Her Greek Groom: The Tycoon's Mistress / Smokescreen Marriage / His Forbidden Bride

Cressy asked for an iced Coke, and, when he brought it, enquired if there was anywhere she could hire a car.

The smile broadened regretfully. The only vehicles on Myros, she was told, were Jeeps and pick-up trucks, and none were for rent. The roads, the kyria must understand, were not good.

Well, I knew they didn’t cater for tourists, Cressy reminded herself philosophically. But it was a setback.

She said, ‘I saw beaches, kyrie. Can I reach them on foot?’

He nodded. ‘It is possible, thespinis. Our finest beach is only a kilometre from here.’ He paused thoughtfully, fingering his heavy black moustache. ‘But there is a better way.’ From a storeroom at the back of the taverna, he produced an ancient bicycle. ‘It belonged to my sister,’ he explained. ‘But she is in Athens.’

‘And you’ll lend it to me?’ Cressy raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s very kind.’

He shrugged. ‘She will be happy for you to use it. It is an honour for her.’

‘But how do you know I’ll bring it back?’

The smile became almost indulgent. ‘When the kyria wishes to leave Myros, she must return here. Also, she must eat, and my taverna has good fish. The best.’ He nodded. ‘You will come back, thespinis.’

Cressy hadn’t ridden a bicycle for years. She waited while the proprietor, whose name was Yannis, ceremoniously dusted the saddle for her, then mounted awkwardly.

She said, ‘I hope it lasts the distance, kyrie.’

‘A kilometre is not too far.’ He paused. ‘I do not recommend that you go further than that, thespinis.’

‘We’ll see,’ Cressy said cheerfully. ‘Once I get the hang of it, I may do the grand tour.’

Yannis’s face was suddenly serious. ‘Go to the beach only, thespinis. I advise it. Beyond it the road is bad. Very bad.’

Now, why did she get the feeling that Yannis was warning her about more than the state of the road? Cressy wondered, as she wobbled away.

But he hadn’t been exaggerating. Outside the small town, the road soon deteriorated into a dirt track, with olive groves on one side and the sea on the other, and Cressy had to concentrate hard on keeping her eccentric machine upright, and avoiding the largest stones and deepest potholes.

Apart from the whisper of the sea, and the faint breeze rustling the silver leaves of the olive trees, Cressy felt as if she was enclosed in a silent, shimmering landscape. She was glad of the broad straw hat protecting her blonde hair.

The beach was soon reached, but, she saw with disappointment, it was only a narrow strip of sand with a lot of pebbles and little shade.

The others I saw were much better, she thought. Yannis can’t have meant this one.

In spite of the road, she was beginning, against all odds, to enjoy her unexpected cycle ride, and decided to press on to one of the secluded coves she’d glimpsed from the ferry.

Ten minutes later, she was beginning to regret her decision. The gradient on her route had taken a sharp upward turn, and her elderly bone-shaker was no mountain bike.

This must have been what Yannis meant, she thought grimly. Certainly it warranted a warning.

She halted, to have a drink from the bottle of water which he’d pressed on her and consider what to do next.

Myros was only a small island, she argued inwardly, and the next beach couldn’t be too far away. So, it might be better to leave the bike at the side of the track—after all, no one in his right mind would steal it—and proceed on foot.

She laid the ancient machine tenderly on its side in the shade of an olive tree, blew it a kiss, and walked on.

She’d gone about five hundred yards when she first heard the music, only faint, but unmistakably Greek, with its strong underlying rhythm. Cressy paused, breathless from her continued climb, and listened, her brows drawing together.

She swore softly under her breath. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she muttered. ‘I’ve come all this way in this heat, only to find someone else’s beach party.’

She was going to walk on, but then sudden curiosity got the better of her, and, letting the music guide her, she moved quietly through the scrub and stones to the edge of the cliff. There was a track of sorts leading down to the pale crescent of sand below, but Cressy ignored that, moving to slightly higher ground where she could get an overall view of the beach.

The first thing she saw was a small caique, with faded blue paint and its sails furled, moored just offshore. But that appeared to be deserted.

Then she looked down, and the breath caught in her throat.

Below her, alone on the sand, a man was dancing.

Arms flung wide, head back, his face lifted to the sun, he swayed, and dipped to the ground, and leapt, his entire body given over to the sheer joy of living—and the raw power of the music.

And totally absorbed in his response to it, thought Cressy. Clearly nothing else existed for him at this moment.

She dropped to her knees in the shelter of a dried and spindly shrub and watched, amused at first, but gradually becoming more entranced.

She’d seen demonstrations of syrtaki at the hotel, of course, but never performed with this wild, elemental force.

This man seemed completely at home in his solitary environment, Cressy told herself in bewilderment, as if he was somehow part of the sea, and the rocks, and the harsh brilliant sunlight, and shared their common spirit. Or the reincarnation of some pagan god…

She halted right there.

Now she was just being fanciful, she thought with self-derision.

He might be a wonderful dancer, but what she was actually seeing was a waiter from one of the hotels on the other island, practising his after-dinner routine for the tourists.

But not from my hotel, she thought. Or I’d have remembered…

Because he wasn’t just a beautiful dancer. He was beautiful in other ways, too.

He was taller than average, and magnificently built, with broad, muscular shoulders, narrow hips and endless legs, his only covering a pair of ragged denim shorts which left little to the imagination.

The thick, dark hair, curling down on to the nape of his neck, gleamed like silk in the sunshine, and his skin was like burnished bronze.

To her shock, Cressy found her mouth was suddenly dry, her pulses drumming in unaccustomed and unwelcome excitement. She realised, too, there was an odd, trembling ache deep within her.

What the hell am I doing? she asked frantically, as she lifted herself cautiously to her feet and backed away. I’m an intelligent woman. I go for brains, not brawn. Or I would if I was interested in any kind of involvement, she reminded herself hastily.

Besides, this brand of obvious physicality leaves me cold. I’m not in the market for—holiday bait.

She was being unfair, and she knew it as she walked on, her pace quickening perceptibly.

After all, the lone dancer could have no idea he had an audience. He’d created his own private world of passion and movement, and if its intrinsic sensuality had sent her into meltdown then that was her problem, not his.

All the same, she was glad when the music faded from earshot. Although the image in her mind might not be so easy to dismiss, she realised ruefully.

‘I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I don’t like it,’ she said under her breath, lengthening her stride.