Chapter One #2
Tall, dark and with looks to make her gulp silently as he’d stopped by her table set out on the edge of the stony beach just beyond the harbour.
She was taking a coffee, reading her book on Greek history, about which she knew very little despite her newly awarded, shiny bright university degree in history, and he’d sat himself down at a nearby table, ordering a coffee from the instantly there waitress, his voice deep and delicious.
She felt her heart rate quicken. She wanted to keep looking sideways at him, but that would have been too obvious, so she focussed instead on the page she was reading.
Very, very aware of his presence nearby.
She was on her own today. The group of uni friends who’d all decamped to Greece the moment graduation was over had taken off on the ferry to a neighbouring island and were going to stay there overnight clubbing.
That had no appeal to Laurel, so she’d stayed put, making a quiet day of it here on this far more peaceful if still touristy island.
They were all staying in a couple of cheap apartments, vegging on the beach or by the pool, frequenting the bars and eating out at the plentiful choice of tavernas the holiday spot afforded.
“‘A Brief History of Greece.’ Forgive me, but ‘brief’ is an impossible word to use about Greek history! It stretches four thousand years and more!”
She looked up quickly, turning her head. He’d spoken to her, the incredible looking guy whose long legs were stretched out, his eyes—dark, long-lashed and definitely, definitely looking her over, liking what he was seeing—glinting humorously.
He’d spoken to her in English, which was not surprising, given that her book was in English. Her blond colouring was also pretty good evidence she was from northern Europe too.
“It’s just modern Greece,” she answered, pointing to the subtitle. “The fall of Byzantium to the present day.”
“That,” he said with mock seriousness, “is more allowable.”
His coffee arrived, the traditional small, dark and quite undrinkable brew that Laurel knew was a legacy of the long centuries of Ottoman occupation which had dominated Greece from the fall of Byzantium until freedom had finally been achieved in the nineteenth century.
“So, where have you reached?” he went on, stirring his coffee, his eyes still with that glint in them that Laurel knew, from the quickening of her pulse, had now nothing to do with the subject of her book, and everything to do with the fact that she was, quite obviously, being chatted up.
It wasn’t something she was unused to, and her usual response was to shut it down as gracefully or ruthlessly, as occasion warranted.
But this time around—
“The Battle of Navarino in 1827,” she said.
“It’s one of the few things I actually knew about, because it comes into British history as well, given we sent ships out here, with the French and Russians, to aid the Greeks fighting for their independence.
Overall though—” she made a moue “—I’m very ignorant about Greek history.
The ancient stuff, classical Greece, we learnt something of at school, but nothing about modern Greece really. Hence the book.”
His mouth quirked. It was a well-shaped mouth, a beautiful mouth, and when it quirked like that with a smile, she could feel her stomach hollow…
“You are very diligent,” he complimented. “Most tourists are uninterested.” He did not say it condemningly, only casually.
“Well, I’m a historian, so all history interests me,” Laurel replied.
His eyebrows rose. They were dark and arched, and it was ridiculous that eyebrows could quicken heart rates, but in this case…
“A historian? Aren’t they all old men with beards?” he queried, the quirk at his beautiful mouth coming again.
“Well, a good few of the history profs at my uni were, I admit,” she said. Humour was in her own eyes, as well as an appreciation of what was happening that was impossible for her to disguise. Not that she wanted to.
After all, there was being chatted up, and there was being chatted up. And right now it was definitely the latter. Very, very definitely.
They went on chatting—and chatting up. Mutually now.
She made no secret of it, nor did he. With carefully apparent casualness she plotted herself in, why she was on her own like this, why she was in Greece at all.
At some point names were exchanged—his meant nothing to her, other than that it sounded good to her—and then, at just the right moment, because the guy was obviously a player, and knew just how and when to make the next move, she’d agreed to meet him for dinner that evening.
Because why not? It was only dinner, only a meal, and if she wanted she was quite, quite free to head back to the apartment solo, wait her for pals to emerge from their post-clubbing hangovers and get back. On the other hand—
On the other hand she’d spent a celibate third year at uni, focussing on her looming finals.
She and her previous boyfriend from second year had gone their separate ways, having enjoyed their undemanding relationship, which had come to a natural end.
Right now, therefore, in this gap time between the end of uni and the start of her responsible adult life, she could, after all, do as she pleased.
And if it pleased her to be romanced under the Aegean skies by a guy that looked like he’d walked out of a romance novel, well, why shouldn’t she?
She was young, free, and over twenty one.
It would make, one day, a wonderful memory to look back on…
Except that “wonderful” had been the last, last word to attach to her memories of Alexandros Xenakis. The very last—
Xander’s father was hosting a party. His son knew why.
Trying to get him to socialise more. Start dating again.
But in London he’d found himself turning down poor Fabia, despite her obvious disappointment.
Was it just too soon after his divorce, or had that damned glimpse of Laurel triggered memories he could do without?
Just as, he sighed inwardly, he could do without his father pressing him now to find yet another bride.
His father had taken his divorce hard. Harder even than Xander had.
He’d known his marriage had failed even before his wife had left him.
A wave of weariness washed over him. He’d come over from his own flat in Athens to his father’s house on the city’s outskirts, the house he’d grown up in, which held all the happy memories of his own childhood—happy until the death of his mother while he was finishing university, which had so devastated his father.
It had been then, Xander thought, that his father had become so determined, so set—obsessed even—with starting the next generation of the family.
Getting his son married, having children.
The pressure on Xander had been constant, and relentless.
When his father had finally decided that Olympia, the daughter of old friends of his, whom Xander’s mother had always been fond of, would prove the ideal wife, she did, indeed, seem to tick all the boxes.
They moved in the same circles, she was intelligent enough, attractive enough, compatible enough.
Increasingly, it became assumed, including by Olympia—and finally himself—that they would eventually marry.
It would be an extremely suitable match…
with no reason not to make it, and many to do so.
But Xander had wanted one last summer of bachelor pleasure. He’d commandeered the Xenakis yacht, and taken off, cruising the Aegean, visiting friends, joining island house parties, generally relaxing and holidaying.
He’d felt himself still free. Free to take advantage, when the yacht needed to refuel at one of the tourist islands, of catching sight of that fantastic-looking blonde and decide she would be the perfect way to enjoy the last of his bachelor days. Sail off with her for the last of the summer.
It had been good—very good. Very good indeed. The days, the nights had flown past. The weeks too…
Until it all crashed and burned.
He shifted restlessly, champagne glass in hand as he circulated amongst his father’s guests.
Into his mind’s eye that fleeting glimpse of Laurel in London the previous month intruded again, unwelcomingly—even if it had proved, he reminded himself acerbically, with that little boy half hidden at her side, that she’d moved on in her life after that long-ago summer that had ended so badly.
Just as he himself had, marrying Olympia as he had.
Yet for as much as he told himself that, something still needled him, all the same, though he didn’t want it to.
He hadn’t been able to see the boy’s face, only taken in an impression of dark hair.
How old had he been? Younger than seven, obviously, but how much younger?
Of course there was no chance, not the slightest, remotest chance that—
No, he didn’t even want to put that impossible surmise into words. Because impossible was what it was. Of course it was.
She’d have told me like a shot! Of course she would! Impossible to think of her not doing so!
After all, his expression darkened, his last experience of her had shown him just how much she’d craved what his wealth could provide. Had she found herself pregnant it would have been a meal ticket for life—she’d have rushed to tell him…
So the fact that she hadn’t was proof itself. Wasn’t it?
Yet it had been unsettling to have seen her, and with that child.
Impatiently he silenced it. If he really could be bothered he could always have it checked out—just to dispose of it.
He’d get concrete proof that that little boy was nothing, nothing whatsoever to do with him, with a father alive and well.
Then be done with it. Put her out of his life again.
For good this time. Then he could move on with his life, just as he was trying to do now he was finally divorced.