Moon Of Aphrodite

Moon of Aphrodite

Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

COVER

TITLE PAGE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

ENDPAGE

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

‘I’M not going and that’s final,’ Helen said.

Hugo Brandon gave a worried sigh and pushed a hand through his thick thatch of greying hair. The letter lay between them on the breakfast table, flimsy, foreign-looking, the handwriting spiky and black, managing to convey an impression of autocracy.

He said, ‘Don’t be too hasty, darling.’

‘Too hasty?’ Helen’s eyes flashed fire. ‘Dad, you can’t be serious! After the way he treated you and Mother—cutting her off completely like that. Refusing all communication, even when she was so ill and begged him to write and say she was forgiven?’

Her father was silent, staring down at the tablecloth, his fingers drawing a restless pattern on it.

She said, ‘Or that’s what you’ve always told me, Dad, dozens of times. Are you going to say now that it wasn’t true?’

‘Oh, it was true. And more.’ Hugo’s voice was heavy. ‘But he’s an old man, Helen, a sick old man. You’re his only grandchild, and he wants to see you. It isn’t that extraordinary.’

‘My God!’ Helen said explosively, and there was a tense silence.

The letter from Grandfather Korialis had come like a bolt from the blue. Helen had read it twice and she still could hardly believe the contents. For nearly nineteen years, her Greek grandfather had chosen to forget her existence. He had not even acknowledged the news of her birth. And now this demand for her presence at his villa on the island of Phoros, just off the Greek mainland. Surely he couldn’t really believe that after all this time, all this bitterness, she would simply present herself to order.

But perhaps he did. Perhaps when you owned a chain of hotels like Michael Korialis, when you said ‘Jump’, everyone jumped.

Well, she, Helen, was neither his employee nor beholden to him in any way. On the contrary, she thought broodingly, she would be the exception to the Korialis rule. She would not jump.

Hugo said gently, ‘Has it occurred to you to think what your mother would have wanted you to do?’

Helen had a brief unhappy image of her mother not long before her death six years previously, the sweet high cheekbones, which Helen had inherited, thrown into prominence by the haggard thinness of her face.

She knew what Maria Brandon would have wanted—had wanted all her married life, happy though it had been. She had wanted to be reconciled with the stern man in Greece who had cast her off from him completely when she had defied him and the marriage he had arranged for her, to elope with the tall English artist who had been staying in a nearby village.

She knew that if it had been to her mother that this unexpected olive branch had been extended, then she would have accepted it without a second thought, and joyfully too.

But I’m not capable of that kind of generosity, Helen told herself flatly. After years of slights and neglect, I can’t just perform an about-face and pretend that it all never happened. All this time, he’s ignored the fact that I’m alive, yet now he wants to see me. It makes no sense.

But at the same time, having read her grandfather’s letter, she was uneasily aware that it made all the sense in the world. The letter had not been long, but it had been very much to the point.

He had suffered a severe heart attack, he wrote, and wished before he died to see his only grandchild. An air ticket to Athens would be provided, transport to the island arranged, and all her expenses met. He would expect her to stay at his villa for a minimum of one month.

The tone of the letter had been so much like a business contract that she had almost looked for the inevitable dotted line on which to sign.

She glanced up and saw her father watching her, his face grave and a little compassionate, as if he sensed her inner struggle.

She said reproachfully, ‘You’re not being fair. But it makes no difference. Even if I wanted to go—and I don’t—it wouldn’t be possible. We’re coming up to the height of the tourist season, and you know how busy the gallery becomes.’

Hugo nodded. ‘I know, but I’d be prepared to release you, and find another assistant, if you were willing to go to Phoros.’

‘I don’t understand you.’ She spread her hands helplessly.

‘I’m not sure I understand myself,’ he admitted. ‘I only know that I’m tired of the bitterness and enmity, and that this seems a good way to end them once and for all. But if you really feel that you can’t do it, then I won’t press you. The ultimate decision must be yours.’

‘If he’d invited you as well …’ she began, but he cut across her with a wry smile.

‘Now that really would be impossible for all sorts of reasons. It’s you he wants to see—Maria’s daughter.’

‘I feel I’m being blackmailed,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Not very subtle pressure is being applied and I don’t like it.’ Her voice deepened passionately. ‘After all, he didn’t respond when Mother was so ill.’

‘Your mother underplayed the seriousness of the situation, perhaps deliberately, I don’t know. She always made excuses for him and his actions all her life. Perhaps she was letting him down lightly for the last time.’

Helen said, ‘Yes,’ almost absently. Her hand reached for the letter, screwing it into a ball. Her eyes met her father’s in defiance and appeal. ‘I may look like her, Dad, but I haven’t her forgiving nature. He may be a wealthy and powerful man, but he can’t come and go in our lives, just as he pleases.’

‘Are you prepared to tell him so?’ Hugo’s voice was gentle and without censure.

‘I don’t intend to reply at all.’ She tossed the ball of paper into the waste bin. ‘Problem disposed of. Now let’s change to a happier topic. Did you get the message from Paul that I left for you last night?’

‘Yes.’ Her father smiled. ‘And I’ve telephoned him. He’s been working really hard, and the exhibition won’t have to be postponed after all.’

‘It never does have to be postponed,’ Helen smiled in response. ‘It’s just eleventh-hour panic on his part. God knows why. Or you do, perhaps?’

‘I have an idea,’ said Hugo. ‘Though I must admit no one ever clamoured to put on an exhibition of my work.’

Helen gave him an affectionate smile before rising to busy herself clearing the breakfast things from the table. Her father’s work, as far as she could judge, had been competent but not outstanding, but he possessed the eye of a judge, a connoisseur where other people’s painting was concerned. He was also a realistic man, and had recognised quite early in his career that he would probably never earn enough from painting alone to support himself, plus a wife and child. A legacy from an uncle had enabled him to buy a share in a gallery near the West End. The gallery wasn’t doing too well, but Hugo Brandon had changed all that, and within five years he had been able to buy his partner out and replace the gallery’s rather pretentious name with the single word ‘Brandon’. He made a name for himself on both sides of the Atlantic and in Europe as a man who could spot a real talent in the making. And Helen had never asked anything better than to join him in his work.

But sometimes she wondered if he ever regretted that it was not his own signature that his customers sought on their canvases. Was he happy, she thought, was he fulfilled, or had he settled for second best? She hoped not, but doubted whether she would ever know the truth.

One thing she had never doubted was his love for her, and for his late wife. But again she wondered if he would have worked quite so hard to make the gallery a success financially as well as artistically if he had not married a rich man’s daughter. Perhaps he had been determined that Maria would never count the cost of all she had given up in order to become his wife.

God, she thought ruefully, as she stacked dishes in the drying rack, everything’s so complicated. Except for my life, she amended hastily.

Helen had enjoyed the year since she had left school. She liked the fact that their flat was sited immediately over the gallery, as well as the work she did there. She was beginning to be a good saleswoman, and learning about art as well, which pleased her. And without being conceited, she was aware that her own attractions—a slim body with rounded breasts and hips, an oval face with high cheekbones, and clear hazel eyes fringed by lashes shades darker than her honey-blonde hair—contributed to her success.

Her mother had been blonde too, but her eyes had been brown like pansies, and full of laughter.

Helen’s eyes darkened too, when she was angry, which was really the only form of passion she had ever encountered. She had never lacked for men to take her out, but her romances so far had been very tentative affairs with little commitment on either side.

Her thoughts for a moment went to Christopher who was taking her out that very evening. She liked him, she enjoyed his kisses even, but something warned her that that was all the involvement she wanted, although she was aware his own desire was for a much closer relationship.

Perhaps in time, she thought, almost absently, then caught at herself. What was she thinking of? Her mother had preached few moral lessons at her, perhaps because she guessed the morality her daughter would be subjected to would be a very different thing from her own sheltered girlhood in Greece, yet one thing she had stressed. Without love, there could not, should not be any giving. And Helen had to admit she could not imagine love blossoming from anything as lukewarm as her present feelings for Christopher. Like most of the other young men who had passed briefly through her life, he was a pleasant companion, but little more.

She sighed faintly. Perhaps this was why their passage was so fleeting. Maybe they turned to other girls for the warmth, the passion she denied them.

But it might also be that she had never yet met anyone who ‘turned her on’, she reminded herself. Perhaps one day she would meet a man, and know that he was the one for her just as her mother had done.

‘I loved him from the first moment that I saw him,’ Maria had told her once, her mouth curving in tender reminiscence. ‘He was sitting on the hillside above the village, painting the view, in the heat of the day without even a hat to protect him from the fierceness of the sun, and I said to him, “Why do you not sit in the shade? The sun will make you ill.” And he turned and smiled at me.’

The young artist had taken her advice, she went on, and from then on she had gone each afternoon to watch the progress of the painting.

‘One day I was late, so late, because Thia Irini had made me help with some sewing. When I got to the place, he was not painting at all, and when he saw me, he jumped up and said, “I was so afraid you weren’t coming and that I wouldn’t see you again.” And then I knew that he loved me also. But I had known first,’ Maria concluded with a look of smiling satisfaction.

How nice to have such certainty, Helen thought, particularly in view of what was to come later.

The news that Maria was to become betrothed to the son of a business acquaintance, a young man only a few years older than her seventeen-year-old self, had burst on the lovers like a bombshell.

Maria had protested to her father that she had never met the young man, but his attitude was inflexible. There would be plenty of opportunities for them to meet, he said. Of course, if they disliked each other, the marriage would not take place. But Maria knew there would be few grounds for dislike. Her father’s choice would not have fallen on someone unsuitable, and she knew that unless she acted fast, the most subtle but inexorable pressure would be exerted and she would find herself a married woman. She knew too that it would be pointless to plead that she had already fallen in love with Hugo Brandon. Her father would dismiss her plea as a young girl’s fancy, or more probably, become very angry.

To his credit, Hugo had not wanted a hole-and-corner affair; he had been quite prepared to face Michael Korialis and endure his wrath. But Maria knew her father, and how vengeful he could be, and she persuaded Hugo that the risk would be too great. Time, too, was growing short. A big party was being planned to celebrate her betrothal, and the hour was approaching when Maria would have to meet her intended husband for the first time.

‘I cannot see him. I cannot face him,’ she had sobbed to Hugo. ‘How can I greet another man, let him touch me, when it is you that I love?’

Two nights later she had left her father’s house for ever, leaving a note imploring his forgiveness. She had never heard another word from him as long as she lived.

Helen tried to imagine herself abandoning Hugo without a backward glance for Christopher, or any of the men who had occupied her attention, however briefly. It was a ridiculous thought, she decided scornfully.

And she was enjoying life. She liked her work, and there was very little to disturb her—with the exception of her grandfather’s letter, which had been disposed of, she thought with satisfaction.

A little of his own medicine, she told herself as she dried her hands, and hung up the tea towel before going down to the gallery to start her day’s work. And that’s the end of it.

Nor was there any premonition—any pricking of her thumbs—to warn her that it was only the beginning.

The gallery had the tired, slightly rumpled look it always had after the opening of an exhibition, especially a successful one as that day’s had been, Helen thought.

She moved about, a slim figure in her cream dress, straightening chairs, picking up the occasional cigarette end which had escaped an overflowing ashtray, and returning glasses to the trays which the catering firm would collect presently.

It had been a good day, she thought, staring round at the numerous red ‘sold’ stickers on the paintings, and pieces of sculpture on display. Paul Everard, who had stayed away from the gallery for his usual pre-exhibition nervous breakdown, would undergo an instant revival when he saw them, she told herself smilingly. He might even be persuaded to start painting again, if anyone could only convince him there was a permanent and enthusiastic demand for his work—which there was. She sighed a little. So many of the successful artists they handled seemed to suffer from these doubts—the failures, who came to Hugo demanding that their work be given notices, status, respect, seemed to have no such misgivings. And that, she supposed, was life.

She gave a final glance round as she prepared to depart, and frowned. One of the paintings was hanging a little askew, and that was a thing she could not endure. She went over and stood on tiptoe, trying to straighten it, but only succeeded in making matters worse. There was a small pair of steps in the office, but fetching them seemed too much trouble after a long and tiring day. Besides, Hugo was in the office, working on the accounts, and she did not want to disturb him.

She dragged forward one of the small velvet-covered chairs which were dotted about the gallery. It was fragile, but it should support her weight for the moment or two that was all she would need.

She adjusted the picture to her satisfaction, and leaned back a little to make sure it was exactly level again. The shift of her weight caused the chair to rock on its narrow legs, and she knew with a sudden shock that it was going to fall over, and that she would fall with it.

She gave a little breathless cry, and in the same moment felt a pair of strong arms go round her and lift her clear. She was briefly aware of the scent of some expensive cologne, and the faint aroma of cigars before she was set safely down, and turned to thank her unexpected rescuer.

Very unexpected, she thought at once, her brows lifting unconsciously as she registered him fully. Tall, but not overpoweringly so, with broad shoulders and a muscular chest, tapering down to lean hips and long legs, with a rugged strength about him that no amount of expensive tailoring could conceal. His suit was silky, lightweight and foreign-looking, but then he was clearly not English himself. He was too dark, and his skin was too swarthy for that. Not a conventionally handsome face, either, but one that with its strongly marked features and dark, heavy-lidded eyes would not be easily forgotten. A faint smile played about the man’s firm lips as he watched her—watching him, she realised with sudden dismay, and felt herself blush.

She said hurriedly, ‘I have to thank you, monsieur. You saved me from a nasty accident.’

‘The pleasure was mine, believe me, Miss Brandon.’ There was a faint trace of an accent in the deep voice, but it certainly wasn’t French. In fact, she didn’t know what it was.

She was moved by a sudden inexplicable uneasiness. She hadn’t seen him in the gallery before; in fact she would have sworn he hadn’t been at the exhibition at all. He was not the kind of man to be overlooked, even in a crowd. And he knew her name.

She said rather primly, ‘I’m afraid the gallery is closed for the day. Didn’t they tell you so downstairs?’

‘I didn’t come to look at pictures, Miss Brandon, good as many of these are. I came to look at you.’

A strange stillness seemed to encompass her.

She said carefully, suddenly thankful that Hugo with within earshot, ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand. Do you—know me? I don’t think we’ve met before?’

‘Never—until this moment,’ he said. ‘But I have seen pictures of your mother when she was a girl and you are very like her.’

Her voice sharpened. ‘What do you want? What are you doing here? Who are you?’

‘Such a lot of questions!’ There was faint mockery in his voice. ‘I’ll start with the last. My name is Damon Leandros, and I am here, quite simply, to persuade you to return to Greece with me to visit your grandfather.’

‘He sent you?’ She was rigid with disbelief, then she managed a short laugh. ‘And what role do you fulfil in his exclusive little set-up—one of the heavy mob?’

The words uttered, she wondered almost hysterically what Hugo would have said if he could have heard her being so abysmally rude to a stranger. It was out of character to say the least, and her only excuse could be this sudden, inexplicable nervousness the presence of this man was engendering in her. But why should I be nervous? she demanded inwardly. He can hardly kidnap me bodily.

His eyes narrowed slightly, indicating that her words had got to him, but his tone was light as he said, ‘As I told you, my role is that of persuader. If I was what you imagine, I would threaten—perhaps even use force, but that’s not my way.’

‘I suppose I must be thankful for small mercies.’ Helen resisted an impulse to step away from him. ‘But you’re wasting your time, Mr Leandros.’

‘You read your grandfather’s letter?’

‘Of course.’

‘Yet you did not reply to it.’

‘As you seem to be aware of most of the family secrets—no, I didn’t. Mr Korialis should recognise the technique. He employed it often enough with my mother’s letters to him.’

He sighed faintly. ‘He was afraid that would be the reason for this silence. Would it make any difference to you to know that he regrets his treatment of your mother?’

‘None at all,’ she said tightly. ‘Now, we really are waiting to close for the day, so I’d be glad if you would leave.’

‘I’ll leave when you do,’ he said quite equably. He hitched forward one of the velvet-covered chairs and sat down.

‘I can have you thrown out, you know,’ she said, faltering a little at the thought of Arthur, their faithful doorman, well past his prime, being called on to deal with this muscular Greek who looked at the peak of his virility.

He tutted, his faint smile widening. ‘Using your heavy mob, Miss Brandon? But why, when I’ve said I intend no strong-arm tactics against you?’

She shrugged, feeling rather foolish, as she guessed he intended. ‘Because I’ve no intention of waiting here all night while you exercise your powers of persuasion, Mr Leandros.’

‘Nor do I intend to spend the night here. I’d hoped you might have dinner with me.’

‘I’m having dinner with my father,’ she said. ‘We’re very close. You might tell your—client that.’

‘My—client also had a daughter to whom he believed he was very close,’ Damon Leandros said calmly. ‘Circumstances can change.’

‘And yet he let her die without a word from him,’ she said bitterly.

‘He didn’t know she was dying, and when he received the news of her death, he mourned her every day that followed in his heart.’

‘He could have writen to my father—made some move.’

‘You don’t understand about pride? Strange,’ he looked at her reflectively, ‘I would have said you had a strong streak of it yourself.’

‘Let’s not get into personalities, Mr Leandros. I’m sorry if I’ve been rude, but really your coming here has been a complete and utter waste of time, both yours and mine.’ Helen hesitated. ‘You can give Mr Korialis my best wishes, if you want.’

‘Give them to him yourself.’

‘No!’ Her exasperation rose. ‘No, it’s quite impossible. Now will you please go?’

‘Helen!’ In her agitation, she hadn’t heard the office door open and Hugo approach. Now he was standing beside them, a worried frown creasing his brow. ‘May I ask what’s going on?’

‘I’m sure Mr Leandros will be delighted to explain his errand in person,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve heard enough. I’m going up to the flat.’

She turned and walked away, followed by Damon Leandros’ soft chuckle. She flushed, and her nails dug into the palms of her hands. He didn’t seem to be taking his task very seriously—either that or he wasn’t taking her seriously. Perhaps he thought her reluctance was pretence. Well, he would learn his mistake.

Safely in the flat, she stood for a moment making herself calm down before she continued the preparations for the evening meal which Mrs Gibson, who acted as a non-resident housekeeper for them, had begun. The casserole of chicken and mushrooms was simmering gently in the bottom of the oven, and a lemon meringue pie, one of her father’s favourites, was standing crisp and golden brown on the work surface. Helen began measuring rice into a saucepan, exclaiming in dismay when she realised she had used too much.