The Phoenix

hesitated to call it love. But perhaps that was what it was? This strange compulsion to possess. This desperation to be near her.

Tomorrow night she would be here. In his arms. She had returned to him, not because of anything he had done, but of her own free will. Just the thought of it made his heart race and the hairs on his neck and forearms stand on end.

The irony was, she wasn’t even classically beautiful. Not in the accepted, marketable way that a girl like Jenna was, or even Miriam or Arabella. Mesmerized by the pictures, he zoomed in on her quirky, off-kilter face with the wide-set eyes and the jutting cheekbones. She was standing on the shore of the tiny island he’d taken her to on their first ‘date’, when she’d cast her line so elegantly and he’d actually taken up the oars of a boat for her. She’d reminded him of somebody that day, although he never had figured out exactly who it was. I was too intoxicated, he reminisced, fondly. The things that girl does to me. And she doesn’t even have to try.

At lunch, Makis joined the last of his guests for fresh poached lobster and salad. He enjoyed playing host on his beloved Argo, and typically had up to ten people staying on board at any one time, partaking of his hospitality, separate from whatever girls he brought on board for his own enjoyment. But with Persephone coming, he wanted rid of them all – the men as well as the women. He wanted to be free to make love to her everywhere – on deck, in the hot tub, the movie theater and in every bed. His guests would all be shuttled by speedboat tender to Portofino tomorrow morning, and would have to continue their summer adventures from there.

‘Great night last night, Mak.’ Andrew Simon, a producer from LA and regular summer visitor to Mykonos, raised a glass to his host. ‘Could you believe Jorge’s girlfriend went home with that guy? The Englishman?’

Mak grinned. That had been a funny moment.

Jorge Colomar, a Spanish billionaire and mutual friend, had joined Mak’s group at the restaurant last night, and afterwards at Covo di Nord-Est, where his young Venezuelan date had embarrassingly deserted him for a handsome English polo player half Jorge’s age.

‘I can believe it,’ Andrew’s wife, Carmen, piped up. ‘The guy was so good looking.’

‘Are you saying Jorge isn’t?’ Mak teased. Everyone knew that in his spare time Jorge Colomar lived under a bridge and ate billy goats.

‘What was his name … William something,’ said Carmen, who was still reminiscing about the polo hunk. ‘Was it William Ponsonby?’

‘No,’ said Andrew. ‘You’re thinking of Rachel’s husband. He’s a Ponsonby. This guy was from another one of those old English families. Coutts!’ It came to him suddenly. ‘William Coutts, that was it. Like the bank. Although I doubt he’s richer than Jorge.’

Everyone else at the table smiled and nodded their assent, but Mak had fallen deathly silent. All the blood had drained from his face suddenly, and his upper body froze, as though he was in some sort of trance.

Andrew Simon put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Makis? Are you OK, man?’

But Mak didn’t answer.

William. Rachel.

‘You’re thinking of Rachel’s husband.’

He stood up abruptly. ‘I’m sorry. I have to go.’

Back in the study, it took him thirty minutes to find the images, saved on a backup hard drive from fifteen years ago. But there he was: William Praeger, young and blond and preppily handsome, except for his oddly wide-set eyes. Next to him on one side was his wife, Rachel, a raving beauty with her flowing hair and high, sculpted cheekbones. And on the other side, also looking preposterously young, was that bastard Mark Redmayne.

The Group. That’s what they used to call themselves. Spyros used to make fun of them in the beginning. No one took them seriously, a ragtag bunch of vigilantes, naïve American rich kids who thought they could succeed where the CIA and MI6 had failed. But Spyros had been wrong.

Staring transfixed at William and Rachel Praeger’s faces, Mak realized he’d been wrong too. There could be no mistaking the resemblance.

Cameron McKinley had just finished playing squash when his phone rang.

‘Yes?’ he panted.

‘Praeger. William and Rachel Praeger. I need you to find out everything you can about them.’ Mak sounded tense. ‘I’ve just sent you some pictures.’

‘OK,’ said Cameron. ‘Am I looking for anything specific?’

‘Yes. I need to know whether they ever had a daughter.’

CHAPTER NINETEEN

It was already almost dusk when Ella arrived in Portofino. Lights twinkled in the harbor, and the pretty hillside town was bathed in the rich, early evening glow. A warm breeze still lingered in the air, the remnants of the blazing heat of a few hours earlier, and everything smelled of summer: the rich, cloying scent of jasmine mingling with coconut oil and perfume on the women’s skin, and the pungent tang of garlic and truffles wafting out from various restaurant kitchens. Underneath it all, the familiar, salt-scent of the sea and the gentle, rhythmic swish of the waves completed the picture of the vacation idyll. This was a place to relax. To exhale. To allow one’s senses free rein. To be without constraints.

But not for Ella. Stepping back into the role of Persephone Hamlin so suddenly had been jarring, to say the least. Resurrecting not just Persephone’s voice and mannerisms, but her feelings – and in particular her complicated relationship with Mak – was a daunting prospect. And there was no room for error. But it had to be done. I owe it to Nikkos. And my parents. And myself. Gabriel had made it clear that the alternative was for Ella to return to the States empty-handed, with nothing concrete to show for any of this but poor Nikkos’s death. Ella couldn’t allow that.

Still, she wished she could have spent at least one night here in a hotel, going over Persephone’s backstory for the hundredth time, easing herself back into the identity before she joined Makis on his yacht. As it was, his eagerness to see her meant he would brook no more delays. ‘Call the second you arrive,’ he instructed her. ‘I’ll send someone to come and pick you up in the tender right away.’

‘Your check, Ms Hamlin. Can I get you anything else?’