The Mediterranean Millionaire's Mistress. Maggie Cox
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cooled disagreeably and wasn’t nearly as delicious as she’d promised herself it would be. Paying her bill, she left some coins for the waiter as a tip, pushed herself to her feet and made her way to an art gallery that was mentioned in one of the island’s brochures she’d picked up. Her plan was to lose herself in there for an hour or two, and hopefully find some inspiration about what on earth she was going to do next with this precariously unpredictable new life she’d suddenly and perhaps recklessly signed up for.
Lysander Rosakis climbed out of the small fishing boat with ease, gave a brief salute to the man who had accompanied him but who was going on to a restaurant in another cove to sell his catch, laughed when his companion of the morning called out a witty reply, then headed back along the road beside the harbour to his house. As the sun beat down in a steady throb of heat onto his already sun-drenched limbs, Lysander tried to push away the little nugget of unease that arose in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t name or account for his fear right then, but he didn’t have to. He was already well acquainted with what it was.
The last time he had stayed in the plain whitewashed house on the island he had been with Marianna—his wife. Now he was visiting the holiday destination he so loved alone. They’d come out to the island two summers ago now—just a couple of months before their baby was due—trying desperately to put a plaster on the gaping wounds of the previous year, when Marianna had had an affair. Lysander recalled that summer with pain, his footsteps slowing a little as the bittersweet memory cruelly submerged him. How could he have known then that his misery at the brittleness of his marriage would be devastatingly compounded by the dreadful events that had occurred on their way home to Athens? That Marianna would give birth to their son prematurely and, shockingly, that neither of them would survive?
A slashing hot pain knifed itself deep into his temple, and he drew his hand there in an automatic attempt to make its throbbing cease. But the acute discomfort was distressingly obstinate and, coupled with his frustration and rage at God for not intervening in the terrible chain of events that had blighted his life, it meant Lysander could not withhold the ripe curse that emanated from his lips.
What had he done to deserve such living torment? Hadn’t he been a good Greek son? Following his illustrious father into the shipping business, forging his own equally illustrious career path, becoming a force to be reckoned with and revered amongst his peers? Hadn’t he shelved his own compelling desire to make photography his career in lieu of carrying on the family tradition? Marianna had never understood Lysander’s photographic work. She had sided with his father, loving the kudos and social cachet that marriage to a man of his wealth and lucrative associations had brought her, which even her own family’s distant but much-mentioned connection to the aristocracy was not able to provide, and had constantly urged him to put aside his ‘crazy’ dreams and concentrate instead on being a successful businessman. Now the fruits of his success had definitely palled, and Lysander hardly knew what to believe in any more.
Marianna’s betrayal, and then her death along with his expected child, had created scar tissue deep within his soul that would probably never really heal. The whole experience of marriage had left him with a scathing regard for romantic relationships that almost reached the point of contempt. His youthful dreams of a loving family of his own had crashed and burned, and changed his life undoubtedly for the worse. He might at last be making strides with his consuming passion—photography—these days, as well as continuing as head of the Rosakis business, but he was more alone than he’d ever been in his life. He had no son and no wife, and had developed an increasing preference to keep himself to himself—apart from occasionally seeking the company of a few close and trusted friends.
Thankfully, this was one of the few places he could come to in Greece where he would be largely left alone. The local people knew of the tragedy he had suffered, of course—the gossip grapevine extended to most of the outlying Greek islands, and with the illustrious name of his family, how could it not? But the islanders were respectful and kind, even protective of his privacy, and Lysander was grateful for that.
Almost wishing he had gone on to the other cove with his friend, instead of returning home to an empty house to eat lunch alone, he glanced towards the high walls of his friend Ari’s art gallery. The twin doors to the cool interior were flung wide open in the almost midday sun and, making a spontaneous decision, Lysander decided to go in.
The brutally frank black and white portrait of on elderly Greek woman fascinated Ianthe. The personal suffering that all but poured from the sorrowful dark eyes that gazed back at her, swathed by a myriad of deeply etched wrinkles, no doubt hard earned, had called out to Ianthe the moment she’d walked into the gallery. As she’d crossed the cool wooden floor of the large ground-level room, its pleasant inviting ambience created by the subtle lingering plume of cedarwood incense that hung in the air and the painted saffron-coloured walls, Ianthe had all but had to keep herself from running towards the amazing study of the woman. She’d visited every other room to study the photographs on display, but she kept coming back to this particular work again.
It was no less than compelling. A stark illustration of a life pitted against tragedy and pain and probably hard physical grind that would test even the strongest, most determined being—and all beneath a cruel, unforgiving sun that, twinned with poverty and endured every day, could no doubt bleed the soul dry. The face was a triumph of survival over disaster—of holding on when even the thought of living through another sun-scorched and battle-scarred day seemed almost too much to bear—and it touched something deep and grieving that begged to be released inside Ianthe. She didn’t know how she knew so much about an unknown woman, but she did. The power of the portrait was such that it revealed everything.
Her emotions raw, Ianthe found herself empathising with the woman’s unspoken agony. The study touched the dark places inside her where rage, betrayal, a helpless sense of abandonment and a deep fear about her parents preferring the son they’d lost to their adopted daughter reigned supreme these days.
So absorbed was she by the portrait that at first she didn’t notice the tall, straight-legged man dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt who had come to stand just a couple of feet away from her to share the perusal of it. But something about his presence seemed silently to command her and, unable to resist, she helplessly glanced sideways to see who had disturbed her.
Ianthe was caught up in a shocking vortex of vivid sensation as her eyes collided with the stranger’s. She felt as if she’d been pierced by a hot velvet arrow that had gone straight to the very centre of her and, with devastating eroticism, had started to make her melt. He had tousled honey-blond hair cut in a deceptively casual style, a strong, arrogant jaw enviably chiseled—the kind you almost never saw in the street—and the most startlingly vivid blue eyes she’d ever encountered, the colour of a rain-washed summer sky. What were they? Indigo? Violet? Whatever the name of the hue, they were pretty amazing. And they had made her legs go weak as a marionette’s.
Acutely aware that she was doing something she almost never did, and that was to gawk, Ianthe started to turn guiltily away.
‘Ya sas,’ he said smoothly, his voice a deeply resonant velvet question mark that made everything inside Ianthe tighten almost beyond bearing.
‘Hi,’ she responded, frowning faintly. She hadn’t been expecting him to acknowledge her, let alone speak to her, and she was shocked that he had. Deliberately diverting her gaze back to the photograph, she told herself to wait for just a couple more seconds before politely walking away to look at something else.
‘You are not Greek?’ he commented in perfect English, a brief and speculative smile touching his smooth, sculpted lips. Her glance helplessly gravitated to the taut sinewy bulge of his bronzed biceps. They looked so tight the sight of them made her mouth water, and Ianthe fought hard to get control of her frankly dazzled reaction.
‘Um…no. English. I’m English.’ Shrugging apologetically, she started to back away from the photograph that had so enthralled her.
‘You could be Greek.’ He shrugged too, and totally floored Ianthe with the look of frank examination he casually bestowed on her face and figure. ‘I expect you get told that all the time—at least in Greece?’