Innocent Obsession. Anne Mather
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you going away and all. Call me when you get back, and we’ll talk it over, hmm? Until then we’re free agents, right?’
You mean you are, thought Sylvie, but she didn’t say anything, and although she had a sinking feeling in her stomach when he left her at her gate, she couldn’t wait to examine her reflection once again, to see what she had missed.
Sylvie had never been to Alasyia before, but she knew of it from Margot’s descriptions. It was on a peninsular, south-east of Athens, a pine-clad promontory overlooking the blue-green waters of the Aegean. Leon’s parents lived in Athens itself, and Sylvie vaguely recalled Aristotle Petronides’ leathery-brown face, and his wife’s more aristocratic features. They had attended the wedding in London, with evident misgivings, and had insisted on a more orthodox ceremony taking place, once they returned to Athens. Leon’s brothers and sisters—he was the second son in a family of eight—had not all been at the wedding, but his elder brother, Andreas, had been best man, and two of his younger sisters had accompanied their parents. Sylvie hardly remembered them, engrossed as she had been in her own role as bridesmaid, and although she supposed she might meet them again, she was not in a hurry to renew their acquaintance. Leon she might be able to handle; Aristotle Petronides was another matter.
Her plane landed in Athens just after four o’clock in the afternoon, and in spite of the warmth of London in early July, nothing had prepared her for the heat wafting up from the tarmac as she stepped out of the aircraft. It was like a blanket, wrapping itself around her and stifling her, and she could well understand why a house at the beach was so desirable. She was glad she had taken her mother’s advice and worn a dress, instead of the inevitable trousers she was used to, although the liberal folds of Indian cotton were soon sticking to her legs. Her hair, too, felt hot and heavy, and she entered the airport buildings lifting its silky dampness up from her nape.
It was then that she saw him, a tall man, dressed formally in a grey silk lounge suit, standing beside a pillar, watching her. He was evidently Greek, although taller and leaner than many of the men around him, and his raven-dark hair was smooth, and not curly, his dark eyes long-lashed and hooded. He was certainly an attractive man, she acknowledged, and yet there was something about that intense scrutiny that troubled her, something vaguely menacing about that frank appraisal. It made her glance about her anxiously, hoping Leon was not far away, bringing an awareness of her own vulnerability, in a country that was unfamiliar to her.
She dragged her gaze away, concentrating on finding her passport in her shoulder bag, checking that she had all the necessary information. Leon had said that he would meet Margot at the airport. She had no reason to feel apprehensive. And it was obvious that a man like the man standing by the pillar would have some objective in coming to the airport in the first place, and not any intention of accosting a girl without any claims to sophistication.
‘Excuse me!’
She had been so intent on avoiding the man’s eyes, she had failed to notice that the queue she had joined had moved on, and the deep male voice that addressed her sent a ripple of awareness up her spine. Swinging round, she came face to face with her adversary, and her lips parted in dismay when she realised he was blocking her path.
‘If you don’t mind—–’ she began, uncaring as to whether or not he understood her, only eager to reach the comparative security afforded by the passport officer, and his somewhat thin lips compressed.
‘I think I know you,’ he insisted, to her consternation. ‘You are—Sylvana Scott, are you not? Margot’s sister?’ He frowned, as she gazed at him aghast. ‘But tell me, what are you doing here? Where is Margot? Is she with you?’
‘Wh-who are you?’
Sylvie’s lips could scarcely form the words. This wasn’t Leon. It certainly wasn’t Aristotle Petronides. And yet—and yet there was a resemblance.
‘Do you not remember me?’ he enquired, although he seemed loath to make the distinction. ‘I am Andreas Petronides, Leon’s brother. Now will you tell me where Leon’s wife is?’
Sylvie licked her lips. Andreas Petronides! Of course—Leon’s best man. She would not have recognised him, and yet he had recognised her. Was she so little changed from the child she had been?
‘Miss Scott?’
He was speaking again, demanding a reply, and she looked beyond him to where the passport officer was now waiting, the queue having cleared, waiting to clear her passport. Obviously the Petronides name enabled this man to move freely in an area where identification was all important, but that was scarcely important now.
‘I—I—shouldn’t I pass through passport control first?’ she ventured, seizing on the diversion, and his dark eyes narrowed.
‘First you will tell me where Margot is,’ he insisted, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth so that he should not see her indecision.
‘She’s not here,’ she admitted reluctantly, then gasped when he caught the softness of her upper arm between his fingers, painfully compressing the flesh.
‘What do you mean—she is not here?’ he demanded, and then with an eye to the inquisitive stare of the passport officer, he urged her forward. ‘Do it,’ he said. ‘Show him your identification. I will wait for you in the Customs hall.’
Still a little unnerved, Sylvie did as she was told, mildly alarmed by her tacit obedience to his wishes. Was this what Margot had meant when she said Greek men were not like Englishmen? Certainly she could not imagine any man of her acquaintance behaving so arrogantly towards a virtual stranger. It all added to the feeling of alienation that had possessed her, ever since she saw him standing there, as she now knew waiting for her—or waiting for Margot, which was just the same—and she was beginning to realise just how reckless she had been in agreeing to come here.
He was waiting for her beside her suitcases, apparently having arranged that she should be discharged with the minimum amount of fuss. Another man was with him, and her heart sank at the expectation that this might be yet another brother, come to censure her, but his black uniform dispelled her apprehensions. He was evidently a chauffeur, and she hoped with eager urgency that he might be in Leon’s employ, and that her interrogation by Andreas Petronides would soon be over.
‘Come.’
Clearly that time wasn’t quite yet, and Sylvie was obliged to accompany Leon’s brother out into the brilliant sunshine that bathed the airport. The chauffeur had taken possession of her cases, and they were stowed into the boot of a silver-grey limousine waiting for them, and then Andreas stood back politely to allow her to precede him into the capacious back of the car.
Sylvie hesitated. ‘Leon—–’ she began, feeling the need for some reassurance, but Andreas merely gestured more forcibly, and she was obliged to obey him once again.
The limousine was air-conditioned, and after the sticky heat outside Sylvie could not suppress the sigh of relief that escaped her. It was only as the chauffeur seated himself behind the wheel in the partitioned driving compartment, and the car began moving, that she realised she had asked for no identification, and her lips parted anxiously at the awareness of her folly.
But, even as she turned towards the man beside her, he spoke, and what he said temporarily robbed her of any other consideration. ‘Now, you will tell me when Margot intends to join us,’ he ordered harshly, ‘or is she so without conscience that not even the knowledge of her husband’s illness is sufficient to bring her home?’
SYLVIE stared at him for several minutes after he had finished speaking, and then, realising her scrutiny might be misconstrued, she looked down blindly at her hands gripping her bag. Was he serious? Was Leon really ill? And Margot knew about it!
‘Now you are going to tell me you did not know, am I right?’ he intoned contemptuously, shifting restlessly in his seat. ‘Do