His voice hardened. ‘I disagree. The wise man trusts nobody with his thoughts.’
‘Not even me?’ she asked softly.
She could tell the question disconcerted him, but his defences were too firmly riveted in place to come down easily.
‘If there was one person I could trust-I think it would be you, because of the past. But I am what I am.’ He gave a self-mocking smile. ‘I don’t think even you can change me.’
She regarded him gently before venturing to touch his hand.
‘Beware people you think you can trust?’ she whispered.
‘Did I say that?’ he asked quickly.
‘Something like it. In Las Vegas, you came to the edge of saying a lot more.’
‘I was in a bad way that night. I don’t know what I said.’
A silence came down over him. He stared into his glass, and she guessed that he was shocked at himself for having relented so far. Now he would retreat again behind walls of caution and suspicion.
Was there any way to get through to this man’s damaged heart? she wondered. And, if she tried, might she not do him more harm than good?
CHAPTER FOUR
‘I’M SORRY,’ Lysandros said quietly. ‘This is me; it’s who and what I am.’
‘You don’t let anyone in, do you?’ Petra said.
He shook his head with an air of finality. Suddenly then he said, ‘But I will tell you one thing. It may only be a coincidence, but it’s strange. After I’d taken you back to your room I returned to the tables and suddenly started winning back everything I’d lost. I just couldn’t lose, and somehow that was connected with you, as though you’d turned me into a winner. Why are you smiling?’
‘You, being superstitious. If I’d said all that you’d make some snooty masculine comment about women having overly vivid imaginations.’
‘Yes, I probably would,’ he admitted. ‘But perhaps you just exercise a more powerful brand of magic.’
‘Magic?’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve studied the Greek legends without discovering magic?’
‘Yes,’ she conceded, ‘you meet it in the most unexpected places, and the hard part is knowing how to tell it from wishful thinking.’
She spoke the last words so softly that he barely heard them, but they were enough to give him a strange sensation, part pleasure, part pain, part alarm.
‘Wishful thinking,’ he echoed slowly. ‘The most dangerous thing on earth.’
‘Or the most valuable,’ she countered quickly. ‘All the great ideas started life as wishful thinking. Wasn’t there an ancestor of yours who thought,
‘You’re a very clever woman.’ He smiled. ‘You can turn anything around, just by the light you throw on it. The light doesn’t just illuminate; it transforms all the things that might have served as a warning.’
‘But perhaps they should be transformed,’ she pointed out. ‘Some people become suspicious so quickly that they need to come off-guard and enjoy a bit of wishful thinking.’
‘I said you were clever. Talking like that, you almost convince me. Just as you convinced me back then. Maybe it really is magic. Perhaps you have a brand of magic denied to all other women.’
There was a noise behind him, reminding him that they were in a public place. Reluctantly he released her hand, assuming a calm demeanour, although with an effort.
A small buzz came from his inner pocket. He drew out his phone and grimaced at the text message he found there.
‘Damn! I was planning to go to Piraeus tomorrow in any case, but now I think I’d better go tonight. I’ll be away for a few days.’
Petra drew a long breath, keeping her face averted. Until then she’d told herself that she wasn’t quite sure how she wanted the evening to end, but now she had to be honest with herself. An evening spent talking, beginning to open their hearts, should have led to a night in each other’s arms, expressing their closeness in another way. And only now that it was being denied to her did she face how badly she wanted to make love with him.
‘Will you be here when I get back?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I’m staying for a while.’
‘I’ll call you.’
‘We’d better go,’ she agreed. ‘You have to be on your way.’
‘I’m sorry-’
‘Don’t be,’ she said cheerfully. ‘It’s been a long day. I was fighting to stay awake.’
She wondered if he would actually believe that.
When they reached the Lukas villa the great gates swung open for them, almost as though someone had been watching for their arrival. At the house he opened the car door and came up the steps with her. She looked up at him, curious about his next move.
‘Do you remember that night?’ he asked gently. ‘You were such an innocent that I made you go to bed and saw you to the door.’
‘And told me to lock it,’ she recalled.
Neither of them mentioned the other thing he’d done, the kiss so soft that it had been barely a whisper against her lips-a kiss without passion, only gentle concern and tenderness. It had lingered with her long after that evening, through days and weeks, then through years. Since then she had known desire and love, but nothing had ever quite erased the memory of that moment. Looking at him now, she knew why, and when he bent his head she longed for it to be the same.
He didn’t disappoint her. His lips lay against hers for the briefest possible time before retreating, almost as though he’d found something there that disconcerted him.
‘Goodnight,’ he said quietly.
He left her before she could react, going down to the car and driving away without looking back, moving fast, as though making his escape.
‘Goodnight,’ she whispered.
It was only when he was out of sight that she remembered she hadn’t asked him how he’d known her phone number.
Petra soon found that her hours were full. Her reputation had gone before her, ensuring that several societies contacted her, asking her to join their excursions or talk to them. She accepted as many invitations as possible. They filled the hours that passed without a word from Lysandros.
One invitation that particularly attracted her came from The Cave Society, a collection of English enthusiasts who were set on exploring an island in the Aegean Sea, about twenty miles out. It was a mass of caves, some of which were reputed to contain precious historical relics.
Nikator was scathing about the idea, insisting that the legend had been rubbished years ago, but the idea of a day out in a boat attracted her.
‘Mind you, the place I’d really like to see is Priam House, on Corfu,’ she told him. ‘Is it true that Lysandros owns it?’
He shrugged. ‘I think so.’
She was mostly free of Nikator’s company. He spent much time away from home, leaving her free to explore Homer’s magnificent library. Sometimes she would take out a tiny photograph she kept in her bag and set it on the table to watch over her.
‘Like you watched over me when you were alive, Grandpa,’ she told the man in the picture, speaking in Greek.
He was elderly, with a thin, kindly face and a hesitant smile. When he was alive that smile had always been
