Nikkos Anastas’s death was unfortunate, as was the snafu with the ‘giant’ Ella encountered at the convent, and Athena Petridis slipping through their fingers – for now. But one couldn’t control everything. These were irritations, not disasters. And Ella Praeger knew no more now than she had at the start.
He thought briefly about Ella’s mother, Rachel. How passionate she’d been, how beautiful, but also how stubborn. Fatally so, as it turned out.
Ella was too valuable an asset for them to lose. On that point, at least, Mark Redmayne and Gabriel agreed.
With the damage contained, he filed it to the back of his mind.
Switching his machine back on, Redmayne started to run.
Makis Alexiadis gazed up at the sunset, bleeding into an azure Italian sky. Lying next to him on the top deck of his yacht, Argo, a stunning nineteen-year-old Victoria’s Secret model lay sprawled out, topless. Jenna, her name was. Or was it Jenny? Either way, her body was as close to female perfection as one was likely to see on this earth. Yet Makis felt as little desire for her as if she were an overweight, middle-aged housewife from Ohio. Persephone had ruined him, stunted his libido like someone pouring poison into the roots of a once vigorous plant.
The fact that she had run from him was bad enough, after weeks of leading him on and turning him into a horny teenager. But that she had succeeded in making her escape, eluding every spy he sent after her? That was the kicker. The bitch might as well have castrated him with her bare hands.
Miriam Dabiri was due to join him tomorrow, once they reached Portofino. If nothing else, Miriam was a more skillful lover than the lingerie model, who seemed to believe that by removing her clothes she’d already amply fulfilled her part of the lovemaking bargain. But even the prospect of Miriam’s expert ministrations couldn’t completely banish the cloud that hung over Makis. I must get this woman out of my head.
A buzzing on his private cell distracted him. It was too bright to see the caller ID on the screen, but on a whim he picked up anyway.
‘This is Makis.’
‘It’s me.’
In two words, Persephone’s voice did more to turn him on than Jenna’s naked body had been able to in two weeks.
‘I’m sorry I’ve been AWOL. Things have been really stressful with Nick.’
‘That’s OK,’ Mak heard himself saying. ‘Where are you?’
‘On my way back to Athens. Where are you?’
‘Italy. On the yacht.’ His voice was so hoarse with desire, it was hard to speak.
There was a pause, and then with a coy hesitance that made his heart do cartwheels, Makis heard her say:
‘If it’s not too late … I’d really like to join you.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Vera Pridden, Peter Hambrecht’s housekeeper at Windlesham Grange, stripped the bed linen as quickly as she could and put fresh Egyptian cotton sheets on the guest bed. Mr Hambrecht’s guest, the poor lady with the burns, would be back from her morning walk shortly, and Mr Hambrecht had given Vera strict instructions to stay out of her way.
‘She’s a very old friend, and she’s come to Windlesham to recuperate after an accident. She needs peace and rest and – above all – privacy. But I know I can trust you with all of that, Mrs Pridden,’ Vera’s boss had added flatteringly.
‘Of course, Mr H.’
Vera Pridden loved working for Mr Hambrecht. She felt important, being the trusted servant of such a great man and important conductor, not to mention the gatekeeper to one of the most beautiful small estates in the Cotswolds. Peter and his guests only used the house at weekends and for occasional summer parties. The rest of the time the idyllic Elizabethan manor house with its wisteria-clad walls, breathtaking gardens and extensive grounds, including thirty acres of ancient woodland and a pretty stream where the burned lady liked to walk, was a private kingdom for Vera and her husband, Albert. Nestled in the dip of a valley, and at the end of a long driveway, completely invisible from the road, the manor house cast a protective shadow over the neighboring gamekeeper’s cottage, where the Priddens lived. Windlesham lifted Vera Pridden’s heart and spirits every day, rain or shine. She had no doubt it would do the same for Mr H’s friend, whoever she was.
Athena waited for the dumpy housekeeper with her tight curls to disappear back into her cottage before emerging from the woodland path and making her way back across the lawn to the house.
She’d always loved early mornings at the convent ?
? the cool air, the smell of warm bread and coffee from the kitchens mingling with incense from the chapel, where Matins marked the start of every new day. But they were just as beautiful here, albeit in a different way. Cooing wood pigeons, mist and wood smoke – those were God’s harbingers of dawn in the English countryside.
God! Athena laughed at herself. Would you listen to me?
Shedding Sister Elena’s habit after twelve long years had been no easy feat. Years of dawn wakings had reset her body clock profoundly, and she could no longer sleep past four thirty in the morning, or stay awake later than ten. The God that Athena had stopped believing in the day Apollo died had also managed to worm his insidious way into her thoughts and words and utterances, the natural consequence of long and tedious repetition.
God be with you.
And also with you.