His Virgin Mistress

His imagination ran riot. He hadn’t realised her hair would be so long, but she had evidently washed it and now it tumbled pale and silky about her shoulders. The scarlet wrapper, too, was unknowingly provocative, drawing his attention to the slender shapeliness of her body, outlining her hips and the long, long length of her legs.

To his disgust, his body stirred. He could feel his arousal pushing against the hand he’d thrust into his trouser pocket, and he quickly withdrew it. Then, angry at the immaturity of his reaction, he tried to pull himself together. His father was waiting for a reply and he had no wish for the old man to guess he was in any way attracted to his—he sought for a suitably insulting description—his paramour.

‘I—good evening, Papa, Mrs Manning,’ he essayed politely. ‘I trust you have found everything to your satisfaction?’

His father’s brows drew together. ‘We have been here two days already, Demetri,’ he reminded his son shortly. His hands fell away from Joanna’s body. ‘I cannot believe that concern for our welfare is the reason you have chosen to invade our privacy at this time.’

It wasn’t, of course. But then, he hadn’t expected to encounter his father at all. It was Mrs Manning he had come to see. He had hoped—rather foolishly, he acknowledged now—that they might have a few moments of private conversation before his father interrupted them.

‘I—wanted to speak to you, Papa,’ he said, improvising swiftly. And perhaps it was just as well that his father was here after all, he conceded. His reaction to this woman had been totally unexpected, and it would have been horribly embarrassing if Constantine had not been there and she had noticed his discomfort. Theos! The back of his neck was sweating. What the hell was the matter with him?

‘And you surmised I would be here, with Joanna?’

His father was not a fool, and Demetri had to think fast to find an answer. ‘I—tried your apartments, but could get no reply,’ he muttered, hoping that Philip, his father’s manservant, wouldn’t contradict him. ‘But it doesn’t matter now. I can see you are—’ the words almost stuck in his throat ‘—occupied with other things. It can wait until tomorrow.’

‘I am sure it can.’ Constantine was clearly waiting for him to leave, and Demetri permitted himself only a brief glance at Joanna before striding out of the room.

In the hall outside, Demetri paused for a moment, breathing deeply and running decidedly unsteady hands through the thickness of his hair. He felt unnerved, shaken, and although he knew he should get the hell away from there, he was strangely reluctant to do so. It felt as if the image of the two of them together was emblazoned on his memory, and he knew it was going to take more than the slamming of a door to get it out of his head. And how sensible was that?

He glanced back over his shoulder, half-afraid that he was being observed, but the door was still firmly closed and no sounds were audible from within. His father and his mistress had evidently resumed whatever it was they had been doing before his arrival, and he didn’t need a crystal ball to guess what that was.

Na pari i oryi!

He swore silently, and then, gathering himself, strode back along the corridor to the galleried landing at the head of the stairs. He was going to have a great influence on his father’s behaviour if he started lusting after Mrs Manning himself, he thought contemptuously. When had he begun thinking with his sex instead of with his head?

The salon had been cleared in his absence. The huge reception room, which had earlier been thronged with the guests his sister had invited to welcome his father home, was now restored to its usual appearance. The furniture, which had mostly been moved aside during the reception, had now been gathered into small groupings, with tall crystal vases and porcelain urns spilling glossy blossoms onto every available surface. The scent of the flowers was pungent, dispelling the smells of tobacco and stale perfume. Someone had turned up the air-conditioning so that the room was decidedly chilly, but he wished it was earlier in the year so that he could fold back the long glass doors that opened onto the floodlit terrace. It would have been nice to allow the soft evening air to cool his overheated senses, but that wasn’t an option. At this time of the year there were too many insects flying about, and he didn’t wish to be bitten half to death.

‘Can I get you anything, sir?’

Demetri swung round to find a member of the household staff hovering behind him. He was tempted to order a bottle of Scotch and take himself off to the farthest corner of the estate and get thoroughly and disgustingly drunk. But he was not his father’s son for nothing, and Kastros did not make fools of themselves, particularly not in front of the servants.

‘Nothing, thanks,’ he responded now, waving the man away. Then he flung himself down into a cream velvet armchair and stared broodingly out of the windows.

Spiro found him there perhaps ten minutes later. The lamplit room was shadowy, and Demetri had chosen to sit in the darkest corner, but Spiro’s eyes were sharp. Like his employer, he, too, had changed for the evening, wearing a shirt and tie instead of the casual polo shirts he preferred.

‘I believe your sister and the other guests who are staying for dinner have gathered in the library,’ he said, advancing across the room. ‘What are you doing in here? Sulking?’

‘Watch your tongue,’ said Demetri shortly, and Spiro arched a wounded brow.

‘I gather you were sent away with your tail between your legs,’ he observed, ignoring the reproof. ‘What is the matter? Did she tell you she was playing for bigger stakes?’

‘Do not be stupid!’ Demetri placed his hands on the arms of the chair and pushed himself to his feet. He glanced around. ‘Is there anything to drink in here?’

Spiro pushed his hands into his trouser pockets and swayed back on his heels, surveying the large room with a considering eye. ‘It does not look like it,’ he said. ‘Why do we not join your father’s guests? There is a bar in the library.’

‘Thank you, I know that,’ retorted Demetri, scowling. ‘Look, why do you not go and join the party? I am—not in the mood for company.’

‘Why not?’

‘Theos, Spiro, mind your own damn business!’ Demetri heaved a frustrated breath. ‘You are not my keeper, you know.’

Spiro shrugged his shoulders. ‘So you did lose out?’

‘No!’ Demetri stared at his friend with angry eyes. Then, when Spiro didn’t back down, he gave a resigned shake of his head. ‘All right. I did not even get to speak to her. No pain, no gain. Does that answer your question?’

‘Not really.’ Spiro waited. ‘Was she not in her own apartments?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Demetri was sardonic. ‘She was there. She just was not alone, that is all.’

Spiro’s mouth formed a pronounced circle. ‘Oh,’ he said drily. ‘Well, there is always tomorrow.’

‘Yeah.’ Demetri was ironic. ‘And tomorrow and tomorrow,’ he acceded flatly. ‘Come. Let us go and find a drink. I do not want the old man to think I have got anything to hide.’

‘Do you think he has?’

‘Who knows?’ Demetri made a careless gesture. ‘I wonder why he has brought her here.’

Spiro pulled a face. ‘I think I can hazard a guess,’ he remarked, and Demetri gave him an impatient look.

‘Yeah, right,’ he said shortly. ‘She is to be his guest at Alex’s wedding.’ He frowned. ‘I wonder where Mr Manning is.’

‘If there is a Mr Manning.’

‘You think she is lying?’

‘No.’ Spiro shook his head. ‘But she is not wearing a ring. Do you think she is divorced?’

‘Who knows?’ Demetri was weary of the whole conversation. ‘Rings do not mean a lot these days. Besides, what does it signify? She is here. That is the only thing that matters.’

‘Do you think their relationship is serious?’

Demetri was taken aback. ‘Do you?’

‘Perhaps.’ Spiro looked pensive. ‘Your father seems to care about her. Do you not think so?’

Demetri scowled. ‘So what are you saying? That he intends to marry her?’

‘Hardly that.’ Spiro drew in a breath as they started towards the door. ‘But serious illness can do strange things to people, filos mou. Being reminded of your own mortality can leave you with a desperate desire to embrace life.’

Demetri snorted. ‘Since when did you become a philosopher?’

‘I am just trying to be objective,’ Spiro protested. ‘And, despite reports to the contrary, Mrs Manning does not give me the impression that her relationship with your father is purely for financial gain.’

‘You feel you know her that well?’ Demetri was scornful.

‘No.’ Spiro was defensive now. ‘But I have been here since yesterday, when they arrived. I have watched them together. And, if I was scrupulously honest, I would say that they have known one another a considerable length of time.’

‘Have you known my father long?’

The question was asked by a slim dark woman, whose resemblance to her father was unmistakable. Constantine had told Joanna that Olivia, too, had married when she was nineteen. But the marriage hadn’t lasted. In Constantine’s opinion Olivia had been too spoilt, too headstrong, to submit to her ex-husband’s needs. Within months of wedding Andrea Petrou she had returned to Theapolis, and since then she had shown no serious interest in any other man.

Joanna knew that Olivia was the eldest of Constantine’s three children. At thirty-six, she considered herself the mistress of his house, which was perhaps why she was viewing Joanna with such suspicion. Maybe she saw the other woman as a challenge to her authority, and Joanna was glad that her ankle-length beaded sheath bore favourable comparison with the froth of chiffon that Olivia was wearing.

She had cornered Joanna beside the polished cabinets that housed her father’s collection of snuffboxes. She had chosen her moment, and Joanna realised she had been a little foolish to walk away from Constantine and lay herself open to cross-examination.

‘Quite long,’ she responded now, directing her attention to the jewelled items that had drawn her across the room in the first place. She had delivered many of these boxes to Constantine herself, and it was fascinating to see them all together in the display case. Aware that Olivia was still beside her, she added, ‘Aren’t these beautiful?’

‘Valuable, certainly,’ said Olivia insolently. ‘Are you interested in antiques, Mrs Manning?’

Joanna ignored the implication and, taking the woman’s words at face value, she replied, ‘I—I work with antiques, actually.’ She paused. ‘As a matter of fact, that is how I met your father.’

Olivia’s thin brows elevated. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’ Joanna chose her words with care. ‘I work for an auction house.’

‘An auction house?’ Olivia immediately picked up on the information. ‘In London?’

‘That’s right.’ Joanna allowed a little sigh to escape her. ‘What do you do, Mrs Petrou?’

‘What do I do?’

Olivia was clearly taken aback, but before she could say anything more her father came to join them. Slipping an arm about Joanna’s waist, he said, ‘Well, let me see: she is a fabulous dancer, an expert at water sports, and extremely good at spending money. My money,’ he added drily. ‘Is that not so, Livvy? Have I missed anything out?’

‘Because you will not let me do anything else,’ retorted Olivia shortly. Then, struggling to contain her anger, ‘In any case, I do not think it is any of Mrs Manning’s business.’

Joanna was unhappily aware that she had made another enemy. It was obvious that none of Constantine’s offspring would blame him for his indiscretions. As far as they were concerned, she had instigated this whole affair.

Deciding there was nothing she could say which would placate Olivia, she turned to Constantine instead. ‘How are you?’ she asked, before he could remonstrate with his daughter. ‘You’re looking tired. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather eat upstairs?’

‘I am sure you would,’ murmured Constantine, for her ears only. But, for all his attempt at humour, he was looking drained. The day had taken a toll on his depleted resources and he should have been resting. But she had always admired his strength of spirit, and he demonstrated it again now. ‘How could I desert our guests? Besides, I am ready for my dinner,’ he averred, his smile warm and enveloping. ‘Are you?’

Knowing better than to argue with him, Joanna tucked her arm through his. ‘Is it time to go in?’

‘When I have finished this,’ agreed Constantine, indicating the remnants of the spirit in his glass. He held the glass up to a nearby lamp. ‘Do you know, you can only get real ouzo in Greece? I have tried it elsewhere, but it is never the same.’

‘Ought you to be drinking alcohol, Papa?’ Olivia had been observing their exchange in silence, but now she took his other arm. ‘You have been ill, Papa. I worry about you.’ She glanced disparagingly at Joanna. ‘It is important that you do not overstretch your strength.’

Constantine’s lips tightened. ‘I am delighted that you are so concerned for my welfare, Livvy. But I am sure Demetri has told you I am very well. Besides, I have the beautiful Joanna to look after me. I have to tell you, she can be as strict as the most costly physician.’

And twice as expensive. Joanna could practically hear what Olivia was thinking, but she held her tongue. And then Demetrios entered the room, and his sister’s eyes turned in his direction. Joanna grimaced. Was she conceivably going to be grateful to Constantine’s son for diverting Olivia’s attention from herself?

Spiro Stavros was with his employer. Both men were in their early thirties, but Spiro possessed none of Demetrios’s brooding good looks. Nevertheless, they were both tall and powerfully built. But Joanna decided she preferred Spiro’s open countenance to Demetrios’s cold eyes and dark beauty.

Olivia left her father’s side to greet her brother, and Constantine took the opportunity to speak privately to Joanna. ‘Do not let anything Livvy or Demetri say upset you,’ he murmured softly. ‘They are curious, that is all. So long as you play your part, and do not allow anyone to coerce you into some unguarded admission, all will be well.’

Joanna wished she could feel as confident. She wasn’t used to any of this, not to Constantine’s wealth, or his influence, or the feeling that every other person she met thought she was a fortune-hunter. She wasn’t. She wasn’t interested in Constantine’s money. But she’d also realised that the doubts she’d had in England had been justified. Indeed, they were rapidly developing into a full-blown belief that she shouldn’t be here.

‘Do you think they believe we’re lovers?’ she asked in a low voice, and Constantine grinned with a little of his old arrogance.

‘Oh, yes. They believe it,’ he said, permitting himself a brief glance in his son’s direction. ‘And do you know what?’ He arched a teasing brow. ‘I am beginning to enjoy it.’

Dinner was served in what Constantine told her was the family dining salon, but it seemed awfully big to Joanna. She was sure her whole apartment back in London would have fitted into this one room, and she thought it was just as well that the Greek islands didn’t suffer the extremes of temperature that England did. Heating this place would be a nightmare, she reflected, glancing round the high-ceilinged room with its imposing furniture and marble floor.

Last evening she and Constantine had dined in his suite, and that hadn’t been half so intimidating. Although it had been her first evening, and the assiduous attention of the servants had been a little unnerving, she had enjoyed the meal. She had still been entranced by the beauty of her surroundings, and she’d managed to persuade herself that this wasn’t going to be as bad as she’d thought.

How wrong she’d been!

Nevertheless, Olivia’s claws had been sheathed at that first meeting. With Alex away at her fiancé’s home in Athens, and Demetri meeting with bankers in Geneva, Olivia had been alone and unprepared for Joanna’s arrival. Joanna had wondered if Constantine had really warned his family of his guest’s identity. He’d insisted he had, but there’d been no doubt that Olivia had been shocked by their relationship.

Joanna sighed. She had spent most of the day avoiding the other woman’s questions and now she had Demetrios to contend with as well. She wondered if Constantine had realised how hostile his family would be. Despite his reassurances about Alex, she thought that was little consolation now.

The food, as she’d already discovered, was exquisitely prepared. There were dolmades—lamb and spiced rice wrapped in vine leaves, and souvlakia—which were tiny chunks of pork grilled on skewers. There were tomatoes stuffed with goat’s cheese, cold meats and salads, and retsina, the clean aromatic wine of the region, which was flavoured with pine resin and was, to Joanna, an acquired taste.

As well as Constantine’s son and daughter, and Spiro Stavros, of course, they were joined at the table by three other people. They were Nikolas Poros and his wife, who Constantine had introduced her to earlier, and an old uncle of Constantine’s second wife, who also lived at the villa. Panos Petronides was in his eighties, but he seemed years younger. He was still as alert and spry as he’d been when he’d first left his native Salonika.

Conversation during the meal was, to Joanna’s relief, sporadic. She suspected that for all his assertions to the contrary Constantine was tired, and she found herself watching him anxiously, ready for any sign that he needed to escape. Demetrios had been more right than he knew when he’d questioned his father’s return to the island. Constantine was very weak, and Joanna hoped he could keep up the pretence until the wedding was over.

Coffee, strong and black, was served in the adjoining drawing room. Joanna had hoped that Constantine might make their excuses and allow them both to escape to their own apartments. But, instead, he settled himself on a silk-cushioned sofa, drawing her down beside him to prevent Olivia from taking her place.

He indicated the silver dishes of sticky sugar-coated pastries on the low table close by. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Help yourself.’

Joanna, who had eaten little of her dinner, shook her head. ‘I don’t want anything else,’ she said, aware of Demetrios hovering close by, ostensibly studying the rich desserts. She waited until he had chosen a cheese-filled pastry dusted with cinnamon sugar and then retired to the nearest armchair before she felt able to continue. ‘May I get you something instead?’

‘Not to eat,’ murmured Constantine archly, provoking a scowling look from his son. Then, to Demetrios, ‘We will talk in the morning. You can brief me on all that has happened since I have been away. For instance, I understand from Nikolas Poros that two of our tankers are lying idle at Piraeus. I hope you have an explanation for that.’

‘They are not lying idle,’ retorted Demetrios, hot colour filling his angry face. ‘Did not Poros explain that—?’

‘Tomorrow, Demetri,’ said his father finally. Then, to Joanna’s relief, he turned to her. ‘I am a little tired, agapi mou. Are you finished?’

‘I—yes, of course.’

‘But surely you are not going to deprive us of Mrs Manning’s company also?’ Demetrios broke in, earning his father’s displeasure yet again. Joanna felt Constantine stiffen beside her.

‘You have something else in mind, agori?’ he asked, and Demetrios offered a courteous smile.

‘I wondered if Mrs Manning might enjoy a stroll in the gardens,’ he suggested mildly, but Joanna detected the look that passed between him and Spiro Stavros as he spoke. ‘I believe the English are very fond of gardening. Am I not right, Mrs Manning?’

‘I’m afraid I live in a high-rise, Mr Kastro,’ Joanna returned carefully, but Constantine intervened before she could say anything more.

‘Joanna is tired, too,’ he declared, but Demetrios was determined to have the last word.

‘Are you sure, Papa? Dare I say it? She is—considerably younger than you are.’

‘You overstep yourself, Demetri.’ There was no mistaking Constantine’s anger now, and Joanna wished she could warn the younger man to back off.

‘Perhaps you should let Mrs Manning decide for herself,’ he persisted smoothly, and Joanna heaved a heavy sigh.

‘I fear your father is right,’ she told him coolly, aware that he probably thought she was taking the easy way out. ‘I am tired. It has been a—demanding day.’

Demetrios’s lips twisted. ‘I am sure it must have been,’ he remarked, and although his words were polite enough his meaning was plain. He got abruptly to his feet. ‘Then, if you will excuse me…’ And without waiting for his father’s permission he stalked out of the room.

CHAPTER THREE

DESPITE the heat in the early-morning air, the pool was cold. Later in the day, when the sun had done its work, the temperature of the water would rise. But right now it was decidedly chilly, and Demetri welcomed its cooling surge against his hot skin.

He had not slept well. Indeed, he had slept exceedingly badly, tormented by dreams the nature of which he preferred not to dwell on now that he was awake. In fact, he was frustrated by his own inability to control his subconscious mind, and only several vigorous lengths of the pool offered some escape from his tortured senses.

He swam swiftly from one end of the pool to the other, somersaulting beneath the surface to swim back underwater. He broke through the waves his body had created, desperate for air, and then saw that he was no longer alone.

A woman had emerged from the villa. She hadn’t seen him. It was obvious from the unhurried way she crossed the sun-splashed patio to rest her hands on the terrace wall. Obvious, too, from the uninhibited way she tilted back her head and allowed the sun to kiss those pale exquisite features.

She thought she was alone, and Demetri felt a momentary pang of shame in observing her this way. But dammit, he thought, he had more right to be here than she had, and it wasn’t his fault if she didn’t have the sense to ensure she was on her own before behaving like a pagan goddess, worshipping the dawn.

She was beautiful, though. Given this opportunity to study her without her knowledge, Demetri had to admit he understood his father’s fascination. She was wearing a sleeveless vest this morning, something soft and silky that clung to her rounded breasts with a loving attention to detail. He caught his breath as she cupped her ribcage and arched her back, driving her taut nipples against the thin fabric. A loosely tied sarong circled her waist, a transparent thing of purples and greens that exposed the bikini briefs she wore beneath. It parted to reveal the slender length of her legs, and, despite the coolness of the water, Demetri felt himself harden.

Theos! He was like a callow youth, he thought exasperatedly. She was beautiful, yes, but he’d seen beautiful women before. He hadn’t reached the mature age of thirty-four without making love to a number of them, too, and it irritated the hell out of him that he desired this woman, his father’s mistress.

She was sliding her fingers into her hair now, scooping its loosened weight back from her face and winding it into a coil on top of her head. Soft tendrils tumbled from the impromptu knot, spiralling down against cheeks that were as smooth and velvety soft as a peach. Realising he couldn’t stand much more of this without disgracing himself completely, Demetri sprang out of the water and grabbed a towel to wrap protectively about his hips.

She heard him, of course. Although the ocean surged constantly onto the beach only a couple of hundred yards from the villa it was a muted sound, heavy and rhythmic. His vaulting out of the pool was a much more abrasive sound, and she swung round almost guiltily to confront him.

‘Oh…’ She was clearly taken aback by his sudden appearance. ‘Um—Mr Kastro. I didn’t see you there.’

‘No.’ Demetri acknowledged the fact, and, accepting that they couldn’t go on addressing each other across the width of the terrace, he pushed his damp feet into his deck shoes and walked towards her. ‘Did you sleep well?’