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CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

T
HE
villa looked just as she remembered it.

Or rather, Rebecca acknowledged to herself, it looked just as it had always appeared in her dreams. Because the truth was that she had actually seen so very little of it on that one day she had ever spent inside it.

The one day that should have been the start of her honeymoon.

The one day of her marriage.

They had arrived just as the sun was setting and so she had only had the briefest glimpse of the huge, elegant, white-painted building, the sweep of the bay behind it blue and crystal-clear. But it seemed that that had been enough to etch the image onto her mind with perfect clarity so that the memories that had surfaced in her sleep were far more detailed and accurate than she would ever have imagined she could describe when awake.

Clearly the eyes of happiness recorded things much better than vision that was blurred and distorted by tears. Because that was how she remembered her arrival at the Villa Aristea, and then, just a few short hours later, her departure from it. She had reached the tiny island in the heights of delirious happiness, and left it just a few short hours later in the very depths of despair.

She hadn't even had time to unpack her case. Rebecca shivered in spite of the heat of the sun on her back as she recalled the way that Andreas had picked it up and flung it out of the door in a blazing, black rage. She had been so sure that he would have flung her out after it that she hadn't stayed even to protest, but had fled in a rush, trying to convince herself that discretion was the better part of valour and that she would do better to wait until he'd calmed down before she tried to explain the truth. At least then she might have a hope that he would listen.

She'd waited. And waited. But it had seemed that Andreas would never, ever calm down at all.

Until now.

‘Is this the right place,
kyria
?'

Behind her, on the steep, curving road, the taxi driver stirred restlessly in the afternoon heat. He was clearly anxious to get back to the tiny village and into the shade once again.

‘Oh, yes,' Rebecca assured him hastily, opening her bag and rooting in it awkwardly, hunting for her purse and thumbing through the unfamiliar notes she'd acquired in a rush at the very last minute, hunting for one that looked something like the amount on the meter. ‘Yes, this is the right place.'

It was impossible not to contrast the shambles and discomfort of her arrival today with the way she had first visited the Villa Aristea barely a year before. Then she had travelled in the greatest possible comfort, flying to Rhodes in Andreas' private jet and then being ferried in a helicopter across the sea to this island that was little more than a dot in the ocean.

And she hadn't had to lift a finger. Everything had been arranged for her. Everything planned to be the end of a perfect day and the start of a perfect marriage.

Except, of course, it hadn't worked out at all that way. That day had been the start of nothing and had brought the end of her ill-fated marriage before it had even really begun.

Except in one way…

Bitter tears burned at the backs of her eyes as she was forced to remember how Andreas had so ruthlessly made sure that their marriage could not be dissolved easily and swiftly.

‘There will be no annulment,' he had declared coldly and harshly, making it plain that that was what had been at the back of his mind all the time. He hadn't wanted her for himself any more, but he had made so sure that she could not be with anyone else for as long as he could keep her from it. ‘If you want your freedom, you will have to go through the full legal procedure.'

‘
If
I want my freedom!' Rebecca had flung at him, blinded by pain and desperate to get out of there before she had broken down and let him see just what he had done to her. ‘
If
! I wouldn't come back to you if you crawled over broken glass to come to me to beg for my return.'

He'd tossed aside her furious protest with an indifferent shrug of one powerful shoulder, a look of scorn on his beautiful face.

‘You'll come crawling to me before I ever even think of you, if only because you need money for something. I'll be willing to bet that you'll come looking for cash before the year is up.'

‘Never…' Rebecca had begun, desperate to stop him from thinking of her like this. ‘I'd rather die.'

He'd scorned that declaration too, swatting it away as if her fury were just a buzzing fly that had annoyed him.

‘You'll be back—because you can't help yourself. You'll want to get your greedy, grasping hands on as much as you can before our marriage is finally over and done with.'

‘
Kyria…
'

The taxi driver was still hovering, trying to give her change, it seemed.

‘Oh, no…'

Rebecca waved him away, trying to find the strength to smile in spite of her memories.

‘Keep it. Keep the change.'

She might need him later, she told herself. Sooner, rather than later, if this interview didn't go well. But certainly at some point soon, she would need a taxi to take her back down to the ferry and it was as well to keep this man friendly as it seemed that he ran the only firm on this island.

She barely heard his thanks or the roar of the car's engine as it swung out into the road and set off down the hill again. Her gaze had gone back to the big, carved wooden door before her and her thoughts to the night, a year ago, when she had crept away from this place like a beaten dog, with her tail well and truly between her legs.

‘You'll come crawling to me before I ever even think of you…'

The brutal words echoed again and again inside her mind, making her head ache, and her thoughts blur. She had come crawling to him in desperation, because only desperation could drive her to fulfil his prediction, make the callous words come true when she had vowed that it was the last thing on earth that she would ever want. And she
was
desperate.

But desperation wasn't why she was here.

The terrible news about her baby niece had driven her to write that letter to Andreas, expecting only ever to receive the curtest of replies from him—if in fact he replied at all. She hoped for, prayed for a cheque that would help them out of the terrible fix they were in—a cheque that she had promised him that she would pay back if it was the last thing she did. But she had definitely not dared to hope for anything else.

Certainly she hadn't dared to hope that he would actually see her, or speak to her. Let her put her case in person.

And of course he hadn't.

The formal letter had come almost by return of post.

She was asked to meet with his lawyer. To state exactly why she needed the money and on what terms. And when he had the details then Mr Petrakos would consider her request.

She had been still reeling from the curt coldness of the single typewritten sheet when the telephone had rung.

‘Andreas…'

For the first time in almost twelve months Rebecca had let his name slip past her lips, whispering it aloud in the still, hot air, silent except for the buzz of insects amongst the flowers.

She hadn't even been able to say it when she had heard the unknown, accented voice at the other end of the phone ask to speak to Mrs Petrakos. In fact it had taken the space of several stunned heartbeats to even remember that Mrs Petrakos was her own name. She had gone back to using her maiden name after the brutally abrupt end to her marriage and had tried in all ways possible to put the fact that she had ever been Rebecca Petrakos, however briefly, out of her mind for good.

‘Come on, Rebecca,
do something
!'

She spoke the words out loud, striving to push herself into action instead of standing there, foolishly, frozen to the spot. She seemed incapable of movement now that she was actually here.

She'd moved fast enough when she'd finally absorbed the phone message from Andreas' PA. Just to know that her husband had had an accident had been bad enough. At the words ‘car crash', her blood had run cold, making her shiver in shock as the terrible truth hit home.

A devastating crash. His car brakes had failed and he'd gone off the road, into a tree. He was lucky to still be alive. But he had escaped, though badly battered and bruised—and now he was asking for her.

Asking for her.

As they had done back home, those words now pushed Rebecca into action, taking her towards the door, her hand lifting to tug at the ornate bell pull that hung beside it, hearing the sound jangle loudly deep inside the house.

Andreas had been asking for her, the voice at the other end of the phone had said. Did she think she could come to Greece? Would it be possible for her to come to see him?

Becca hadn't needed to
think.
There had been no doubt at all in her mind and she had given her answer even before she had time to consider whether it was wise or not. But the truth was she didn't care.

Andreas had been in a crash, he was hurt—injured—and he was asking for her. She had barely put the phone down before she had dashed upstairs to start packing.

Of course, the journey to Greece had given her too much time to think. Time to go over and over and over the conversation in her head and find all sorts of possible things to worry about and fret over.

What had happened in the accident and how badly hurt was Andreas? Why did he want to speak to her when for almost a year he had kept his distance, maintaining a total silence, with no contact at all, apart from that single stiffly formal letter that she knew he had got his secretary to write and had simply scrawled his name at the bottom of?

But it had been enough to know that Andreas had asked for her. And there was no way she was going to turn her back on him.

She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she barely noticed the big door swing open and jumped, startled, when a voice exclaimed in surprise.

‘
Kyria
Petrakos!'

It was Medora, the elderly housekeeper who Andreas had said was the closest he had ever had to a mother. Medora, who had been the one person she had spoken to on that terrible day she had spent at the villa, before Andreas had so unceremoniously thrown her out. The one person who had had a smile for her then and still had now, it seemed.

‘Welcome! Come in! The master will be so happy to see you.'

Would he? a little, niggling voice questioned in the back of Becca's thoughts. Would Andreas truly be glad to see her? She had started out on this journey so determined and full of confidence, but somehow along the way all of that courage had seeped away.

What if it had all been a terrible mistake? If Andreas had not been asking for her at all but for someone else? Or what if…?

Her heart clenched at the thought of the possibility that Andreas had asked for her all right but that he had done so for reasons that were far from kind or even friendly. What if his motives were simply to add to the misery he had heaped on her a year ago?

‘
Kyria
Petrakos?'

Another voice, a male one this time—the voice from the telephone call—broke into her thoughts, making her turn, blinking hard in the shadowy hallway after the brilliance of the sun outside. A young man, tall, dark, was holding out his hand to her.

‘My name is Leander Gazonas. I work for
Kyrie
Petrakos. It was I who telephoned you.'

Leander's handclasp was warm and firm, reassuringly so. It drove away some of the doubts and fears in Becca's thoughts, and replaced them with new confidence and hope.

‘Thank you for getting in touch with me. I came as soon as I could.'

‘So would you like a drink—or a chance to freshen up? Medora will show you to your room.'

If a room had been put at her disposal then it seemed that, for the moment at least, Andreas was not just going to turn round and reject her again. But where was Andreas himself? How was he?

‘If it's all right, I'd like to see my…'

The word died on her tongue and she found herself unable to actually say ‘my husband' out loud.

‘I'd like to see Mr Petrakos, if that's possible.'

If there was anything that brought home to her just how ambiguous her presence here was, it was this. The way that she was standing here, in the hallway of the home of the man who was, legally at least, her husband, waiting for an invitation to move into the house, while somewhere else in the building Andreas, the man she had promised to love, honour and cherish—and who had made the same vow to her—was…

Was what? Why was she being kept here, waiting like this? What had happened to Andreas? Where was he? Something about the look in Leander's eyes made panic rise in her throat.

‘Is my husband all right? Where is he? How is he?'