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Anna laughed. ‘You’re getting a better accent, Olivia,’ she answered, in Greek.
The phone began to ring in the villa and Anna hurried off to answer it, returning a moment later to say to Gerald, ‘It is for you. A Greek voice—he said to tell you Constantine. From London. Shall I put it through to your study?’
He got up, nodding, and followed Anna back into the house, leaving Olivia to finish her breakfast alone.
Constantine? she thought—hadn’t her father mentioned that name just now? Oh, yes, Max Agathios had a brother called Constantine. Why was her father seeing so much of these Greek brothers? What was going on?
She had just finished her second cup of coffee when Max Agathios walked out on to the terrace. He was in his old jeans and T-shirt, but somehow they did not look shabby and disreputable on him. He managed to invest them with a sort of glamour, thought Olivia, staring at him.
He nodded to her. ‘Where’s your father?’
‘On the phone to your brother,’ she said, before she thought twice, and he gave her a quick, narrowed glance.
‘My brother?’
Uncertainly, Olivia said, ‘Well, I don’t know that, I just assumed…It’s someone called Constantine.’
‘Ringing from Piraeus?’
‘No, London.’ Olivia was worried now. Would her father be angry if he found out that she had told Max Agathios about this phone call?
‘Ah.’ Max turned and stared out towards the misty blue mountains on the horizon, the heat haze between them and the villa making them shimmer as if they were a mirage. A moment later he turned, his face calm. ‘Well, I’ll see him later. I’m going down to Corfu Town to check up on my boat. I needed some work done on the radio and I want to make sure it has been done properly.’
‘I’d love to see your boat!’ Olivia said wistfully.
‘Well, come with me,’ he said, at once. ‘If you don’t mind riding pillion on my motorbike.’
She was taken aback. ‘You ride a motorbike? Did you hire it here?’
‘No, I always have it on my boat. It’s more convenient to have your own transport, wherever you end up!’
‘Yes, it must be.’ Olivia flushed with excitement. ‘I’ve never ridden on a motorbike—I’ve always wanted to though!’ Yet she didn’t dare leave without asking her father’s permission. Gerald was unpredictable; he might not approve of her going off with Max Agathios, and she might return to find him icily angry with her. Olivia found her father far too alarming to risk that. She had never learned how to talk to him, or cope with his moods, except by keeping quiet and out of his way.
Anna came out to clear the table and Max Agathios turned to speak to her in Greek. Olivia watched them both, wondering what he was saying, what Anna was answering. Anna smiled at him and Olivia thought, She likes him! She had never seen Anna smile at her father like that. Anna’s olive-dark eyes had a lustre and a gleam that Olivia recognised, instinctively, as sensual. Anna found Max Agathios attractive; she was responding to him as a woman to a man she wanted, and Max smiled back at her with an unhidden appreciation of Anna’s ripe warmth.
Olivia looked down, feeling excluded, left out, like a child at a grown-up party.
‘OK, we can go—Anna will explain where we’ve gone,’ Max said, startling her by suddenly being closer than she had thought.
She looked up, her skin pink, her eyes bothered, and he gave her a mocking little smile, as if he knew what had disturbed her and was amused by her reaction.
Anna had gone. They were alone on the terrace. Olivia hesitated, biting her lower lip, but why should her father object? He took very little interest in what she did while she was staying here, and if he disapproved of Max surely he wouldn’t let him stay at the villa?
‘Will I be OK dressed like this?’ she uncertainly asked, and Max ran his eyes down over her slender figure in the brief striped shorts, the thin yellow top. That look made her breathless suddenly.
His brows lifted.
‘Don’t wear much, do you?’
‘I didn’t notice you wearing much on the beach this morning, either!’ retorted Olivia, and he grinned at her wickedly.
‘I wasn’t expecting company. Well, come on! My motorbike is in the garage.’
They walked round to the front of the villa and went into the spacious garage, which usually just contained the bright red sports car her father had hired at the start of his holiday, as he did every year. Today it held a motorbike too; Max wheeled out the gleaming black machine, which was obviously new, streamlined and light, for easy transport on the boat, no doubt. Max picked up the black and yellow crash helmet which had been left on the leather saddle and held it out to her.
‘Put this on.’
She hesitated. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m borrowing a spare one from the gardener,’ he said with amusement, shouldering into a black leather jacket.
She had seen the gardener coming to work on his old bike, wearing a scratched and battered helmet, and laughed at the idea of Max wearing it.
As she began fumbling with the straps of his helmet he pushed her hands aside and adjusted them for her, his long, deft fingers cool on her flushed skin. The black leather jacket made him look bigger, more formidable than ever.
‘Now put on this jacket,’ he commanded, helping her into a leather jacket which was much too big for her.
‘I feel ridiculous in it!’ she protested, the cuffs coming down over her hands.
‘It will be some protection for you though, supposing that we had a crash—not that that is likely; I’m a very experienced rider, but I’d be happier if you wore this,’ he said, zipping it up, and standing so close that she was reminded of that moment on the beach when he had lain on top of her, naked, his body pressing her down. The memory sent heated blood rushing round her body; she couldn’t look at him.
It was a deep relief when he helped her on to the pillion and swung in front of her. ‘Hold on to my waist!’ he ordered over his shoulder, and she tentatively slid her arms round him as he kick-started the powerful machine. His waist was slim, in spite of the leather jacket. Her fingers met on the other side.
A moment later they were riding up the stony private road to the public road running past the villa. It was only when they were out on the highway that Max let the throttle out and the motorbike really put on speed.
The ride was exhilarating. Olivia clung to Max’s strong body, feeling as if they were moulded together, letting herself move with him, leaning this way and then that as he took the corners, the wind blowing her short hair up into golden filaments, her thighs forced against his, his blue jeans rubbing against her bare skin.
They drove past the lush olive groves which grew all over the island, past whitewashed houses set back from the road among orange and lemon trees, the dark tongues of cypress trees curling up against the blue sky. The air was full of the scent of flowers. The heat of the day was beginning to intensify now that the sun was riding higher in the sky, and Olivia felt perspiration trickling down her back, her thin yellow top sticking to her hot skin under the over-large leather jacket.
Corfu was a fascinating town, the architecture an international muddle of styles: a Byzantine church here, an elegant French ironwork balcony there, a Venetian subtlety down near the harbour, and elsewhere neoclassical Greek columns to be glimpsed beside plain modern villas. They even passed a flat green space where you could see English cricket being played, with men in white clothes running between the two wickets and people in straw hats sitting in deckchairs to watch, lazily clapping.
Corfu’s history was complex; many races had come here over the centuries and left their mark behind them without making much impression on the Corfiots themselves, who continued to live as they always had, in the sun, growing their olives, looking after their sheep and goats on the herb-scented hills, where thyme and rosemary and basil grew wild, fishing in the rich blue sea, cooking in the tavernas and hotels, cheerfully accepting the tourists who flocked there.
As they rode down towards the harbour they passed a horse-drawn carriage slowly plodding along, under the fluttering awning a dreamy couple gazing out at the shops and tavernas they passed. The noise of Max’s motorbike made the horse start in alarm, tossing its head, and plunging sideways across the road. The driver swore in Greek and reined his horse back tightly, soothing it with clicking tongue and murmured reassurance, then, as Max roared past, shouted angrily at him in Greek.
Max shouted back in the same language, grinning at him.
The driver waved a fist at him, but was laughing now.
‘What did you say to him?’ Olivia asked.
‘You don’t want to know!’ Max turned his head to look at her, his dark eyes teasing. ‘You must learn to speak Greek.’
‘I am learning,’ she said, then admitted, smiling, ‘Slowly.’
‘Well, I shouldn’t learn what he just said!’ Max said and laughed, slowing as they arrived down at the harbour.
His yacht was bigger than she had expected, and very impressive: white, sleek, fast and amazingly compact both in the two cabins and in the engine-room. It had been designed to be sailed by one person, but obviously it could hold several comfortably. It had sails too, which meant that Max could choose the form of power he preferred in whatever weather he found.
‘She’s wonderful,’ Olivia said after the short tour of the vessel. ‘I envy you. I’ve only got a dinghy.’
‘Have you ever sailed around here?’
She shook her head.
‘Would you like to?’
Her golden eyes glowed eagerly. ‘I’d love to!’
He smiled at her, charm in the curl of his mouth. ‘OK, give me a chance to check my radio, then we’ll get under sail. There’s enough wind today. Why don’t you go and buy some food? Just bread, some cheese, a little salad— tomatoes and onions, a lettuce—and some fruit for a dessert. We’ll fish on our way, catch our lunch and cook it in the frying-pan. How does that sound?’
‘Blissful,’ she breathed, and his dark eyes glimmered.
‘I can see you and I have the same tastes. Do you know Paki? Why don’t we head that way? Have you been there?’
She turned her head out to sea, remembering the little islet which wasn’t far from the coast of Corfu. ‘Once, some years ago, by motorboat from the harbour here. I have a vague memory of a very green place, very peaceful.’
‘When I was a boy we spent our holidays on Corfu— we had relatives here—and we always sailed over to Paki, every time we came. There are underwater caves therefascinating places. If we have time I’ll show you. I stayed on Paki for weeks a few years back, did nothing but catch lobsters and fish for mullet and snapper all day. When I wasn’t fishing, I sunbathed and slept.’
‘It sounds wonderful.’ It sounded like the perfect holiday—she could imagine how it must have been. Paki was a tiny island covered in olive trees and vines and the maquis, that tangle of grass, herbs and spiky shrubs which in the sun gave out such an astounding scent, a scent which travelled for miles and met you long before you reached the island and which was the very essence of the Mediterranean coasts.
He watched her sensitive, revealing face intently, then said in a gentle voice, ‘Off you go and do the shopping— have you got any money on you?’
She shook her head anxiously.
He laughed and produced some notes from a pocket in the leather jacket. ‘This should be enough. Don’t go too far, and don’t be long. I won’t take more than ten minutes to check out my radio. Oh, yes…wait a second…’ He dived out of sight and came back a moment later with a red string bag. ‘Take this, you’ll need it.’
Olivia set off along the busy harbour, watching gulls chasing their shadows across the blue sky, fishermen mending nets or loading lobster-pots on to their boats, behind her the rattle of mast wires, the flap of the wind through sails, the slap of the water against the harbour walls. She felt almost light-headed with happiness and excitement. She couldn’t wait to set out for Paki.
She had been here on Corfu for ten days and nothing had happened until today—she had relaxed in the sun, swum, eaten delicious Greek food, read one of the paperbacks she had brought with her. She had barely spoken to her father, or he to her; there had not, this year, been any other visitors. Olivia had enjoyed herself, but it had not been an exciting experience, merely a peaceful one.
Since she met Max on the beach this morning everything had changed. She felt as if she had been asleep for years, and suddenly woken up. She felt so alive. She could almost feel the blood rushing round her body, the air pumping in and out of her lungs…
She had never felt like this before; she was scared of making too much of it. Max was probably only being pleasant to the daughter of a man he was doing business with; or maybe he was just bored and wanted someone to help him pass the time. It couldn’t mean more than that. Not with a man like Max Agathios. And a girl like her.
She made a rueful face. They were miles apart. Why try to deny it? He was a lot older, for one thing, and, for another…well, she wasn’t naïve; he was far too attractive not to have had a lot of other women, beautiful women, much more exciting women.
In fact, it was surprising he wasn’t married.
She stopped in her tracks, standing still in the middle of the bustling street. What made her think he wasn’t?
She hadn’t thought about it before, but, now that she did, of course it was possible—no, probable—that he was married, a man of his age.
‘Beautiful peaches,’ a voice murmured coaxingly in English at her elbow and she started, realising only then that she had stopped right outside a greengrocer’s shop.
She pulled a polite smile on to her face, answered in Greek, and saw the man’s lined face break into surprised smiles.
A few minutes later she walked back to the boat with her net bag full of food and saw Max waiting for her on deck, the sun glittering on his raven-black hair, striking blue lights out of the thick strands of it. He had taken off his leather jacket, and the wind blew his Tshirt up and showed the tanned, flat planes of his stomach. Olivia felt her own stomach cramp in overwhelming attraction and her legs begin to tremble oddly.
She had to stop this happening! She mustn’t lose her head over him. What did she know about him, after all?
He leaned on the polished wood rail and grinned down at her as she came aboard. ‘Did you get everything?’
She held out the string bag, and his change. ‘Yes. That was the first time I’ve ever shopped for food here—it was fun. I even managed to make myself understood in my pathetic Greek some of the time.’
He looked surprised. ‘You do speak some Greek, then?’
‘Anna teaches me while I’m here, and I have a tape I listen to every night while I’m here. Just tourist phrases—please, thank you, where is the bank? That sort of thing.’
‘Well, good for you—very few visitors bother to learn Greek, but it makes a big difference to us to have people trying to speak our language instead of expecting us to speak English.’ He smiled, handing back the string bag. ‘Will you put all this away in the galley and come back up to help me? We’ll leave at once. We can’t be away too long or your father might get worried.’
The galley was tiny and very compact—a place for everything and everything in its place—the fittings all in golden pine. Olivia put away the domed Greek bread, the salad and fruit and cheese, then hurried back up on deck to help Max set sail.
Minutes later they were moving out of the harbour with a stiffish breeze filling the sails, the water creaming past the sides of the boat. Max watched Olivia moving around, nodding approval of her deft handling of the ropes as they met the stronger waters of the sea outside the harbour.
They took a couple of hours to sail to Paki, and anchored off the coast just around eleven-thirty. Max fished over the side, rapidly catching a small squid, which he threw back, then some sardines, which he kept, and a couple of red mullet.
They filleted the mullet, left the sardines whole, unfilleted, then fried them all together, and served them with salad, which Olivia had tossed together while Max was fishing. She had squeezed a fresh lemon over the contents of the wooden salad bowl and sliced the crusty Greek bread, which smelt so good that her stomach clenched in sudden hunger at the scent of it.
They ate their lunch on deck, the boat riding underneath them. The fish was better than anything Olivia had ever eaten—she had never realised how good sardines could taste. There was almost nothing left for the screaming gulls which had gathered around at the smell of cooking fish.
After their white Greek cheese they turned their attention to the peaches Olivia had bought—big, yellow-fleshed, spurting with juice. Max made coffee in his battered old coffee-pot—not the usual Greek coffee, tiny cups of muddy black liquid syrup with sugar, but French coffee, served black, without sugar.
Olivia drank hers, then leaned back against the cushions propping her up and closed her eyes in the shadow of a canvas canopy Max had run out to give them some protection from the fierce afternoon sun.
‘You aren’t going to sleep, are you?’ Max murmured, and she smiled lazily.
‘Sounds wonderful to me.’
He laughed softly, his fingertip tracing the outline of her profile, his fleeting touch cool on her sun-flushed cheek.
‘We shall have to sail back in an hour or so, or we’ll find your father has raised an alarm for us. If you take a siesta, we won’t have time to land on Paki.’
She yawned, hardly able to take in what he was saying. ‘What?’
‘I suppose we can always come back tomorrow,’ he murmured. ‘We could make an earlier start, get here by ten, land and eat ashore at one of the tavernas on Paki.’
Her lashes gold against her cheeks, Olivia dreamily said, ‘That would be fun.’
She drifted off into blissful sleep and woke up with a start at the cry of a gull to find herself lying with her head on Max’s shoulder, his arm around her.
As she shifted he looked down at her, their eyes very close; she saw the dark glaze of his pupils, tiny, almost imperceptible flecks of gold around them.
‘Time to go back, I’m afraid,’ he said, and she couldn’t hold back a sigh of reluctance.
‘I suppose we have to…’
‘I don’t want this afternoon to end either,’ Max said softly and her heart turned over.
