Authors: Ekaterine Nikas
"Does
it hurt?" a low voice asked softly in Greek.
I
started.
I'd thought I was alone
in the room.
I turned my head
slowly, trying not to jar my sore neck or make the throbbing in my cheek any
worse than it already was.
A man
was sitting in a blue armchair at the far end of the room.
He stood up, and crossed to stand by
the foot of the bed.
He was tall
and fair, with tousled blond hair and green eyes of a familiar shade.
"I
believe I overheard something about the doctor putting in stitches,” he continued.
He stepped closer and gazed down at
me.
For a moment, concern
flickered in his eyes.
Then his
expression hardened and he remarked coolly, “Aristides is an able old
quack.
With luck you won’t be left
with a scar.”
“You
really know how to cheer a girl up, don’t you?”
His
attractive mouth tightened.
"Your Greek is very fluent for an American."
"My
mother is Greek.
Look, can you
please tell me what happened?
The
last thing I remember, I was feeling a bit dizzy --"
"You
fainted."
Suddenly he spoke
in English, and I realized he was British, like Michael.
"Fainted?"
"Dead
away.
A textbook swoon.
When I arrived on the scene, you were
draped quite decoratively in Skouras's arms."
I
decided Skouras must be Michael's Greek uncle, Spiro.
"And where am I now?
Whose room is this?"
"Skouras's,
I should imagine."
"You
mean I'm in his bed?"
"Yes,
Goldilocks, I suppose you are."
His tone was biting, and he flashed me a mocking smile that sent his
rather devastating eyebrows all crooked.
Suddenly, despite the hostility of his expression, he was the spitting
image of Michael.
"Are
you Michael's father?" I asked.
The
mocking smile vanished.
His
expression grew grim.
In precise
and carefully controlled syllables he said, “Michael's father is dead.
I'm Michael's uncle, Geoffrey
Redfield."
I
remembered Michael's solemn face, and felt a sharp pang of sympathy.
I knew firsthand how hard it was to
grow up without a father.
“I’m
sorry,” I said.
Geoffrey
Redfield said nothing.
I tried
changing the subject, "How is Michael?
What did the doctor say?"
His
expression relaxed a little.
"He has a sprained wrist and a few cuts and bruises, but Aristides
thinks he'll be fine."
"I'm
glad," I said, relieved.
I
sank back into the cool pillows, and for a while neither of us spoke.
Then he seemed to grow impatient with
the silence.
He drew closer to the
bed and bent over me.
"I
haven't yet thanked you, you know."
"Thanked
me for what?"
"For
such a good morning's work, of course.
For what you did for my nephew.”
His eyes were the same cat green as Michael’s, but there was an odd
gleam in them that was doing strange things to my stomach.
"You
don't need to thank me for that," I said faintly.
"Why
not?" he demanded.
There was
an edge to his voice I didn't understand.
"Didn't you rescue him from the very jaws of death?"
"I
didn't rescue anyone!
The stone
began to fall and --" I broke off.
Glancing up, I was distracted by the nearness of his face to mine and
the faint scent of his cologne.
"Yes?"
he prompted, pressing a hand into the pillow next to my head.
I
blinked.
"And I just jumped
out of the way.
That's all."
"Taking
Michael with you."
"Yes,
taking Michael with me."
"Why
so reluctant to play the heroine, Miss Stewart?" he asked softly, the warm
flutter of his breath sending tingles down my neck.
I
felt like a mouse pinned by a much too enticing cat.
I slid sideways, setting off some painful fireworks in my
right shoulder.
"Perhaps I'm
not right for the role."
"Perhaps
not," he agreed, straightening.
"Though no one could accuse you of not looking the part."
His eyes went to my bandaged cheek.
"Do
I look a pitiful sight?" I asked lightly, trying to make it a joke.
He
stared down at me assessingly, and I felt my face grow hot.
I could almost hear the mental
tabulation: disheveled brown hair, a bandaged cheek, passable blue eyes, but a
nose too classic to be cute coupled with a chin both pointed and prominent
(stubborn, an old boyfriend had called it).
His gaze drifted briefly south, where the negligee I was
wearing, obviously belonging to a smaller woman, revealed a lot more than it
hid.
"A
pitiful sight?
No, not
really," he said, looking away.
I
pulled the sheet up.
"Do you
know where my clothes are?"
He
turned and moved off toward the French windows.
"I haven't the foggiest.
Perhaps Maria's made off with them.
She has a tendency to wash clothes that
don't really need washing."
"Maria?"
"The
housekeeper."
"Oh."
We
lapsed into silence.
Feeling tired,
I closed my eyes, but he was obviously not done with the conversation.
"The bench you and Michael were sitting on when all this happened,"
he said.
"I believe Michael
said it was the one by St. George's?"
Reluctantly
I opened my eyes.
"St. George's
is the church that looks like a temple?"
He
gave a short, impatient nod.
"Then,
yes," I said.
"How
did you and Michael come to be sitting there?"
"Michael
had just given me a tour of the fort.
We were finishing up, and we sat down on the bench to rest.
At least, I wanted to rest.
Michael was just keeping me
company.
It was purely by
chance."
The
planes of his face seemed to harden.
“Michael's only been on the island for a few weeks now.
How did you two become
acquainted?"
"We
just met today."
"But
you've known Demetra for some time, I suppose?"
I
gazed at him blankly.
"My
sister-in-law, Demetra Redfield," he elaborated.
"Michael's
mother?
I've never seen her before
in my life."
"Then
Skouras?
Perhaps he's the old
friend?"
I
shook my head, setting off more fireworks in my neck.
"How would I know him?
I told you, I only met Michael today.
Look, why are you asking me all these
questions?"
He
leaned close again, so close I could see the gold streaks along the tips of his
eyelashes.
"You truly expect
me to believe your meeting Michael today was mere coincidence?"
"I
don't care what you believe," I snapped, "it’s the truth.
Why on earth should I lie about it?”
“I
think we both know why, but let’s put that aside for the moment.
Instead, why don’t you tell me what
caused you to look up at the precise moment that stone began to fall?"
"I
don't know," I admitted.
"Another
coincidence?"
"Look,
I don't know what you're getting at, but I'm tired, and my cheek hurts, and I
don't want to talk to you anymore."
"Who
paid you to follow Michael?" he demanded.
I
stared at him in disbelief.
"You’re crazy!
Nobody
paid me to do anything.
Why would
anyone have a little boy followed?"
"Dammit,
you know why!" he said, seizing me by the shoulders.
"How did they know I was meeting
him?"
"You're
hurting me!" I cried.
He let
go abruptly.
"I think it's
time I was going," I said, trying to sound calmer than I felt.
"We're
not finished yet."
I
didn't answer.
Instead, I
struggled to sit up, stiffly swinging my legs out of the bed and dangling them
toward the floor.
Unfortunately,
the bed was an expensive antique and ridiculously high off the ground.
Hoping to get a more solid footing, I
launched myself forward, but my knees buckled and I started to fall.
There was a muffled crash.
Then I found myself on the floor
cradled in Geoffrey Redfield's warm, strong arms.
"Do
you make a habit of collapsing onto every man you meet?" he inquired
acidly.
"No
one asked you to catch me," I snapped back, tears of pain welling up in my
eyes.
His arms dropped away.
"Are
you all right?" he asked through clenched teeth.
My
cheek was burning, my neck ached, and I found myself shaking so hard it
hurt.
"I'm fine," I
whispered, turning my head away so he wouldn't see the tears starting to
spill.
He turned my face back
towards him and swore.
Taking
out a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped the tears away with surprising
gentleness.
Then he picked me up
and placed me carefully back on the bed.
For a moment, his arms lingered around me, then the nearby murmur of
voices seemed to snap him from his reverie.
He straightened abruptly.
"Look,
I've no more time for games," he declared in an urgent undertone.
"I need answers, and I need them
now.
Can't you understand how
important this is?"
"Can't
you
understand," I retorted, "that I haven't the vaguest idea
what you're talking about?"
For
the first time, uncertainty flickered in his green eyes.
"You truly don't know?"
"No!"
He
raised a finger to his lips.
"No,"
I repeated more softly.
"But
you speak such fluent Greek --"
"So?
Since when is that a crime?"
"You
didn't ring my hotel?
You didn't
leave a message saying Michael was in hospital?"
I
stared at him, flabbergasted.
"Of course not!
Why
would I do such a thing?"
Suddenly outside the room I could hear the approaching click-clack of
high heels.
"Perhaps
I've leapt to some hasty conclusions."
"I'll
say!"
He
held up his hand.
"If I have,
I apologize.
If not, at least we
both know where we stand."
He
backed away toward the French windows, his eyes on me, his attention fixed on
the approaching footsteps.
"But if it’s true you simply stumbled into this . . . well, then
someone ought to warn you."