CHAPTER ONE

      IT was the air she had forgotten, its softness and clarity, the translucent light that made the colours more vivid, and the contrasts more pronounced. Then there was the smell—a distinctive aroma of lemon groves and pomegranate trees, and vines, luscious with ripening fruit. There was nowhere quite like it, and although her love for the islands had been tempered by other emotions, Martha still found it impossible not to respond to their seductive appeal.

      She had awakened very early that morning, a not unusual circumstance considering she had gone to bed before ten, she had told herself, ignoring completely the fact that she had not slept well. Not even the two glasses of ouzo she had swallowed, in an attempt to get a good night’s rest, had succeeded in ridding her mind of the problems she faced in the morning, and the night had been spent in uneasy remembrance of a life she had left more than five years ago.

      But it was morning now, and from the balcony of her hotel she had a magnificent view of the blue-green waters of the Aegean, with the shadowy coastline of Turkey only a dozen or more miles away. A haze hung on the horizon, a promise of heat to come, but already the air was pleasantly warm and audible with the persistent hum of the cicadas.

      She had chosen this hotel because it was near enough to the small town of Rhodes to permit her to ride there in a taxi in less than ten minutes, and not as far along the coast road as the hotel where she and Sarah had stayed almost eight years ago. It would have been too painful, she acknowledged, to stay at the same hotel—primarily, she added bitterly, because it reminded her so strongly of the youth she had wasted.

      The swimming pool in the grounds of the hotel below her was already attracting several of the guests, and watching a pallid-skinned teenager do an energetic crawl across its depth, she glanced down at her own pale arms and legs, visible below the candy-stripe of her nightshirt. Wintering in northern climes was certainly a drain on any tan she had had left from the previous year’s trip to the Scilly Isles, and she envied those dark-skinned people who never looked pale and anaemic. Like Dion, she thought, and then grimaced when she realised his name had come automatically to mind. But, considering why she was here, that was not so surprising, she told herself severely, as she left the balcony to bathe and dress.

      Nevertheless, having breakfast in the hotel dining room, she felt rather less sure of herself. It wasn’t the first time she had wished she had not allowed herself to be persuaded to come here, and she doubted it would be the last. She wanted to help Roger, of course she did, but this particular demand was surely too much to expect. There must be some other way he could tackle it. And yet wasn’t that exactly why she was here? Because there was no other way? Because the Myconos family had already blocked every other overture he had made?

      She sighed, spreading the contents of a tiny tin of apricot conserve across a rather rubbery roll. If only it had been anywhere else than Mycos. Almost any other island! But Roger’s research had led him to believe that Mycos might have given refuge to the Minoans, fleeing the tidal wave that devastated Crete when the volcanic island of Santorini erupted almost three thousand years ago. And although Martha had not wanted to get involved, his persistent assertion that the reason she wouldn’t help him was because she was afraid to contact Dion again had gradually eroded her opposition.

      Aware of the dark eyes of a waiter resting upon her, she felt an unwelcome shiver of apprehension slide