Her Greek Groom: The Tycoon's Mistress / Smokescreen Marriage / His Forbidden Bride. Sara Craven
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Fielding’s face. He looked more his old self again, she thought, surreptitiously crossing her fingers.
If he continued to make good progress he could soon be moved to a private room, she told herself. The premiums on his private health insurance had been allowed to lapse, but she would pay.
She said under her breath. ‘I’ll look after you, Daddy—whatever it takes. I’ll make sure you’re all right.’
He woke up once, gave her a faint smile, and fell asleep again. But it was enough.
Apart from the hum of the various machines, the unit was quite peaceful. And very hot, Cressy thought, undoing another button on her cream cotton shirt.
Almost as hot as it had been in Greece.
For a moment she could feel the beat of the sun on her head, see its dazzle on the water and hear the slap of the small waves against the bow of the caique as it took her to Myros.
Myros…
She noticed it the day she arrived, when she walked across the cool marble floor of her hotel bedroom, out on to the balcony, and looked across the sparkle of the sea at the indigo smudge on the horizon.
As she tipped the porter who’d brought up her luggage, she asked, ‘What is that island?’
‘That, thespinis, is Myros.’
‘Myros.’ She repeated the name softly under her breath.
She stayed where she was, fingers lightly splayed on the balustrade, lifting her face to the sun, listening to the distant wash of the sea and the rasp of the cicadas in the vast gardens below.
She could feel the worries and tensions of the past months sliding away from her.
She thought, with bewilderment and growing content, I really need this holiday. I didn’t realize it, but Martin was quite right.
Her work was always meticulous, but she’d made a couple of mistakes in the last few weeks. Nothing too dire, and nothing that couldn’t be swiftly put right without inconvenience to the client, but disturbing just the same.
Martin had looked at her over his glasses. ‘When was the last time you took a break, Cress? And I don’t mean Christmas and the usual Bank Holidays. I mean a real, live, away-from-it-all, lie-in-the-sun break. The sort that ordinary people have.’
‘I have time off,’ she had said. ‘Last time I decorated my sitting room at the flat.’
‘Exactly.’ He’d sat back in his chair, his gaze inflexible. ‘So you take the rest of the afternoon off, you visit a travel agent and you book yourself at least three weeks of total relaxation in some bit of the Mediterranean. Then get yourself some sun cream and a selection of pulp fiction and go. And that’s an order,’ he had added as Cressy had begun to protest pressure of work.
She’d obeyed mutinously, agreeing to the travel company’s first suggestion of an all-inclusive trip to the latest in the Hellenic Imperial hotel chain.
‘They’re all the last word in luxury,’ the travel clerk had enthused. ‘And there’s a full programme of sport and entertainment on offer. This one only opened recently, which is why there are still a few rooms available.’
‘Anything,’ Cressy had said, and had put down her gold card.
She might have arrived under protest, but she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t impressed.
For the first few days she simply relaxed under an umbrella on one of the sun terraces, swam in each of the three pools, had a couple of tennis lessons, and tried her hand, gingerly, at windsurfing. She also sampled all of the restaurants on the complex.
For once the brochure had spoken nothing but the truth, she thought wryly. The Hellenic Imperial was the height of opulence. The service was excellent, and no element of comfort had been overlooked.
But by the end of the first week Cressy was beginning to feel that it was all too perfect.
Most of the other guests seemed perfectly content to stay on the complex and be waited on hand and foot, but Cressy was restless. She rented a car, and took in the sights. The island’s capital, with its harbour full of glamorous yachts and its sophisticated shopping facilities, left her cold. She much preferred driving up throat-tightening mountain roads to see a church with famous frescoes, sampling dark, spicy wine in a local vineyard, or drinking tiny cups of thick, sweet coffee in kafeneions in remote villages.
But, more and more, she found herself looking across the glittering sapphire of the Aegean and wondering exactly what lay there on the horizon.
One morning, when she was changing some money at Reception, she said casually, ‘How do I get to Myros?’
The clerk could not have looked more astonished if she’d asked what time the next space ship left for the moon.
‘Myros, thespinis?’ he repeated carefully.
Cressy nodded. ‘It’s not that far away. I presume there’s a ferry.’
He pursed his lips. ‘There are boats,’ he said discouragingly. ‘But tourists do not go there, Kyria Fielding.’
‘Why not?’
He shrugged. ‘Because everything they want is here,’ he returned with unshakeable logic.
‘Nevertheless,’ Cressy said equably, biting back a smile, ‘I’d like to know where the boats leave from.’
The clerk looked almost distressed. ‘You don’t like this hotel, thespinis? You find it lacking in some way?’
‘Not at all,’ she assured him. ‘I’d just like a change.’
‘But there is nothing on Myros, kyria. It has no hotels, no facilities. It is a place for farmers and fishermen.’
‘It sounds perfect,’ Cressy said, and left him in mid-protest.
She was aware of curious glances as she sat in the bow of the caique watching Myros turn from an indistinct blur into a tall, mountainous ridge, the lower slopes softened by patches of greenery. She was without question the only foreigner on the boat, and the skipper, who looked like an amiable pirate, had initially demurred over accepting her fare.
As the caique traversed the shoreline, Cressy saw long stretches of pale sand, sheltered by jagged rocks.
The fishermen and the farmers have been lucky so far, she thought. Because this place looks ripe for exploitation to me.
The harbour was only tiny, with no smart boats among the battered caiques. Row upon row of small white houses seemed to be tumbling headlong towards the narrow waterfront where fishing nets were spread to dry.
Somewhere a church bell was ringing, its sound cool and sonorous in the hot, shimmering air.
Cressy found her heart clenching in sudden excitement and pleasure.
Her canvas beach bag slung over her shoulder, she scrambled ashore.
There was a sprinkling of tavernas and coffee shops on the harbourside, most of them frequented by elderly men playing a very fast and intense form of backgammon.
Cressy chose a table under an awning at the largest, waiting while the proprietor, a stocky man in jeans and a white shirt, finished hosing down the flagstones.
‘Thespinis?’ His smile was cordial enough, but the black eyes were shrewdly assessing.
Cressy asked for an iced Coke, and, when he brought it, enquired if there was anywhere she could hire a car.
The smile broadened regretfully. The only vehicles on Myros, she was told, were Jeeps and pick-up trucks, and none were for rent. The roads, the kyria must understand, were not good.
Well, I knew they didn’t cater for tourists, Cressy reminded herself philosophically. But it was a setback.
She said, ‘I saw beaches, kyrie. Can I