Moon of Aphrodite (2 page)

laughter.

Helen's
eyes darkened too, when she was angry, which was real y the only form of

passion she had ever encountered
.
She bad never lacked for men to take her out, but

her romances so far had been very tentative affairs with little commitment on either

side.

Her thoughts for a moment went to Christopher who was taking her out that very

evening. She liked him, she enjoyed his kisses even, but something warned her that

that was al the involvement she wanted, although she was aware
his own desire was

for a much closer relationship.

Perhaps in time, she thought, almost absently, then caught at herself. What was she

thinking of? Her mother
had preached few moral lessons at her, perhaps because she

guessed the morality her daughter would be subjected to would be a very different

thing from her own sheltered girlhood in Greece, yet one thing she had stressed-

Without love, there could not, should
not be any giving. And Helen had to admit she

could not imagine love blossoming from anything as lukewarm as her present feelings

for Christopher. Like most of the other young men who had passed briefly through her

life, he was a pleasant companion, but little more.

She sighed faintly. Perhaps this was why their passage was so fleeting. Maybe they

turned to other girls for the warmth, the passion she denied them.

But it might also be that she had never yet met anyone who 'turned her on', she

reminded herself. Perhaps-one day she would, meet a man, and know that he was the

one for her just as her mother had done.

'I loved him from the first moment that I saw him,' Maria had told her once, her mouth

curving in tender reminiscence. 'He was sitting on the hil side above the vil age, painting

the view, in the heat of the day without even a hat to protect him from the fierceness

of the sun, and I said to him, ‘Why do you not sit in the shade? The sun wil make you

il . And he turned and smiled at me.'

The young artist had taken her advice, she went on, and from then on she had gone

each afternoon to watch the progress of the painting.

'One day I was late, so late, because Thia Irini had made me help with some sewing.

When I got to the place, he was not painting at al , and when he saw me, he jumped

up and said, ‘I was so afraid you weren't coming and that I wouldn't see you again.’

And then I knew that be loved me also. Rut I had known first,' Maria concluded with a

look of smiling satisfaction.

How nice to have such certainty, Helen thought, particularly in view of what was to

come later.

The news that Maria was to become betrothed to the son of a business acquaintance, a

young man only a few years older than her seven teen-year-old self, had burst on the

lovers like a bombshel .

Maria had protested to her father that she had never met the young man, but his

attitude was inflexible. There would be plenty of opportunities for them to meet, he

said. Of course, if they disliked each other, the marriage would not take place. But

Maria knew there would be few grounds for dislike. Her father's choice would not have

fal en on someone unsuitable, and she knew that unless she acted fast, the most subtle

but inexorable pressure would be exerted and she would find herself a married woman.

She knew too that it would be pointless to plead that she had already fal en in love with

Hugo Brandon. Her father would dismiss her plea as a young girl's fancy, or more prob-

ably, become very angry.

To his credit, Hugo had not wanted a hole-and-corner affair; he had been quite

prepared to face Michael Korialis and endure his wrath. But Maria knew her father, and

how vengeful he could be, and she persuaded Hugo that the risk, would be too

great.

Time too, was growing short. A big party was being planned to celebrate her betrothal,

and the hour was approaching when Maria would have to meet her intended husband

for the first time.

'I cannot see him. I cannot fate him,’ she had sobbed to Hugo. 'How can I greet

another man, let him touch me, when it is you that I love?'

Two nights later she had left her father's house for ever, leaving a note imploring his

forgiveness. She had never heard another word from him as long as she lived.

Helen tried to imagine herself abandoning Hugo without a backward glance for

Christopher, or any o£ the men who had occupied her attention, however briefly. It was

a ridiculous
thought, she decided scornful y.

And she was enjoying life. She liked her work, and there was very little to disturb her—

with the exception of her grandfather's
letter, which had been disposed of, she thought

with satisfaction.

A little of his own medicine, she told herself as she dried her hands, and hung up the

tea towel before going down to the gal ery to start her day's work. And that's the end of

it.

Nor was there any premonition—any pricking of her thumbs—to warn her that it was

only the beginning.

The gal ery had the tired, slightly rumpled look it always had after the opening of an

exhibition, especial y a successful one as that day's had been, Helen thought. She

moved about, a slim figure in her cream dress, straightening chairs, picking up the

occasional cigarette end which had escaped an overflowing ashtray, and returning

glasses to the trays which the catering firm would collect presently.

It had been a good day, she thought, staling round at the numerous red 'sold' stickers

on the paintings, and pieces of sculpture on display. Paul Everard, who had stayed

away from the gal ery for his usual pre-exhibition nervous breakdown, would undergo

an instant revival when he saw them, she told herself smilingly. He might even be

persuaded to start painting again, if anyone could only convince him there was a

permanent and enthusiastic demand for his work— which there was. She sighed a little.

So many of the successful artists they handled seemed to suffer from these double—the

failures, who came to Hugo demanding that their work be given notices, status,

respect, seemed to have no such misgivings. And that, she supposed, was life.

She gave a final glance round as she prepared to depart, and frowned. One of the

paintings was hanging a little askew, and that was a thing she could not endure. She

went over and stood on tiptoe, trying to straighten it, but only succeeded in making

matters worse. There was a smal pair of steps in the office, but fetching them seemed

too much trouble after a long and tiring day. Resides, Hugo was in the office, working

on the accounts, and she did not want to disturb him.

She dragged forward one of the smal velvet-covered chairs which were dotted about

the gal ery. It was fragile, but it should support her weight for the moment or two that

was al she would need.

She adjusted the picture to her satisfaction, and leaned back a little to make sure it was

exactly level again. The shift of her weight caused the chair to rock on its narrow legs,

and she knew with a sudden shock that it was going to fal over, and that she would fal

with it.

She gave a little breathless cry, and in the same moment felt a pair of strong arms go

round her and lift her clear. She was briefly aware of the scent of some expensive

cologne, and the faint aroma of cigars before she was set safely down, and turned to

thank her unexpected rescuer.

Very unexpected, she thought at once, her brows lifting unconsciously as she registered

him ful y. Tal , but not overpoweringly so, with broad shoulders and a muscular chest,

tapering down to lean hips and long legs, with a rugged strength about him that no

amount of expensive tailoring could conceal. His suit was silky, lightweight and foreign-

looking, but then he was dearly not English himself. He was too dark, and his skin was

too swarthy for that. Not a conventional y handsome face, either, but one that with its

strongly marked features and dark, heavy-lidded eyes would not be easily forgotten. A

taint smile played about the man's firm lips as he watched her—watching him, she

realised with sudden dismay, and felt herself blush.

She said hurriedly, 'I have to thank you, monsieur. You saved me from a nasty

accident.'

'The pleasure was mine, believe me. Miss Brandon.' There was a faint trace of an

accent in the deep voice, but it certainly wasn't French. In fact, she didn't know what it

was.

She was moved by a sudden inexplicable uneasiness. She hadn't seen him in the gal ery

before; in fact she would have sworn he hadn't been at the exhibition at al . He was not

the kind of man to be overlooked, even in a crowd, And he knew her name.

She said rather primly, 'I'm afraid the gal ery is closed for the day. Didn't they tel you

so downstairs?'

'I didn't come to look at pictures, Miss Brandon, good as many of these are. I came to

look at you.'

A strange stil ness seemed to encompass her.

She said careful y, suddenly thankful that Hugo with within earshot, 'I'm afraid I don't

understand. Do you—know me? I don't think we've met before?'

'Never—until this moment,' he said. 'But I have seen pictures of your mother when she

was a girl and you are very like her.'

Her voice sharpened. 'What do you want? What are you doing here? Who are you?'

'Such a lot of questions!' There was faint mockery in his voice. 'I'l start with the last.

My name is Damon Leandros. and I am here, quite simply, to persuade you to return to

Greece with me to visit your grandfather.'

'He sent you?' She was rigid with disbelief, then she managed a short laugh. 'And what

role do you fulfil in his exclusive little set-up—one of the heavy mob?'

The words uttered, she wondered almost hysterical y what Hugo would have said if he

could have heard her being so abysmal y rude to a stranger. It was out of character to

say the least, and her only excuse could be this sudden, inexplicable nervousness the

presence of this man was engendering in her. But why should I be nervous? she

demanded inwardly. He can hardly kidnap me bodily.

His eyes narrowed slightly, indicating that her words had got to him, but his tone was

light as he said, 'As I told you, my role is that of persuader. If I was what you imagine,

I would threaten—perhaps even use force, but that's not my way.'

'I suppose I must be thankful for smal mercies.' Helen resisted an impulse to step away

from him. 'But you're wasting your time, Mr. Leandros.'

'You read your grandfather's letter?'

'Of course.'

'Yet you did not reply to it.'

'As you seem to be aware of most of the family secrets —no, I didn't. Mr. Korialis

should recognise the technique. He employed it often enough with my mother's letters

to him.'

He sighed faintly. 'He was afraid that would be the reason for this silence. Would it

make any difference to you to know that he regrets his treatment of your mother?'

'None at al ,' she said tightly. 'Now, we real y are waiting to close for the day, so I'd be

glad if you would leave.'

I'l leave when you do,' he said quite equably. He hitched forward one of the velvet-

Covered chairs and sat down.

'I can have you thrown out, you know,' she said, faltering a little at the thought of

Arthur, their faithful doorman, wel past his prime, being cal ed on to deal with this

muscular Greek who looked at the peak of his virility.

He tutted, his taint smile widening. 'Using your heavy mob. Miss Brandon? But why,

when I've said I intend no strong-arm tactics against you?'

She shrugged, feeling rather foolish, as she guessed he intended. 'Because I've no

intention of waiting here al night while you exercise your powers of persuasion, Mr.

Leandros.'

'Nor do I intend to spend the night here. I'd hoped you might have dinner with me.'

'I'm having dinner with my father,' she said. 'We're very close. You might tel your—

client that'

'My—client also had £ daughter to whom he believed he was very close,' Damon

Leandros said calmly. 'Circumstances can change.'

'And yet he let her die without a word from him,' she said bitterly.

'He didn’t know she was dying, and when he received the news of her death, he

mourned her every day that followed in his heart.'

'He could have written to my father—made some move.'

'You don't understand about pride? Strange,' he looked at her reflectively, 'I would have

said you had a strong streak of it yourself.'

'Let's not get into personalities, Mr. Leandros. I'm sorry if I've been rude, but real y

your coming here has_ been a complete and utter waste of time, both yours and mine.'

Helen hesitated. 'You can give Mr. Korialis my best wishes, if you want.'

'Give them to him yourself.'

'No!' Her exasperation rose. 'No, it's quite impossible. Now wil you please go?'

'Helen!' In her agitation, she hadn't heard the office door open and Hugo approach.

Now he was standing beside them, a worried frown creasing his brow. 'May I ask