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That worrying grey tinge seemed to have gone from James Fielding’s face. He looked more his old self again, she thought, surreptitiously crossing her fingers.
If he continued to make good progress he could soon be moved to a private room, she told herself. The premiums on his private health insurance had been allowed to lapse, but she would pay.
She said under her breath. ‘I’ll look after you, Daddy—whatever it takes. I’ll make sure you’re all right.’
He woke up once, gave her a faint smile, and fell asleep again. But it was enough.
Apart from the hum of the various machines, the unit was quite peaceful. And very hot, Cressy thought, undoing another button on her cream cotton shirt.
Almost as hot as it had been in Greece.
For a moment she could feel the beat of the sun on her head, see its dazzle on the water and hear the slap of the small waves against the bow of the caique as it took her to Myros.
Myros…
She noticed it the day she arrived, when she walked across the cool marble floor of her hotel bedroom, out on to the balcony, and looked across the sparkle of the sea at the indigo smudge on the horizon.
As she tipped the porter who’d brought up her luggage, she asked, ‘What is that island?’
‘That, thespinis, is Myros.’
‘Myros.’ She repeated the name softly under her breath.
She stayed where she was, fingers lightly splayed on the balustrade, lifting her face to the sun, listening to the distant wash of the sea and the rasp of the cicadas in the vast gardens below.
She could feel the worries and tensions of the past months sliding away from her.
She thought, with bewilderment and growing content, I really need this holiday. I didn’t realize it, but Martin was quite right.
Her work was always meticulous, but she’d made a couple of mistakes in the last few weeks. Nothing too dire, and nothing that couldn’t be swiftly put right without inconvenience to the client, but disturbing just the same.
Martin had looked at her over his glasses. ‘When was the last time you took a break, Cress? And I don’t mean Christmas and the usual Bank Holidays. I mean a real, live, away-from-it-all, lie-in-the-sun break. The sort that ordinary people have.’
‘I have time off,’ she had said. ‘Last time I decorated my sitting room at the flat.’
‘Exactly.’ He’d sat back in his chair, his gaze inflexible. ‘So you take the rest of the afternoon off, you visit a travel agent and you book yourself at least three weeks of total relaxation in some bit of the Mediterranean. Then get yourself some sun cream and a selection of pulp fiction and go. And that’s an order,’ he had added as Cressy had begun to protest pressure of work.
She’d obeyed mutinously, agreeing to the travel company’s first suggestion of an all-inclusive trip to the latest in the Hellenic Imperial hotel chain.
‘They’re all the last word in luxury,’ the travel clerk had enthused. ‘And there’s a full programme of sport and entertainment on offer. This one only opened recently, which is why there are still a few rooms available.’
‘Anything,’ Cressy had said, and had put down her gold card.
She might have arrived under protest, but she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t impressed.
For the first few days she simply relaxed under an umbrella on one of the sun terraces, swam in each of the three pools, had a couple of tennis lessons, and tried her hand, gingerly, at windsurfing. She also sampled all of the restaurants on the complex.
For once the brochure had spoken nothing but the truth, she thought wryly. The Hellenic Imperial was the height of opulence. The service was excellent, and no element of comfort had been overlooked.
But by the end of the first week Cressy was beginning to feel that it was all too perfect.
Most of the other guests seemed perfectly content to stay on the complex and be waited on hand and foot, but Cressy was restless. She rented a car, and took in the sights. The island’s capital, with its harbour full of glamorous yachts and its sophisticated shopping facilities, left her cold. She much preferred driving up throat-tightening mountain roads to see a church with famous frescoes, sampling dark, spicy wine in a local vineyard, or drinking tiny cups of thick, sweet coffee in kafeneions in remote villages.
But, more and more, she found herself looking across the glittering sapphire of the Aegean and wondering exactly what lay there on the horizon.
One morning, when she was changing some money at Reception, she said casually, ‘How do I get to Myros?’
The clerk could not have looked more astonished if she’d asked what time the next space ship left for the moon.
‘Myros, thespinis?’ he repeated carefully.
Cressy nodded. ‘It’s not that far away. I presume there’s a ferry.’
He pursed his lips. ‘There are boats,’ he said discouragingly. ‘But tourists do not go there, Kyria Fielding.’
‘Why not?’
He shrugged. ‘Because everything they want is here,’ he returned with unshakeable logic.
‘Nevertheless,’ Cressy said equably, biting back a smile, ‘I’d like to know where the boats leave from.’
The clerk looked almost distressed. ‘You don’t like this hotel, thespinis? You find it lacking in some way?’
‘Not at all,’ she assured him. ‘I’d just like a change.’
‘But there is nothing on Myros, kyria. It has no hotels, no facilities. It is a place for farmers and fishermen.’
‘It sounds perfect,’ Cressy said, and left him in mid-protest.
She was aware of curious glances as she sat in the bow of the caique watching Myros turn from an indistinct blur into a tall, mountainous ridge, the lower slopes softened by patches of greenery. She was without question the only foreigner on the boat, and the skipper, who looked like an amiable pirate, had initially demurred over accepting her fare.
As the caique traversed the shoreline, Cressy saw long stretches of pale sand, sheltered by jagged rocks.
The fishermen and the farmers have been lucky so far, she thought. Because this place looks ripe for exploitation to me.
The harbour was only tiny, with no smart boats among the battered caiques. Row upon row of small white houses seemed to be tumbling headlong towards the narrow waterfront where fishing nets were spread to dry.
Somewhere a church bell was ringing, its sound cool and sonorous in the hot, shimmering air.
Cressy found her heart clenching in sudden excitement and pleasure.
Her canvas beach bag slung over her shoulder, she scrambled ashore.
There was a sprinkling of tavernas and coffee shops on the harbourside, most of them frequented by elderly men playing a very fast and intense form of backgammon.
Cressy chose a table under an awning at the largest, waiting while the proprietor, a stocky man in jeans and a white shirt, finished hosing down the flagstones.
‘Thespinis?’ His smile was cordial enough, but the black eyes were shrewdly assessing.
Cressy asked for an iced Coke, and, when he brought it, enquired if there was anywhere she could hire a car.
The smile broadened regretfully. The only vehicles on Myros, she was told, were Jeeps and pick-up trucks, and none were for rent. The roads, the kyria must understand, were not good.
Well, I knew they didn’t cater for tourists, Cressy reminded herself philosophically. But it was a setback.
She said, ‘I saw beaches, kyrie. Can I reach them on foot?’
He nodded. ‘It is possible, thespinis. Our finest beach is only a kilometre from here.’ He paused thoughtfully, fingering his heavy black moustache. ‘But there is a better way.’ From a storeroom at the back of the taverna, he produced an ancient bicycle. ‘It belonged to my sister,’ he explained. ‘But she is in Athens.’
‘And you’ll lend it to me?’ Cressy raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s very kind.’
He shrugged. ‘She will be happy for you to use it. It is an honour for her.’
‘But how do you know I’ll bring it back?’
The smile became almost indulgent. ‘When the kyria wishes to leave Myros, she must return here. Also, she must eat, and my taverna has good fish. The best.’ He nodded. ‘You will come back, thespinis.’
Cressy hadn’t ridden a bicycle for years. She waited while the proprietor, whose name was Yannis, ceremoniously dusted the saddle for her, then mounted awkwardly.
She said, ‘I hope it lasts the distance, kyrie.’
‘A kilometre is not too far.’ He paused. ‘I do not recommend that you go further than that, thespinis.’
‘We’ll see,’ Cressy said cheerfully. ‘Once I get the hang of it, I may do the grand tour.’
Yannis’s face was suddenly serious. ‘Go to the beach only, thespinis. I advise it. Beyond it the road is bad. Very bad.’
Now, why did she get the feeling that Yannis was warning her about more than the state of the road? Cressy wondered, as she wobbled away.
But he hadn’t been exaggerating. Outside the small town, the road soon deteriorated into a dirt track, with olive groves on one side and the sea on the other, and Cressy had to concentrate hard on keeping her eccentric machine upright, and avoiding the largest stones and deepest potholes.
Apart from the whisper of the sea, and the faint breeze rustling the silver leaves of the olive trees, Cressy felt as if she was enclosed in a silent, shimmering landscape. She was glad of the broad straw hat protecting her blonde hair.
The beach was soon reached, but, she saw with disappointment, it was only a narrow strip of sand with a lot of pebbles and little shade.
The others I saw were much better, she thought. Yannis can’t have meant this one.
In spite of the road, she was beginning, against all odds, to enjoy her unexpected cycle ride, and decided to press on to one of the secluded coves she’d glimpsed from the ferry.
Ten minutes later, she was beginning to regret her decision. The gradient on her route had taken a sharp upward turn, and her elderly bone-shaker was no mountain bike.
This must have been what Yannis meant, she thought grimly. Certainly it warranted a warning.
She halted, to have a drink from the bottle of water which he’d pressed on her and consider what to do next.
Myros was only a small island, she argued inwardly, and the next beach couldn’t be too far away. So, it might be better to leave the bike at the side of the track—after all, no one in his right mind would steal it—and proceed on foot.
She laid the ancient machine tenderly on its side in the shade of an olive tree, blew it a kiss, and walked on.
She’d gone about five hundred yards when she first heard the music, only faint, but unmistakably Greek, with its strong underlying rhythm. Cressy paused, breathless from her continued climb, and listened, her brows drawing together.
She swore softly under her breath. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she muttered. ‘I’ve come all this way in this heat, only to find someone else’s beach party.’
She was going to walk on, but then sudden curiosity got the better of her, and, letting the music guide her, she moved quietly through the scrub and stones to the edge of the cliff. There was a track of sorts leading down to the pale crescent of sand below, but Cressy ignored that, moving to slightly higher ground where she could get an overall view of the beach.
The first thing she saw was a small caique, with faded blue paint and its sails furled, moored just offshore. But that appeared to be deserted.
Then she looked down, and the breath caught in her throat.
Below her, alone on the sand, a man was dancing.
Arms flung wide, head back, his face lifted to the sun, he swayed, and dipped to the ground, and leapt, his entire body given over to the sheer joy of living—and the raw power of the music.
And totally absorbed in his response to it, thought Cressy. Clearly nothing else existed for him at this moment.
She dropped to her knees in the shelter of a dried and spindly shrub and watched, amused at first, but gradually becoming more entranced.
She’d seen demonstrations of syrtaki at the hotel, of course, but never performed with this wild, elemental force.
This man seemed completely at home in his solitary environment, Cressy told herself in bewilderment, as if he was somehow part of the sea, and the rocks, and the harsh brilliant sunlight, and shared their common spirit. Or the reincarnation of some pagan god…
She halted right there.
Now she was just being fanciful, she thought with self-derision.
He might be a wonderful dancer, but what she was actually seeing was a waiter from one of the hotels on the other island, practising his after-dinner routine for the tourists.
But not from my hotel, she thought. Or I’d have remembered…
Because he wasn’t just a beautiful dancer. He was beautiful in other ways, too.
He was taller than average, and magnificently built, with broad, muscular shoulders, narrow hips and endless legs, his only covering a pair of ragged denim shorts which left little to the imagination.
The thick, dark hair, curling down on to the nape of his neck, gleamed like silk in the sunshine, and his skin was like burnished bronze.
To her shock, Cressy found her mouth was suddenly dry, her pulses drumming in unaccustomed and unwelcome excitement. She realised, too, there was an odd, trembling ache deep within her.
What the hell am I doing? she asked frantically, as she lifted herself cautiously to her feet and backed away. I’m an intelligent woman. I go for brains, not brawn. Or I would if I was interested in any kind of involvement, she reminded herself hastily.
Besides, this brand of obvious physicality leaves me cold. I’m not in the market for—holiday bait.
She was being unfair, and she knew it as she walked on, her pace quickening perceptibly.
After all, the lone dancer could have no idea he had an audience. He’d created his own private world of passion and movement, and if its intrinsic sensuality had sent her into meltdown then that was her problem, not his.
All the same, she was glad when the music faded from earshot. Although the image in her mind might not be so easy to dismiss, she realised ruefully.
‘I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I don’t like it,’ she said under her breath, lengthening her stride.
