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Nikos stared tight-lipped around him. There was no sign whatsoever of the damn architect! Irritably he glanced at his watch. It was dead on the hour of the appointment. He was never late for appointments—his time was too valuable for that. His mouth tightened even more. But that was apparently not a view shared by this prestigious historic house expert! Well, he would give the man five minutes, no more, then phone his PA and get her to find out what the hell was going on. In the meantime he might as well take another look at the place.
He had authorised its acquisition in the new year, and had visited it once, in February. Nikos had got the impression then of a house on the edge of serious ruin—one that had not, by any means, looked its best on that damp, bleak winter’s day. But now…
He gazed around, an approving expression forming on his face. Yes, it had been a shrewd acquisition. The place needed massive restoration, but once completed its value would be beyond debate—a prestigious addition to his portfolio.
He started to walk along the frontage of the façade, glancing up and around, seeing in his mind’s eye the perfected restoration of its classical proportions. But even as he did so he was conscious of a mental distraction.
Nothing to do with the tardy architect.
Everything to do with the temporary house guest inhabiting the former housekeeper’s quarters.
His expression morphed. No longer approving, it became harder, harsher, with a cynical twist to his mouth now.
So how was the pampered profligate faring? She must be climbing the walls with boredom by now, repulsed by the humble surroundings she was being forced to live in. She who had always stepped so daintily through life, cushioned by her father’s wealth and his pampering devotion, taking it all for granted, never worrying her beautiful blond head about the necessities of life. Drifting through it gracefully, artistically, carefree and lovely.
Memory, sliding like a stiletto into the soft, vulnerable tissues of his mind, came to him. Her face uplifted, so beautiful, her expression so tender, her pale long hair like a waterfall down her slender back.
He forced it aside. Conjured instead the memory of how she’d looked that evening in the hotel bar, in her tawdry glamour, designed to allure in the cheapest way. Yes, that was what he must remember. All that he must remember. That and the ugly truth that had lain beneath the surface of the girl he had once known, who had once meant so much to him. The truth that she had so recklessly revealed to him just in the very nick of time, before he had done something fatally stupid…
Restlessly, he turned the corner of the house and strode along the crunching, weed-infested terrace, bathed in sunshine that highlighted the broken flags and lichened balustrade. A long, stone wall, two metres high and more, curved away at the far end of the terrace, shielding the rear portions of the house where functional quarters had once been inhabited by the several dozen staff it would have taken to keep a property like this in pristine condition. Inset along the wall was a studded gate. He headed towards it, half curious as to what lay beyond, half glancing at his watch to see whether he should phone his PA yet.
The door was heavy, and grating, and did not open easily. But he shouldered it with a forcible push and it yielded. Beyond was what must once have been a kitchen garden, now completely run to weeds. A further wall bounded it on the far side, and he headed towards that too. Another studded door to shoulder open. Again he stepped through.
And stopped dead.
It was Sophie. He saw her instantly. Sophie kneeling on a brick pathway, her back to him. Even as he recognised her she twisted round jerkingly, having heard the doorway forced open.
She froze. For a second Nikos neither moved nor spoke.
Then, abruptly, she scrambled to her feet.
Emotion shot through Nikos. A jumble, a tangle. Inconsistent and confused.
Sophie. Sophie so utterly, totally and completely not the way his last image of her was. Sophie a million miles away from the tawdry vamp in her cheap, tarty finery, face plastered in make-up, eyes like black holes, lashes clotted with mascara, mouth a scarlet slash. This Sophie could not have been more different. She was wearing some kind of faded cotton trousers, he dimly registered, with an equally faded T-shirt, and her hair was pulled up high on her head in a ponytail, then twisted round loosely into a straggling knot. Her face was completely bare of make-up—unless the streak of what looked like dried earth across one cheekbone could class as such. Another smear of dried earth was on the thigh of her right trouser leg, and there was a snaggle of goosegrass caught on her shoulder. Her right hand was clutching a trowel as if for dear life.
