CHAPTER THREE
An hour later, as she was shown into the dim, shaded room, Andrea straightened her shoulders, ready for battle. At first it seemed the room was empty. Then a voice startled her.
'Come here.'
The voice was harsh, speaking in English. Clearly issuing an order.
She walked forward. She seemed to be in a sort of library, judging from the shelves of books layering every wall. Her heels sounded loud on the parquet flooring. She could see, now, that a large desk was positioned at the far end of the room, and behind it a man was sitting.
It seemed to take a long time to reach him. One part of her brain realised why—it was a deliberate ploy to put anyone entering the room at a disadvantage to the man already sitting at the desk.
As she walked forward she glanced around her, quite deliberately letting her head crane around, taking in her surroundings, as if the man at the desk were of no interest to her. Her heels clicked loudly.
She reached the front of the desk, and only then did she deign to look at the man who had summoned her.
It was the eyes she noticed first. They were deepset, in sunken sockets. His whole face was craggy and wrinkled, very old, but the eyes were alight. They were dark, almost black in this dim light, but they scoured her face.
'So,' said Yiorgos Coustakis to his granddaughter, whom he had never set eyes on till now, 'you are that slut's brat.' He nodded. 'Well, no matter. You'll do. You'll have to.'
His eyes went on scouring her face. Inside, as the frail bud of hope that maybe Yiorgos Coustakis had softened his hard heart died a swift, instant death, Andrea fought to quell the upsurge of blind rage as she heard him refer to her mother in such a way. With a struggle, she won the battle. Losing her temper and storming out now would get her nowhere except back to London empty-handed. Instead, she opted for silence.
She went on standing there, being i
nspected from head to toe.
‘Turn around.'
The order was harsh. She obeyed it.
'You walk perfectly well.'
The brief sentence was an accusation. Andrea said nothing.
'Have you a tongue in your head?' Yiorgos Coustakis demanded.
She went on looking at him.
Was a man's soul in his eyes, as the proverb said? she wondered. If so, then Yiorgos Coustakis's soul was in dire condition. The black eyes that rested on her were the most terrifying she had ever seen. They seemed to bore right into her—and, search as she would, she could see nothing in them to reassure her. Not a glimmer of kindness, of affection, even of humour, showed in them. A feeling of profound sadness filled her, and she realised that, despite all the evidence, something inside her had been hoping against hope that the man she had grown up hating and despising was not such a man after all.
But he was proving exactly the callous monster she had always thought him.
'Why did you bring me here?'
The question fell from her lips without her thinking. But instinctively she knew she had done the right thing in taking the battle—for this was a battle, no doubt about that now, none at all—to her grandfather.
He saw it, and the dark eyes darkened even more.
'Do not speak to me in that tone,' he snapped, throwing his head back.
Her chin lifted in response.
'I have come over a thousand miles at your bidding. I am entitled to know why.' Her voice was as steady as she could make it, though in her breast she could feel her heart beating
wildly.
His laugh came harsh, scornful.
'You are entitled to nothing! Nothing! Oh, I know why you came! The moment you caught a glimpse of the kind of money you could spend if you came here you changed your tune! Why do you think I sent you that store card? I knew that would flush you out!' He leant forward, his once-powerful arms leaning on the surface of the polished mahogany desk. 'But understand this, and understand it well! You will be on the first plane back to London unless you do exactly, exactly what I want you to do! Understand me?'