The Enigmatic Greek

‘I did not catch his name over the noise of the boat engine. Now, lead me to Sofia so I can beg her for coffee.’

Sofia and her crew were clustered at the kitchen door, faces wreathed in smiles as they greeted ‘kyria Talia’ in rapture and pressed her to have coffee, wine, pastries or anything her heart desired that they could provide.

One of the new arrivals on the neighbouring island of Karpyros felt a rush of excitement as she focused her discreet little binoculars on the action across the water. At this distance it was hard to be sure, but the man hugging a blonde over there surely had to be the rare sight of Alexei Drakos, the boy-wonder entrepreneur famed for his hostility towards the media.

Eleanor tucked the binoculars away when her lunch arrived and with a smile thanked the young waiter in the basic Greek she’d crammed for her current assignment: a series of travel articles on lesser-known Greek islands well off the tourist trail. It was more ambitious than anything she’d worked on to date, and before grudgingly signing off on expenses her editor had dropped a bombshell by stipulating a shot at an interview with Alexei Drakos as part of the deal.

‘Since the Mavros woman did the dirty on him a few months ago, he’s kept a very low profile, but apparently he always visits his island in June. Make damn sure you get there in good time because tourists swarm there for some festival he’s put on every year since he bought the island. There’s no accommodation, so book a room somewhere else, plus a boat to get you there on the day.’ Ross McLean had flashed his bleached veneers at her. ‘And wear something sexy to beard the lion in his den.’

‘Drakos translates as dragon, not lion,’ she’d retorted. ‘And I don’t do sexy!’

On her way out Eleanor had heard him muttering about college girls who thought they knew it all and rolled her eyes. There was fat chance of getting a reporter’s job these days without a college degree, and to augment hers she’d worked her socks off to add photography to her journalism qualifications; something greatly to her advantage with Ross McLean because it saved him the expense of a photographer.

Now she was almost literally in sight of her quarry, Eleanor refused to spoil her appetite by worrying about how to achieve the scoop her boss was so hot for. But succeed she would, somehow, if only to show him just what a ‘college girl’ could do. Maybe the reclusive Mr Drakos would be in a sociable mood now the blonde had arrived to keep him company. Though Ross, drat the man, knew very well he was asking the impossible. Alexei Drakos had been famous for stonewalling journalists even before the lurid exposé by a furious ex-lover. But who had he been hugging today? No matter how hard she’d dug, Eleanor had learned frustratingly little about the man’s private life other than the woman-scorned outpourings of Christina Mavros. Her research into his professional persona had built up a picture of a wunderkind who achieved success while still at school with some kind of genius software technology, and as an adult entrepreneur went on to put his money to good use with investments in pharmaceuticals, property and more technology. But, other than his reputation for philanthropy she had no clue to the man behind the public persona.

The taverna owner’s son rushed over as Eleanor got up to leave and carried her luggage the short distance to one of the small apartments. He set her bags down on the small veranda fronting the last of the square white cubes overlooking the harbour and unlocked the blue door. Eleanor smiled in approval at the scrupulously clean, white-walled room as Petros carried her bags inside and told him she intended dining at the taverna that night.

‘Then I will reserve a table for you, kyria. Many people will be here tonight before the festival tomorrow,’ he told her, and flushed with pleasure when she thanked him and gave him a hefty tip.

Petros was right, of course. The place would be heaving with visitors ready to swarm across to Kyrkiros tomorrow. But if Alexei Drakos was such a private man why did he open his island to all and sundry, even if it was for just one day? While she dined later she could gaze across the sea and speculate to her heart’s content about the king of the Kastro on the island over there. In the meantime, she’d haul her bags up the ladder to the open mezzanine bedroom, do her usual minimum unpacking and take a short nap.

Eleanor showered later in the tiny, spotless bathroom and dressed in her usual trademark jeans and T-shirt. As a gesture to the island night-life the jeans were white and the clinging top black and scooped low enough to show a hint of suntanned cleavage; and in a practice run for dragon-slaying the next day, she brushed on mascara and lip gloss. Eleanor eyed her reflection critically. Two weeks of island-hopping in the sun had added a satisfactory bronze glow to her skin, but the effect was more healthy than sexy. She shrugged. If Ross was rat enough to fire her for failing to get the exclusive he was panting for, she would go freelance.

The taverna was buzzing with holidaymakers and locals when Petros darted out to conduct her to a tiny table which gave her a good view across the boats bobbing in the harbour to the lights just visible on the dark outline of Kyrkiros on the horizon. She was served with bread and olives to nibble on while she waited for the red mullet, which arrived sizzling, dressed with lemon juice and olive oil, and accompanied by a salad and half a carafe of local wine.

Eleanor thanked Petros warmly and asked about the festival next day. ‘Is the bull dance for men only?’

He shook his head. ‘The taurokathapsia is for both men and women. Enjoy your meal, kyria.’

Eleanor peered at the distant lights across the water, wondering about Alexei Drakos. From what little she’d learned about his personal life, it seemed unlikely he was looking forward to the invasion on his territory next day, but at least he now had the blonde to cheer him up when the hoi polloi descended on him. Her research might have turned up nothing about any current love life, but she’d made the deeply intriguing discovery that his mother had been one of the most famous photographic models of her day. Talia Kazan’s heyday had been short. Her exquisite face had never graced magazine covers again after she married Milo Drakos and produced the son who, allegedly, was estranged from his father. Eleanor’s journalistic antennae buzzed like bees with the urge to find out why.

As she left the taverna Eleanor complimented the owner about her dinner, and when she ordered lunch for next day remembered to confirm that a boat had been booked for her trip over to Kyrkiros afterwards. Once there her plan was to soak up the festival atmosphere, take lots of photographs and then sit back people-watching at her reserved table while she waited for the lord and master of the island to show. Or not.

Back in her room, Eleanor soon regretted her nap. After a while she gave up trying to sleep and switched on her laptop to do more digging. She went back to the piece about Christina Mavros, the socialite from Crete who had failed in her aim to marry Alexei Drakos and subsequently sold her vindictive, highly coloured story to the press. Stupid woman, thought Eleanor as she went on with her search, but by the time her eyes began to droop at last her only new find had been a photograph of Alexei’s father. From the cut of his hard, handsome face it seemed that Milo Drakos would make a bad enemy.

Eleanor woke late next morning and hurriedly climbed down the ladder to make coffee to kick-start the day. After her shower she followed Ross McLean’s instructions and pulled on a dress for once, instead of jeans. Not that it was remotely the kind of thing her boss had in mind. The navy-striped white Breton number was as simple and comfortable as a T-shirt, but at least it showed off legs the Greek sun had toasted to an even darker shade of bronze than her face.

Later on at the taverna, Eleanor enjoyed an entertaining lunch hour as she watched seagoing craft of all descriptions making for the other island. When Petros finally came to say her boat was waiting for her, the sun was so fierce she was glad of dark glasses and sun hat for the trip across the sea, her excitement mounting at the approach to the steep, rocky island dominated by an ancient kastro. She breathed in the familiar sage and lavender scent of the Greek maquis lining the paths winding up through sun-baked hillside; the sound of music and chattering crowds in festive mood added to her anticipation as her genial ferryman docked at a jetty.

Eleanor thanked him and settled a time for the trip back later that evening, then got straight to work to take shots of the houses which clustered around the Kastro and climbed the slopes above it to a summit crowned by the blue dome of an icing-white church. Groundwork done, she threaded her way through the chattering, animated crowds to claim the place she’d reserved at one of the tables under the pergola. Musicians were playing at the far end of the terrace, but she’d learned from Petros that the main event would be after dark when bonfires were lit for the performance of the famous bull dance. She eyed the stage with misgiving. She’d seen pictures of the frescoes on Crete, depicting dancers somersaulting over a bull, but there was no visible way to restrain an animal here if it got out of hand, which was worrying.

She promptly forgot about bulls when the doors to the Kastro opened and three people emerged to descend the steps to the terrace. Of the two men in the group, it was obvious who was king of this particular castle. Alexei Drakos was smiling down at his blonde companion, and Eleanor realised in sudden excitement that she was Talia Kazan in the flesh, from this distance as beautiful in maturity as she had been in her heyday. The blonde was no pillow-friend after all, but Alexei’s mother, in a hyacinth-blue dress of exquisite cut, a large straw hat on her gleaming hair.

The son was equally striking. His curling hair was only a few shades darker gold than his mother’s, instead of black as Eleanor had expected before she’d researched him, but his face was carved from different, utterly masculine clay, with heavy-lidded dark eyes and handsome, forceful features which bore an unmistakeable resemblance to his father. He was slim-hipped and broad shouldered, and even in conventional linen trousers and white shirt, which merely hinted at the muscles beneath, there was a powerful masculine grace about him. Alexei Drakos was a magnificent specimen of manhood by any standards.

Eleanor watched, riveted, as Alexei linked his arm through his mother’s to inspect the goods on display at each stall for a brief moment and exchange a few words with the vendors before leaving the field clear to the purchasing public. From under cover of her table’s parasol, Eleanor took a few shots of mother and son with the Kastro as backdrop then turned her lens on the festive crowd milling about in the hot sunshine.

Eventually she put her camera away and went off to browse among the stalls for presents to take home. The crafts on display were of good quality. She soon found carved worry-beads that would amuse her father and a small, exquisitely embroidered picture perfect for her mother. With regret she passed by the displays of pottery and copper pots as too difficult to transport home, but then reached a stall with goods that made her mouth water. She’d read that it was hard to find really good jewellery outside the larger towns in Greece, but the wares on sale here were the real deal and obviously came from the mainland. When enough space cleared to let her get a look, she passed over the striking pendants and earrings way out of her price range and concentrated on trays of small trinkets, one of which caught her eye and said ‘buy me’.

‘Copy of Minoan ornament,’ the man on the stall stated, but in such strongly accented Greek Eleanor barely understood. ‘You like it?’

The tiny crystal bull had a gold loop on its back; perfect to attach to her charm bracelet. She liked it a lot.

‘How much?’ she asked, but when he mentioned the sum she shook her head regretfully, which prompted an unintelligible spiel from him on the virtues of the charm. The man only broke off when space was made for someone who addressed Eleanor in Greek to ask if she needed help with the problem. Her most immediate problem, due to the sudden sight and scent of Alexei Drakos at such close quarters, was trying to muster enough breath and vocabulary to answer.

‘I don’t speak enough Greek to bargain,’ she said at last in English.

‘Ah, I see. Allow me.’ He began a rapid exchange with the stall holder and turned to Eleanor with a smile that rocked her on her heels as he named a price just within her budget.

‘Thank you so much!’ She hastily counted out money to hand over before the stall holder could change his mind, and tried to concentrate as the man said a lot more she couldn’t understand. Standing so close to Alexei Drakos was scrambling her brain!

‘He will attach it to your bracelet if you leave it with him for a while,’ he translated for her, the hint of attractive accent adding to her problem.

‘Thank you.’ Eleanor unfastened the heavy gold chain from her wrist and handed it to the vendor, pointing to a link near the lock.

‘I told him to bring it to you later,’ said Alexei. ‘Do you have a table?’

Eleanor nodded dumbly, certain by now he thought she was a total idiot.

‘Alexei mou, I heard you speaking English,’ said his mother, hurrying to join them. ‘Won’t you introduce me?’

He smiled. ‘I’ve only just met the lady myself.’

‘Then I will make the introductions. I am Talia Kazan, and this is my son, Alexei Drakos.’ Her accent was equally fascinating, but more pronounced than her son’s, the words spoken with friendly warmth that unlocked Eleanor’s tongue.

‘Eleanor Markham,’ she said, smiling. ‘How do you do?’

‘Delighted to meet you. Are you here with friends?’

‘No, I’m travelling alone.’

‘Then would you care to join me for a drink?’ said Talia.

Would she! Eleanor beamed. ‘I’d love to. Perhaps you’d come over to my table.’

‘I’ll send someone,’ said Alexei, and went off to speak to a waiter.

Talia gave Eleanor the smile that had made her famous. ‘I am so glad of some company. Alex is very busy today.’ When they reached the table, to the intense interest of people sitting nearby, she sat down with a sigh of pleasure. ‘Are you just here for the day at the festival, or are you staying on Karpyros?’

Eleanor explained about her assignment.

Talia’s violet eyes were instantly guarded. ‘You are a journalist.’

Eleanor met the look steadily. ‘Yes. But I’m not a gossip columnist. I work in features, mainly on travel, so I won’t capitalise on meeting the famous Talia Kazan.’

The slender shoulders shrugged. ‘It is a very long time since I was famous.’

‘Yet you’ve hardly changed at all.’ Eleanor spoke with such obvious sincerity the beautiful eyes warmed.