Authors: Ekaterine Nikas
"That
may be," I replied with feigned lightness, "but if I don't get
something to eat soon, I may slump unconscious at your feet."
His
eyes gleamed mischievously.
"Don't tempt me."
I
made a face at him.
"All
right, all right," he grumbled.
"Shall we go in?"
Chapter Six
The
hotel restaurant wasn't crowded, and it was easy for us to get a table off by
ourselves.
"Is it always this
empty?" I asked.
Geoffrey
shook his head.
"I fancy it's
late."
"I
thought people liked to eat late here."
"The
natives, yes.
But we tourists are
a soft-stomached lot."
He
grinned at me.
"We go quite
weak in the knees if we aren't fed on time."
"The
natives usually eat a very large and very filling lunch," I retorted.
"I missed lunch altogether
today."
"Excuses,
excuses," he murmured, his eyes twinkling.
"Are
we going to spend the rest of the evening discussing my stomach?"
"No.
Actually, I was planning to ask you
about your holiday.
Where else in
Greece have you visited?"
At
first I assumed he'd picked the topic because it was safe and easy and had
nothing to do with Michael or the accident at the Old Fort, but after a while I
began to realize he was genuinely interested.
He asked me countless questions.
Had I been to Delphi?
Mycenae?
Knossos?
What other islands had I traveled to?
Had I visited the excavations at
Akrotiri?
Had I seen the Acropolis
by moonlight?
I
answered his questions and listened to his comments about the beauty of this
temple and the wonder of that site, and time seemed to pass without either of
us noticing.
The food arrived and
we ate it.
Between mouthfuls we
argued about the unique quality of Greek light.
"But
surely all countries along the Mediterranean have the same glittering
sunshine?" I said.
He
shook his head adamantly.
"No, it's not the same.
I can't describe the difference or put a name to it, but the light here
in Greece is different from anywhere else in the world."
"I
guess I'll have to take your word for it,” I said.
“I’ve never been anywhere else besides home."
"You
mean to say this is your first visit to Greece?"
He sounded disbelieving.
"Why did you wait so long?"
"You
make it sound like some sort of pilgrimage."
"Well,
isn't it?
Most Greeks I've met, no
matter where born, seem to gravitate back to Greece like homing pigeons."
"I'm
only half Greek," I said.
"I
doubt that matters.
What's the
other half?"
"Scots."
"Your
father?"
I
nodded reluctantly, disliking the direction of the conversation.
"I suppose you're through and
through English?"
He
smiled crookedly.
"Not
actually, no.
My grandmother was
an American.
She was wildly
mischievous and great fun to be with and helped me through some difficult times
when I was a boy."
He stared
off into space for a few moments, lost in thought.
Then his attention returned to me.
"And what do you do when you’re not playing tourist or
saving young boys from large falling objects?"
"I
put together custom computer systems for artists."
His
eyebrows flew up in surprise.
"Do you mean the type that allow one to paint on a computer?"
"Paint,
draw, sculpt, design, touch up photographs, create animation, do special
effects.
Especially do special
effects.
That’s our hottest area
right now. We’ve been putting together systems for lots of small production
companies who are trying to get into movie work.”
He
nodded.
"It’s an amazing
tool.
A colleague of mine
purchased a system like that.
I've
watched him use it to compose paintings.
It's an interesting process, and the results are impressive.
I’ve been toying with the idea of
purchasing a similar set-up myself."
I
stared at him in dismay.
"You're a painter?"
“The
galleries that sell my work say so,” he replied dryly, “though there are one or
two critics who might dispute the point.
I also do some illustration work -- books for children, mostly.
Is something wrong?"
"No,"
I said.
"Then
why are you looking at me like that?"
"My
. . . uh, father illustrates children's books."
"Why
do I suspect that's not a point in my favor?
What's his name?
Perhaps I've heard of him?"
"Angus
Stewart," I murmured unwillingly.
His
eyes widened.
"
The
Angus Stewart?
The one who's won
three Caldecott awards and had twelve books on the Times' best-seller
list?"
I
stabbed my fork into a stuffed tomato on my plate.
"Yes."
He
whistled softly.
"I've never
met him, but he has quite a reputation."
Rice
began spilling everywhere as I sliced the tomato into pieces.
"Does that reputation include the
fact that when his first book became a success, he abandoned his wife and two
daughters and moved to New York?"
Geoffrey
frowned.
"No."
"Unfortunately,
his next few books were flops, so of course there wasn't any money for alimony
or child support.
My mother had to
work two jobs to make ends meet, and my grandparents used their savings to send
me and my sister to college.
Eventually, his books started doing well again, but by then he'd
remarried and didn't have much use for old family ties."
Geoffrey
reached across the table and caught my hand.
"Christine, I'm sorry."
I
shook my head, embarrassed by my outburst.
"No, I’m the one who should be apologizing.
I didn’t mean to let loose with all
that.
It’s just . . . well, he’s a
bit of a sore subject at the moment.”
I paused, and then added, “A couple of weeks ago I was on a sales trip.
My father was on the prospect list, and
I got the brilliant idea to use that as an excuse to go see him.”
“It
didn’t go well?”
Feeling
the betraying prick of tears at the back of my eyes I kept my response to a
minimum.
“No.”
“Is
that why you came to Greece?” he asked.
Startled
by his insight, I nodded.
"After that meeting with my father, my life felt like a
kaleidoscope I couldn’t twist back into focus.
After a while, I gave up.
I called my boss and told him I was taking all my saved-up
vacation time, then I caught a cab for the airport and bought a ticket on the
first flight to Greece.”
"And
here you are," Geoffrey said in a low voice.
"Here
I am," I agreed softly, suddenly more aware of the intoxicating warmth
tingling up my arm from his touch than the hurt that just a moment ago had
seemed so raw.
“But I think I may
have had too much to drink.”
He
shook his head.
“You know it’s not
the wine.”
I
gazed at him helplessly but was saved from having to reply by the headwaiter,
who sidled up to the table to inform us the dining room was about to
close.
Geoffrey reached out for
the bill.
I stopped him.
"Let me get it."
"But
I invited you," he protested.
I
shook my head.
"It wouldn't
be fair for you to pay for both dinners, and it's my fault our other one went
to waste."
"I
recall a certain comment about it 'serving me right' to pay for both
meals," he reminded me.
"Please,
Geoffrey, I’ve changed my mind."
His
teasing grin faded.
"I’ll
have to watch out.
When you look at
me like that, it’s difficult to refuse you anything.
Very well.
I'll
let you pay -- on one condition."
"What?"
"You
promise to dine with me again before you leave Corfu."
"All
right, I promise," I said with exaggerated reluctance.
As
we got up to leave, Geoffrey thanked me for dinner and then slid a possessive
arm around my waist as we started for the door.
We were halfway there when his grip tightened.
"Angus!" he exclaimed.
"What?"
"The
letter in your purse,” he said, “it was signed 'Angus'.
It was from your father, wasn't
it?"
"Yes,"
I admitted tensely.
He
started to smile, then caught himself and stopped.
"I'm
glad you find the idea amusing."
"Not
amusing, Christine, merely a relief.
I thought 'Angus' was some
ex-lover you were pining over."
"Hmmm,"
I murmured, my anger mollified.
"And if he had been?"
His
mouth twisted crookedly.
"I
would have considered it my duty to help you forget him, of course."
His tone was light and teasing, but the
expression in his eyes could have lit any number of small fires.
We
walked out toward the lobby, and he offered to drive me back to my hotel.
I declined the offer, reminding him he
was already late for his meeting with Robert Humphreys.
He
turned to face me.
"You
haven't yet told me what you and Robert discussed this afternoon."
Suddenly
uncomfortable, I shrugged.
"I
told him about yesterday.
He
seemed a bit startled when I said you didn't believe it was an accident."
"Startled?”
Geoffrey said.
“Or
disbelieving?
No, don't bother to
answer.
I think I can guess.
I suppose he told you about my
brother?"
I
nodded.
"Why didn't you tell
me?"
"And
if I had?" he said grimly.
“What would you have thought of my credibility then?"
His gaze locked with mine.
"What do you think of it
now?"
"Geoffrey,
I know it must be hard to accept your brother's death, but if the police can't
find any reason to believe --"
His
mouth tightened into a hard line.
"There's a cab rank down the hill.
You should be able to find a cab there to take you back to
your hotel.”
He reached into his
wallet and pulled out a folded fifty euro note.
“Here.
For the
fare."
When I hesitated, he
pressed it into my hand.
"Take it.
Dinner cost
you nearly your last penny, and I know you've no money to pay the fare
yourself."