Moon of Aphrodite (3 page)

what's going on?'

'I'm sure Mr. Leandros wil be delighted to explain his errand in person,' she snapped.

'I've heard enough. I'm going up to the flat.'

She turned and walked away, followed by Damon Leandros' soft chuckle. She flushed,

and her nails dug into the palms of her hands. He didn't seem to be taking his task very

seriously—either that or he wasn't taking her seriously. Perhaps he thought her

reluctance was pretence. Wel , he would learn his mistake.

Safely in the flat, she stood for a moment making herself calm down before she

continued the preparations for the evening meal which Mrs. Gibson, who acted as a

non-resident housekeeper for them, had begun. The casserole of chicken and

mushrooms was simmering gently in the bottom of the oven, and a lemon meringue

pie, one of her father's favourites, was standing crisp and golden brown
on the work

surface. Helen began measuring rice into a saucepan, exclaiming in dismay when she

realised she had used too much.

'Concentrate,' she adjured herself, fiercely. She wondered what her father was doing.

Surely it couldn't be taking him al this time to get rid of their unwanted visitor? She

breathed a sigh of relief as she heard the flat door open at last, and her father cal ,

'Helen?'

'I'm in the kitchen.' She returned. She added water to the pan of rice. 'Has he gone at

last? He seemed very determined.'

'Oh, he is.'

The sardonic voice behind her made her whirl round, the colour draining from her face

as she registered Damon Leandros leaning negligently in the kitchen doorway watching

her.

'How did you get in here?' she demanded in swift alarm. 'My father

'Dead, and his body buried under the thirteenth stair,' he said in studiedly sepulchral

tones, then burst out laughing. 'You are wasted working in an art gal ery, Miss Brandon.

Such an imagination could be put to good use writing thril ers. Your father is pouring

me a drink, and I have been sent to enquire if you would like one also. Is everything

clear to you now?'

'Like hel it is!' she snapped furiously. She banged down the saucepan and marched to

the door. She expected him to move to one side to give her passage, but he remained

exactly where he was and she was forced to brush past him, a fleeting contact, but one

that she would have given much to avoid.

Hugo, who was busying himself with bottles and glasses, gave her a slightly apologetic

look. 'Dinner wil stretch to three, won't it, darling?' he asked.

'It could probably feed four or five,' she said in a stifled voice. 'Aren't there any other

strangers we could pick off the streets?'

'Helen!' There was a real sharpness in her father's voice. He said, 'I must apologise, Mr.

Leandros, for my daughter's bad behaviour. I can assure you that she isn't usual y like

this.'

'The situation isn't very usual, either,' Helen burst out. She was trembling
violently and

very close to tears. 'Perhaps it would be better if I went,' Damon Leandros suggested
,

'We can always defer this discussion to a more suitable occasion.'

'It won't make the slightest difference...' 'Helen!' her father interposed again. 'You could

at least listen to what Mr. Leandros has to say. I thought perhaps in a relaxed

atmosphere, over a meal in your own home, you might be more wil ing to listen to

reason.'

Helen
drew a shaky breath. 'You—real y think I ought to do as my grandfather wants

and go to Greece, don't you?'

'Yes,' Hugo Brandon said baldly. 'I see no point in continuing a hostility which has -done

nothing but harm in the past. You have his blood in your veins, my dear, whether you

want to admit it or not. I suspect you also have a certain amount of curiosity about this

unknown part of your family.'

Desolation struck at her as she stood there between the two of them. That was

something she could not deny, but she could have sworn that it was her secret and

always had been. Of course she'd been curious. She could remember al the stories her

mother had told her when she was quite tiny of life on Phoros, and in the big vil a that

Michael Korialis owned on the outskirts of Athens. She wouldn't have been human, she

thought, if in spite of everything she had not sometimes wondered—speculated about

al the things her mother had told her. But she had never said a word or given a hint of

this to her father because she was afraid that lie might be hurt
,
or worse, think,

perhaps she was hankering after the material comforts that life in a Greek mil ionaire's

household could provide her with.

She said wearily, 'I'l go and see to the dinner. I—I can't think straight.'

It wasn't the
most successful meal of al time. Helen could only pick at her own food,

and Hugo did little better, his eyes fixed anxiously on her bent head. Only Damon

Leandros
seemed to have any appetite, and the ability to keep a normal conversation

going, choosing safely impersonal
topics.

She Supposed the real discussion would take place over the coffee. She'd been aware

al through dinner that Damon Leandros had been watching her, not with the concerned

protective ness of her father, but rather, she thought, as a cat might watch a mouse.

She could feel resentment building up in her at his scrutiny, but she controlled it.

Perhaps he was also curious about his employer's long-lost granddaughter, she

thought.

One thing was certain: Michael Korialis must rely on him highly to entrust him with such

an errand. She found herself wondering exactly in what capacity he worked for her

grandfather, how old he was, even if he was married
,
then checked herself hurriedly.

This kind o( speculation was total y valueless.

Hugo and Damon Leandros were sitting talking while the stereo unit in the corner

murmured Brahms in the background when she returned with the coffee. She set down

the tray on the table, wondering if anyone would believe her if she pleaded a headache

and went to her room. Then Damon Leandros bent forward to pick up his cup, and she

caught the derisive smile twisting his lips as he looked at her, and she knew that he

was just waiting for her to make some such excuse, and angry colour rose in her

cheeks. She took her own cup and retired with it stonily to the far corner of the room,

on the pretext that she wished to listen more closely to the music. But her seclusion

was shortlived.

It was. Hugo who rose with the excuse. He had run out of the smal cigars he smoked,

and would have to go to the nearby off-licence to buy some more, he explained. He

wouldn't be long, he added, with a deprecatory look at his daughter.

When the door had closed behind him, she sat rigidly in her chair, staring unseeingly

ahead of her, feeling the tension build up in the room. There was not a word or a

movement from her companion, yet she was convinced her father had simply invented

the tale of needing more cigars in order to leave them alone together.

At last she stole a glance at him under her lashes, and was disconcerted to see that he

was leaning back in his chair, watching her, very much at his ease.

'Relax, Miss Brandon,' he said drily. 'You look as if you would splinter into a thousand

pieces at the slightest touch,' He saw her swal ow and smiled rather grimly. 'Don't be

alarmed, I do not propose to test the truth of my observations
.'

'I
should hope not.' Helen found her voice. 'I wouldn't think Mr. Korialis would be too

pleased to know that one of his henchmen had been—mauling a member of his family.'

His face was sardonic. 'But as you do not propose to accompany me to Greece, there

would be little chance of your grandfather ever finding out. Perhaps I should make love

to you, if it means you wil contact him, even if it is only to protest at my 'behaviour.'

He got up from the chesterfield and walked towards her. Helen felt herself shrinking

back against the cushions.

She said huskily, 'Don't you dare to touch me. Don't you come near me!'

He halted about a foot from her chair. Staring up at him dazedly, she thought that he

seemed to cower over her.

He said softly, 'You're a stubborn little fool, Eleni. What am I asking for, after al ? A few

weeks of your life, no more. A few weeks to give some happiness to a sick old man,

holding on to his life in the hope of seeing you.'

'A sick autocrat,' she said bitterly, 'who has never had his slightest wish disregarded

before. That was clear from the tone of his letter.'

'If it were so,' he said, 'then you would never have been born. As for the letter, it is true

that Michaelis finds it difficult to ask. Is there no pity for him—no warmth under that

English ice?'

'You have absolutely no right to talk to me like that.' She wished desperately that he

would move away. 'And my name is Helen, not Eleni.'

'To your grandfather, you have always been Eleni,' he said quite gently, and to her

horror she fel sudden tears pricking at the hack of her eyelids.

'Damn you!' she whispered, then his dark face blurred, and she buried her face in her

hands. When she had regained sufficient control over herself to become aware of her

surroundings again, she found that he had moved away to the fireplace and was

standing with one arm resting on the mantelshelf, staring down at the floor. An

immaculate linen handkerchief was lying on the arm of her chair, and after a brief

hesitation she used it with a muffled word of thanks.

He said, 'I won't wait for your father's return.' He readied into an inside pocket and

produced a smal leather-covered notebook and a gold pencil and wrote something,

before tearing off the page and putting it on the mantelpiece. 'My hotel and room

number, Eleni,' he said. 'I shal be returning to Greece at the end of the week. If you

wish to come with me, you have only to contact me.' He paused. 'Or leave a message,

if you would prefer.'

'I would prefer,' she said tightly. 'Very much I'd prefer it.'

He gave her an unsmiling look. 'I'm sorry we had to meet under these circumstances.'

'I'm sorry we had to meet at al ,' she said wearily. 'But I suppose my grandfather wil be

grateful
to you. How wil you describe your victory to him, I wonder? As a knock-out in

the first round? Perhaps he'l give you a bonus.'

He looked faintly amused. 'I would hardly describe this as a victory, more in the nature

of a preliminary skirmish,' he said coolly. 'As for my bonus——' he smiled—'I think I'l

collect that now.'

Two long strides brought him back to her, his hand reaching down to close like a vice

on her wrist, jerking her upwards. Taken off her guard, she found herself on her feet

somehow, overbalancing against him, and for the second time she experienced the

strength of his arms as they held her, drawing her closer stil .

She protested on a little gasp, 'No!' and then his mouth closed on hers with merciless

thoroughness.

When it was over, she stood staring at him, her eyes enormous in her tear-stained face,

one hand pressed convulsively against the bruised softness of her lips, too shocked to

utter a word of protest.

Damon Leandros gave her a last cool look and turned to go, and as he reached the

door, Helen found her voice at last.

'You swine!' She was trembling violently. 'I'l
make you sorry you did that!'

He turned and looked back at her. 'You arc too late, Eleni. I am already sorry,' he said,

and went out.

HELEN unfastened the shutters of her hotel room and stepped out on to the balcony, in

the ful force of the Athenian sun. The muted roar of the city came up from the square

below as she stared around her in fascination. She had been told to rest for a few hours

to prepare for the continuation of the journey to Phoros, but she could not simply He

down on her bed and forget that al Athens was spread out at her feet.

Besides, she wasn't in the least tired. It had probably been the least troublesome

journey she had ever undertaken, she thought. She had expected to travel on the

normal scheduled flight, so the private jet had been a shock, but a pleasant one.

'This surely doesn't belong to my grandfather?' she had asked Damon Leandros, having

to forgo her fierce private intention to speak only when spoken to by him, and then

only in monosyl ables.

'No. It belongs to a friend of his,' he said laconical y, but he didn't volunteer any further

information on the subject, and she was determined not to ask.

The formalities at the airport were soon concluded, and a chauffeur-driven car was

waiting to take them into the city. Helen had assumed she would be staying at her

grandfather's vil a, the one her mother had described, and she was a little surprised to

be taken straight to a hotel instead, albeit a luxury one. But it soon became clear that

this was one of the hotels owned by her grandfather, a fact emphasised by the

flattering welcome afforded her by the smiling manager, and the flowers and fruit which