Those Summer Nights (Corfu, Greek Island Romance) (19 page)

‘What position?’ She swallowed heavily, wondering what was coming next.

‘A position where I do not know what I am doing or where I am going.’

She didn’t answer, sensing there was more to come.

‘I came back here to see my grandmother, rip up the restaurant and make my world work, in Acharavi.’ He took his hand away from hers and swept it through his hair. ‘Then I got here and nothing was how it should be.’

She watched him wet his lips, his brow showing frustration.

‘Or rather, nothing was how I wanted it to be,’ he finished.

She smiled. ‘It sounds eerily similar to the situation I’m in.’

He didn’t smile. He just carried on looking at her. Those dark sultana-coloured eyes like an intense double-hit espresso. ‘And then there is you.’

Her heart and stomach moved in unison, like Tom Daley and his diving partner on the high board, leaping up before the plunge.

‘What am I going to do about you?’ he whispered eventually.

He made it sound both like a threat and a promise. She shivered, the nearness of their bodies, sitting close together on the wooden bench in the middle of the sea, suddenly became something she couldn’t ignore.

‘You are standing in my way over the development plans. You are someone I should be going up against, not someone I want to…’

The look he was giving her finished the sentence for him. Inside she quaked a little.

‘You say you are leaving in a week or so,’ he spoke softly. ‘And I also, do not know how long I can stay here but…’

She thought she knew what he was saying. She felt it inside herself too

He was gazing at her, no words coming from him, just the warmth of his breath mixing with the humid air as their heads held still just centimetres away from touching.

She should say something. Words were there, swimming around in her brain. Words like
complication
,
inappropriate, Harry
and a Greek–Cypriot cheese –
Halloumi.
But before she could say anything his mouth was on hers and her hands were smoothing the rough bristle on his jaw as she pulled him deeper.

He tasted of the kumquat liqueur and smelled of a mix of sea salt, lemon and hot man and she just wanted more of it. Lacing her fingers through his thick black hair she pressed her body against his.

He broke the kiss, breathing hard, his eyes not leaving hers. ‘What you do to me,’ he whispered.

His accented voice made her shiver even with the hot sun on her back. ‘I don’t know what to say to that,’ she admitted.

‘Say you understand some of what is happening between us. That this is not just me.’

She smiled at this soft declaration. ‘It isn’t just you. But I’m not sure I understand it either.’

He leant a little forward, letting his forehead rest against hers, still matching her gaze. ‘I understand only that I am here,’ he said. ‘Here on the island I have tried so hard to forget. ’ He put a finger to her lips. ‘And there is nowhere else I would rather be.’ He smoothed the skin of her bottom lip with his finger then lowered his mouth to hers again.

She broke away. ‘Panos, let’s make a promise not to talk about the beachfront here.’ She gazed at him, hopeful.

He nodded. ‘No beachfront talk… No words of war or any more business speak.’ He took her face in his hands. ‘Let us always have Arillas, Imogen. This afternoon,’ he breathed. ‘Just for us.’

She reached up, linking her arms around his neck and pulled him into her. ‘Arillas,’ she repeated. ‘Just for us.’

‘
Y
ou should get the candles
,’ Panos stated.

He had been watching her for the last few minutes, bouncing a little on her feet as they listened to the quartet of musicians. The sun was shining and restaurants had small stalls outside their premises offering free samples to try to entice diners in for main meals. The fragrance of thyme, bay leaves and mint, Greek specialities of
dolmades
,
moussaka
and parcels of
tiropita
was all along the promenade, tourists and locals mingling together. The community atmosphere, collective joy and smiling faces were something he hadn’t expected in a resort he had always considered a little sleepy.

‘What?’ Imogen asked above the music.

‘The candles,’ Panos repeated. ‘The ones you liked.’

‘The ones you didn’t?’

She
had
noticed. It was just a smell. He shouldn’t have let it provoke such a reaction. He wasn’t the child watching his family crumble around him any longer. He had to try to stop focussing on the last few years of his father’s life as if that was all there ever was. It might have been the part that hurt the most but it wasn’t the whole story.

There was a lot to like about Arillas today. The lively market doing good business, the restaurants full, the spirit of Greece coming to the fore around every corner.
Imogen
. Holding her against him. Without thinking he draped his arm over her shoulder, drawing her back towards him.

He felt her weight tip back slightly and suddenly he realised what he was feeling.
Relaxation
. He was relaxed. More laid back then he’d been for… he wanted to say months but in reality it was probably years. A feeling stung him. A worry that in an hour or so he would have to leave this bubble. And what came after that? He needed to call his lawyer about the deal with Tomas’ and he needed to speak to Lafi about the purchase of Avalon. Imogen would be back on the other side of the fence with his grandmother, both of them hating what he was doing.

I
mogen could feel Panos’ warm
, firm chest against her back and she settled herself, loving the way she slotted into the space. His fingers were gently manipulating the skin at her clavicle, spreading tingles of heat over her shoulders and down through her whole torso. Here she was, in a foreign land, with a man she had been battling with since she got here, in his arms, wanting to be there and wishing never to leave. But, when reality bit and they returned to Acharavi, it couldn’t be like this. Panos was going to become the hard, consummate businessman as soon as he was back in another expensive suit. And she was going to be on the opposing side, making sure his plans didn’t ruin Harry’s restaurant.

Imogen turned suddenly, spinning around and looking up at him and studying his features. As clichéd as it sounded, he was that sculpted Achilles statue she’d seen in Spiros the shopkeeper’s shop. Every line and curve was perfection. Her fingers flexed on the solidity of his chest wall, knowing what lay beneath felt equally appealing.

He took her face in his long-fingered hands and gave her a kiss that stole the air from her. How could she resist? How could she not want to taste him again, here, in this buzzing, vibrant village full of laughter and song against a backdrop of azure sky, pale sand and turquoise sea?

She dragged her lips away and spoke his name. ‘Panos.’

‘Pan
o
,’ he corrected. ‘We are intimate now.’

She swallowed at the way he said ‘intimate’. He’d made it sound like she was standing naked in front of him.

‘Pano, we can’t go back to Acharavi and be…’ She took a breath. ‘Intimate.’ She cursed herself for using that word again.

‘Where
can
we go to be… intimate?’ He was smiling now, his full, delicious lips curving up at the corners and one eyebrow raised as he teased her.

‘I need to focus on the restaurant. I’m already distracted with fighting your plans, I can’t also be distracted by your…’ She struggled to find an appropriate word. ‘By your…’

‘By my what, Imogen?’ he asked, still teasing.

‘By you,’ she finished simply.

‘I was hoping for so much more.’

Was this what she wanted? To end this frisson of lust before it became something she craved? Already she was staring at those lips and wanting to feel them claim her mouth again.

‘I understand,’ he answered finally.

‘You do,’ Imogen said, her tone a mixture of pleased and disappointed.

He nodded. ‘There is only one way to move forward.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed.

‘We must be like eggs. Just like you said.’ He looked at her seriously. ‘We must keep us… this… completely separate from my tearing down of the town,’ he stated.

‘What?’ That wasn’t the answer she had been expecting.

‘You will keep being with me and, when we are together, we will not discuss my plans for redevelopment in Acharavi. Just like we promised to do here today. A lot of people together do not discuss their business.’

‘Like who?’

‘Do you think my grandparents discussed everything they do?’ He smiled. ‘For many years my grandfather did not know Elpida smoked. And Elpida also did not know that my grandfather had an account at Ebo’s Bar.’

Imogen smiled. ‘What are you trying to demonstrate?’

‘Just that every relationship has some secrets.’

‘But smoking and drinking isn’t big stuff like potentially ruining my brother’s dream. And I don’t like secrets between people.’ Imogen sighed.

He smiled, grazing his fingers down her cheek before finally cupping her jaw. ‘You think we have nothing else to talk about but the beachfront at Acharavi?’ He looked into her eyes. ‘I think you are wrong.’

‘But what if I’m not wrong?’

‘Then we will find out soon enough,’ he stated.

She watched him take a deep breath. ‘I only want you to be Imogen with me. Fiery… beautiful… good Imogen.’

‘You’ve made me sound like a cross between a nun and a pole dancer.’

‘I think I would like to see that.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve always had a curiosity about nuns.’

She laughed. ‘A little too much information there I think.’

He stilled, his fingers still touching her cheek. ‘After today…’ His gaze went to the stalls and crowds around them. ‘Well, it might not fit with my plans for the future… but I understand
why
Alejandro Kalas thinks a community market could work in Acharavi.’

Was he really able to think outside his box full of wrecking balls and nightclubs? She held in her joy and waited to see if he would continue.

‘This is how Corfu used to be, Imogen,’ he admitted. ‘Only better.’ He sighed. ‘It is like everyone here has finally woken up to the financial crisis and decided to tackle it head on.’

She nodded. ‘They are using the skills they already have, the products they already make and displaying it with a new unashamed joy and… passion.’

‘And it is a little contagious, no?’ he whispered, lowering his face to hers once more.

As his mouth neared hers she was powerless to resist. After everything she’d said about their inappropriate match she just couldn’t seem to draw herself away from him, nor did she want to. She touched his lips first, wanting to leave him in no doubt of her feelings. Then she let him deepen the kiss, enjoying the smooth dance of his tongue. Finally he ended the connection, but held his mouth still close, dropping tiny kisses on her bottom lip. And then he smiled and whispered, ‘I know just the place to get your tablecloths.’

I
mogen had sent
Janie another text from Arillas with two photo attachments. One was of the stalls full of Greek produce she knew would poke at Janie’s shopping and craft addictions and one of the view from the beach – more clear water, cornflower-blue sky and sizzling sun. She had accompanied it with a simple ‘wish you were here’.

She checked her phone as the car slowed. No reply from Janie and no new emails from the Wyatt Hotel Group or anyone else.

Panos finally stopped the car outside a low-rise building that, to Imogen, looked like nothing more than a pile of bricks. Grey, ancient bricks, all in different shapes and sizes, made up a dwelling that looked only habitable to animals. There was a patch of tough-looking grass at the front of the house on which a mix of a dozen or so chickens and black turkeys were roaming and surrounding the shack were olive trees heavy with fruit and goats who all seemed to have stopped what they were doing to survey the car.

‘What is this place?’ Imogen asked.

He smiled. ‘This is where Mrs Pelekas lives.’

‘Who’s Mrs Pelekas?’

‘Someone who is most likely to hit me with her rolling pin the second she sets her sights on me.’

‘Why? Did you try and tear down her house too? Because as much as I hate the idea of ripping up the beachfront of Acharavi I think anything done here would be a vast improvement.’

‘Come,’ Panos encouraged. ‘With some luck she will have been baking.’ He opened the door of the car and stepped out.

T
he heat
of the afternoon and a whole raft of memories hit him as he got out of the Mercedes and observed the Pelekas house. It hadn’t changed a bit since he was seven or eight, stealing lemons and oranges, teasing the goats and chickens with Risto. The cousin he’d all but abandoned, left grief-stricken with a loss much greater than Panos’ own – both his parents in a car crash. He owed Risto something. Much more than he’d given him since he’d arrived back in Corfu. The young man could do better than working at a restaurant Panos was intent on closing down. He needed to think a little harder about where he could fit in in Dimitriou Enterprises.

He looked over at Imogen stepping over the rocky ground to join him.

‘I used to come here when I was a child,’ he said, smiling. ‘I used to steal the fruit. Then Mrs Pelekas would chase me with a broom or whatever was close to hand.’

Imogen shook her head. ‘You bad, bad boy.’

He laughed. ‘I more than paid for it when she caught me.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

The wooden door, red paint peeling from it, creaked ajar.

Emerging from the shadowy interior and into the bright sunlight came an old woman. Her back was bent over so much it looked like a table top and she leaned all her weight on a hefty-looking wooden stick. Thinning white hair, a black kerchief over half of it, wearing a grey and white geometric printed dress, a long black cardigan draped around her small body.

Panos swallowed. He had imagined Mrs Pelekas would look unchanged. Still the stern, upright, strong woman who had chased him across the hills of her land. She had aged so much she was almost unrecognisable.

She spoke in Greek, her eyes moving to Imogen then him, then back again. ‘What do you want?’

‘Mrs Pelekas, it is me, Panos Dimitriou,’ he responded in his native tongue.

The woman began slowly hobbling forward, using her stick to gain ground. Finally, no more than a metre away from him, she stopped and craned her neck as if to get a better view. He maintained his stance, her gaze penetrating, making him feel like a small boy again.

She spoke, asking him if he had come back to be chased, her voice full of emotion. He laughed then, shaking his head as she took both his hands, the stick falling to the floor as she wobbled on her feet.

‘What did she say?’ Imogen whispered.

Panos looked to her then, smiling. ‘She said she now sees who I am and asked if I’d come to be chased around the garden again.’

The gnarled fingers gripped his firmly and he gathered the woman into his arms, laughing as she patted him on the back with all the force he remembered from his youth. Then suddenly she pulled away, her focus going to Imogen. Panos retrieved her stick from the ground and gave it back to her.

Mrs Pelekas spoke. ‘Is this your wife?’

His eyes went to Imogen, whose weight was shifting on her sandals in the dust of Mrs Pelekas’ track, blue eyes moving back and forth, a little unease in her expression. She was so beautiful.

Mrs Pelekas repeated her question even louder until Panos was forced to make a response. He shook his head. ‘No.’

The old lady made a frustrated noise then beckoned with her free hand, turning in a semi-circle and leading the way back towards her house.

‘Come on, I can smell
baklava
at the very least,’ Panos said to Imogen.

‘What did she say to you?’ she asked, stepping up to him.

Panos swallowed. ‘She asked if you were my wife.’

Imogen smiled, taking a step away from him. ‘She obviously remembers the boy,’ she said. ‘Otherwise she would know the man is married to his job.’

He nodded, smiling as he fell into step behind her. ‘Bravo, Imogen. Very good.’

M
rs Pelekas’ house
was like Mary Poppins’ carpet bag – small on the outside and cavernous within. The front door led into a snug with a wooden table and chairs, a rocking chair and a kitchen area dominated by a giant stove. But off this central atrium were three different corridors leading to assorted rooms. Two were bedrooms, one full of fabrics and a large old-fashioned sewing machine complete with spinning wheel, a fourth was a bathroom and a fifth seemed to be inhabited by some of the goats, chickens and turkeys. Mrs Pelekas insisted on giving her the tour while she set Panos to work on making Greek tea.

All the way round, the little old lady chatted away in Greek and Imogen hadn’t understood a word.

Panos was just filling a floral teapot with hot water from a brass-bottomed traditional kettle when they re-entered. Imogen stood while Mrs Pelekas moved towards the oven and began opening the door, grabbing an oven glove then pulling out a tray of biscuits.

The woman looked to Imogen, speaking quickly.

‘She says you need to eat at least two of these because to her you look too thin,’ Panos translated.

Imogen smiled. ‘Do all Greek ladies think everyone is thin? They do look lovely. What are they?’

‘
Ergolavi
,’ Panos answered. ‘Greek cookies.’

Imogen pulled up a chair in front of the thick stone windowsill and looked out at the garden. From this position you could see right down the valley through wooded copses and Corfiot flowers, the promise of sea in the distance if she turned her head a little. The sun was hitting every section of the outside area but this room, with its thick, concrete walls, was a little piece of cool heaven.

Mrs Pelekas manoeuvred herself into the seat next to Imogen and slid the plate of cookies to her, speaking in Greek.

‘Cookies and tea,’ Panos said, pouring the liquid into cups. ‘It’s Greek mountain tea.’

‘And how does that differ to tea that isn’t from the Greek mountains?’ Imogen asked.

‘It’s made from ironwort plants,’ Panos explained. ‘It has healing properties.’

Imogen laughed. ‘It
claims
to have, you mean.’

‘It is true,’ he insisted. ‘Colds, boosting your immune system, lessening the red of your bites.’

The hand that wasn’t holding the cookie went to her face then. She had almost forgotten she still looked like Lemmy from Motorhead. Mrs Pelekas was watching her, her eyes darting back and forth from Imogen to the cookie in her hand. She took a bite and the biscuit just melted in her mouth. A divine mix of soft dough and honey hit her taste buds.

‘Oh… my goodness, these are good,’ Imogen said. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have spoken with my mouth full.’

Panos spoke to Mrs Pelekas in Greek and she began rocking backward and forward on her seat, laughing out loud before slamming a hand down onto the table.

‘Tell her the biscuits are delicious,’ Imogen urged.

A
fter tea
, Panos started bartering for tablecloths. Mrs Pelekas had disappeared down the corridor that led to her sewing room and come back with an arm piled high with fabric. She placed the cloths down on the cleared table and picked one up, showing the design to Imogen.

‘She said this one has embroidered into it some of the flowers of Corfu. The flower of the fig, the anemone, honesty…’ Panos translated. ‘Love-in-a-mist.’ He cleared his throat. ‘The poppy.’

‘She did this all herself? It must have taken hours.’

Panos conferred with Mrs Pelekas. ‘Months, apparently, in the winter of 2005.’ He smiled. ‘She has a good memory.’

‘It’s so beautiful,’ Imogen said, reaching out a hand and touching the delicate images all hand-sewn onto a cream-coloured fabric. Mrs Pelekas passed the whole cloth over to her and pulled up a second one, beginning to explain.

‘This one she made in memory of her husband,’ Panos spoke. ‘He was a fisherman and it’s sewn with the symbol of Corfu. It is on the island’s flag, an ancient boat with three golden oars.’

Imogen looked at the intricate sailing boat, running a finger over the neat stitches. ‘Did he die at sea?’

‘Yes. I never knew him. Though
yiayia
always said he was a good man.’

‘It’s so lovely to see something made by hand,’ Imogen said. ‘Does she have any I can buy? I mean, these are too special to be sold. They must mean so much to her.’

Panos addressed the old woman with Imogen’s question and she shook her head furiously.

‘She wants you to have these,’ Panos said. ‘She has twelve, all different.’

‘I can’t do that. They’re too nice. They should be framed on a wall not on restaurant tables.’ She touched Mrs Pelekas’ hand and spoke slowly. ‘I-can’t-take-these. They-are-too-nice… beautiful.’

‘
Ochi
,’ the woman stated forcefully.

‘Did that mean OK?’ Imogen asked, her eyes moving to Panos.

‘No.
Ochi
means no, she does not accept this.’

Mrs Pelekas spoke again, her voice determined, even though Imogen could see other more sensitive emotions written on her face.

‘She says she does not want them to be hidden away like they have been. They need to be enjoyed. She wants you to have them. She wants to think about people having meals on them, laughing, celebrating…’ Panos broke off and said something else to the old lady. When their talk stopped Mrs Pelekas gave a nod.

‘The deal is done,’ Panos said, clapping his hands together. ‘We have settled on something. An old debt is about to be repaid.’

‘Don’t be silly! This is Harry’s restaurant. He has some funds,’ Imogen exclaimed.

‘Just say thank you,’ Panos suggested. ‘Say thank you, in Greek.’

‘Is it like “OK” meaning “no”?’

‘No.’ He slipped his fingers in between hers and made her look at him. ‘
Efharistó
.’

‘
Efharistó
,’ she repeated.

Mrs Pelekas sat up in her chair, trying to straighten her crooked form, smiling with apparent delight at Imogen’s Greek word.

‘
Parakaló
,’ she said.

‘She said you’re welcome,’ Panos spoke, squeezing her hand.