Won by the Wealthy Greek. Cathy Williams
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yourself reprimanded, Charlotte thought. The one thing she didn’t want to do was cause offence. ‘I’m sorry—you’re quite right,’ she said quickly. ‘I won’t take anyone’s photograph without asking their permission first—’
‘No,’ Marianna said firmly, holding up her hand. ‘It would be better if you did not bring your camera at all. People can be…’
‘Yes?’ Charlotte pressed when the older woman fell silent.
Marianna only shrugged. ‘It would be better if you did not bring your camera,’ she repeated doggedly.
‘In that case, I won’t,’ Charlotte promised. Maybe that was what was wrong with the fisherman on the beach—he had suspected there was someone taking photographs. Marianna’s reference to centuries of tradition made Charlotte wonder if there was some superstition-based prejudice on Iskos that forbade the use of photography. ‘See you at nine,’ she said, returning to the present as she waved Marianna off with a smile.
Charlotte felt a rush of excitement as she contemplated the evening ahead. Her glance flew to the opposite side of the shore. She could just make out the white tops of the outdoor tables at the taverna, waiting for their traditional blue and white checked tablecloths to decorate the Formica surfaces.
There was no sign of the fisherman or his boat, and she turned her attention instead to the wooden jetty extending out on stilts into the sea. It was lit by twinkling lights at night, and from her eyrie on top of the cliff she had often thought it the most romantic place on earth. On several occasions haunting music had floated up to her in waves, and she had just been able to make out couples dancing close together, watch the tiny figures forming into a line to dance the kalamatiana, the traditional dance of Greece. And now, tonight, in just a few hours, she would be there!
Without a partner, Charlotte remembered wryly. But she was looking forward to all the good food Marianna had mentioned. Just the thought of the freshly caught fish and delectable mezedhes, the hors d’oeuvres of Greece, was enough to make her mouth water. And, who knew? She might even be invited to dance.
She would write all day, Charlotte decided, remembering the article still awaiting her attention. But then, as a reward, she would dance all night…
She hadn’t realised there was quite so much Lycra in the designer dresses, and with just half an hour to go before Marianna arrived Charlotte was still trying to make up her mind which one to wear. Would it be the skin-tight red dress with the plunging neckline, or the backless eau-de-nil number?
From the front at least the pale green dress looked quite respectable—except that it made her breasts look like melons and her backside—Thankfully, her head refused to go any further round to get a proper look, so she was going to overlook that problem. But at least the shade was subtle, Charlotte told herself, and she made her final decision.
If she draped a shawl around her shoulders she would be pretty well covered up. And it was either that or shorts and a tee-shirt—and Marianna had stipulated party dress. She couldn’t disappoint, could she? Charlotte mused, reverently lifting out the dainty Jimmy Choos her chums had insisted she pack along with the dresses. Irresistible! Charlotte held up the sandals to admire them. Goodbye flat sandals, hello stiletto heaven. She eased her slim, tanned feet beneath the fragile, beaded straps.
She was beginning to feel like Cinderella, Charlotte realised as she gathered up her long sun-streaked hair. Holding it with a discreet tortoiseshell clip, she dragged down a few tendrils to soften the effect.
Finally she attended to her freckles, using make-up with an unusually heavy hand. They certainly disappeared, but under a thick coating of foundation that left her face looking like a mask, so then she had to add some rouge to lift the effect.
The transformation was startling, to say the least. And it wasn’t quite what she was used to. She could always hide behind the shawl, Charlotte consoled herself. But the slash of bright red lipstick helped to boost her confidence, as did the layers of black mascara she’d applied to her lashes. But there wasn’t much of her old self left by the time she had finished, she realised, pulling a face at herself in the mirror. But as this was ‘new’ Charlotte—the one with all the confidence—that was good, wasn’t it?
Marianna arrived on the dot of nine, dressed in her finest black regalia, consisting of a voluminous ankle-length skirt, sensible shoes, and an all-concealing top, with the ubiquitous headscarf arranged to allow just a peep of sleek, centrally parted steel-grey hair.
‘Ready?’ Her thoughts on Charlotte’s appearance were revealed by a drawing together of her brows and a click of her tongue. ‘This is your party dress?’ she demanded uncertainly, giving Charlotte’s outfit a comprehensive perusal.
‘This is it,’ Charlotte agreed with an air of finality. She just couldn’t face the rigmarole of starting over again, trying to decide what to wear.
‘Then we go,’ Marianna said with a shrug, drawing the soft cream-coloured shawl down over Charlotte’s naked back and securing it a little closer around her neck.
CHAPTER FOUR
ANY apprehension Charlotte might have felt about her first night out on the island was quickly dispelled when they arrived at the taverna. Marianna was greeted like an honoured guest, and they were shown to one of the best tables, just where Charlotte had hoped it would be, out on the jetty at the very edge of the dance floor.
Marianna introduced the owner of the taverna to Charlotte as Mikos, and with a click of his fingers he summoned one of the young waiters forward. The good-looking youth quickly lit a candle for them, and provided a basket of freshly baked bread, together with a bowl of olive oil in which to dunk it, as well as a large bottle of fridge-chilled water and some drinking glasses.
‘I invite you both to visit my kitchen and take your pick of the food,’ Mikos announced, turning from Charlotte to Marianna. ‘I want you to have the very best, Kiria Lyknos,’ he said with deference. ‘I caught some excellent fish today.’ And then, turning to Charlotte, he explained with a flourish, ‘Mikos Anglias—part-time restaurateur, full-time fisherman. At least, I am a fisherman in my head,’ he added wryly. ‘Fishing is a state of mind here on Iskos—is that not correct, Kiria Lyknos?’
‘Everyone envies the fishermen of Iskos,’ Marianna agreed, nodding sagely.
Charlotte warmed to the ebullient owner of the taverna immediately. He seemed to validate the theme of her article that here on Iskos people were valued for their inner qualities, rather than for their wealth or position. Her heart thundered on cue as she remembered the source of that idea. And she had tried so hard to avoid any thought of the fisherman, Charlotte berated herself silently. She didn’t want anything to spoil the evening.
Thinking of him now made her look around anxiously. The other tables were filling up rapidly, but of course he was nowhere to be seen. She told herself not to be so jumpy, but still her heart insisted on pounding, as if he was somewhere close by—so much so that Marianna was forced to ask her twice to accompany her to the kitchen before Charlotte even realised that both she and Mikos were standing up and waiting for her to accompany them.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she apologised, getting to her feet right away. But she wasn’t allowed to set forth just yet. Having appointed herself unofficial chaperone for the evening, Marianna wouldn’t allow Charlotte to follow Mikos until the concealing cream shawl had been well and truly secured around her shoulders.
When she pushed through the swinging doors and entered the small kitchen it was like entering another world. The hub of the taverna was everything Charlotte had expected—hot, steamy, and full of noise. Pan lids crashed, pots bubbled and wheezed on the central cooking station, while a veritable army of people criss-crossed each other’s paths at speed, as if mounted on invisible tracks.
Forced to press back against the wall to let them pass, Charlotte took a few moments to get her bearings. Then suddenly there was a lull, and the room cleared. The two cooks at the central island continued ladling and stirring to some confident inner rhythm,