Sleeping with a Stranger
Author
Anne Mather
Reads
19.9K
Chapters
15
CHAPTER ONE
HELEN was standing at the rail when the ferry docked in Santoros. Milos could see her clearly, despite the roiling tension in his gut. And he had to admit, she was still one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen.
Or slept with, he appended, trying to make light of the fact that he was meeting her again. Although it was over fourteen years since he’d had anything to do with her, there was no denying his jumping nerves or the seething emotions just the sight of her inspired.
Theos, what was wrong with him? She’d been a wife, a mother, and a widow since that mindless interlude in London. He should be long over her—and he was, he assured himself fiercely.
Was it his imagination, or did Helen look a little harassed after her journey? Two plane flights and a ferry ride at the end of it could do that to you, he guessed. But he had no firsthand experience. He’d been spoilt by private planes and helicopters and fast, turbo-driven yachts.
Still, she was here now and Sam—her father—would be delighted. He’d talked of little else since she’d accepted his invitation. Milos had been sure Sam would want to meet her himself, but he’d asked Milos to do it. He’d assumed their previous association would give Milos a lever he didn’t have.
If he only knew!
But Sam was naturally anxious about the visit. It was almost sixteen years since he’d last seen his daughter. And then under less than favourable circumstances. According to him, his first wife had ensured that their daughter only heard one side of the story. A story that entailed a disillusioned Sam getting involved with and subsequently marrying a darkly attractive Greek woman he’d met on a business trip to Athens.
When Milos had met Helen some twenty months later she’d been no less hostile towards her father then than when she’d first discovered he’d been unfaithful to her mother. She’d blamed him. She’d been young and idealistic and impossibly naïve.
But so vulnerable, Milos reflected with unwilling honesty. And he’d taken advantage of that vulnerability. Not for her father’s sake, but for his own ends. Endaxi, it hadn’t been all his fault, he defended himself impatiently. She’d been more than willing to satisfy his demands.
The guilt had come later, of course. When he’d gone back to Greece. He’d told no one what had happened during his trip. Not his own family; not Maya, Sam’s second wife; and most particularly not Sam, who had trusted him. But the worst feeling of all was that somehow he’d betrayed himself.
He scowled now, watching as the ferry’s captain eased his vessel up to the quay. The trouble was, his own marriage—the marriage his father had arranged against his will—had been breaking up at that time and he’d been looking for a diversion. Helen had certainly provided that, he thought bitterly. And then she’d run out on him proving what an immature creature she was.
Naturally, he’d never expected to be in the position he was in now. Helen’s alienation from her father and Maya had foolishly persuaded him that there would be no reconciliation in this lifetime. How wrong he’d been. He’d been stunned when Sam had announced that Helen and her daughter were coming to the island for a holiday. But, Helen’s own husband had been killed almost a year ago, Sam had explained, and the letter he’d written expressing his condolences had apparently gone a long way to mending the rift between them.
A more cynical man might wonder if Sam’s amazing change of fortune had had anything to do with his daughter’s change of heart. Despite the fact that his background as a wine importer in England had had little to do with the actual cultivation of the grapes, meeting Maya and subsequently taking over her family’s failing vineyard had made him a wealthy man. During the past ten years, Ambeli Kouros, as the vineyard was known, had gone from strength to strength and Sam Campbell had become a much respected man on the island.
A girl appeared as the ferry was docking, pushing her way through the crowd of passengers to join Helen at the rail. Not her daughter, he assured himself, despite their apparent familiarity. In a black tee shirt with some logo sprawled across the front and baggy black jeans that pooled around her ankles, she was the type of visitor Milos thought the island could well do without. Black lipstick, hair sprayed a lurid shade of green, a semi-circle of piercings etching her ears, she was as different from Helen as it was possible to be.
Skata, he thought, waiting for her to be claimed by the group of backpack-toting teenagers that were hustling to disembark. This was one of those occasions when he wished his family owned the whole island and not just a large part of it.
A wooden gangplank was run out from the quay and as the passengers moved towards it Milos saw the girl speak to Helen. He couldn’t make out what she said, of course, but it appeared it wasn’t something Helen wanted to hear. There was a brief heated exchange and then they both joined the rapidly decreasing exodus.
Milos blew out a breath. No, he told himself shortly. He was prepared to accept that travelling could promote the most unlikely friendships and that creature could not be Helen’s daughter.
Whatever, they were coming down the gangplank now and his eyes were irresistibly drawn to Helen’s flushed face. Was she hot? he wondered. Certainly, the skirt and jacket she was wearing were unsuitable attire for this climate. But was that the only reason she looked so distrait?
She’d cut her hair, he noticed, with a pang he quickly suppressed. But she was still as slim and lovely as ever. Would she recognise him? It had been over fourteen years, after all. Was he flattering himself in thinking she might remember him as well as he remembered her?
And then their eyes met and held, and the breath he’d hardly been aware he was holding got caught somewhere in the back of his throat. Theos, she remembered him all right. Why else would there be such a mixture of fear and loathing in her eyes?
* * *
‘Who’s that?’
Without her being aware of it, Melissa had noticed her distraction, and Helen managed to drag her eyes away from Milos’s and say with admirable restraint, ‘Who’s who?’
‘That man,’ said Melissa flatly, hauling her backpack higher on her shoulder. ‘Come on, Mum. He’s staring at us. He’s not your dad, is he?’
Helen gave a nervous little laugh. ‘Hardly,’ she said, acknowledging that only she could know the irony of that statement. ‘His name’s Milos Stephanides. Your grandfather must have sent him to meet us.’
‘Yeah?’ Melissa arched dark brows that were so exactly like her father’s that Helen felt a momentary pang. ‘So how do you know him?’
‘Oh…’ This was not a conversation Helen wanted to be having right now. ‘I met him—years ago. Your grandfather asked him to look us up when he was on a visit to England.’ She moistened her dry lips. ‘That—that was before you were born, of course.’
‘And he still remembers you?’ Melissa reflected consideringly. ‘What happened? Don’t tell me my stiff-assed mother actually had a thing for a sexy Greek labourer!’
‘No!’ Helen was horrified, glancing about her to make sure no one else had heard her daughter’s coarse words. ‘And as far as I know, he’s not a labourer. He just works for your grandfather, that’s all.’
‘Well, what else is there to do on a farm?’ asked Melissa impatiently, and Helen sighed.
‘It’s not a farm.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Melissa gave her a sardonic look. ‘You’re not going to tell me.’ She snorted. ‘I should have had more sense than to ask.’
Helen had no time to answer that. They’d reached the stone quay and Milos was coming towards them. He was wearing a loose-fitting shirt, open halfway down his chest, she noticed, and black chinos that hugged his narrow hips and only hinted at the power of his long legs. He looked good, she thought uneasily. Dear God, it was devastating how good he looked. Cool and dark—was his hair a little longer than she remembered? But so horribly familiar, his lean handsome face the one that had haunted her dreams for all these years.
She badly wanted to turn tail and get back on the ferry. She’d known all along it was a risk coming here, but how had she been supposed to know that his would be the first face she’d see? But with Melissa breathing down her neck and her pull-along suitcase nudging at her heels, there was no alternative but to go on. She had to go through with this, she told herself. If only to prove to this smug, unsmiling stranger that she’d got over him and made herself a life.
It didn’t help that in spite of her high heels—heels she’d worn in a futile attempt to boost her morale—she still had to tilt her head to look up at him. It reminded her too painfully of the past and for a moment she thought she wasn’t going to be able to do this. But then sanity returned, and with admirable control she said, ‘Hello, Milos. How kind of you to come and meet us. Did my father send you?’
The dig was unmistakable, but he was unperturbed by it. ‘No one sent me,’ he said, revealing the faint trace of accent she remembered so well. ‘I am not an item of mail.’
Helen’s lips tightened. No, you’re not, she wanted to say grimly. You’re far more dangerous. But all she actually said was, ‘You know what I mean.’ Her eyes flicked to his and swiftly away again. ‘Is my father with you?’
‘No.’ Milos negated that hope with a cool arrogance. ‘Did you have a good journey?’
‘You have got to be kidding!’
It was Melissa who answered him and Helen saw Milos’s eyes move beyond the girl without even acknowledging she’d spoken. ‘Your daughter?’ he said thinly. ‘I thought she was coming with you.’
‘I’m her daughter,’ announced Melissa shortly, clearly resenting his attitude. ‘Who’re you? My grandfather’s chauffeur?’
Milos’s expression didn’t change, but Helen was aware of the sudden withdrawal that stiffened his lean, muscular frame. ‘No, yours,’ he responded, without turning a hair. ‘Is this all the luggage you have?’
Helen resented it, but she felt uncomfortable now. It was bad enough having to deal with a man she had once made a fool of herself over without having to feel ashamed of her daughter’s attitude.
So, ‘Yes,’ she said, giving Melissa a killing look. ‘Is—is it far to Aghios Petros?’
‘Not very,’ Milos replied, taking possession of her suitcase. ‘Follow me.’
‘Shouldn’t you say ilthateh sto Santoros?’ asked Melissa, undaunted by her mother’s embarrassment. ‘That’s welcome to Santoros,’ she added, for Helen’s benefit. ‘Good, eh?’
Milos glanced at her, but if she’d expected an angry reaction, she was disappointed. ‘I am pleased you’re keen to learn my language,’ he said smoothly. ‘Then to ixera.’
‘Yeah.’ But Melissa was nonplussed now, and, shoving the phrase book she’d pulled out of her backpack into the pocket of her jeans, she adopted her usual belligerence when faced with opposition of any kind. ‘Well, I’m not really interested in learning Greek,’ she said rudely. She glanced about her. ‘Come on. Can we get moving? I need to pee.’
Helen clenched her teeth. Melissa was impossible and she saw that Milos had noticed how pushing the phrase book into her pocket had exposed a generous wedge of olive skin between her waistband and her cropped tee shirt. It had also exposed the navel ring that they’d had a row about just the night before and she dreaded to think what kind of a mother he must believe her to be.
The quay had virtually emptied while they were talking and only the porters unloading supplies from the hold of the vessel were still working in the hot sun. Helen wished she were just wearing a vest instead of the heavy blazer, but she’d had no idea it would be so hot.
As if taking pity on her, Milos spoke again. ‘Your father can’t wait to see you,’ he said. Then, with a careless gesture, ‘My car is over here.’
‘I’m looking forward to seeing him, too,’ Helen confessed, keeping pace with him with some difficulty. ‘Is he very ill?’
Milos halted then and gave her a stunned look. ‘He’s—as well as can be expected,’ he said, after a moment. ‘For his age, that is.’ He paused and then added stiffly, ‘I was sorry to hear about your husband’s accident.’
‘Yes.’ But Helen didn’t want to talk about Richard. Particularly not to him. She strove for something else to say and found the perfect response. ‘How is your wife these days?’
Milos’s jaw hardened. ‘We are divorced,’ he said tersely, obviously resenting her question just as much as she’d resented his. ‘Your—husband must have been very young when he died.’
‘He was—’
‘’Course, he was stoned at the time,’ put in Melissa, apparently growing tired of being ignored. Then, before either of the adults could respond, ‘Wow, are these your wheels? Cool!’
Helen met Milos’s eyes without really being able to stop herself. She could almost see what he was thinking. He was wondering what kind of genes had spawned such a monster, and she couldn’t blame him. She couldn’t even blame it on Richard’s premature demise. Melissa had been out of control long before then.
Making no response, Milos swung open the door of the sleek Mercedes before saying tersely to the girl, ‘Get in the back.’
There was an unmistakable edge to his voice and predictably Melissa responded to it. ‘Who are you talking to?’ she demanded, making no effort to do as he’d asked. She propped her hip against the car and ran a black-lacquered nail over the gleaming silver paintwork. ‘You can’t tell me what to do, Milos. I’m not your daughter.’
A look of savagery crossed Milos’s face at that moment and Helen guessed he was thinking that no daughter of his would ever act like this. If he only knew, she thought, unaware she had let anything of her feelings show in her face until he threw her an uncomprehending look. But, ‘Just do it!’ was all he said, daring Melissa to argue with him again, and, with a muffled swear word, Melissa straightened from her lounging position.
‘Please,’ Helen appended, dreading another scene. ‘Melissa, please!’
‘Oh—all right.’
Melissa sniffed, but finally she gave in. Forcing the front seat forward, she flung her backpack onto the soft Moroccan leather and climbed in after it. But she made no attempt to keep her scuffed trainers from scraping across the back of the seats in front and Helen’s teeth were on edge by the time she’d settled down.
‘Happy now?’
Helen was far from happy, but this wasn’t the time to voice it. She was too aware of the dangers Milos represented, and of her own pitiable ability to keep the truth from him. The day had started badly, after that sleepless night on the ferry, and it had suddenly got a whole lot worse.
She got into the car when Milos indicated that she should, but she noticed that he was far from relaxed when he flung open his door and got in beside her. What was he thinking? she fretted. Had he seen anything in Melissa’s face, in her words, to give him pause? Oh, God, what was she going to do if he had?
Her skirt had ridden up her thighs as she got into the vehicle and she concentrated on pulling it down as Milos thrust the car into drive and depressed the accelerator. But she couldn’t help being aware of him beside her, of his lean strength coiled behind the wheel, of his long fingers on the controls. Long fingers that had once…
‘I’m gonna have a car like this when I’m older,’ declared Melissa from the back seat, and Helen wondered if she’d sensed the tension between them.
‘You’ll have to do some work first,’ she said, anything to distract herself. ‘Cars like this cost money.’
‘I could always find myself a rich husband,’ remarked her daughter irrepressibly. ‘Even one who’s more than twice my age.’
Helen sucked in a breath. But she refused to let herself be drawn by Melissa’s unsubtle reference to her employer. ‘Do—er—do you live at Aghios Petros, too?’ she asked, addressing Milos, and, although she sensed his reluctance, he was forced to look her way.
‘I live—not too far from there,’ he replied at last. ‘But I don’t spend all the year on Santoros. I also have a home in Athens.’
‘You do?’ Helen was surprised. If he did work for her father, he was evidently paid very well.
‘My family isn’t involved in winemaking,’ he told her flatly, successfully shattering her preconceived ideas about him. ‘My father owns—ships.’
‘Ships?’ It was Melissa who broke in again. ‘What? Like that leaky old crate that brought us from Crete?’
‘Melissa!’
Helen cast another impatient look at her daughter, but Milos had apparently had enough of her insolence. ‘No,’ he said harshly. ‘Not ferry boats, thespinis.’ He emphasised the word. ‘Tankers. Oil-tankers. Regrettably, I am one of those rich old men you spoke of so scornfully a few minutes ago.’
