Sara Craven - Her Greek Groom

She closed her book and studied him instead. She wondered how old he was. At least thirty, she surmised. Probably slightly more. He wore no jewellery—no medallions, earrings or other gifts from grateful ladies. Just an inexpensive wristwatch, she noted. And no wedding ring either, although that probably meant nothing. If part of his livelihood involved charming foreign woman holidaymakers, he would hardly want to advertise the fact that he was married.

And she could just imagine his poor wife, she thought with asperity, staring up at the sky. Dressed in the ubiquitous black, cooking, cleaning and working in the fields and olive groves while her husband pursued his other interests on the beaches and beside the swimming pools on Alakos—and nice work if you could get it.

‘So what have you decided about me?’

Cressy, starting violently, turned her head and found Draco watching her, his mouth twisted in amusement and all signs of slumber fled.

There was no point in pretending or prevaricating. She said flatly, ‘I don’t have enough evidence to make a judgement.’

His brows lifted. ‘What can I tell you?’

‘Nothing.’ Cressy shrugged. ‘After all, it’s unlikely that we’ll meet again. Let’s be content to remain strangers.’

‘That is truly what you want?’ His tone was curious.

‘I’ve just said so.’

‘Then why did you stare at me as if you were trying to see into my heart?’

‘Is that what I was doing?’ Cressy made a business of applying more sun cream to her legs. ‘I—I didn’t realise.’

He shook his head reprovingly. ‘Another foolish lie, matia mou.’

Cressy replaced the cap on the sun cream as if she was wringing someone’s neck.

‘Very well,’ she said. ‘If you want to play silly games. What do you do for a living, kyrie?’

He lifted a shoulder. ‘A little of this. A little of that.’

I can imagine. Aloud, she said, ‘That’s hardly an answer. I suppose the caique moored in the next cove is yours, and I’ve seen you dance, so I’d guess you’re primarily a fisherman but you also do hotel work entertaining the guests. Am I right?’

‘I said you were astute, thespinis,’ he murmured. ‘You read me as you would a balance sheet.’

‘It really wasn’t that difficult.’

‘Truly?’ There was slight mockery in his tone. ‘Now, shall I tell you about you, I wonder?’

‘There’s very little to say,’ Cressy said swiftly. ‘You already know what my work is.’

‘Ah.’ The dark eyes held hers steadily for a moment. ‘But I was not thinking of work.’ He got to his feet, dusting sand from his legs. ‘However, you have reminded me, thespinis, that I cannot enjoy the sun and your company any longer. I have to prepare for this evening’s performance.’ He slung his towel over his shoulder and picked up his rucksack.

He smiled down at her. ‘Kalispera, matia mou.’

‘You keep calling me that, kyrie,’ Cressy said with a snap, angrily aware of an odd disappointment at his departure. ‘What does it mean?’

For one fleeting moment his hand brushed her cheek, pushing back an errant strand of silky hair.

He said softly, ‘It means “my eyes”. And my name, if you recall, is Draco. Until we meet again.’

He’d hardly touched her, Cressy repeated to herself for the fourth or fifth time. There was nothing to get upset about. He’d pushed her hair behind her ear, and that was all. He hadn’t touched her breast or any of her exposed skin, as he could so easily have done.

All that time she’d carefully kept her distance. Built the usual invisible wall around herself.

And then, with one brief, casual gesture, he’d invaded her most personal space. And there hadn’t been a damned thing she could do about it.

Oh, there’d been nothing overtly sexual in his touch—she couldn’t accuse him of that—yet she’d felt the tingle of her body’s response in the innermost core of her being. Known a strange, draining languor as he had walked away. And a sharp, almost primitive need to call him back again.

And that was what she couldn’t accept—couldn’t come to terms with. That sudden dangerous weakness. The unexpected vulnerability.

God knows what I’d have done if he’d really come on to me, she brooded unhappily.

But the most galling aspect of all was that he’d been the one who’d chosen to leave, and not herself.

I should have gone the moment I woke up and saw him there, Cressy told herself in bitter recrimination. I should have been very English and very outraged at having my privacy disturbed. End of story.

For that matter, the story was over now, she admitted with an inward shrug. She just hadn’t been the one to write Finis, that was all. And, while she might regret it, there was no need to eat her heart out either.

When she’d heard the thrum of the caique’s engine as it passed the cove she’d tried hard to keep her attention fixed on her book. When she’d finally risked a quick glance she had found, to her fury, that he was waving to her from the tiller.

But at least he had been sailing in the opposite direction to the harbour, and she wouldn’t run the risk of bumping into him there while she was waiting for the ferry.

And now she had the cove to herself again, just as she’d wanted. Except that it was no longer the peaceful sanctuary that she’d discovered a few hours before. Because she felt restless, suddenly, and strangely dissatisfied.

She wanted to cry out, It’s all spoiled, like an angry, thwarted child.

But there was nothing to be gained by sitting about counting her wrongs, she thought with a saving grace of humour.

She went for a last swim, relishing the freshness of the water now a slight breeze had risen, hoping wryly that it would cool her imagination as well as her body.

She collected the bicycle and stood for a moment, debating what to do next. It was too early for dinner and, now that the searing afternoon heat had abated, she decided she might as well see what remained of Myros. It was only a small island, and the circular tour would probably take no more than an hour.

It was very much a working island, she soon realised. The interior might be rocky and inhospitable, but on the lower slopes fields had been ploughed and vines and olives were being cultivated, along with orchards of citrus fruits. The scattered hamlets she passed through seemed prosperous enough, and the few people she encountered offered friendly smiles and greetings.

And, contrary to what Yannis had suggested, the road to the north of the island even had some sort of surface.

So Cressy was disconcerted to find her path suddenly blocked by tall wrought-iron gates and a stone wall.

It seemed that the public road had suddenly become private.

Cressy dismounted and tried the gates, but they were securely locked and she could only rattle them in mild frustration. Beyond them she could see a drive winding upwards between olive groves, then, intriguingly, curving away out of sight, making it impossible to guess what lay further on.

She walked along the side of the wall for a while, but it seemed to stretch for ever, and eventually she was forced to retrace her steps.

Apparently, a whole section of the island had been turned into a no-go area. And all she could do was turn back.

After that disappointment, the puncture was almost inevitable.

Cressy brought her untrustworthy steed to a juddering halt and surveyed the damage, cursing herself mentally for having been lured into such an extensive trip.

Now she was faced with a long walk back to the port, pushing the bicycle.

The breeze had strengthened, whipping up the dust from the road and sending irritating particles into her eyes and mouth. She’d finished her water some time before, and she felt hot, thirsty and out of sorts. What was more, she suspected she was getting a blister on her foot.