The Enigmatic Greek

‘I’m sincerely grateful to you, Eleanor Markham.’

‘I don’t need your gratitude,’ she retorted, trying to get free. But he held her fast.

‘So what
do
you need?’ His hands tightened. ‘You’ve had the interview as your reward. Now, I’ll take mine.’

He bent his head and kissed her, then kissed her again with a heat that made her head reel. The meeting of tongue with tongue was like a match applied to kindling. He pulled her up on her toes, moulding every inch of her against his aroused body as his mouth seduced hers into such helpless response that they were both breathing like long-distance runners when he raised his head at last.

Very slowly he slackened his hold, until she was standing square on her feet again, but he held her fast when she tried to move away.

‘Are you so desperate to get away from me?’ he demanded hoarsely.

Since it was obvious that her body was deliriously happy where it was, she didn’t bother to lie. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘But I should be.’

‘Why? Because my body is telling you I want to be your lover?’

www.millsandboon.co.uk

With love and thanks to
my
Alex.

H
IS
island had lain in the sun in this remote part of the Aegean Sea long before Bronze Age Minoans had sought refuge here from cataclysmic disaster on Crete. Normally Alexei Drakos relished its peace. Today, not so much. From his office in the
Kastro
he gazed down, frowning, and then abandoned the view of brilliant blue sea lapping at the golden beach far below to make a comprehensive check of the banks of technology across the room. But for once they failed to hold his attention. Feeling restless, and plagued by something unfamiliar he refused to identify as loneliness, he turned back to the windows to watch a ferry in the distance discharging its cargo of holiday-makers into the
tavernas
lining the harbour of the neighbouring island.

Tomorrow tourists like these would flock here to his island for
Agios Ioannis.
Bonfires would blaze on the beaches to celebrate the feast of St John and visitors would come in droves for the festival and for the highlight of its entertainment, the bull dance famed for origins which reached far back into antiquity. Those Minoans again. But it was worth the sacrifice of privacy for a single day. The islanders who made a living from fishing here on Kyrkiros had reaped big benefits from his decision to revive the festival. It brought tourists who paid them an entrance fee, ate their food and bought their crafts, sampled their olives and
honey, drank the wine from the island vineyards and ordered more from the websites he’d set up. But otherwise left the island in peace.

Suddenly tired of his own company, he made the descent by the ancient, winding stairs for once to burn off some of the energy buzzing through his system and entered the big, modernised kitchen on the ground floor of the
Kastro
to exclamations of pleasure from the women working there.

‘You should have rung,
kyrie
,’ scolded his housekeeper, pouring coffee. ‘I would have come up to you.’

He shook his head as he took one of the pastries she offered. ‘I knew you would be busy, Sofia.’

The woman smiled fondly. ‘Never too busy to serve you,
kyrie.
And nearly all is ready now for tomorrow. A good meal is prepared for the dancers, and Angela and her daughters have done marvels.’

‘They always do.’ He smiled at the women who every year fashioned traditional costumes based on designs discovered on ancient, barely discernible frescoes during the
Kastro’s
restoration.

Sofia smiled lovingly as her son came hurrying in. ‘Is all in place, Yannis?’

The youth nodded eagerly. ‘You wish to check,
kyrie
?’

Alex downed his coffee and stood up. ‘Lead on.’

In contrast to the normal peace of the island, colourful stalls had been set up on the sweep of beach below. Higher up, on the natural shelf overlooking the terrace where the dancers would perform, a vine-wreathed pergola sheltered tables reserved in advance by the forward-thinking of the influx of visitors expected the next day. He nodded in approval to the men finishing up there. ‘Well done, everyone.’ With a reminder to check that all the necessary signs were in place, he returned to his office, but this time via the lift he’d installed years before as one of the first steps towards
making the
Kastro
penthouse habitable. His phone rang as the doors opened and he smiled as he saw the caller ID.

‘Darling,’ said a lilting, unmistakeable voice. ‘I’m tired and thirsty and I’ve just landed at your jetty.’

His eyebrows shot to his hair. ‘
What?
Stay right there. I’m on my way.’

The moment the lift hit ground level again, he raced out of the
Kastro
and down the beach to the main jetty where a woman stood waiting, her face alight with laughter as she held out her arms.

‘Surprise!’

‘You certainly are!’ He hugged her tightly for a long moment, then held her away from him and raised a mocking eyebrow. ‘You were just passing?’

Talia Kazan’s eyes sparkled as she smiled up into the hard, handsome face. ‘Passing! I’ve been travelling for so long I hardly know what day it is!’

He motioned to the beaming Yannis to help bring the bags. ‘Give it up, Mother, the ditzy-blonde act doesn’t work with me. You know exactly what day it is.’

She shrugged, unrepentant. ‘Who better? I had a sudden desire to see my son so I packed my bags and came to do that—you are pleased, I trust?’

He kissed the hand he was holding. ‘Of course; I’m delighted! But you took a risk. I might not have been here.’

Her eyes gleamed in triumph. ‘Since I am
not
ditzy, I contacted your admirable Stefan to make sure you would be here for the festival and swore him to silence. He said you were coming alone, as usual.’ She shook her head in reproof. ‘You should have brought some pleasant company with you.’

‘If by pleasant you mean female, the women I know demand the sophisticated pleasures of the city, Mother. Arcane festivals on a remote island just don’t do it for them.’

‘Then invite someone with a higher cultural threshold.’ The luminous violet eyes were suddenly serious. ‘It is time you put that nonsense from Christina Mavros behind you and found a real woman.’

He shrugged that off with an impatient smile. ‘Did Takis bring you over?’

‘No; he was so busy over there with guests checking in at the
taverna.
A very kind young man assured me it was a pleasure to bring me to Kyrkiros and so save Takis the trouble.’

‘Who was this man?’ demanded her son sharply.

‘I did not catch his name over the noise of the boat engine. Now, lead me to Sofia so I can beg her for coffee.’

Sofia and her crew were clustered at the kitchen door, faces wreathed in smiles as they greeted ‘
kyria
Talia’ in rapture and pressed her to have coffee, wine, pastries or anything her heart desired that they could provide.

One of the new arrivals on the neighbouring island of Karpyros felt a rush of excitement as she focused her discreet little binoculars on the action across the water. At this distance it was hard to be sure, but the man hugging a blonde over there surely had to be the rare sight of Alexei Drakos, the boy-wonder entrepreneur famed for his hostility towards the media.

Eleanor tucked the binoculars away when her lunch arrived and with a smile thanked the young waiter in the basic Greek she’d crammed for her current assignment: a series of travel articles on lesser-known Greek islands well off the tourist trail. It was more ambitious than anything she’d worked on to date, and before grudgingly signing off on expenses her editor had dropped a bombshell by stipulating a shot at an interview with Alexei Drakos as part of the deal.

‘Since the Mavros woman did the dirty on him a few
months ago, he’s kept a very low profile, but apparently he always visits his island in June. Make damn sure you get there in good time because tourists swarm there for some festival he’s put on every year since he bought the island. There’s no accommodation, so book a room somewhere else, plus a boat to get you there on the day.’ Ross McLean had flashed his bleached veneers at her. ‘And wear something sexy to beard the lion in his den.’

‘Drakos translates as dragon, not lion,’ she’d retorted. ‘And I don’t do sexy!’

On her way out Eleanor had heard him muttering about college girls who thought they knew it all and rolled her eyes. There was fat chance of getting a reporter’s job these days without a college degree, and to augment hers she’d worked her socks off to add photography to her journalism qualifications; something greatly to her advantage with Ross McLean because it saved him the expense of a photographer.

Now she was almost literally in sight of her quarry, Eleanor refused to spoil her appetite by worrying about how to achieve the scoop her boss was so hot for. But succeed she would, somehow, if only to show him just what a ‘college girl’ could do. Maybe the reclusive Mr Drakos would be in a sociable mood now the blonde had arrived to keep him company. Though Ross, drat the man, knew very well he was asking the impossible. Alexei Drakos had been famous for stonewalling journalists even before the lurid exposé by a furious ex-lover. But who had he been hugging today? No matter how hard she’d dug, Eleanor had learned frustratingly little about the man’s private life other than the woman-scorned outpourings of Christina Mavros. Her research into his professional persona had built up a picture of a
wunderkind
who achieved success while still at school with some kind of genius software technology, and as an
adult entrepreneur went on to put his money to good use with investments in pharmaceuticals, property and more technology. But, other than his reputation for philanthropy she had no clue to the man behind the public persona.

The taverna owner’s son rushed over as Eleanor got up to leave and carried her luggage the short distance to one of the small apartments. He set her bags down on the small veranda fronting the last of the square white cubes overlooking the harbour and unlocked the blue door. Eleanor smiled in approval at the scrupulously clean, white-walled room as Petros carried her bags inside and told him she intended dining at the taverna that night.

‘Then I will reserve a table for you,
kyria.
Many people will be here tonight before the festival tomorrow,’ he told her, and flushed with pleasure when she thanked him and gave him a hefty tip.

Petros was right, of course. The place would be heaving with visitors ready to swarm across to Kyrkiros tomorrow. But if Alexei Drakos was such a private man why did he open his island to all and sundry, even if it was for just one day? While she dined later she could gaze across the sea and speculate to her heart’s content about the king of the Kastro on the island over there. In the meantime, she’d haul her bags up the ladder to the open mezzanine bedroom, do her usual minimum unpacking and take a short nap.

Eleanor showered later in the tiny, spotless bathroom and dressed in her usual trademark jeans and T-shirt. As a gesture to the island night-life the jeans were white and the clinging top black and scooped low enough to show a hint of suntanned cleavage; and in a practice run for dragon-slaying the next day, she brushed on mascara and lip gloss. Eleanor eyed her reflection critically. Two weeks of island-hopping in the sun had added a satisfactory bronze glow to her skin, but the effect was more healthy than sexy. She
shrugged. If Ross was rat enough to fire her for failing to get the exclusive he was panting for, she would go freelance.

The taverna was buzzing with holidaymakers and locals when Petros darted out to conduct her to a tiny table which gave her a good view across the boats bobbing in the harbour to the lights just visible on the dark outline of Kyrkiros on the horizon. She was served with bread and olives to nibble on while she waited for the red mullet, which arrived sizzling, dressed with lemon juice and olive oil, and accompanied by a salad and half a carafe of local wine.

Eleanor thanked Petros warmly and asked about the festival next day. ‘Is the bull dance for men only?’

He shook his head. ‘The
taurokathapsia
is for both men and women. Enjoy your meal,
kyria.
’

Eleanor peered at the distant lights across the water, wondering about Alexei Drakos. From what little she’d learned about his personal life, it seemed unlikely he was looking forward to the invasion on his territory next day, but at least he now had the blonde to cheer him up when the hoi polloi descended on him. Her research might have turned up nothing about any current love life, but she’d made the deeply intriguing discovery that his mother had been one of the most famous photographic models of her day. Talia Kazan’s heyday had been short. Her exquisite face had never graced magazine covers again after she married Milo Drakos and produced the son who, allegedly, was estranged from his father. Eleanor’s journalistic antennae buzzed like bees with the urge to find out why.

As she left the taverna Eleanor complimented the owner about her dinner, and when she ordered lunch for next day remembered to confirm that a boat had been booked for her trip over to Kyrkiros afterwards. Once there her plan was to soak up the festival atmosphere, take lots of photographs and then sit back people-watching at her reserved
table while she waited for the lord and master of the island to show. Or not.

Back in her room, Eleanor soon regretted her nap. After a while she gave up trying to sleep and switched on her laptop to do more digging. She went back to the piece about Christina Mavros, the socialite from Crete who had failed in her aim to marry Alexei Drakos and subsequently sold her vindictive, highly coloured story to the press. Stupid woman, thought Eleanor as she went on with her search, but by the time her eyes began to droop at last her only new find had been a photograph of Alexei’s father. From the cut of his hard, handsome face it seemed that Milo Drakos would make a bad enemy.

Eleanor woke late next morning and hurriedly climbed down the ladder to make coffee to kick-start the day. After her shower she followed Ross McLean’s instructions and pulled on a dress for once, instead of jeans. Not that it was remotely the kind of thing her boss had in mind. The navy-striped white Breton number was as simple and comfortable as a T-shirt, but at least it showed off legs the Greek sun had toasted to an even darker shade of bronze than her face.

Later on at the taverna, Eleanor enjoyed an entertaining lunch hour as she watched seagoing craft of all descriptions making for the other island. When Petros finally came to say her boat was waiting for her, the sun was so fierce she was glad of dark glasses and sun hat for the trip across the sea, her excitement mounting at the approach to the steep, rocky island dominated by an ancient kastro. She breathed in the familiar sage and lavender scent of the Greek
maquis
lining the paths winding up through sun-baked hillside; the sound of music and chattering crowds in festive mood added to her anticipation as her genial ferryman docked at a jetty.

Eleanor thanked him and settled a time for the trip back later that evening, then got straight to work to take shots of
the houses which clustered around the Kastro and climbed the slopes above it to a summit crowned by the blue dome of an icing-white church. Groundwork done, she threaded her way through the chattering, animated crowds to claim the place she’d reserved at one of the tables under the pergola. Musicians were playing at the far end of the terrace, but she’d learned from Petros that the main event would be after dark when bonfires were lit for the performance of the famous bull dance. She eyed the stage with misgiving. She’d seen pictures of the frescoes on Crete, depicting dancers somersaulting over a bull, but there was no visible way to restrain an animal here if it got out of hand, which was worrying.