‘I don’t know, do I?’ she shrugged, twisting to put her feet to the sun-heated deck. ‘We married because of our baby, not because it was what either of us particularly wanted to do—not the best of foundations to build a stable relationship on. Still,’ she concluded as she came to her feet, ‘that was not the point I was actually trying to make. I was trying to explain to you why the flat and Trina had been so important to me, and why therefore I was suddenly feeling their loss.’
She went to turn away, but Leon stopped her by catching her hand. ‘They have not been taken from you, Jemma,’ he said quietly. ‘They have just been replaced, that’s all.’
With what? she wondered, and gained no comfort at all from his words. ‘It’s time for my rest,’ she said, and sent him a small hollow smile before slipping her hand out of his and walking away.
When she awoke again, it was to the sound of the yacht’s engines throbbing steadily beneath her.
She got up, dressed quickly in a simple pair of white calf-length baggy trousers made of a lightweight cotton, and a pale blue cotton over-shirt, then went in search of Leon, eager to find out where they were going.
She found him sitting at the table beneath the shaded awning on the sun-deck, reading business papers over a tall pot of Greek coffee. Like her, he had changed into lightweight trousers and had pulled a short-sleeved white shirt on to cover his darkly tanned chest.
He looked up and smiled as she approached, getting up to pull out a chair for her and seeing her seated.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked curiously.
‘One moment and I will answer,’ he said, striding off to order her some refreshment. It was a task he had made a habit of while they’d been on the yacht. The boat might need a sizeable complement of crew to keep it running as smoothly and efficiently as it did, but Jemma rarely ever saw any of them. As with his home in London, Leon liked to be alone to relax. Servants, staff, crew—call them what you like, they irritated him. And she had a suspicion that, if it were possible, he would have sailed this yacht single-handed just to maintain his desire for privacy.
He came back carrying a tray bearing her usual jug of freshly squeezed orange juice and a tall frosted glass, but by then Jemma was over at the rail, gazing out at the scenery going by them.
‘I thought you might enjoy a change,’ he answered her question as he came to lean beside her. ‘So, we are making for a small fishing village called Fiskárdho on the northern tip of Kefallinía—the largest island in the Ionian group,’ he explained informatively, ‘where I think we will spend what is left of the day doing what any normal tourist would do and browse around the shops, maybe eat dinner in one of the local tavernas—would you like that, agape mou?’
‘Sounds great!’ She lifted smiling eyes to him.
‘Good,’ he nodded, and drew her attention to the view.
They were moving smoothly through a narrow stretch of deep blue water between two huge misted blocks of land.
‘What are they?’ she asked, curious because, other than that rushed journey from Corfu airport to pick up the yacht three weeks ago, they had steered well clear of the bigger islands in the group, calling only at the smallest mainly uninhabited islands where tourists rarely went.
‘Kefallinía on the left and Ithaki—you might know it as Ithaca—to our right,’ he informed her.
‘Ithaca?’ she cried. ‘The island of Homer and the Odyssey. How wonderful!’ She turned a wistful gaze on the man beside her. ‘You’re so lucky to be a part of all of this! The legends, the sheer romance of it! I’m jealous,’ she confessed.
‘Then dare I make another admission?’ Leon mused out loud. ‘This is my homeland,’ he announced. ‘I was born here.’
‘On Ithaca?’ she gasped out enviously.
‘No.’ Ruefully he shook his dark head. ‘I am afraid I cannot make that particularly romantic claim. I am Kefallinían,’ he explained. ‘And remember how I said that,’ he warned. ‘Because when we land there Kefalliníans do not like to be called Greek!’
‘But the island belongs to Greece!’ she protested.
He nodded in agreement. ‘But the Irish are Irish, the Scots are Scots and the Welsh are Welsh,’ he made the comparison. ‘I am Kefallinían.’
‘Not Greek,’ she said mock-solemnly but her eyes were twinkling.
&nbs
p; ‘Not Greek,’ he confirmed with equal mock-solemnity.
‘So I didn’t marry a Greek tycoon.’
‘You married a Kefallinían tycoon,’ he corrected.
‘Leon Stephanades, the Kefallinían tycoon,’ she said frowningly, trying the words out for taste. ‘It doesn’t have quite as good a ring to it, does it?’
He was trying not to smile. ‘Wondering if you’d made a bad mistake marrying me?’
‘Well...’ Jemma turned to lean her elbows against the rail behind her, totally unconscious of the curving grace of her swollen body ‘...a girl has to consider her social standing, doesn’t she? How much is a Kefallinían tycoon worth?’ she quizzed.