was only temporary, filling in for someone on maternity leave.
All the winter jobs for reps with tour companies had already gone when she came back to Britain, although her old company Halcyon Club Travel were keen to hire her again next summer.
And that’s what she planned to do, although she’d stipulated that she would not return to any of the Greek islands.
On her way to the stairs, she paused to collect her mail from the row of rickety pigeon-holes on the wall.
Mostly circulars, she judged, and the gas bill—and then stopped, her attention totally arrested as she saw the Greek stamp.
She stared down at the large square envelope with its neatly typed direction, her eyes dilating, a small choked sound rising in her throat.
She thought, ‘He’s found me. He knows where I am. But how?’
And why was he making contact with her directly, when she’d made it clear that all correspondence was to be conducted through their lawyers?
But then, when had Mick Theodakis ever played by any rules except his own?
She went up the stairs slowly, aware that her legs were shaking. When she reached her door, she had to struggle to fit her key into the lock, but at last she managed it.
In her small living room, she dropped the letter on to the dining table as if it was red-hot, then walked across to her answerphone which was blinking at her, and pressed the ‘play’ button. Perhaps, if Mick had written to her, he’d also contacted her lawyer, and the message she was hoping for might be waiting at last.
Instead Grant’s concerned voice said, ‘Kate—are you all right? You haven’t called me this week. Touch base, darling—please.’
Kate sighed inwardly, and went across to the bedroom to take off the navy shift dress, and navy and emerald striped blazer that constituted her uniform.
It was kind of Grant to be anxious, but she knew in her heart that it was more than kindness that prompted his frequent calls. It was pressure. He wanted her back, their former relationship re-established, and moved on to the next stage. He took it for granted that she wanted this too. That, like him, she regarded the past year as an aberration—a period of temporary insanity, now happily concluded. And that when she had gained her divorce, she would marry him.
But Kate knew it would never happen. She and Grant had not been officially engaged, when she’d gone off to work as a travel company rep on Zycos in the Ionian Sea, but she knew, when the season was over, he would ask her to marry him, and that she would probably agree.
She hadn’t even been sure why she was hesitating. He was good-looking, they shared a number of interests, and, if his kisses did not set her on fire, Kate enjoyed them enough to look forward to the full consummation of their relationship. And during her weeks on Zycos she had missed him, written to him every week, and happily anticipated his phone calls planning their future.
Surely that was a good enough basis for marriage—wasn’t it?
Probably Grant thought it still was. Only she knew better. Knew she was no longer the same person. And soon she would have to tell him so, she thought with genuine regret.
She unzipped her dress, and put it on a hanger. Underneath she was wearing bra and briefs in white broderie anglaise, pretty and practical, but not glamorous or sexy, she thought, studying herself dispassionately.
And totally different from the exquisite lingerie that Mick had brought her from Paris and Rome—lacy cobwebby things that whispered against her skin. Filmy enticing scraps to please the eyes of a lover.
Only, there was no lover—and never had been.
She slipped on her pale-green gingham housecoat and tied its sash, then put up a hand and removed the barrette that confined her red-gold hair at the nape of her neck during the working day, letting it cascade down to her shoulders.
‘Like a scented flame,’ Mick would tell her huskily, his hands tangling in the silky strands—lifting them to his lips.
She stiffened, recognising that was a no-go area. She could not afford such memories.
She wanted to move away from the mirror but something kept her there, examining herself with cold critical attention.
How could she ever have imagined in her wildest dreams that she was the kind of woman to attract and hold a man like Mick Theodakis? she asked herself bleakly.
Because she had never been a classic beauty. Her nose was too long and her jaw too square for that. But she had good cheekbones, and long lashes, although the eyes they fringed were an odd shade between green and grey.
‘Jade smoke,’ Mick had called them…
And she was luckier than most redheads, she thought, swiftly refocusing her attention. Her creamy skin didn’t burn or freckle, but turned a light, even gold. The tan she’d acquired in Greece still lingered. She could see quite plainly the white band of her finger where her wedding ring had been. But that was the only mark, because Mick had always encouraged her to join him in sunbathing nude beside their private pool.
She froze, cursing inwardly. Oh, God, why was she doing this to herself—allowing herself to remember these things?
Well, she knew why, of course. It was because of that envelope ticking away like a time bomb in the other room.
Her throat tightened uncontrollably. She turned away from the mirror and went into the kitchen and made herself a mug of coffee, hot, black and very strong. If she’d had any brandy, she’d have added a dollop of that too.
Then, she sat down at the table, and steeled herself to open the envelope.
It was disturbing to realise how easily he’d been able to pinpoint her whereabouts—as if he was demonstrating his power over her from across the world. Showing her that there was nowhere she could run and hide. No refuge that he could not find.
Only he had no power, she told herself fiercely. Not any more. Not ever again. And she tore open the envelope.
She found herself staring down at an elegantly engraved white card. A wedding invitation, she thought in total bewilderment, as she scanned it. And the last thing she’d expected to find. She felt oddly deflated as she read the beautifully printed words.
So—Ismene, Mick’s younger sister was marrying her Petros at last. But why on earth was she being sent an invitation?
Frowningly, she unfolded the accompanying note.
‘Dearest Katharina,’ it read. ‘Papa finally gave his permission and I am so happy. We are to be married in the village in October, and you promised you would be there for me on my wedding day. I depend on you, sister. Your loving Ismene.’
Kate crumpled the note in her hand. Was Ismene crazy, or just naïve? she wondered. She couldn’t really expect her brother’s estranged wife to be part of a family occasion, whatever rash commitment Kate might have made in those early days when she was still living in her fool’s paradise.
But I’m not that person any more, Kate thought, her face set, her body rigid. I’ll have to write to her—explain somehow.
But why had Mick ever allowed the invitation to be sent? It made no sense. Although the wilful Ismene probably hadn’t bothered to seek his permission, she acknowledged with a faint sigh.
And she was astonished that Aristotle Theodakis, the all-powerful patriarch of the family, had agreed to the marriage. While she’d been living under his roof at the Villa Dionysius, he’d been adamantly opposed to it. No mere doctor was good enough for his daughter, he’d roared, even if it was the son of his old friend and tavli opponent. And slammed doors, furious scenes, and the sound of Ismene’s hysterical weeping had been almost daily occurrences.
Until Mick had flatly announced he could stand no more, and had insisted that he and Kate move out of their wing of the main building, and out of earshot, down to the comparative seclusion of