One Reckless Decision

“It is the only one of my father’s properties that he never visited as long as I knew him,” he’d said in that detached, cold way that did not encourage further discussion. “I suppose I find his absence soothing.”

She had not asked any further questions about his father. Not then. He had swept her into the villa, and then into the wide bed in his stark white room that took its only color from the sea beyond, the stretch of water and the gleaming bowl of the endless sky. And she had been so hungry for him, so desperate to feel that heady rush and that exquisite fall into ecstasy, that she had not minded such diversions.

If only we could stay in bed forever, she thought now, her eyes on the horizon.

But once they were in Greece, where Nikos seemed to be as much a part of the island landscape as the olive trees and the rugged hills, it seemed almost inevitable that the old tycoon should come up in conversation. His father, she’d learned, had been raised on this island by Nikos’s grandfather, then sent out into the world to help run the old man’s business concerns. It was difficult to say which of those two men had been the harder, the more driven. She told herself she wanted to know about his family because it made sense to learn all she could about the man who had so entranced her, however brief this liaison must be, but she was afraid she knew perfectly well that was not the reason she asked.

“Did you know your grandfather?” she had asked one afternoon, as they sat in a bustling taverna in the village square lunching on goat stifada and fresh-grilled sea bass in a delectable lemon sauce. Tristanne sipped at a dry white wine while Nikos drank from a large glass of Mythos beer.

“You are obsessed with a man who has been dead for decades,” Nikos had said in quelling tones. His brows had arched high, mocking her. “Are you looking for ghosts, Tristanne? The island is full of them, I am sure. There are plenty of saints and martyrs here to occupy your thoughts. There is no need to go digging in my history.”

“I am hardly obsessed,” she had replied in the calm voice that she wielded as her only remaining weapon. Her only armor, however weak. She’d taken a sip of her wine and had pretended to be unmoved. “I am interested, however. He built an amazingly artistic home for a man you refer to in such harsh terms.” The villa was an artist’s dream—every room carefully designed to captivate the senses, and to gracefully frame the stunning views.

“My grandfather was not a particularly nice man, Tristanne,” Nikos had said, a gleam in his dark eyes that had made the fine hairs on the back of her neck prickle in warning. “And the only artistic impulse he possessed involved buying things that others told him were sought-after.” He’d shrugged, though his gaze had been hard. “But what man who builds an empire is nice? He raised his son to be even worse. His own image, magnified.” His mouth had twisted. “This is my heritage, of which I am deeply proud.”

She’d let his sardonic tone wash over her, and schooled herself not to react. He would not respond well to any show of emotion, she knew—any hint of compassion, or identification. She’d sometimes thought he deliberately tested her to see if there was any hint of softness in her demeanor. It was her duty to behave as if all that was between them was sex and the promise of money. Perhaps, for him, that was even true.

“Whether you are proud of it or not,” she had said then, “it is still where you come from. It is worth knowing.”

“I know exactly where I come from,” he had retorted in that quiet, dangerous tone that Tristanne remembered only too well from Portofino. Did it mean she had struck a nerve? Or only that he wished to slap her down, put her in her place? She’d felt her chin rise in automatic defense. His mocking half smile had seemed extra bitter then, as if he’d been able to read her as well as she was learning to read him.

“Then there is no need to get so upset about it, is there?” she had asked lightly.

His eyes had seemed to catch fire and his smile had deepened to a razor’s point.

“Why should I be upset?” he had asked, in that cutting tone, though whether he’d wished to slice into her or himself, she’d been unable to tell. “In retrospect, I should thank my father for casting my mother aside when her charms as a mistress grew stale. After all, she was merely a dancer in a club. What did he owe her? That he chose to favor her at all was more than she could have dreamed. No doubt that is why she succumbed to the usual narcotics, and abandoned me. But then, as he told me himself many years later, long after I proved myself to him through DNA and hard work—the streets hardened me. Made me a more formidable opponent.” His shrug then had struck her as almost painful to watch. “Truly, I should have thanked him while I had the chance.”