CHAPTER FIVE

      SO HE DIDN’T always make the right decisions, and extending a pity invitation to Jacquelyn Jones was definitely not one of his best. As soon as he’d taken the second call from Mark, he should have followed his first instincts and sent her a message.

      But when he’d found out that Ariana Bridal was only two miles from Maybury Hall he didn’t have the heart to drive by. And all he was going to do was offer her another place, another time, and, if he was completely honest, hopefully another agenda—one not related to business.

      With every passing minute he had regretted this gut reaction to those blue eyes. He owed her nothing but somehow he’d found himself agreeing to meeting her not once but twice. This was getting way out of hand.

      They’d had no time to talk on the flight—he could have predicted that—and the time of this pitch had dragged on now, to some post-lunch rendezvous, every minute heightening her optimism and dimming his.

      But in a way it had been a salvation having her chatting away and oohing and ah-ing about the scenery on this first journey back from the airstrip to the villa. He doubted she’d noticed him turn his head away when they neared the hairpin bend that dropped to the steep olive grove where Maria’s car had taken its tragic turn.

      The skid marks were still on the road, twin black lines, baked into the cement. On through the village of Agios Stephanos they drove—it was almost exactly as he remembered, the bakers, the store, the old men who stared, and dogs tied up in pockets of shade, barking at the cars as they passed.

      He pointed out the tiny old white church clinging to the side of the steep cliff, roughened with centuries of hot sun and windswept winters. His great-grandparents had been married there, and their parents and grandparents before them, but he kept those facts to himself.

      Further on, faded signs sent far-travelling tourists to sacred wells, and a stream trickled down to the level of the sea, where his private shingle beach presented itself to crystal-clear aquamarine waters, and where once upon a time he’d moored his boat.

      Once upon a time this had been the one place on earth he’d felt truly alive, and truly alone. It was in his DNA and it was a thousand miles from Sydney.

      Maria hadn’t particularly liked it here—too basic, too boring—and he’d seen no reason to try to change her mind. He’d kept it private and personal, loving his times alone here. Occasionally he’d entertained like-minded clients who’d turned into friends, but never, it had to be said, anyone who was still at the stage of pitching a proposal.

      He stood now in the library, sheaves of papers strewn all over the table. Beyond them, through the window, he looked out over the old familiar gardens and tennis courts, down to the pool house to where, with another apology, he’d sent word for her to wait for him.

      The hour he’d asked her to wait had become three, as he’d rummaged through Maria’s unfiled documents, with calls back and forth to Mark. He’d sent more apologies and the offer of anything his guest’s heart desired, including food and drink, spa treatments from his private masseuse and her choice of clothes from the vast wardrobes in the villa.

      Finally, he closed the door of the safe, clutching the bundle of papers that he’d been searching for. They were a mess but they showed Maria’s ownership of a company listed in Cayman. He connected by video phone to Mark and his lawyer and together they went through them word by word. It seemed that she’d bought a shadow company, but that it had ceased trading six months later.

      There was no sign of any money ever changing hands between her and his father. And there was no sign of any profits, which meant that neither his father nor Martin nor the Inland Revenue were due anything at all.

      Finally even the calm, unflappable Mark breathed out a sigh of relief. And that said something.

      ‘That was a close call. I don’t think we’re out of the woods yet, but at least we know there was stuff happening that you weren’t party to. This is good news.’

      Good news. He nodded as the knowledge sank in. His wife had deceived him in new and even more dangerous ways. It shouldn’t really have been a surprise, but it was still painful. And what else was he going to find out?

      ‘I take it you’ll be out of commission for the next few hours in some kind of post-apocalyptic celebration?’

      ‘For your information, I’m going straight into another meeting. I’ve got someone waiting to pitch a new concession for House.’

      ‘A pitch? On Sunday. After what you’ve just been through?’

      ‘It’s no big deal. I don’t think it’ll come to anything. It’s a favour to a friend—it’s bridalwear, bespoke—not something I see working for us. It’s not the right brand, but I might be able to give her some feedback that’ll help.’

      ‘Sounds like just the way to unwind after averting an unaffordable tax bill, a rush on your stock and a media storm. But hey, who am I to judge?’

      Nikos raised his eyebrow at Mark’s attempt at humour. He was emotionally wrung out, stressed out and jet-lagged. And now he had this to do. Mark was right. He wouldn’t be able to focus on a word she was saying. He had to just chill for a couple of hours.

      ‘Incidentally, I’ve doubled your security in the short term. Until all this blows over. I think it’s best to be on the safe side.’

      ‘Is there anyone here in Greece?’

      ‘Not since after the break-in. Your last-minute change of plans caught us off guard but I can get a couple of guys there if you want.’

      ‘It’s OK, I’ll be heading back soon. Thanks,’ said Nikos, then clicked off the phone and pocketed it. The break-in six months earlier had taken him by surprise, but it was just some opportunistic petty criminal. They’d been disturbed before they could take anything.

      Still, he was glad Mark had the sense to step things up. He’d felt uneasy leaving Manhattan, but then, these days he felt uneasy everywhere. Leaving Maybury Hall he’d felt something wasn’t right, that strange car, parked too long, that just happened to stop off at Lower Linton when he did…?

      He was probably getting paranoid.

      He tripped down the steps to the pool, just as he caught sight of Jacquelyn, sitting under a parasol in the shade, her laptop in front of her, staring intently at the screen. Her brow was furrowed and her eyes intense, her lips moving, her hands gesticulating—she was practising her pitch to him.

      Oh, man. She was all geared up and he was gearing down.

      He took the last flight of steps, slowing his pace, trying to think of the best words to begin his own pitch to her.