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‘Of course not,’ Costa said. ‘She blamed me entirely.’
‘Well, you will go bringing outsiders home!’ Mary sat back and wagged a playful finger, in her endless attempt to hide how much she was hurting.
Just this conversation to get through, she told her weary heart,and then we can move on.
Only it wasn’t like a prison visit that seemed to stretch on for ever.
It wasn’t duty or a sense of responsibility that tethered her to the chair opposite Costa.
It was love.
A different kind of love from any she had known.
A grown-up love that felt rather too enormous to contain.
There was sadness, and longing, but also love.
For though his hands were on the table, she felt as if they were cupping her cheeks again. Or gently holding her hands. Or as if they had crept up her skirt and were lightly stroking her thighs.
Her ache for Costa was permanent, and now heightened by his presence.
‘We spoke at length,’ Costa said.
‘Who did?’ Mary asked, because she was looking at the little scar above his eyebrow and trying not to think of those invisible hands.
‘Yolanda and I,’ he said. ‘Are you listening? This is important.’
‘Of course.’
‘We spoke a lot about days of old, promises made and then broken and the hurt they caused. She’s tired,’ Costa admitted. ‘Tired of working so hard at the retreat, tired of being vigilant...’
‘Surely she can slow down now?’ Mary frowned.
‘She said a few things that troubled me,’ Costa admitted. ‘Mary, why won’t you look at me?’
With supreme effort, she met his eyes.
‘Anapliró is not mine,’ he said. ‘Yes, I own a lot of it, but it has traditions and history that can never belong to one person. She told me of the shame she had felt when the Kyrios family cut us out. Yolanda knew it was not me they spurned, but the burden of caring for her. Some of the family bitterly regret it now. She can feel it. I told you Yolanda was a white witch.’
‘You did.’ Mary was on the edge of crying. ‘How did she find out about our arrangement?’
‘Nemo lied. I spoke to him when I got back. He said he had done a background check on you and that’s how he got Yolanda to sign off on what he did. I knew for certain then. Mary Jones from London, no fixed address...’ He started to laugh, but dryly. ‘We’re good at the retreat, but we’re not MI5. He was lying,’ Costa said, and then he offered her a toast and drained the one-hundred-year-old cognac without it touching the sides.
Mary sat bewildered as he righted himself.
‘After I spoke with Nemo I found Roula, and asked her to come to dinner at my home...’
‘Costa, please...’ Mary closed her eyes and massaged her temples. She wanted details, but not those.
‘I’m Greek,’ he told her. ‘I do business face to face. So you will listen.’
‘Even difficult business?’
‘Especially so.’
She took a breath and forced her game face back on. ‘So Roula came for dinner?’
‘Yes. You remember Yolanda said that Roula had been upset for a while...?’
