His Virgin Mistress. Anne Mather
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likely to show my hand so early in the game.’
Nevertheless, as Demetri made his way across the room he was aware of an intense feeling of irritation. Dammit, his father had only been out of hospital for a few weeks; weeks that he had spent in London, ostensibly to avoid the blistering heat of Theapolis in mid-summer. The old man had been ill; seriously ill. In God’s name, when had he found the time to meet this woman, let alone become intimate with her?
He would find out. Offering a word of greeting here, an acknowledgement of welcome there, he gradually covered the space dividing him from Constantine Kastro and his mistress. What was her name? Manning, yes. But what was her first name? Demetri frowned, thinking. Joanna! That was it. Joanna Manning. Was it her real name? If so, it was elegant, just like the woman herself.
‘Do not tell me that frown is because you are sad to see me back, Demetri.’
His father’s chiding words—spoken in English for the woman’s benefit, Demetri assumed—were delivered in a mocking tone. Demetri realised he was allowing too much of his feelings to show in his face and he hastily schooled his features. Then, finding a polite smile, he shook the old man’s hand and submitted to the customary embrace with genuine warmth.
‘Forgive me, Papa,’ he said disarmingly, and no one could tell from his expression that he was anything but delighted with the present situation. ‘Naturally, I am relieved your physicians consider you well enough to return to us at last.’
Constantine looked less than pleased now, his narrow features mirroring his discontent. ‘I am not an invalid, Demetri,’ he declared irritably, even though his wasted body belied the fact. ‘The doctors have given me a clean bill of health, and I do not appreciate you behaving as if I had only just got out of hospital.’
Demetri made no response to this. Instead, his eyes moved to the woman standing at his father’s side, and, because they were surrounded by interested spectators, Constantine was obliged to introduce his companion to his son.
‘My dear,’ he said and Demetri stiffened at the implied intimacy in the term. ‘Allow me to present my son to you. Demetrios: this is Joanna. Joanna Manning. My—my friend.’
‘How do you do?’
The woman didn’t make the mistake of calling him by his first name and Demetri’s thin lips stretched into a tight smile. ‘It is my pleasure to meet you, Kiria Manning,’ he responded politely. ‘I trust you are not finding our weather too trying for your English tastes?’
‘On the contrary.’ Despite the faint film of perspiration on her upper lip, she denied it. ‘I love the heat. It’s so—sensual.’
Sensual?
Demetri had to work hard to prevent himself from showing his incredulity. He had heard his father was besotted by the woman, but he hadn’t expected her to disconcert him. And why was she watching him with that air of amused speculation? She was taller than most of the women of his acquaintance—easily five feet eight or nine—and, although he was still almost a head taller than she was, she didn’t have to tilt her head too far to look up at him. If he hadn’t known better he’d have wondered if she wasn’t deliberately trying to irritate him. But that was ridiculous. Nevertheless, there was a definite look of challenge in her face.
‘Katalava.’ I see. Conscious that his father was enjoying his confusion, Demetri inadvertently spoke in his own language. But he quickly corrected himself. ‘You are familiar with our Greek weather, Miss Manning?’
‘It’s Mrs Manning, actually,’ she corrected him. ‘But please call me Joanna, or Jo, if you prefer it.’ Then, with an affectionate look at Constantine. ‘Not yet. The weather, I mean. But I hope to be.’
Now, why am I not surprised?
It was all Demetri could do to prevent himself from saying the words out loud. But at least he knew a little more about her now. No one had seen fit to tell him that she’d been married. But it figured. And if he’d had any doubts about her relationship with his father they’d been dispelled by the familiarity of that look.
‘Do you live on the island—um—Demetrios?’ she asked suddenly, surprising him again. ‘Or do you have your own home?’
‘This is my home,’ replied Demetri, unable to quite disguise his indignation. ‘This house is our family home.’ He paused. ‘But do not worry, Mrs Manning. It is quite big enough to accommodate us all without any—what is it you say?—stepping on toes?’
He was pleased to see that her soft mouth tightened a little at this rebuff. The upper lip was drawn between her teeth and the lower, which was so much fuller and more vulnerable, curved protectively. Then he scowled. When had he started thinking that her mouth was soft, or vulnerable, for that matter? She was a kept woman, for heaven’s sake. Hardly better than the sluts who plied their trade on the streets of Athens. He had no need to feel sorry for her. It was his father who was the vulnerable one. Vulnerable, and foolish. What on earth did he think she saw in a man at least thirty years her senior?
‘Demetri has his own apartments in the house,’ Constantine put in now, the look he cast at his son promising retribution later. ‘As do Alex and Olivia. As my son says, this is our family home. Our island fortress, if you will. I regret you will discover that security is paramount in our situation.’
Joanna nodded. ‘I understand.’
‘I doubt you do,’ put in Demetri pleasantly, though his feelings were anything but. ‘My father is a constant target for terrorists and paparazzi alike. Only on Theapolis can we—usually—ensure that he is not at the mercy of unscrupulous men—and women.’
Her eyes flashed then, and he noticed how deep a blue they were. ‘I trust you are not suggesting that I am any threat to your father?’ she demanded coolly, her earlier amusement all gone now. He could hardly suppress a smile.
‘Of course not,’ he said, but when his dark eyes strayed to his father’s taut face he saw he was by no means convinced by his son’s denial. ‘I am sure you and my father must have a lot in common. Tell me, Mrs Manning, do you have children, too?’
‘No.’
Her answer was almost curt, but it didn’t have quite the effect he’d expected. Instead of showing surprise, his father put his arm about her shoulders and drew her closer to him. Demetri was almost sure Constantine was reacting to something she’d told him, and he wondered what it was. He didn’t like the idea that their relationship might be more than a temporary aberration on his father’s part. A desire to prove his masculinity was one thing; a threat to his mother’s memory was quite another.
But, before he could say any more, Constantine himself severed the conversation. ‘Come,’ he said to Joanna Manning. ‘I see Nikolas Poros over there. He is a friend as well as a business colleague. I would like you to meet him.’ He looked briefly at his son. ‘You will excuse us?’
It was hardly a question. Although Demetri bowed his head in silent acknowledgement they both knew he wasn’t being given an option. Instead, he stepped back to allow them free passage, aware as he did so that Joanna gave him a covert glance as she passed. Was it a triumphant glance? he wondered broodingly, watching them make their way across the room. He couldn’t be sure. But one thing seemed apparent to him: his father’s infatuation with her went deeper than the sexual fascination he had anticipated.
‘Demetri! Demetri, pos iseh?’ How are you? ‘Na seh keraso kanena poto?’ Can I get you a drink?
With an effort, he became aware that there were other people around him. Neighbours; friends, relatives. They had all gathered to welcome the old man home, and his own absence until just a few minutes ago had not gone unnoticed. Forcing himself to put the problem of his father and his mistress aside, he accepted the greetings he was offered with a grim smile, aware that for the moment he was obliged to play the devoted son.
And he was devoted, dammit, he thought, taking the glass of champagne he was offered with controlled grace. But he was also his father’s