Those Summer Nights (Corfu, Greek Island Romance) (12 page)

P
anos had led
negotiations successfully for years. It was what he did. It was
all
he did and it was usually as natural as drawing breath. This time, though, as he sat on a high stool at the bar of Avalon, he was nervous. He gripped his glass of
ouzo
and water and let his eyes roam. The bar was actually the busiest he had ever seen it. There were locals, a few he recognised, at the couple of tables closest to his seat at the bar, then the rest of the floor space was filled with families, couples, all with drinks
and
food. Just outside, a man was refreshing the paintwork on the wooden struts, coating it a bright white to cover the flakes of last season.
Refurbishment.
Renewal.
It didn’t bode well for his conversation with the owner. He took a breath. But he
had
got hold of Tomas’ Taverna. He could lead with that. Make Lafi open to the idea of retirement like the business owner next door.

He let his eyes move to the scene through the open side of the bar that faced the beach. It was another glorious, hot day. On the sand were people lying prostrate on loungers, a couple playing bat and ball, energetic youngsters digging giant holes and making castles with buckets. All around was enjoyment, excitement, relaxation. That’s what Corfu had been to him when he was younger. A magical island full of hope and promise. The world was his oyster, he never wanted for anything, he had a loving family, a stable existence… and then the façade had crumbled.

He watched a woman and her son on a lounger on the sand. The boy of about five was having sun lotion rubbed into his shoulders. The mother’s long hair kept slipping forward, getting coated in the sun cream. Panos watched them both laughing as the woman stretched forward then proceeded to tie her hair up in a loose bunch.
His mother had started tying up her hair.
He swallowed, turning and directing his gaze into his drink. Another memory spiked his mind. His mother’s long red hair, brushed until it shined then left loose and flowing each day. And back then, that’s when things had changed. His father’s other women had come on the scene and his mother had given up, become resigned. His hand went around the glass, gripping it hard. But she had survived. And now she had John. Successful John.

‘Panos, I am so sorry.’ Lafi approached looking flustered. ‘It is a good time, no?’

He nodded quickly. ‘Yes, it is very good. Lots of customers.’

‘The best start to the season for a long, long time,’ Lafi said, smiling. ‘Give me one more minute.’

Joy was written all over the owner’s face. Panos felt a stab of guilt, but only for a moment. Lafi would be better off without this taverna. Being so busy wasn’t typical. He drew a breath in as Lafi deposited plates full of Greek meze to a table of customers. He took a swig of the
ouzo
. His heart was pumping. Elpida’s face this morning came to mind.
Disappointment. Sadness
.

The slam of a car door drew his attention to the road in front of the beach. A small grey vehicle had pulled up outside and its occupant was getting out, her eyes scanning everything in front of her.
Imogen.
Dressed in those cut-off jeans and a salmon-coloured t-shirt, her hair a tangle of blonde tendrils, he couldn’t help but look. She marched up the road, her head turning to the beach, then back again to the bars along the beachfront. It was like she was looking for something… or someone. He shook his head. It wouldn’t be him. She had made it quite clear of her stance on the restaurant. With eyes burning with resistance she had made her point so severely he had wondered just how badly her husband had treated her. Not that her personal life was any of his business.

Panos turned his attention back to Lafi, who was now balancing platters up his entire forearm and heading for a table at the front of the bar. Busy wasn’t necessarily a good thing at Lafi’s time of life. He finished his drink and cleared his throat, unbuttoning the top button on his shirt and looking out at the sea. And then Imogen was there, right outside Avalon, her eyes on his Mercedes. He watched her dip her head, trying to look from the bright light outside into the shade of the bar. It took only a second for their vision to connect and he felt it hard.

T
here he was
! Sat at a bar, the top of his shirt undone, his hair tousled, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world. She could feel her cheeks were crimson already. She raised a hand and waved first, before turning her palm towards her and beckoning him. Was he going to come? She held her breath, her eyes not leaving his as she backed up to the Nissan Micra.

He was moving. Striding with confidence, or perhaps arrogance, down the walkway between the tables.

She smiled, watching him amble off the bar’s terrace, navigating the promotional neon chalk-written blackboards outside, before his feet met the tarmac of the road.

Adrenaline and the heat meant her t-shirt was starting to cling. She kept her gaze on him as he stopped still, no more than a few inches away. She maintained her anger, determined not to become distracted. She was furious – and not attracted to him in the slightest. She swallowed, realising they were just staring at each other and she had a loud and clear message to deliver.

‘
Kalimera
, Mr Dimitriou,’ she greeted.

‘
Kalimera,
Imogen.’

‘So, I’m glad I caught up with you,’ she began, wetting her lips that felt as dry as sand.

‘You are?’ he replied.

She nodded. ‘Yes.’ She cleared her throat. When she left Halloumi she was being driven by a crimson fog, like a Spanish bull ready to do battle with the
matador
. Now she was feeling ever-so-slightly nervous.

She grounded her feet, hoping it would fuel her fire again. ‘I wanted to be clear about the restaurant… and your offer.’ She slipped the business card from her pocket and held it up. ‘Thank you for the calling card.’

She saw his demeanour alter a little. A flicker of something crossed his features before he had a chance to keep it in check.

‘You have thought about my offer?’ he purred.

Imogen smiled. ‘Oh yes.’ She leant forward a little, putting her body a half inch closer to very personal space. ‘I’ve thought about it long…’ She paused. ‘And hard.’

A smile played on his lips then, his eyes matching hers as he closed the gap between them a few centimetres more. ‘This is what I was wanting to hear.’

They were now so close, if she breathed out too hard their bodies were going to become one. The thought of having Panos pressed against her again was tempting. At a very base level, he was the archetypal Greek Adonis. But underneath the obvious sex appeal was one ruthless individual who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted, Imogen knew that now.

‘I told you last night,’ she breathed. ‘That I’m very protective over my family.’

‘I understand this,’ he responded. He was looking at her closely, perhaps trying to read her expression.

She could feel the heat of his breath as he leaned ever closer. Did he think he could just blink those ridiculously long eyelashes at her and she’d swoon into his arms? Last night was one thing, today she had his number.

She broke the connection, snapping her head up and stamping her feet into the concrete. ‘Then understand this, Mr Dimitriou!’ She flicked the business card at him, watching it catch him in the chest. ‘Offering to buy the restaurant not once but twice was bad enough, and planting an employee in our midst was definitely underhand, but, to push it further with your business card is not appreciated. Give up!’ Her breath came thick and fast. ‘The restaurant is not for sale!’

He continued to stand there, cool, unaffected, just looking back at her. And then, for a nanosecond her attention was diverted to the man in overalls painting the outside of the restaurant. She watched him put down his pot and pick up a bottle of water, wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm.

‘I can have the papers drawn up today,’ Panos told her.

‘Read my lips. The-restaurant-is-not-for-sale.’

He shrugged. ‘Tell Harry I will come by after my meeting here.’

It was the final straw. In one swift move she picked up the painter’s pot, launched the contents at him, and watched the white emulsion coat Panos from head to foot. And all the while, as the paint slopped, Panos didn’t move.

‘Is that clear enough?’ she shouted, desperate for a response.

She hadn’t expected this. She had expected flailing and shouting and cursing her to the Greek gods, but Panos was just standing there like being doused in paint was the most natural thing in the world.

Finally, he shifted. Bringing his arms up, he put both hands to his face. His fingers met the emulsion and he clawed two handfuls of the substance and then, it hit her. Spatters of paint slapped her cheeks and her t-shirt, then more of her, as she watched Panos flicking the liquid from his body straight at her.

She turned her body away and tried to shield her face. ‘Stop it!’

‘You don’t like it?’ Panos scraped more of the paint from his clothes and flicked it at her.

She screamed again as another stream of paint hit her face. She pulled the hem of her t-shirt up and rubbed her cheeks with it. ‘Elpida told me what you do for a business!’ she yelled. ‘You’re one of those property developers who destroys small towns for their own gain. You lie your way into other people’s trust and profit from their misfortune. You break communities and you… you suck the soul out of everything.’

H
is cheeks
, underneath the thick, white paste, flamed at her words. Was that what his grandmother had told her? He increased his pace, scooping off another palm full of paint and flicking it at Imogen.

‘That is not true,’ he retorted.

‘Stop it!’ Imogen exclaimed, breaking into a jog. She stepped off the road and onto the sand, where her pace slowed as her flip-flops failed to compete with the terrain.

‘You are the one making a war with paint! All because I am trying to help you!’ He grabbed her then, his soaking wet white hand clamping down on her forearm. It was all oozing down from his every part, globules of alabaster pigment sullying the sand as he moved along it.

‘Don’t touch me!’ Imogen exclaimed, still trying to escape up the beach.

‘Don’t touch you?! You embarrass me in front of the village, throw this stuff all over me! What do you expect me to do? I am here to do business. I have bought Tomas’ Taverna and I will be buying Avalon too! It’s only a matter of time before you are begging for me at Halloumi.’ He tugged her towards him until their bodies were touching. ‘Now is the time to change your mind!’

‘Never!’

‘Are you quite sure about that?’

‘You’re making me wet!’

Her choice of words had his whole body reacting. His core tightened as he tried to maintain some sort of control. What was it with this woman? She had attacked him in the street and still he wanted to… what? What exactly did he want to do?

She was looking directly at him now, still backing away over the sand and tugging at his arm, her blonde hair falling over her face, covered in specks of white. He wanted to reach out and brush those loose, straw-like strands away, touch a fingertip to her jaw and…

Before he could think further he was falling forward. There was nothing he could do to stop himself, and he landed right on top of Imogen.

G
rains
of the shoreline flew up into the air around them and Imogen let out a gasp. Panos Dimitriou was on top of her! And although he looked like a human Flump – without the pink bits – he was still ridiculously attractive.

Paint from his body was seeping onto her clothes, drips slipped from his neck onto hers and the sand was sticking to them both. She knew she ought to move, but the only thing she seemed to be able to focus on was his heartbeat echoing through her chest and the visible throb at the base of his neck.

She stilled further as he raised a hand, paint spiralling down from his wrist as he cupped the side of her face. The delicate trace of his fingertips felt like the most expensive silk gently trailing over her skin. Those full lips were mere centimetres away from hers. The sun was warming her exposed skin, his closeness heating up everything else. It was almost surreal. She just had to let it happen…

She snapped herself forward, almost knocking heads with him as he fell to her left and down onto the sand. What was she thinking?
Again!
This was not the message she was supposed to be conveying. How was he supposed to take her outrage seriously if she kept wanting to kiss him?

She got up, hands furiously brushing paint and sand from her clothes. It was a wasted effort. She was like a dirty salmon-and-white-spotted Dalmatian.

‘Imogen…’ Panos began, standing himself and making no effort to rid himself of the mess he was in.

She shook her head. ‘No. I said what I came to say and I want you to stay away from the restaurant.’

She turned away from him and, with her head held high, she began a march back towards the roadside, a small piece of driftwood caught up in her hair.

‘
H
arry
,’ she breathed. ‘We need to find out who owns that piece of land next to here.’

Imogen pointed in the direction of the manicured patch of land adjoining Halloumi as paint dripped from her face, down onto her t-shirt and onto the partially cleaned floor.

‘Ai! What has happened to you?!’ Elpida exclaimed.

‘Imogen? What’s going on?’ Harry asked.

‘Elpida, Panos has bought Tomas’ Taverna and he’s going to buy the Avalon restaurant too. There’s only that patch of land in between those restaurants and Halloumi. If he gets that too, he could build one of his nightclub things right next to our restaurant.’

Elpida shook her head. ‘No, I do not believe it. This cannot be true.’

‘It is true. He told me himself.’

‘And he threw paint over you!’ Harry exclaimed.

‘No,’ Imogen said. ‘I actually threw paint over him but… we need to find out who owns that land… quickly.’

Elpida took Imogen’s arm and pulled her into the restaurant building. ‘Come, my car is out the back. We will get you cleaned up.’

‘Harry, I’m sorry,’ Imogen said as she moved with Elpida’s pace. ‘I left our car up the road.’

‘I really should be helping Harry, Elpida. We need to do everything we can to get the restaurant open and get it successful before Panos… Will he really knock everything down? Is that really what he does?’

She let herself be steered through Elpida’s front door and into the kitchen. She still had paint and sand in her hair and on her clothes and a growing concern that her brother’s dream was about to be flattened like an irritating cicada sitting somewhere it shouldn’t.

‘Yes, it is what he does,’ Elpida answered, moving to the line of olive wood cupboards on the farthest wall. ‘But I really did not think when he got back here that he would keep pursuing this. Acharavi is part of our family, our traditions.’ She sighed. ‘This is what happened with my son, Christos, Pano’s father. He was divided. Between family and traditions and modern business. It does not mix well.’ Elpida stood on tip-toes, reaching down packets from the highest shelf.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ Imogen admitted. ‘I thought maybe, with a lot of blood, sweat and tears, it could work. Now…’ She shook her head, fear of demolition and development churning up her insides. ‘Now I just don’t know.’

‘Pfft!
I
know,’ Elpida said confidently, reaching down more packets and lining them up along the worktop.

‘You do?’ Imogen said, looking at her wide-eyed.

Elpida turned from her frenzied emptying of the cupboards and beamed at Imogen. ‘We will make
baklava
!’ she announced as if it was a solution to world peace.

‘What? I can’t make food now!’ Imogen replied, throwing her hands up in the air. ‘I haven’t got time! I have to find the owner of the parcel of land next to the restaurant and beg him not to sell it… or sell it to me… so Panos can’t ruin my brother’s plans. How much is land in Corfu?’

‘Stop!’ Elpida ordered roughly. ‘We make
baklava
,’ Elpida repeated, softer. ‘Repeat this, Imogen.’ She closed her eyes and breathed like the leader of a meditation class. ‘We make
baklava
.’

What was this? Some sort of Greek hypnotism? Imogen attempted to copy Elpida’s long, lung-loosening breath. ‘We make
baklava
…’ She let the breath go.

‘We will need this too,’ Elpida announced. She grabbed at something nestled between two lower cupboards. As Elpida snapped it out, Imogen saw it was a small, collapsible stool. The woman leapt onto it and reached up onto the very top of the cabinet, fingertips just able to grab a thick, brown leather book. Dust came down along with the bound tome and Elpida started to cough.

‘Are you alright?’ Imogen asked, reaching out an arm to steady the woman’s descent.

‘Cutting down on smoking is doing nothing for my cough and everything to make me more miserable,’ Elpida grumbled as she returned to ground level.

‘Maybe I should take up smoking,’ Imogen mused.

‘No,’ Elpida said. ‘You will take up more Greek cooking instead.’ She put the book to one side. ‘Later I will show you my recipes but, for now, I will get the pastry ready and you will melt the butter.’