Mediterranean Seduction
Was he showing them to her or taunting her with them? she wondered. But, noting the cynical slant of his eyes, Charlotte pulled away towards the shelter of the rocks clustering at the shoreline.
Nothing like a little real-life experience to spice up your writing, she mused, turning in time to see him make a second imperative gesture—past her this time, out to sea.
Quite suddenly the boat’s engine was cut. The fisherman on board retreated to the stern, where he busied himself with some nets. The only sound now was the restless surf sighing against the reef and slapping lazily against the side of the small fishing boat.
Crawling commando-style through the shallows on her forearms, Charlotte slipped into hiding between two large boulders and waited there out of sight until she had caught her breath. Then, snatching a quick look, she saw that the fisherman was still standing where she had first seen him, still holding her pyjamas in his fist.
‘Throw them over here!’ she called, pressing herself back against the rock. She waited, but when there was no response she was forced to dart her head out again. The fisherman shook her nightwear, and then his head—slowly and deliberately.
Charlotte sank back with a gust of frustration. Rock and a hard place came to her mind. It was clear this man was no push-over, but, on the plus side, he was an incredible-looking individual. His eyes were extraordinary. Their intensity alone was enough to send a shiver coursing down her spine.
Maybe it came from living so close to nature, Charlotte reasoned impatiently. But she was forced to admit that the hard, muscular body, combined with such an arrogant stare, added up to a lot more than she had bargained for when she’d daydreamed about the mysterious and then-unseen fisherman.
He was taller than she had imagined too, and built like a kickboxer, with incredible legs shown off to best advantage in a pair of battered shorts. Her senses surged at the thought of being controlled by such well-muscled thighs, and she quickly shut her eyes, as if that was enough to make the danger go away.
Fantasy was one thing. Reality, in the shape of this particular Greek male, was another thing altogether. He even wore a knife at his waist, hanging in a long sheath from a low-slung leather belt. ‘Dinosaur,’ Charlotte muttered fiercely, feeling her pulse speed up. He was such a compelling individual that one crazy part of her wanted to tear his clothes off with her teeth, whilst her sensible self was angry with him for provoking such an irresponsible response.
She sank down again in the shallows behind her rock, and it was a good few moments before she steeled herself for another look—and that was a mistake.
Charlotte’s breath flew out of her chest as their gazes clashed. Something in the man’s brooding expression suggested he knew every position in the Kama Sutra, and had devoted his life to perfecting each one of them in turn. Ideal research material for her article, no doubt—but was she really ready for this?
Charlotte shouted down the warning bells clamouring in her head. This was the moment. She could seize it, or live to regret it.
Predatory and very masculine interest was coming off the man in waves. She judged him to be in his midthirties—old enough to know what to do in the bedroom, without having lost either the interest or the stamina required for her purposes…
Closing her eyes, Charlotte brushed the last of her doubts aside. Rolling back the film in her mind, she evaluated what she knew of him: his hair was thick, raven-black and slightly wavy, and he wore it longer than the average man—but there was nothing remotely average about this man.
Most crucially he wore no ring. But she would still have to make discreet enquiries of Marianna, who worked at the villa and seemed to know everything about everyone on the island. So far, though, Charlotte thought confidently, the signs were looking good—delectable, unattached male with perfect body for lonely journalist’s entertainment. For research purposes only, naturally.
He could easily have passed for one of the Ancient Greek gods—except they’d been too petty and far too pretty, she decided. She cast him instead as Jason, the Argonauts’ legendary leader, instantly elevating the small blue and white fishing boat to the fifty-oared Argo—though it was too great a stretch even for Charlotte’s imagination to pass off her threadbare pyjamas as the Golden Fleece. And what was she going to do about her pyjamas? They remained firmly in his grasp.
She closed her eyes, waiting for her heart to calm down, and then, feeling his stare on her face, knew she hadn’t pulled back sufficiently behind the screen of rock.
Snapping her eyes open, Charlotte raised her voice so there could be no mistake. ‘Throw them over here!’
Glaring at him furiously when he made no response, she found herself caught in a hypnotic gaze. It was hard and cynical: the gaze of a connoisseur, disturbingly knowing.
Charlotte made one last attempt to call to him—in a softer voice this time, hoping to appeal to his better nature.
With a smile, she gestured airily towards the pyjamas.
He took a menacing step towards her.
‘Stay there!’ she shouted, alarmingly conscious of her own nakedness.
The fisherman stopped, and slouched comfortably on one hip.
He was enjoying her predicament, Charlotte realised, and, worse, appeared content to wait for as long as it took until she was forced to come out of hiding and claim her clothes.
She watched him shrug, and saw that the curve of his lips held no humour, that his dark stare was unwavering. But then an explanation occurred to her, and she knew she should have thought of it sooner. Of course—he didn’t understand what she was saying!
Hissing with frustration, Charlotte wondered what to do next. She didn’t speak Greek, so they were never going to get anywhere.
‘Why don’t you come here and get them?’ the fisherman suddenly challenged her, in barely accented English.
CHAPTER THREE
CHARLOTTE drew back abruptly. Whatever else she had been expecting it certainly wasn’t this easy command of her own language.
His voice was almost at the same level as the whispering surf, yet still managed to resonate with all the assurance she associated with rampant masculinity.
He spoke English so well… Tourists, Charlotte realised, cursing her sluggish brain cells. Of course he spoke English fluently—what had she expected him to speak? Ancient Greek?
No doubt he would have a good laugh about this encounter later in the local taverna. But if she was to make this the opportunity she had been waiting for she had to swallow her pride. With hardly any time left on the island, she still had an article to write and her self-esteem to rebuild. She had to make a start.
Now she knew he spoke her language she could be more direct. Tilting her chin in defiance, Charlotte stepped out of her hiding place. ‘Hand my pyjamas over right now! And don’t even think of accusing me of interfering with your catch. I’ve got every bit as much right to swim here as—’
The diatribe froze on her lips. The beach was deserted and the fisherman nowhere to be seen.
Frowning, Charlotte turned a full circle. But the man had disappeared as surely as if he really had been a figment of her imagination. The only proof he had ever existed lay in the fact that her pyjamas had been moved from the beach, where she had thrown them, to a rocky shelf protruding from the cliff-face. Relief and disappointment swept over her in turn until, remembering the fishing boat moored close by the shore, she snatched up her clothes and crawled between the rocks to get dressed.
Iannis climbed soundlessly and with the ease of long practice. Reaching for one final handhold, he swung himself over the cliff-edge and sprang to his feet.
Who was she? From his vantage point high above the beach he could see little more than the top of the young woman’s head. He watched as she flicked the water-slicked hair away from her face with the fast, fluid movements of a dancer.
He was forced to acknowledge that she had a graceful carriage, and gave a reluctant smile as he remembered how high and proud she had held her head when she emerged from behind her rock shelter. Not quite like Aphrodite from the waves—she was too rebellious for that—but just as beautiful. But she appeared utterly unconcerned by her actions, and that made him angry. If he had stayed behind to make something of the encounter, what then? Would she have remained so brazen?
A muscle ground in his jaw as he turned to go. Why should he care?
Because not only did she irritate him, she intrigued him, he realised, starting to move away from the edge. There was something undeniably provocative about a beautiful woman prepared to face him down. The way she flaunted herself was a challenge he couldn’t ignore: it urged him to test her boundaries. Perhaps she had none. Perhaps he would make it his business to find out. But first he had to find out who she was. Someone would be able to tell him: Iskos was a small island, and very few tourists came to visit in the autumn.
Before leaving he turned to watch her walking rapidly across the beach. She was making for the cliff path that led up towards the villa she must be renting. His eyes narrowed. She would have to come almost right past him if he stayed where he was.
There was something strangely vulnerable about her now, in contrast to the impression she had given down on the beach, Iannis realised, feeling his interest stir. Her pyjamas were wet with seawater and clumped wetly around her ankles—was that it?
As he continued to watch his mouth firmed. Had she never heard of swimming costumes? Or was it just too much trouble to put one on? Either way, it showed scant regard for the traditions of Iskos, where single women didn’t even go out unescorted, let alone bathe naked in the sea. Thank God she was no concern of his!
He made to go, then stopped again. Theos! She had the most provocative figure he had seen in a long time. It might not be fashionable to possess such well-shaped thighs, or such buttocks, but her lush curves defied fashion. And her breasts—! Iannis swung away, determined to push the troubling image aside.
But it was already too late. The face and form of the mystery woman were branded on his mind. She was a voluptuous temptress who had curled around his senses and left a calling card of desire, he realised, feeling his appetite sharpen. And he would call on her, he decided, slowing as he reached the fragrant shade of the pine trees. She was clearly a player—and if she was looking for a playmate he could certainly accommodate her. But at a time of his own choosing, not hers.
They were within yards of each other now, but Iannis had the cover of the trees to his advantage. The subterfuge gave him no satisfaction. When he saw a woman he liked he moved fast and in the open. But something about this one stood between them like an invisible barrier. Maybe the vulnerability he had sensed earlier. Whatever it was, it prevented him from confronting her as effectively as if she had used an army to keep them apart.
Or maybe he was just growing soft, Iannis thought, and his hard mouth firmed in a cynical line. And that would never do.
Marianna, who tended to the villa Charlotte was renting, was busy pegging out washing when Charlotte arrived back. Turning, hands on hips, to survey the young English visitor, she said sternly, ‘Why must you go to the beach undressed?’
All Charlotte cared about was that she was back, and in one piece. ‘I won’t do it again,’ she promised fervently, meaning every word. She had certainly learned her lesson! ‘But I’m not undressed, Marianna,’ she felt compelled to explain. ‘I’m wearing my pyjamas—’
Marianna threw up her hands in dismay. ‘And what about the fishermen?’
‘Fishermen?’ Charlotte affected innocence, but she felt her face heating up. ‘You knew about them?’
‘And you saw them,’ Marianna stated with confidence. ‘And, more importantly, they saw you.’ She wagged one blunt-nailed finger at Charlotte as she spoke. ‘It is not done here on Iskos. Next time I shall accompany you.’
Charlotte knew the admonishment was well meant, but hurried to change the subject. ‘Here—let me help you with that,’ she offered. Dipping down to pick something out of the loaded basket, she extracted a damp pillowcase, which Marianna promptly removed from her hands.
‘Did any of them speak to you?’ the older woman managed through a mouthful of pegs.
Marianna was not going to let the subject rest, Charlotte realised. ‘There was one man.’
‘Taller than the rest?’
‘Larger than life,’ Charlotte agreed with some irony, realising as she spoke that it was absolutely true. But Marianna’s sudden stillness rang a warning bell. ‘Do you know who I mean?’
‘Did you speak to him?’
‘If we’re both talking about the same man…’ Charlotte hesitated, and saw from Marianna’s face that they were. ‘A little,’ she admitted cautiously. ‘Why? Do you know him?’
But Marianna, exclaiming in Greek under her breath, seemed in no mood to answer questions.
‘What’s wrong Marianna?’ Charlotte prompted. She had to know. In fact, she wanted to mine Marianna’s brain for every scrap of information about the fisherman.
‘The fishermen made their decision to come here only this morning, or I would have warned you,’ Marianna said at last. ‘The weather is unusually warm for the time of year. It brought the fish to this part of the island.’
‘But why should it matter if I saw the fishermen?’
‘Fishermen? Bah!’ Marianna exclaimed. ‘Fisherman,’ she said, tapping the side of her nose for emphasis.
‘Yes?’ Charlotte prompted eagerly.
‘I must get on,’ Marianna said briskly. ‘Your breakfast is waiting on the terrace.’ And she turned her back, leaving Charlotte in no doubt that the conversation was over.
Faced by such an uncommunicative expanse of Greek matriarchal back, Charlotte was forced to concede defeat. ‘I’ll take a shower before I eat,’ she said, almost thinking aloud.
She would wash all the salt from her body and the memory of the fisherman from her mind. Then she would slip into some fresh clothes and bring her camera back to the terrace, just in case she felt like taking some background shots for the article. At least that way she would have accomplished something positive as far as work was concerned—because time was running out, she reminded herself.
He was there! She could hardly believe it. Right below her on the beach, hauling nets with the other men, clearly distinguishable because he was at least a head taller than the rest.
If this was what came with loss of privacy on the stretch of beach below her villa, she was all for it, Charlotte mused as she adjusted the focus on her camera.
The delicious breakfast Marianna had prepared for her lay forgotten on the plate as Charlotte clicked away furiously. She must get some shots of the other men too, she reminded herself, and the scenery. She took those as quickly as she could, and then zoomed in again to focus on her prime target—the broad sweep of sun-bronzed shoulders shown off to perfection beneath a faded blue vest. She couldn’t help noticing how the fabric clung to his toned torso—and then recoiled, almost falling off her chair when his head lifted and he swung around. Now he seemed to be looking straight at her…
Righting herself, Charlotte instinctively covered the lens of the camera with her hand. The sun must have glinted off the glass. Reaching for the camera case with shaking hands, she stowed the camera away inside it.
The man had definitely seen something. The way he was standing now, hands planted on his hips, staring up towards the terrace, proved it. And though he was too far away for her to be able to read the expression on his face, she didn’t have to.
‘Ah, you have not eaten your breakfast.’
Charlotte turned around, relieved to hear Marianna’s reproachful voice. It brought a welcome gust of normality into a situation that was growing increasingly uncomfortable. ‘I’m sorry.’ She smiled into Marianna’s raisin-black eyes. ‘Here, let me help you with that,’ she insisted as Marianna began collecting up the dishes. She was in no mood for playing Russian roulette with the fisherman’s intentions, and would feel a lot safer inside the house.
‘You will fade away,’ Marianna declared once they were back in the kitchen. ‘You must eat.’
‘Fade away? Me?’ Glancing in the mirror, Charlotte viewed herself critically. She had always been on the generous side of average, as far as weight was concerned, but a healthy diet, as well as plenty of exercise in the Greek sunshine, had stripped away much of the excess. She was surprised at how fit she looked. No amount of pounding rubber in the gym had managed to achieve such a firm body back in England.
Altogether her looks had undergone something of a transformation. Her hair had paled to a rich golden red, and even that was streaked with lighter strands around her hairline. Just as well, she mused wryly, since the tip of her nose was bright red. She needed the contrast. But her freckles… Charlotte groaned as she wiped her hands across her nose and cheeks, and sighed with frustration.
‘Do you eat at all when I leave here?’ Marianna persisted, breaking into her cogitations. ‘No, I thought not,’ she said disparagingly, without giving Charlotte a chance to speak. ‘But tonight you shall.’
‘I shall?’ Charlotte said with surprise.
‘Yes,’ Marianna said decisively. ‘Tonight you shall come with me to the taverna and eat a proper meal.’
‘But—’ Charlotte bit back the words she had been about to say. Anticipating a refusal, Marianna looked crestfallen. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ Charlotte said hurriedly, ‘but I don’t—’
‘Don’t eat? Yes, I know,’ Marianna said, rolling her eyes. ‘That’s why I’m suggesting you come along with me tonight. There is delicious food at the taverna. And there will be music, and dancing too.’
Raising her arms above her head, she clicked her fingers rhythmically, with such a look of mischief in her eyes that it didn’t take much for Charlotte to imagine the woman Marianna must have been maybe fifty years before. It would be churlish to refuse, she realised. ‘You’re very kind Marianna. Thank you for asking me. I’d love to come.’
‘In that case, I will collect you at nine o’clock,’ Marianna said briskly. ‘And you will wear a pretty party dress.’
‘A party dress?’ Charlotte’s mind stalled for a moment, and then she remembered the fabulous designer dresses still languishing at the bottom of her suitcase. ‘Will everyone be dressed up?’ she asked dubiously, hoping to avoid the toe-curling possibility that she might be overdressed if she wore one of them.
‘Of course,’ Marianna declared passionately. ‘Tonight is a special night—a panagiria. There will be traditional folk music, good food, and dancing. Everyone will be wearing their best clothes.’
‘Everyone—’ Charlotte bit the word back guiltily. Of course he wouldn’t be there. It was crazy to expect the hard man of the island to grace such an event with his presence. He might have felt at home yelling the odds at a boxing match, or even stripped to the waist taking part—She quickly pulled the shutters down on that disturbing thought. No, the occasion Marianna had just described would not appeal to the steely individual she had encountered on the beach.
Feeling reassured, Charlotte agreed with a smile. ‘I’ll be ready for you at nine o’clock,’ she promised Marianna, already looking forward to her first night out on the island.
‘There’s just one more thing,’ Marianna added haltingly.
‘And what’s that?’ Charlotte prompted with surprise. It wasn’t like Marianna to be anything other than forthcoming.
‘It would be better if you left your camera behind. The men don’t like it.’ Marianna gave an open-armed shrug.
‘The men don’t like it?’ Charlotte repeated, wrinkling her brow, not sure whether to laugh or not.
‘It’s better to conform.’
‘Do you conform?’ Charlotte said, still uncertain of her ground. Up to now she would have suspected that a strong character like Marianna would set the rules, rather than have them imposed upon her.
‘Yes,’ Marianna said with some emphasis. ‘It is not for me or for anyone to upset centuries of tradition.’
Consider yourself reprimanded, Charlotte thought. The one thing she didn’t want to do was cause offence. ‘I’m sorry—you’re quite right,’ she said quickly. ‘I won’t take anyone’s photograph without asking their permission first—’
‘No,’ Marianna said firmly, holding up her hand. ‘It would be better if you did not bring your camera at all. People can be…’
‘Yes?’ Charlotte pressed when the older woman fell silent.
Marianna only shrugged. ‘It would be better if you did not bring your camera,’ she repeated doggedly.
‘In that case, I won’t,’ Charlotte promised. Maybe that was what was wrong with the fisherman on the beach—he had suspected there was someone taking photographs. Marianna’s reference to centuries of tradition made Charlotte wonder if there was some superstition-based prejudice on Iskos that forbade the use of photography. ‘See you at nine,’ she said, returning to the present as she waved Marianna off with a smile.
Charlotte felt a rush of excitement as she contemplated the evening ahead. Her glance flew to the opposite side of the shore. She could just make out the white tops of the outdoor tables at the taverna, waiting for their traditional blue and white checked tablecloths to decorate the Formica surfaces.
There was no sign of the fisherman or his boat, and she turned her attention instead to the wooden jetty extending out on stilts into the sea. It was lit by twinkling lights at night, and from her eyrie on top of the cliff she had often thought it the most romantic place on earth. On several occasions haunting music had floated up to her in waves, and she had just been able to make out couples dancing close together, watch the tiny figures forming into a line to dance the kalamatiana, the traditional dance of Greece. And now, tonight, in just a few hours, she would be there!
Without a partner, Charlotte remembered wryly. But she was looking forward to all the good food Marianna had mentioned. Just the thought of the freshly caught fish and delectable mezedhes, the hors d’oeuvres of Greece, was enough to make her mouth water. And, who knew? She might even be invited to dance.
She would write all day, Charlotte decided, remembering the article still awaiting her attention. But then, as a reward, she would dance all night…
She hadn’t realised there was quite so much Lycra in the designer dresses, and with just half an hour to go before Marianna arrived Charlotte was still trying to make up her mind which one to wear. Would it be the skin-tight red dress with the plunging neckline, or the backless eau-de-nil number?
From the front at least the pale green dress looked quite respectable—except that it made her breasts look like melons and her backside—Thankfully, her head refused to go any further round to get a proper look, so she was going to overlook that problem. But at least the shade was subtle, Charlotte told herself, and she made her final decision.
If she draped a shawl around her shoulders she would be pretty well covered up. And it was either that or shorts and a tee-shirt—and Marianna had stipulated party dress. She couldn’t disappoint, could she? Charlotte mused, reverently lifting out the dainty Jimmy Choos her chums had insisted she pack along with the dresses. Irresistible! Charlotte held up the sandals to admire them. Goodbye flat sandals, hello stiletto heaven. She eased her slim, tanned feet beneath the fragile, beaded straps.
She was beginning to feel like Cinderella, Charlotte realised as she gathered up her long sun-streaked hair. Holding it with a discreet tortoiseshell clip, she dragged down a few tendrils to soften the effect.