The Highest Stakes of All. Sara Craven

the general buzz of conversation, she turned to Denys. She said very quietly, ‘I’m being watched.’

      ‘Of course you are, my pet.’ He flashed a conspiratorial smile at her. ‘You’re a very beautiful girl, and I want you to be looked at.’

      ‘But it’s not in the right way or by the right person,’ she protested, troubled. ‘I really think it would be better if I found some reason to leave.’

      ‘Don’t be silly, darling.’ His smile widened, became fixed. ‘Everything’s fine and I need you to stay exactly where you are. They’re raising the ante and the stakes are about to become very interesting.’ He took a satisfied breath. ‘We’re on our way, sweetheart. Trust me.’

      ‘Then at least allow me to get some fresh air before you make our fortune.’ She rose restlessly from her chair and walked towards the balcony door, taking care to look at no one, and to ignore the inevitable glances that came her way.

      Once outside, she stood for a moment filling her lungs with a couple of deep, steadying breaths before advancing to the elaborate metal railing and leaning against it, moving her shoulders gently in an attempt to ease the tension in her muscles.

      The darkness seemed to wrap her like a warm blanket, while below her the stillness of the hidden garden was disturbed only by the rasping of cicadas.

      And beyond, in the bay, she could see the lights of the boats challenging the stars as they rode at anchor, dominated by the looming grandeur of Persephone.

      No matter where I turn, she mused wryly, Vassos Gordanis seems to be dominating the picture.

      But he’d chosen an odd name for his yacht, she thought, recalling the stories of the Greek myths she’d read at school. Persephone, if memory served, had no connection with the sea. She’d been a springtime goddess captured and carried off by Hades, the dark god of the Underworld, while she was picking flowers.

      ‘A classic example,’ her teacher Miss Gordon had said, ‘of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

      As a result of Persephone’s abduction, so the story went, her mother Demeter was in such grief that she forbade the crops to grow until her daughter came back to her.

      So Zeus, the supreme deity, decreed that Persephone should be returned to earth, as long as she had nothing to eat or drink while she was in Hades’ power.

      Only one day she’d found her favourite fruit—a pomegranate—in a dish on the table and eaten six of its seeds, enough to condemn her to spend half of each year in the Underworld. While the earth above stayed cold and barren, only coming back to life with her return for six months each spring.

      ‘Which is,’ Miss Gordon told them, ‘a nice, convenient explanation for the annual change in the seasons.’

      At the time, a much younger Joanna had mused wistfully that if Persephone had only managed to resist the temptation of the pomegranate altogether it would have been summer all the year round, with no frozen knees on the hockey pitch, chilblains, or horrible colds.

      Now, with a swift wry smile at her own naïveté, she turned to go back into the suite, pausing with a gasp as she realised her way was blocked by a tall, lean and quite unmistakable figure lounging in the doorway.

      Joanna took an instinctive step backwards. She said huskily, ‘I—I didn’t know anyone was there.’

      The question Why have you followed me? was also hovering on her lips, but she bit it back. It was his suite, after all, and his balcony. And very soon it would be his hotel, too, so he could go where he pleased.

      But it disturbed her that she’d been totally unaware of his presence, and especially that, while his face was shadowed, he could see her plainly in the light emanating from the room. And once again found herself cursing how little she was wearing.

      Ridiculous, she thought with sudden breathlessness, to feel so exposed, so vulnerable, yet she did—even though Denys was within earshot.

      He said softly, ‘Forgive me for having startled you, thespinis.’ He paused. ‘It’s a beautiful night, ne?’

      She said, ‘I—I just needed some air.’

      He nodded. ‘You find the atmosphere in the room tense, perhaps. It is understandable—when there is so much at stake.’

      ‘Really?’ She lifted her chin. ‘I’d have said play has been quite moderate.’

      ‘So far,’ he said. ‘But the evening has hardly begun. And, after all, so much depends on you, thespinis.’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘You are Kyrios Vernon’s lucky charm. He has said so.’

      She bit her lip. ‘Denys doesn’t need a mascot. He’s a very good player.’

      ‘I think he will need to be.’ Another pause. ‘But I came to tell you that your drink is waiting.’ He added softly, ‘And that is a circumstance, perhaps, the only one, when the ice should not melt too soon.’

      The words seemed to tingle over her skin in some strange way.

      She swallowed. ‘Is—is the game about to restart?’

      ‘Yes,’ he said, after a pause. ‘It is getting late and I think we should waste no more time.’

      He stood aside courteously to allow her to pass, but Joanna hesitated, reluctant to reduce the distance between them by so much as an inch.

      Eventually she forced herself to move, edging past him, eyes on the ground, hoping her anxiety had not been recognised. Because it might amuse him, and she remembered his smile only too well, she told herself, renewed unease quivering in her senses.

      No matter how many signals I may get from Dad, she thought as she went back into the suite, I cannot come on to Vassos Gordanis. He disturbs me in a way that has nothing to do with his being the richest man I’ve ever met.

      And it doesn’t involve him lusting after me, either, because he isn’t the one who can’t keep his eyes off me. He leaves that to the paid staff. Besides, I can usually recognise that response from men and I’ve learned to cope, if necessary.

      Though not always with the greatest success, a small voice in her head reminded her, at least not in Australia.

      I just know there’s something else about him, she told herself restively, pushing the unbidden memory away. Something that I’ve never encountered before, and can’t fathom. Some facet I don’t even want to know about.

      Please, she thought passionately, releasing her pent-up breath. Please let it all be over soon, so I never have to see him again.

      All the players had changed seats during the break, her father included, but to her dismay Joanna found she was once again stationed directly opposite Vassos Gordanis.

      She reached for her glass, and gulped down some of the promised water, thankful for its refreshing chill against the dryness of her throat. And the ice was still intact, she thought, recalling his odd remark. It hadn’t melted too soon at all.

      Don’t think about him, she told herself. Concentrate on the play.

      She soon realised that her father’s forecast that the stakes would be getting higher was fully justified.

      The first pot, won by the South African Hansi Dorten with a straight, was worth over three thousand dollars, and she was relieved that Denys had decided to fold when the draw did not improve his original pair of tens.

      But in the next hand his cards yielded a spade flush. There was a flurry of betting, then Chuck, Hansi and one of the Frenchmen all folded. But Vassos Gordanis, Henri de Morvan and Denys did not, each of them continuing to call and raise until there were over twenty thousand dollars’ worth of chips in the middle of the table.

      Joanna’s hands curled into tense fists. This was it, she thought.