One Kiss in... London. Carol Marinelli
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turned and looked over his shoulder as the car slid off. ‘Have I driven you before?’
‘I’ve never been to Xanos,’ Nico said. ‘Perhaps in Lathira, or on the mainland.’
‘I’ve never been off the island.’ George shrugged. ‘You look familiar. Are you sure …?’
‘You’re mistaken,’ Nico said, because he did not like small talk, or pointless chatter, but ‘familiar’ was a word that would repeat in his soul throughout the day. George took him down streets and through the town, along the curved mountains, to viewpoints that looked out to the ocean, and Nico felt something he hadn’t even known was missing. He felt peace in the midst of confusion, a peace he had never known.
‘I want to see the south.’
That caused a flurry of grumbles from George. ‘It’s all changed now,’ he moaned. ‘You have to pay to go there. There’s only one road and there’s a toll—there’s even a watchman. They say it’s to keep the press away, but it’s as much to keep us locals out. He might not let us through …’
‘He’ll let me,’ Nico said, because it was never otherwise, and sure enough, as the tollman peered into the back of the car and saw Nico lounging there, they were waved on immediately.
‘It was always the poor side,’ George explained, and for once Nico wanted to hear from his driver and asked him questions, encouraged him to speak on. ‘The soil is more fertile in the north, that is where vines and orchards are, and the markets and ferry, too—really the south was just for local fishing, but not now.’
As the car swept along the beach road, even Nico, who was used to luxury, was taken aback by the contrast to the north of the island. Huge homes were carved into the rocky hillside. Yachts were out for their Sunday sail, but it had none of the charm of Puerto Banus; there was a certain sterility to the place and Nico was less than impressed.
‘It would be good for the island’s economy, though?’ Nico asked, because that the was the sort of talk he was interested in, but George shook his head. ‘They come here for seclusion, they don’t eat in our restaurants and the developer uses his own men for the building. Really, it has done nothing for us …’
Nico could see what he meant as they drove: the houses were stunning, vast properties that overlooked the ocean, but the main street was nothing like the bustling town of Xanos, the aroma-filled town centre on the north of the island where yesterday he had sat. Here it was a sanitized version, with an exclusive hotel and smart designer boutiques, trendy cafés and restaurants.
‘Which serve what foreigners think is Greek,’ George explained, and Nico found himself smiling as they drove on. ‘These aren’t done yet,’ George said. ‘This was how it once looked.’ And this was the real Xanos, Nico decided and told George to slow down. Simple houses were dotted in the hillside, but the once-loved gardens were now overgrown and neglected, the bulldozers idle for the weekend but waiting to move in soon. There was a small taverna they drove past, where tradesmen now ate and drank, George explained, and what was left of the locals, but soon they, too, would be gone.
‘They’re all sold,’ George said as Nico moved for his phone. ‘He bought up the lot—there are a few locals that lease from him, but only till the work is complete and he’s done with them.’
‘Who?’ Nico asked, but George didn’t know.
‘Some rich Australian.’ Lack of information didn’t stop Nico. Neither did the fact that it was Sunday. Even if it was her one weekend off, he rang an eternally patient Charlotte and told her to make enquiries and to get back to him. Then got out of the car and started walking.
He wandered for an hour or more, along the cobbled streets and up the stone steps to a couple of deserted properties. He found one that was a little larger, shaded by a vast fig tree, whose fruit lay rotting on the ground. The air thick with the scent of it but there was beauty in neglect, too; the paths were overgrown, the stone pool mossed and empty, but vivid cyclamen still burst from shaded pots and it wasn’t Puerto Banus that was tempting him now.
‘They’re not interested in selling.’ Charlotte soon got back to him. ‘Especially not on a Sunday.’
‘Get me a price,’ Nico said, because there always was one, and Nico was more specific with his instruction now, describing the house in detail, this the one that he wanted. He lingered a little longer, searching for answers to a question he didn’t know, then back to the old town they went. Nico was looking for something he did not understand, but his head was pounding by the time he was back at the hotel.
He went to the bar.
Told himself it did not matter that there was no sign of her.
He checked his phone for perhaps the fiftieth time, answering it promptly when it rang. He was curiously deflated when it was Charlotte on the other end. Even Nico’s eyes widened when his PA rang and gave him the price.
‘He’s not interested in negotiating,’ Charlotte relayed.
‘Who?’ Nico asked.
‘I just got a lawyer, and he wasn’t particularly chatty. That’s the price,’ Charlotte said. ‘Are you sure you’re not in Monte Carlo?’
He let out a grudging laugh.
He worked well with Charlotte, perhaps because they rarely saw each other—she lived in London and was permanently available on the phone and online. Occasionally, when needed, she travelled with him, but their relationship had survived because, unlike too many previous PAs, Nico had not bedded her. Put simply there was no attraction, just mutual liking, and as a team they worked well.
‘I’ll ring and speak with him …’
‘Well, good luck, but he’s been instructed that you can take it or leave it. If you try to bring the price down, he will refuse to take any more calls.’
His business brain instantly rejected it, but for a moment he lingered. There was need to be here and he had no reason why.
His mind flicked to Constantine.
To dangerous thoughts of long-time lovers, but he hauled himself out of that tempting space.
But what if she needed somewhere to run to if she chose to reveal all?
Nico scolded himself for the very idea.
It was a bloody expensive women’s refuge!
It would be a most fiscally unwise decision, logic warned him—he should follow his own rule, buy when the pendulum swung in the other direction, when the developer went bust or the rich and famous migrated to the next exclusive locale.
‘I’ll text you the number.’ Charlotte said, but Nico halted her before she rang off.
‘Tell him I’ll take it and get the paperwork started.’ He heard his voice disobey his brain’s orders and then snapped off his phone.
Instinct won.
And then he looked up and saw her walk into the bar with her husband and their families. And she would be his lover, Nico decided. For her, he would break his rules—would be her regular refuge. He saw the strain on her features, saw her eyes almost pleading as they met his.
How she pleaded.
Connie felt like a hostage, her family her captor, and there, most unexpectedly, was Nico and she wanted his arms, wanted not to be made love to tonight but to be held, to be shielded, to be carried down the ladder from the wreckage her family had built for her.
She watched him stand.
Watched as he lifted his hotel key and rather pointedly pocketed it, and knew now that tonight she could go there—that Nico would be there for her, that maybe what she had wished for last night was being offered: liaisons in Athens; passion and phone calls; an occasional escape to a secret life.
How much easier it would be to play along with the charade, to laugh along with her parents and