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CHAPTER TWO
ROULADRAKOSWASrather certain she had the best office in the world.
Well, not heractualoffice. But often in her working day she paused to admire the endless theatre of the sky merging into the Aegean Sea. In the five years she had worked there the beauty and grandeur of the retreat still held her enthralled...
Still, there was no time to pause today.
She clipped at pace towards Reception and breezed into heractualoffice. Sitting down at her desk for the first time since she had arrived at work, Roula Drakos, Guest Services Manager, retrieved her to-do list from her rather untidy desk. She pushed a stray red curl out of her eyes and, snapping off a piece of her favourite dark chocolate, scrolled through the guest requests to ensure all had been met and found she was smiling at the sight of an old friend’s name.
Galen Pallas plus one
Familiar faces were not particularly frequent amongst the guests here as Anapliró had once been very poor. Though locals often returned to the island, very few could afford to stay at the retreat.
Leo Arati was a renowned fashion designer, and he was here regularly, but Galen...
No.
She knew that he was friends with the owner, Costa, but Roula hadn’t seen her old friend for...she thought back...nineteen years.
Well, they hadn’t been friends, exactly. Galen had been several years older. But he had always been so kind to her.
She’d been Roula Kyrios then.
It really had been a lifetime ago.
‘Roula.’ The receptionist’s rather loud rap on her door had her looking up. ‘They’re just leaving Thira.’
‘Thanks.’ Roula nodded. ‘Is everything okay out there?’
‘Mia’s getting a little...’ Stephanie made a wavering gesture with her hand that indicated the retreat’s head chef was having her customary pre-function meltdown.
‘So what’s new?’ Roula gave a nonchalant shrug and as always appeared unfazed. For the past thirty-six hours—since the news as to the identity of the bride and more pertinently the groom had been revealed—Roula had being doing her best to calm the staff, reminding them that although the groom was their boss, ultimately it was just another high-end wedding. Anapliró was now a very coveted destination and the retreat had seen many weddings, from royalty, to billionaire tycoons, to seriously wealthy celebrities.
‘Let me finish this update and then I’ll come by the kitchen.’
‘Thanks.’
Roula wouldn’t usually be flying quite so solo today. However, Yolanda, the retreat’s manager, was also the groom’s mother, and Beatrice, the wedding co-ordinator, was overseeing the London event.
Roula wore many hats.
Professional Roula was unflappable, breezy and efficient, and her focus was always on the guests. That was why in the five years since her husband’s death she had moved through the ranks and was now Guest Services Manager.
She was gunning for Head of Guest Services—a role that Yolanda had pointed out did not exist.
Yet!
Her professional persona was by far the most comfortable fit—here she was completely in control. Her thick curly red hair was clipped back, and she wore subtle make-up and a neutral shade on her nails as was the policy. Her uniform consisted of a stone-coloured linen suit and a pale top, which she wore with heels or ballet pumps as required. She was poised and groomed right down to the requisite pearls in her ears and she wore her name badge with pride.
Her legs were toned and smooth, her figure for the most part trim, and yet beneath the coiffed appearance she was somewhat neglected. Roula could barely stand to be naked and always showered hurriedly, quickly taking care of the essentials. Even alone in the bathroom she put her underwear on beneath a towel, pulling on vast knickers and ensuring her large breasts were flattened by two sports bras before she emerged.
Nobody really knew Roula...
Updating the data to reflect that all suites were up to standard, she caught sight of her wedding ring—of course it was not a requirement of the retreat that she wore it...more a silent policy here on Anapliró. There was no question that she remove it. Eyebrows had already been raised when, a year after Dimitrios’s death, Roula had stopped wearing black.
Seeing that the plaster on her thumb was fraying, she took a fresh one from the drawer to replace it. Roula had thought she’d kicked her nail-biting habit, but since her twenty-ninth birthday celebration it had resurfaced—though at least it was confined to one thumb nowadays.
‘Roula!’
