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‘What you need to know is that Roula’s husband died in a boating accident a few years ago.’
‘Ahh.’
‘I could feel the eyes on me even at his funeral,’ he admitted.
‘Her eyes?’
‘God, no.We’refine. More the older ones, who would like nothing more than to see us together.’
‘Now that you’re rich?’
‘Of course.’ He said it without malice, just stated it as fact. ‘My mother too. Then there’s Roula’s family.’
‘Yet they backed out?’
‘They did,’ Costa said. ‘And because of that I got to be free and I built up the island. In fact, I employ most of them now. But it is not enough for them. There is...Philotimo.’ He looked as if it could not easily be put into words as he tried to explain. ‘It is something like honour. There are certain ways that I have long since let go. You know what families can be like.’ He winced a little. ‘I’m sorry, that was insensitive.’
‘It’s fine,’ Mary said. ‘I’m used to it. And,’ she added, ‘for thetemporaryrecord we’re keeping, I love hearing about people’s families.’
She would have liked to hear more, but Costa was reaching for his drink to drain it. At the same time she reached for him—just to halt him, just to get him to talk more... She didn’t know. But although she’d remembered his beauty, she had forgotten the exquisite sensation of his skin brushing hers. It was a simple touch of their fingers, nothing more. As much contact as one might have if accepting change or taking a coat...yet it felt like so very much more.
Mary pulled back her hand, stunned that a mere brush of fingers could send volts of warmth through her, and more stunned that perhaps he had felt it too, for now he reclaimed her fingers across the table for the smallest of moments.
She did not recognise her own buffed nails, nor understand how she could be so mesmerised by the sight of her fingers wrapped gently in his.
He held her so gently, for he had seen them blanch at Ridgemont’s touch and it had galled him more than he dared to consider.
What the hell was he doing? Costa wondered. She was just here to deliver him safe passage to freedom. So why did he want to simply sit in her presence and get to know her some more?
Costa decided he didn’t.
He had sworn there would be no displays of affection without an audience, so he changed his touch to something else—a light pat, reassurance that the weekend would go okay—and his voice was a monotone as he glanced at the time.
‘We’d better get on.’
‘Of course.’
And, despite thinking he never would again, Costa Leventis found himself boarding the ferry to Anapliró.
CHAPTER SEVEN
COSTADIDNOTCAREfor this method of transport.
It was a familiar passage, long since coded into his brain, and he loathed every lurch of the ferry. It was too chillingly familiar.
He sat on a metal bench beside Mary, who was turning to enjoy the beauty of Thira from a distance. In a while she would get her first glimpse of Anapliró, rising from the ocean.
Costa saw the retreat’s helicopter flying overhead with his luggage, flown by a no doubt bemused pilot, wondering why his boss had chosen the ferry.
He’d stolen from his mother’s purse to take the ferry alone that first time, determined to find his father and demand he return and face up to his responsibilities. He’d checked all the bars, asking if they’d seen Stavros Leventis...
He was aware suddenly of Mary’s eyes on his face, checking out his stitches.
‘Stop staring,’ Costa said, but he turned and gave her a smile as he caught her out.
‘You’d stare,’ Mary said, ‘if I’d arrived with a black eye and stitches.’
‘True,’ he conceded. ‘Though I’d have left you back at the marina—that would have been too much to explain to Yolanda.’
