His Virgin Mistress

‘Watch your tongue,’ said Demetri shortly, and Spiro arched a wounded brow.

‘I gather you were sent away with your tail between your legs,’ he observed, ignoring the reproof. ‘What is the matter? Did she tell you she was playing for bigger stakes?’

‘Do not be stupid!’ Demetri placed his hands on the arms of the chair and pushed himself to his feet. He glanced around. ‘Is there anything to drink in here?’

Spiro pushed his hands into his trouser pockets and swayed back on his heels, surveying the large room with a considering eye. ‘It does not look like it,’ he said. ‘Why do we not join your father’s guests? There is a bar in the library.’

‘Thank you, I know that,’ retorted Demetri, scowling. ‘Look, why do you not go and join the party? I am—not in the mood for company.’

‘Why not?’

‘Theos, Spiro, mind your own damn business!’ Demetri heaved a frustrated breath. ‘You are not my keeper, you know.’

Spiro shrugged his shoulders. ‘So you did lose out?’

‘No!’ Demetri stared at his friend with angry eyes. Then, when Spiro didn’t back down, he gave a resigned shake of his head. ‘All right. I did not even get to speak to her. No pain, no gain. Does that answer your question?’

‘Not really.’ Spiro waited. ‘Was she not in her own apartments?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Demetri was sardonic. ‘She was there. She just was not alone, that is all.’

Spiro’s mouth formed a pronounced circle. ‘Oh,’ he said drily. ‘Well, there is always tomorrow.’

‘Yeah.’ Demetri was ironic. ‘And tomorrow and tomorrow,’ he acceded flatly. ‘Come. Let us go and find a drink. I do not want the old man to think I have got anything to hide.’

‘Do you think he has?’

‘Who knows?’ Demetri made a careless gesture. ‘I wonder why he has brought her here.’

Spiro pulled a face. ‘I think I can hazard a guess,’ he remarked, and Demetri gave him an impatient look.

‘Yeah, right,’ he said shortly. ‘She is to be his guest at Alex’s wedding.’ He frowned. ‘I wonder where Mr Manning is.’

‘If there is a Mr Manning.’

‘You think she is lying?’

‘No.’ Spiro shook his head. ‘But she is not wearing a ring. Do you think she is divorced?’

‘Who knows?’ Demetri was weary of the whole conversation. ‘Rings do not mean a lot these days. Besides, what does it signify? She is here. That is the only thing that matters.’

‘Do you think their relationship is serious?’

Demetri was taken aback. ‘Do you?’

‘Perhaps.’ Spiro looked pensive. ‘Your father seems to care about her. Do you not think so?’

Demetri scowled. ‘So what are you saying? That he intends to marry her?’

‘Hardly that.’ Spiro drew in a breath as they started towards the door. ‘But serious illness can do strange things to people, filos mou. Being reminded of your own mortality can leave you with a desperate desire to embrace life.’

Demetri snorted. ‘Since when did you become a philosopher?’

‘I am just trying to be objective,’ Spiro protested. ‘And, despite reports to the contrary, Mrs Manning does not give me the impression that her relationship with your father is purely for financial gain.’

‘You feel you know her that well?’ Demetri was scornful.

‘No.’ Spiro was defensive now. ‘But I have been here since yesterday, when they arrived. I have watched them together. And, if I was scrupulously honest, I would say that they have known one another a considerable length of time.’

‘Have you known my father long?’

The question was asked by a slim dark woman, whose resemblance to her father was unmistakable. Constantine had told Joanna that Olivia, too, had married when she was nineteen. But the marriage hadn’t lasted. In Constantine’s opinion Olivia had been too spoilt, too headstrong, to submit to her ex-husband’s needs. Within months of wedding Andrea Petrou she had returned to Theapolis, and since then she had shown no serious interest in any other man.

Joanna knew that Olivia was the eldest of Constantine’s three children. At thirty-six, she considered herself the mistress of his house, which was perhaps why she was viewing Joanna with such suspicion. Maybe she saw the other woman as a challenge to her authority, and Joanna was glad that her ankle-length beaded sheath bore favourable comparison with the froth of chiffon that Olivia was wearing.

She had cornered Joanna beside the polished cabinets that housed her father’s collection of snuffboxes. She had chosen her moment, and Joanna realised she had been a little foolish to walk away from Constantine and lay herself open to cross-examination.

‘Quite long,’ she responded now, directing her attention to the jewelled items that had drawn her across the room in the first place. She had delivered many of these boxes to Constantine herself, and it was fascinating to see them all together in the display case. Aware that Olivia was still beside her, she added, ‘Aren’t these beautiful?’

‘Valuable, certainly,’ said Olivia insolently. ‘Are you interested in antiques, Mrs Manning?’

Joanna ignored the implication and, taking the woman’s words at face value, she replied, ‘I—I work with antiques, actually.’ She paused. ‘As a matter of fact, that is how I met your father.’

Olivia’s thin brows elevated. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’ Joanna chose her words with care. ‘I work for an auction house.’

‘An auction house?’ Olivia immediately picked up on the information. ‘In London?’

‘That’s right.’ Joanna allowed a little sigh to escape her. ‘What do you do, Mrs Petrou?’

‘What do I do?’

Olivia was clearly taken aback, but before she could say anything more her father came to join them. Slipping an arm about Joanna’s waist, he said, ‘Well, let me see: she is a fabulous dancer, an expert at water sports, and extremely good at spending money. My money,’ he added drily. ‘Is that not so, Livvy? Have I missed anything out?’

‘Because you will not let me do anything else,’ retorted Olivia shortly. Then, struggling to contain her anger, ‘In any case, I do not think it is any of Mrs Manning’s business.’

Joanna was unhappily aware that she had made another enemy. It was obvious that none of Constantine’s offspring would blame him for his indiscretions. As far as they were concerned, she had instigated this whole affair.

Deciding there was nothing she could say which would placate Olivia, she turned to Constantine instead. ‘How are you?’ she asked, before he could remonstrate with his daughter. ‘You’re looking tired. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather eat upstairs?’

‘I am sure you would,’ murmured Constantine, for her ears only. But, for all his attempt at humour, he was looking drained. The day had taken a toll on his depleted resources and he should have been resting. But she had always admired his strength of spirit, and he demonstrated it again now. ‘How could I desert our guests? Besides, I am ready for my dinner,’ he averred, his smile warm and enveloping. ‘Are you?’

Knowing better than to argue with him, Joanna tucked her arm through his. ‘Is it time to go in?’

‘When I have finished this,’ agreed Constantine, indicating the remnants of the spirit in his glass. He held the glass up to a nearby lamp. ‘Do you know, you can only get real ouzo in Greece? I have tried it elsewhere, but it is never the same.’

‘Ought you to be drinking alcohol, Papa?’ Olivia had been observing their exchange in silence, but now she took his other arm. ‘You have been ill, Papa. I worry about you.’ She glanced disparagingly at Joanna. ‘It is important that you do not overstretch your strength.’