Sara Craven - Dark Apollo

I could be on a beach now, she thought wistfully, if I weren’t riding this two-wheeled deathtrap up the side of a mountain.

She sighed, as she eased the clinging top away from the damp heat of her body, imagining herself sliding down from some convenient rock into cool, deep water, salty and cleansing against her skin.

One more bend in the road, she told herself. Then I go back.

She coaxed the scooter back to life, and set off, trying to correct its ferocious wobble on corners. In doing so, she nearly missed the Villa Apollo altogether.

She came to a halt, dirt and gravel flying under the tyres, and stared at the letters carved into the two stone gateposts ahead of her. And beneath them the emblem of the sun—the sign of the god Apollo himself, who each day, according to legend, drove his fiery chariot through the heavens.

Camilla dismounted with care, propping her machine against the rocky bank. With luck, someone terminally insane with a death wish might just steal it.

Beyond the gateway, more olive trees shadowed a steeply lifting driveway.

Right, she thought, tilting her chin. Let’s see this irresistible Adonis who causes such havoc in people’s lives. Hands in pockets, she set off up the gradient, moving with a brisk, confident stride that totally masked her inner unease. Knowing she had right on her side did little to calm her nerves, she discovered.

And when the man stepped out in front of her, she only just managed to stifle a yell of sheer fright.

One glance told her that he wasn’t the one she’d come to find. He was stocky and grizzled, with a walkie-talkie in his hand, and a gun, she noted, swallowing, in a holster on his hip. His face was unwelcoming, his stance aggressive as he barked a question at her in Greek.

Camilla stood her ground. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘My name is Dryden, and I have come from England to see Mr Xandreou.’

An armed security man, she thought. What am I getting into here?

The man stared at her for a moment, then spoke into his radio. He listened, then jerked his head at Camilla, indicating that she should follow.

The drive curved away to the right and Camilla saw that the olives gave way to lawns of coarse grass, and flowerbeds bright with colour.

And beyond them was the house itself, the Villa Apollo, large and sprawling, its white walls dazzling in the sunshine. It was surrounded by a colonnaded terrace, festooned in purple and crimson bougainvillaea, and a smoky pink flowering vine.

Camilla slowed, staring round her. What did a waiter in an Athens restaurant have to do with this frankly glamorous background? she asked herself. Unless Spiro Xandreou was merely an employee, and she was being shown to the tradesman’s entrance.

The security man looked back, gesturing impatiently, and she moved forward reluctantly. Ahead of her, she saw the clear turquoise sparkle of a large swimming-pool. Around the edge were tiles in an intricate mosaic pattern, and loungers and chairs stood waiting under fringed sun umbrellas. There was a table with a tray of drinks, and on the edge of the pool a twin of the radio device carried by the security man.

Otherwise, the place seemed deserted.

As she stared round her in bewilderment, a man’s dark head suddenly broke the surface of the water. Camilla felt her heart beating slowly and unevenly as he pulled himself athletically from the pool, and stood for a moment, shaking the excess water from his mane of black curling hair.

He was well above average height, she saw, broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, his bronzed body lean, muscular and perfectly proportioned.

He was good-looking too, she recognised dazedly, his almost classical beauty of feature redeemed by the inherent toughness and strength of his mouth and chin. A man to be reckoned with.

‘Like a Greek god.’ She’d heard the phrase many times, but never expected to see it brought to life in front of her.

Especially as, like most of the ancient classical statues of the Olympians and heroes, he was completely naked.

Moving with the lithe grace of a jungle animal, he walked over to one of the loungers, picked up a waiting towel, and began to dry himself, casually and without haste, ignoring the presence of the new arrivals.

Camilla knew that displaying himself like this in front of her—a woman, and a stranger—was a calculated insult. But if he expected her to blush or faint, or run off screaming like some frightened nymph from mythology, he’d be disappointed, she told herself, and stood waiting in stony silence, refusing to let the deliberate affront get to her.

Eventually, he draped the damp towel round his hips, securing it with a knot. He reached for the thin, elegant platinum watch on the table, and clasped the bracelet on to his wrist, allowing his gaze, at last, to rest coolly and dispassionately on Camilla. His eyes were dark, long-lashed, holding an odd glitter.

Like cold fire, she thought.

He said, ‘Who are you, and what do you want here?’

His voice was low and drawling, the accent only slightly marked. But then Katie had told her his English was excellent.

Katie, she thought with a kind of despair. No wonder she’d fallen for him hook, line and sinker. But why should a sophisticated man of the world like this have encouraged her inexperienced sister, even for a moment? It made no sense at all. Unless he still wasn’t the one she sought.

‘Well?’ His voice prodded at her impatiently. ‘You have forced your way in here. Why don’t you speak?’

She said slowly, gauging his reaction, ‘I want to talk about—Xandreou’s woman.’

He filled a glass with mineral water from one of the bottles, and drank. The security man, she realised, had discreetly faded away.

He said, ‘I think you flatter yourself, Kyria…?’

‘Dryden,’ she supplied again. ‘Please don’t pretend you’ve forgotten the name.’

He shrugged. ‘It is vaguely familiar.’ He sounded bored. The brilliant eyes went over her, lingering on her breasts and thighs and long, slim legs, making her uneasily aware that the heat had made her scanty garments into a second skin.

His gaze met hers again. ‘So, what do you want, Kyria Dryden? Or do you plan to spend the whole afternoon staring at me in silence?’

‘I’m sorry.’ What am I apologising for? she asked herself in disbelief. She pulled herself together with determination. ‘You aren’t exactly what I expected, Kyrios Xandreou.’

‘Nor are you. But it isn’t important.’ His tone was dismissive. ‘Say what you must, and go.’

All her worst forebodings were confirmed. He didn’t care about Katie, or the baby. Her sister’s sole attraction for him had been her innocence. Now it was gone, he didn’t want to know. Katie was just another notch on a welldented bedpost.

She said stonily. ‘You know why I’m here. I think some kind of—reparation is called for.’

‘For what? A pleasant interlude like so many of your countrywomen expect to enjoy in Greece?’ The contempt in his voice lashed her.

Just because other girls might behave like sex-crazed idiots, there was no need to tar Katie with the same brush, she thought in furious anguish. Hadn’t he realised that she was different—that she’d actually believed whatever corny seduction line he’d handed her?

‘Unfortunately, this particular interlude has had consequences.’ She hated the smile which twisted his mouth. ‘Or had you forgotten there’s a baby on the way?’

‘There is nothing wrong with my memory,’ he said. ‘It is more a question of credulity, perhaps. A child with Xandreou blood might have a claim on Xandreou money. Is that what you think?’ He shook his head. ‘I am not a fool, Kyria Dryden. I am prepared to subject the paternity of this child to every test available to medical science. But can you afford to fight me?’ The studied insolence of his gaze scorched her again. ‘I don’t think so.’