

‘Hara is the sister of Andonis Leftanou, and she has served the Gordanis family faithfully for many years.’ His eyes snapped at her. ‘I advise you do not speak of her again without respect.’ He paused ominously. ‘If you know what is good for you.’

‘Good for me?’ Joanna echoed in derision. ‘What in this whole ghastly situation could possibly be described as good for me?’

‘You are fortunate that things have not been very much worse.’

‘Oh, sure,’ she threw back at him bitterly. ‘And no doubt it’s also an honour for me to be forced to
belong,
as you put it, to your disgusting employer. Well, I hope he rots in hell—and you with him! ‘

Stavros looked at her with distaste. ‘I suggest you keep such thoughts to yourself,
thespinis.
Or when Kyrios Gordanis arrives here he may teach you a much-needed lesson,’ he added grimly, and walked away.

In an attempt to keep occupied and fight her sense of isolation, she swam each day in the pool, then lay on the cushioned lounger under its parasol provided daily for her use by unseen hands. She ate her solitary though delicious meals, provided by Andonis’ wife Penelope, in a vine-covered arbour at one end of the terrace, rested in her room with the shutters closed for an hour or so each afternoon and spent her evenings alone in the
saloni.

She didn’t dare touch the state-of-the-art music system, in spite of the mouth-watering record collection in its well-filled racks, and there were few English language programmes to tempt her on television. There was also a video machine, with a number of pre-recorded cassettes, but these were labelled in Greek, and she wasn’t sure how to operate the player anyway.

And all hell would freeze before she asked for help of any kind.

But if her days were difficult, the nights were far worse, when she woke with a start from disturbing restless dreams, convinced that a man’s hand had stroked her face. Touched her body. And that he was there, lying beside her, his skin hot with desire.

Sometimes it was Peter Mansell who pressed his mouth suffocatingly on hers as she tried to fight him away. But invariably the dream would change at some point, when her oppressor would become Vassos Gordanis, his ruthless kisses stifling her pleas for help. Or for mercy.

It was all so terribly real. Too real. Because she awoke each morning drained and on edge, a feeling of dread never far from the pit of her stomach, wondering if this would be the day when she would be made to pay for the past.

Knowing that this brief respite could not last, and that, for her, time was running out.

CHAPTER SEVEN

J
OANNA
blew her nose vigorously, swallowing back the threatened tears. The last thing she wanted was someone to see her crying and misinterpret the reason, she thought, as she closed
Watership Down
and slipped the paperback into her bag together with her hankie.

During the past week, she’d devoured a Raymond Chandler and discovered Ernest Hemingway from the bookshelves in the
saloni,
but had hesitated to begin the book that Julie had given her, knowing that it would revive memories of the quiet evenings with baby Matthew—and a time when all she had to trouble her was shortage of money.

I didn’t realise how lucky I was, she thought bitterly.

Suddenly restless, she got up from the lounger, putting on her hat and slinging her bag over her shoulder. Lunch would not be served for another hour or more, so she could fill in some time with a walk.

She’d explored most of the immediate vicinity, and all that remained was the unexciting prospect of the olive groves, where Stavros had assured her almost vehemently that there was nothing to see, and it would be better to go to the beach instead. He was probably right, she thought, but at least the trees would provide some shade, and less chance of running into an armed guard.

And it was pleasant to wander along, her espadrilles making no sound on the loose soil of the path winding between the trees, listening to the faint rustling of the silver leaves above her. There were nets spread on the ground beneath the branches, presumably to catch the fruit when it was harvested, in the way it had been done since the first olives were grown.

She recalled reading that the trees could live for hundreds of years, and, judging by the gnarled and twisted trunks she saw around her, some of these were very old indeed. Just being among them was an oddly peaceful experience.

And then she paused, frowning a little, as that peace was suddenly disturbed by the sound, not far away, of a child crying.

Except there were no children on the island. The only residents at the villa were Hara, who was a childless widow, and Andonis and Penelope, whose two sons were grown up and working on the mainland.

Puzzled, she followed the direction of the crying, and found herself on the edge of the grove, looking at a neat two-storey house fronted by its own fenced garden.

Yet Stavros had implied that the Villa Kore was the only house on the island.

And the house had occupants. A very small girl, incongruously clad in a pink taffeta dress, with a number of lace-edged underskirts, plus white shoes and socks, was standing at the gate, sobbing, her gaze fixed on a blue ball lying on the other side and well beyond her reach.

Joanna said gently, ‘Oh, dear.’ She picked up the ball and walked towards the gate, and saw the child retreat a couple of steps, her thumb in her mouth.

‘Yours, I think.’ Joanna pushed the ball carefully though the bars of the gate so that it bounced gently at the little girl’s feet. ‘And now you should say
efharisto,’
she prompted.

But the thumb stayed firmly and silently in place. Big dark eyes surveyed Joanna solemnly.

She was not, Joanna thought as she straightened, a very pretty child. But that was hardly her fault. Her black hair was pulled back into stiff braids, and the dress did nothing for her, either, being the wrong colour, and far too elaborate for playing in. What could her mother be thinking of?

She gave the little girl a swift, reassuring smile, then started back the way she’d come.

She heard a slight noise behind her and, turning, saw the ball was outside again, and the child back at the gate, watching hopefully. She said softly, ‘So it’s a game, is it?’

Retracing her steps, she returned the ball, but this time she only managed a couple of paces before she heard it bounce back again. She picked it up and walked to the gate, hunkering down so that she and the child were level.

Pointing to herself, she said, ‘Joanna.’

But the child simply stared back unwinkingly and said nothing, her small face serious.

From inside the house, a female voice called sharply, ‘Eleni,’ and a young woman came out, shading her eyes from the sun. Olive-skinned and sloe-eyed, she had a full-lipped, sulky mouth, while a dark red dress made the most of a figure that bordered on the voluptuous.

As she caught sight of Joanna, her brows snapped together in a sharp frown and she marched down towards the gate, firing off a series of shrill questions in Greek.

‘I’m sorry.’ Joanna straightened awkwardly, passing the ball over the gate. ‘I don’t understand.’

The other halted, hands on hips, clearly taken aback.
‘Anglitha?’

Her voice sounded apprehensive, and when Joanna nodded, she crossed herself, seized the child’s hand and began to tug her towards the house.

At the door, she turned. ‘Go,’ she said in halting, heavily accented English. ‘You go. Not come here.’

More evil eye, I suppose, Joanna thought wearily as she retreated. But I only gave the poor little soul her ball back. I hardly turned her into a frog.

And you must have heard her crying, so why didn’t you do something about it yourself?

Walking back to the villa, she kept picturing the small wistful face still looking back at her as she was being urged indoors by her mother. Besides the house being in the middle of nowhere, that garden was a very small playing space for a growing child, she thought, thinking of the expanse of unused lawn around the villa.

She recalled, too, one of her aunt’s sayings—'all dressed up and nowhere to go.’ Well, that was certainly true for little Eleni, she told herself with a pang.

As she emerged from the trees, a voice called, ‘
Thespinis,’
and she saw Stavros hurrying towards her, mopping his face with his handkerchief.

‘I have been to the beach searching for you,’ he told her snappishly. ‘Where have you been?’

Joanna shrugged. ‘Just for a walk,’ she returned neutrally.

‘You must come back to the house,’ he said urgently. ‘Come back quickly now. Because Kyrios Vassos is at Thaliki. Soon he will be here, and you must be waiting,
thespinis.
That is his order.’

All thoughts of quizzing him about her unexpected encounter vanished. Her heart was thudding unevenly.

She swallowed. ‘He—he’s on his way?’

‘Have I not said so?’ He gestured impatiently. ‘Hara is waiting in your room. Make haste.’

The older woman swung round from the wardrobe as Joanna entered. She held up a dark green cotton skirt, ankle-length and patterned with daisies, and a scooped-neck blouse in broderie-anglaise.

‘This,’ she ordained brusquely. ‘You wear this.’ She paused. ‘You wish bath or shower?’

Neither, with you around, Joanna thought. She said stonily, ‘I can manage for myself—thank you.’

Hara gave her a beady look. ‘You hurry. I return.’

Which was probably the longest verbal exchange they’d ever shared, Joanna thought.

Alone, she hung the skirt and top back in the wardrobe and selected some white linen flared trousers and a matching shirt, covering her from throat to wrist.

The hall seemed full of people when she eventually descended the stairs, but they were all looking at the open door, where Andonis stood beaming, and not at her.

She sensed the excited stir, telling her the moment she’d dreaded had finally arrived. Then, as he walked in, clad only in ancient white shorts and a pair of canvas shoes, Joanna saw with a sudden lurch of the heart that the pirate had returned.

For an instant time spun away, and it was as if she was once more seeing him for the first time.

Except that she now realised what all those restless, troubled dreams had been telling her. That she knew exactly how that lean bronze body would feel against hers. How she would recognise the texture of his skin under her fingertips. And the taste of him beneath her lips.

He moved then, and she drew a hurried, horrified breath, her whole body taut as a bowstring, only to find him striding past her to where Hara was standing, and, in spite of her ample proportions, lifting her off her feet in a bear hug while she bridled in coy protest like a young girl, scolding fondly in Greek until he put her down.

Joanna thought helplessly that she had never seen such a change in anyone. Vinegar into honey. Never, surely, the same woman who, fifteen minutes ago, had thunderously condemned her choice of clothing as unsuitable attire in which to meet Kyrios Gordanis. And banged the door, muttering, when Joanna had refused point-blank to choose anything more feminine, or to loosen her hair, which she’d drawn severely back from her face and secured at the nape of her neck with a tortoiseshell clasp.

Hands clenched at her sides, she watched Vassos Gordanis greet Stavros, clapping him genially on the shoulder with a smiling word.

Then he turned to her, and all the laughter faded from his face, turning his mouth into a thin hard line.

For one absurd moment, she found herself thinking, no one will ever smile at me again …

Vassos Gordanis looked her over slowly, the harsh mockery in his eyes making her feel as if she’d been publicly stripped to the skin.

The clothes she had chosen covered her completely, just as she’d intended, but for one bewildered moment it was all she could do not to place protective hands in front of her body. Except that would amount to a victory for him, so she stood her ground, her own gaze defiant.

He said softly, ‘Kyria Joanna—at last.’ He paused. ‘I trust you have not been too lonely without me.’

‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘I hoped my solitude would never end.’

He shrugged. ‘Who knows? You may find my company even more to your taste.’

She lifted her chin. ‘Not in your lifetime, Mr Gordanis.’

‘You sound very certain.’ She heard the note of faint derision in his tone. ‘But you may be persuaded to change your mind.’ He paused, letting her know he’d absorbed her swift, angry intake of breath, then added flatly, ‘Now, come and have lunch with me.’

‘You do not seem very hungry.’

Joanna looked up from the grilled fish she was pushing round her plate. ‘Are you surprised? When I’m being treated in this monstrous way?’ She put down her fork. ‘Please—why are you so determined to do this?’

‘To make you pay in kind for what you did. But also …’ he paused reflectively ‘… also for my private enjoyment. And I am no longer sure which is the more important consideration.’

She said rather breathlessly, ‘Stick to your revenge, Mr Gordanis. You’ll get nothing else from me.’

‘There is a saying, I believe, that revenge is sweet.’ His mouth curved cynically. ‘Maybe you will demonstrate its truth.’

‘You have no conscience, do you?’ she said quietly, after a pause. ‘No conscience at all.’

‘And what of your own moral code, Joanna
mou?
‘ He poured himself some more wine. ‘Which belongs, no doubt, to your country’s much vaunted “permissive society".’ He pronounced the phrase with scorn. ‘Does that bear scrutiny, I wonder?’

Yes, she thought.
Yes!
Except in one instance that I have always regretted and that you have somehow discovered. And I never found Britain particularly permissive. Not with my aunt and uncle around.

‘But this is a pointless discussion,’ he went on. ‘You are here with me because that is what I have decided, and you will remain also for as long as I decide. So accustom yourself, and quickly, because your protests do not impress me.’

His gaze flicked dismissively over her. ‘Nor does this belated attempt at modesty,’ he went on. ‘You are for sale in a buyers’ market, Joanna, and your charming body is your main asset,. I suggest you make the most of it later, when you are in bed with me.’

He added softly, ‘When your only concealment,
agapi mou,
will be your beautiful hair.’

Joanna pressed her hands to her burning face. ‘Don’t.’ She choked on the word. ‘Oh, please—don’t talk like that.’

‘And you once dared to call me a hypocrite.’ He sounded almost amused. ‘So what would you prefer us to discuss?’ He paused. ‘Do you have a topic of interest? Or shall we speak instead of Petros Manassou?’

‘I never knew anyone called that.’ She didn’t look at him, but knew her flush had deepened.

‘Peter Mansell, then,’ he said with a shrug. ‘And do not pretend you have failed to make the connection. Honesty will serve you better now.’

She bit her lip. ‘Perhaps—but I don’t understand what he has to do with you.’

He said flatly, ‘He is the only son of my cousin Maria. Does that make the situation clearer for you?’

Her heart sank like a stone.
Oh, God—oh, God …

‘Yes—I suppose,’ she said at last. ‘But why was he using a different name?’

‘He went to Australia to carry out a business transaction, for the first time unsupervised. He wished, it seems, to prove himself.’ His mouth tightened. ‘To demonstrate he could succeed in this without reference to his family connections.’

By bragging everywhere about his money? Crowing over his commercial acumen? All the deals he’d achieved single-handed?

She kept her head bent. ‘You thought he was old enough—experienced enough—to be trusted?’

‘I knew nothing of it until it was too late,’ he answered coldly. ‘He was sent by his future father-in-law, apparently to test his ambition and his reliability. Without your intervention he might possibly have done so. Fortunately the money your dubious friends took from him formed only the first tranche in a complicated series of payments. But it was enough to ruin him and the future he’d hoped for.’

‘You said his future father-in-law.’ Joanna swallowed. ‘He was—going to be—married?’

Peter had never even hinted at that, she thought. On the contrary, he’d boasted openly about his bachelor status. Given the impression that all the girls in California were at his feet.

And all of it complete and utter fantasy.

‘Once,’ he said. ‘No longer, however. Maybe never—until his criminal folly can be forgotten. I arranged for the money to be repaid, of course, but after such a betrayal of trust the bride’s family broke off the engagement, and made no secret of their reasons. It has caused a breach between friends that may never heal.’ He paused. ‘Yet, fortunately for his ex-fiancée, who is a pious, modest girl and Maria’s goddaughter, they only know half the story. Your part in it Petros confessed to me alone. Not even his mother knows of his shame in that respect. She has experienced enough heartbreak over this whole affair, so she was told only that I would pursue and punish the gamblers who cheated him.’