Innocent Obsession

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

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

‘Excuse me!’

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

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

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

‘Wh-who are you?’

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

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

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

‘Miss Scott?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Come.’

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER TWO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Oh God!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Acceptable?’ Sylvie was confused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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