The Greek Tycoon's Achilles Heel

‘He doesn’t have one, which is why he keeps people at a distance.’

As the car turned out of the gate Stavros couldn’t resist looking back to the house. Lysandros stood there at the window, watching the world with a brooding air, as though it was his personal property and he had yet to decide how to manage it.

He remained there until the car had vanished through the gates, then turned back into the room, trying to clear his mind. The conversation had disturbed him and that must be quickly remedied. Luckily an urgent call came through from his manager at the port of Piraeus, to say that they were threatened with union trouble. Lysandros gave him a series of curt orders and promised to be there the next day.

Today he would attend Homer Lukas’s wedding as an honoured guest. He would shake his rival’s hand, show honour to the bride, and the watching crowds would sigh with disappointment not to see them at each other’s throats, personally as well as professionally.

Now, more than ever, his father’s advice rang in his head.

‘Never, never let them know what you’re thinking.’

He’d learned that lesson well and, with its aid, he would spend today with a smile on his face, concealing the hatred that consumed him.

At last it was time for his chauffeur to take him to the Lukas estate. Soon he could see Homer’s ‘Parthenon’, in which the wedding was to take place, and it loomed up high, proclaiming the residence of a wealthy and influential man.

A fake, he thought grimly. No more authentic than the other ‘Greek setting’ in Las Vegas.

His thoughts went back to a time that felt like another world and through his mind danced the girl on the roof, skinny, ordinary, yet with an outspoken innocence that had both exasperated and charmed him. And at the last moment, when she’d opened her arms to him, offering a comfort he’d found nowhere else in the world and he’d almost—

He slammed his mind shut. It was the only way to deal with weakness.

He wondered how she’d come to be one of the wedding party; probably the daughter of one of Estelle Radnor’s numerous secretaries.

She might be here today, but it was probably better not to meet again after so long. Time was never kind. The years would have turned her into a dull wife with several children and a faithless husband. Where once she had sparkled, now she would probably seethe.

Nor had he himself been improved by time, he knew. A heaviness had settled over him, different from the raging grief that had possessed him in those days. That had been a matter of the heart and he’d dealt with it suitably, setting it aside, focusing on his head, where all sensible action took place.

He’d done what was right and wise, yet he had an uneasy feeling that if he met her now she would look right through him—and disapprove.

At last they arrived. As he got out of his car and looked around he had to admit that Homer had spent money to great effect. The great temple to the goddess Athena had been recreated much as the original must have looked when it was new. The building was about seventy metres by thirty, the roof held aloft by elegant columns. Marvellous statues abounded, but the greatest of all was the forty-foot statue of Athena, which had mysteriously developed the face of Estelle Radnor.

He grimaced, wondering how long it would be before he could decently depart.

But, before he could start his social duties, his cellphone shrilled. It was a text message.

I’m sorry about what I said. I was upset. You seemed to be pulling away when we’d been growing so close. Please call me.

It was signed only with an initial. He immediately texted back.

No need to be sorry. You were right to break it off. Forgive me for upsetting you.

Hopefully that would be an end to it, but after a moment another text came through.

I don’t want to break off. I really didn’t mean all those things. Will I see you at the wedding? We could talk there.

This time it was signed with her name. He responded.

We always knew it couldn’t last. We can’t talk. I don’t wish to subject you to gossip.

The answer came in seconds.

I don’t care about gossip. I love you.

Madness seemed to have come over her, for now she’d stepped up the intensity, signing your own forever, followed by her name. His response was brief.

Please accept my good wishes for the future. Make sure you delete texts from your phone. Goodbye.

After that he switched off. In every way. To silence a machine was easy. It was the switching off of the heart and mind that took skill, but it was one he’d acquired with practice, sharpening it to perfection until he would have guaranteed it against every female in the world.

Except perhaps one.

But he would never meet her again.

Unless he was very unlucky.

Or very lucky.

‘You look gorgeous!’

Petra Radnor laughed aside the fervent compliment from Nikator Lukas.

‘Thank you, brother dear,’ she said.

‘Don’t call me that. I’m not your brother.’

‘You will be in a couple of hours, when your father has married my mother.’

‘Stepbrother at most. We won’t be related by blood and I can yearn after you if I want to.’

‘No, I think you’ll be the brother I’ve always wanted. My kid brother.’

‘Kid, nothing! I’m older than you.’

It was true. He was thirty-seven to her thirty-two, but there was something about him that suggested a kid; not just the boyish lines of his face but a lingering immaturity that would probably be there all his life.

Petra liked him well enough, except for his black moods that seemed to come from nowhere, although they also vanished quickly.

He admired her extravagantly, and she justified his admiration. The gaunt figure of her teen years had blossomed, although she would always be naturally slender.

She was attractive but not beautiful, certainly not as the word was understood among her mother’s film-land friends. She had a vivid personality that gleamed from her eyes and a humour that was never long suppressed. But the true effect was often discovered only after she’d departed, when she lingered in the mind.

To divert Nikator’s attention, she turned the conversation to Debra, the starlet who would be his official companion.

‘You two look wonderful together,’ she said. ‘Everyone will say what a lucky man you are.’

‘I’d rather go with you,’ he sighed.

‘Oh, stop it! After all the trouble Estelle took to fix you up with her, you should be grateful.’