His Virgin Mistress. Anne Mather

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СКАЧАТЬ dried on her skin, and she felt more ready to face the day. Constantine had said he would take her to the small town of Agios Antonis this morning, and she was looking forward to seeing a little more of the island. Since their arrival two days ago they had spent all their time at the villa. Constantine had been weary after the flight from London, and yesterday he had had the reception Olivia had organised to contend with. Joanna knew he would have much preferred to stagger the celebrations for his homecoming, but Constantine hadn’t wanted to disappoint his elder daughter. Besides, until his younger daughter’s wedding was over he didn’t intend to discuss his illness with any of his family.

      Joanna finished drying her hair and paused on the threshold of the dressing room that was next to the bathroom. Floor-to-ceiling closets lined two of the walls, but the clothes she had brought with her looked lost in their cavernous depths.

      Nevertheless, Constantine had insisted on equipping her with several new outfits for the trip to Theapolis. And, although Joanna still felt slightly uncomfortable about that arrangement, she had to admit that the clothes she usually favoured would not have borne comparison with the designer fashions she had seen since their arrival.

      The fact that she normally shunned anything that emphasised her femininity had not been lost on Constantine. And, despite the fact that he respected her preference for severe skirt-and trouser-suits, he had persuaded her that they would definitely look out of place in the hot dry climate of the island in late summer.

      Besides, they would have detracted from the image he wanted her to present. It was because she could do what he asked that he’d chosen her, and in the circumstances Joanna had been unable to refuse.

      Perhaps she’d wanted to do it for her own sake, she reflected, riffling through the rail of expensive garments, all of which were designed to inspire and provoke masculine attention. Flimsy shirts and tight-fitting basques; low-cut bodices and clinging skirts; hems slashed to expose her legs from thigh to hip—items that until two weeks ago she’d have avoided like the plague.

      But it hadn’t always been so. Once she would have revelled in their style and beauty. Oh, she had never owned anything too revealing, but she had appreciated her own body and dressed in a way to make the most of her assets. She’d spent so many years believing she was worthless that when the opportunity had come to make the most of her appearance, she’d taken it. She’d wanted to be admired. She’d wanted to know the thrill of feeling beautiful.

      And then she’d met Richard Manning…

      But she didn’t want to think about Richard now. He was history. He’d hurt and humiliated her for the last time. But perhaps by downplaying her looks she’d been subconsciously denying their relationship. Maybe it was time to come out of her shell.

      She viewed her appearance cautiously when she was ready. It would take some time before she was able to look at herself with uncritical eyes, and although the lime-green crêpe shell and cream silk shorts were very flattering, she couldn’t get used to exposing such a length of thigh. Still, she was sure Constantine would approve and, for the present, that was all that mattered.

      Which reminded her—where was Constantine? He had said he would order breakfast to be served on the balcony again, as he had done the previous morning, but when she stepped outside again there was still no one about. The wrought-iron table wasn’t even laid, and she knew a moment’s apprehension. What was going on? Surely Demetrios hadn’t delayed him. His son had been eager to speak to him, it was true, but all the same…

      Turning back into the room, she crossed to the connecting doors and tapped lightly on the panels. It was the first time she had had to initiate their meeting, and she felt a little awkward when Philip, Constantine’s valet, opened the door.

      ‘Kalimera, Kiria Manning.’ The man greeted her politely enough, though she sensed a certain reserve in his manner. ‘Boro na sas voithisso?’

      Joanna contained her impatience. Constantine had told his valet that she didn’t understand his language, and therefore the man’s behaviour was a deliberate attempt to disconcert her.

      However, she had taken the precaution of learning one phrase, and with smiling courtesy she said, ‘Then katalaveno,’ which she knew meant, I don’t understand. ‘Signomi.’ Sorry.

      Philip’s thin lips tightened. He was a man in his late fifties, who Constantine had said had been with him for more than thirty years. Gaunt and unsmiling, he was the exact opposite of Joanna’s idea of a genial manservant, his only concession to vanity the luxuriant black moustache that coated his upper lip.

      ‘Kirie Kastro is not—up, kiria,’ he said at last, in a thick barely comprehensible accent. ‘Then sikothikeh akomi.’

      Joanna frowned, looking beyond him into the living area of Constantine’s suite. The door to the bedroom was ajar, but she couldn’t see into the room, and she could only take Philip’s word that Constantine was still in bed.

      ‘Is he all right?’ she asked, not much caring if the valet cared to stand here trading information with her. ‘Can I see him?’

      ‘I do not think—’

      ‘Pios ineh, Philip?’ Who is it?

      Constantine’s voice was frail, but he had obviously deduced that the manservant was talking to someone, and, ignoring Philip’s attempt to bar her way, Joanna sidestepped him into the apartment. ‘It’s me, Constantine,’ she called, crossing the floor to the bedroom door. ‘Can I come in?’

      ‘Please…’

      Constantine showed no reservations about inviting her into his room. And why should he? she asked herself drily. When they were deemed to be lovers.

      All the same, she halted in the doorway of the huge, distinctly masculine chamber, briefly shocked by his appearance. Constantine was lying propped against the pillows of the massive bed, his face as white as the linen sheets that covered him from chest to foot. Brown hands, slightly gnarled with veins, were a stark contrast to the bedlinen, his nails scraping against the fabric in a mute display of frustration.

      ‘Come—come in,’ he said weakly, lifting his hand to point at the tapestry-covered chair beside the bed. ‘Do not look like that, aghapitos. I am not dying yet.’

      Joanna came swiftly to the bed, but she didn’t sit in the chair he’d indicated. Instead, she edged her hip onto the bed beside him, taking one of his hands between both of hers and gazing down at him with troubled eyes. ‘Don’t even suggest such a thing,’ she reproved him sharply. Then, hesitatingly, ‘Have you sent for a doctor?’

      ‘What can a doctor do for me?’ Constantine was dismissive. ‘I am already sick of the cocktail of drugs I am forced to swallow every day, without inviting a handful more. No, Joanna, I have not sent for a doctor. A few hours’ rest is all I need. Will you tell Demetri and Olivia that I am being lazy this morning?’

      Joanna sighed. ‘Shouldn’t you tell them yourself?’

      ‘And have them see me like this?’ Constantine moved his head from side to side on the pillows. ‘I know what they are like, Joanna. I would have no choice in the matter. Demetri would have Tsikas here immediately, and it is totally unnecessary.’

      ‘Tsikas?’ Joanna frowned. ‘I assume he is your doctor.’

      ‘He is the island doctor, yes,’ agreed Constantine wearily. ‘Look, Joanna, I do not wish to worry anyone. Livvy has enough to worry СКАЧАТЬ