Mediterranean Seduction. Кэрол Мортимер

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.

      Finally she attended to her freckles, using make-up with an unusually heavy hand. They certainly disappeared, but under a thick coating of foundation that left her face looking like a mask, so then she had to add some rouge to lift the effect.

      The transformation was startling, to say the least. And it wasn’t quite what she was used to. She could always hide behind the shawl, Charlotte consoled herself. But the slash of bright red lipstick helped to boost her confidence, as did the layers of black mascara she’d applied to her lashes. But there wasn’t much of her old self left by the time she had finished, she realised, pulling a face at herself in the mirror. But as this was ‘new’ Charlotte—the one with all the confidence—that was good, wasn’t it?

      Marianna arrived on the dot of nine, dressed in her finest black regalia, consisting of a voluminous ankle-length skirt, sensible shoes, and an all-concealing top, with the ubiquitous headscarf arranged to allow just a peep of sleek, centrally parted steel-grey hair.

      ‘Ready?’ Her thoughts on Charlotte’s appearance were revealed by a drawing together of her brows and a click of her tongue. ‘This is your party dress?’ she demanded uncertainly, giving Charlotte’s outfit a comprehensive perusal.

      ‘This is it,’ Charlotte agreed with an air of finality. She just couldn’t face the rigmarole of starting over again, trying to decide what to wear.

      ‘Then we go,’ Marianna said with a shrug, drawing the soft cream-coloured shawl down over Charlotte’s naked back and securing it a little closer around her neck.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      ANY apprehension Charlotte might have felt about her first night out on the island was quickly dispelled when they arrived at the taverna. Marianna was greeted like an honoured guest, and they were shown to one of the best tables, just where Charlotte had hoped it would be, out on the jetty at the very edge of the dance floor.

      Marianna introduced the owner of the taverna to Charlotte as Mikos, and with a click of his fingers he summoned one of the young waiters forward. The good-looking youth quickly lit a candle for them, and provided a basket of freshly baked bread, together with a bowl of olive oil in which to dunk it, as well as a large bottle of fridge-chilled water and some drinking glasses.

      ‘I invite you both to visit my kitchen and take your pick of the food,’ Mikos announced, turning from Charlotte to Marianna. ‘I want you to have the very best, Kiria Lyknos,’ he said with deference. ‘I caught some excellent fish today.’ And then, turning to Charlotte, he explained with a flourish, ‘Mikos Anglias—part-time restaurateur, full-time fisherman. At least, I am a fisherman in my head,’ he added wryly. ‘Fishing is a state of mind here on Iskos—is that not correct, Kiria Lyknos?’

      ‘Everyone envies the fishermen of Iskos,’ Marianna agreed, nodding sagely.

      Charlotte warmed to the ebullient owner of the taverna immediately. He seemed to validate the theme of her article that here on Iskos people were valued for their inner qualities, rather than for their wealth or position. Her heart thundered on cue as she remembered the source of that idea. And she had tried so hard to avoid any thought of the fisherman, Charlotte berated herself silently. She didn’t want anything to spoil the evening.

      Thinking of him now made her look around anxiously. The other tables were filling up rapidly, but of course he was nowhere to be seen. She told herself not to be so jumpy, but still her heart insisted on pounding, as if he was somewhere close by—so much so that Marianna was forced to ask her twice to accompany her to the kitchen before Charlotte even realised that both she and Mikos were standing up and waiting for her to accompany them.

      ‘I’m so sorry,’ she apologised, getting to her feet right away. But she wasn’t allowed to set forth just yet. Having appointed herself unofficial chaperone for the evening, Marianna wouldn’t allow Charlotte to follow Mikos until the concealing cream shawl had been well and truly secured around her shoulders.

      When she pushed through the swinging doors and entered the small kitchen it was like entering another world. The hub of the taverna was everything Charlotte had expected—hot, steamy, and full of noise. Pan lids crashed, pots bubbled and wheezed on the central cooking station, while a veritable army of people criss-crossed each other’s paths at speed, as if mounted on invisible tracks.

      Forced to press back against the wall to let them pass, Charlotte took a few moments to get her bearings. Then suddenly there was a lull, and the room cleared. The two cooks at the central island continued ladling and stirring to some confident inner rhythm, while Marianna and Mikos talked on in an undertone like extras in the drama.

      The steam lifted as if some giant hand had brushed it aside, and Charlotte felt a wave of interest envelop her long before she identified the source. Apprehension mounted inside her until she felt as if a fist was lodged in her throat. And as her gaze was drawn across the room she found the fisherman staring back at her.

      There was no mistaking him. She would have known him anywhere, though his eyes were even more extraordinary close up than she had suspected when she’d first caught sight of him on the beach. Their colour was that of a semiprecious stone—tiger’s eye, maybe—sepia, shot through with gold. He wore a critical expression, but he didn’t trouble to mask his interest, and the expression in his eyes ran a shaft of awareness right through her. It was as if they were weighing each other up, like combatants about to enter the ring, Charlotte registered uneasily.

      Not for one moment had she thought to find her fisherman in the kitchen at the taverna—and what exactly had she done to merit his disapproval? She began to bridle as he refused to break eye contact, and then she felt her cheeks flare red. He had almost certainly seen her naked on the beach, which accounted for the sardonic stare. She glared straight back at him and tried not to care that he had changed out of his simple work clothes into hip-skimming black trousers secured with a slim black leather belt. These were teamed with a crisp white shirt that had just enough buttons left undone to tease her senses with the sight of a hard, bronzed chest shaded with dark hair.

      ‘Iannis!’

      Charlotte started guiltily at the sound of Marianna’s voice. It was as if, right on cue, the older woman had sensed the undertow of emotion snapping between them and stepped into the ring like a referee.

      ‘I did not expect to see you here tonight!’ she said, speaking in English for Charlotte’s benefit. And then, holding out her hands to Charlotte as if inviting her forward to be introduced, Marianna made it impossible to avoid the inevitable.

      Iannis smiled at Marianna. So he did have teeth, Charlotte mused ironically, and rather nice ones at that—strong and white and even. She was surprised too at the warm welcome he received from Marianna, whose judgement she had come to trust. He said something cynical in Greek—or at least Charlotte took it to be cynical from the mocking tone of his voice and the sardonic curve of his lips. But Marianna only slapped him playfully on the arm, and was rewarded by an affectionate hug, followed by a kiss on both cheeks.

      ‘Come, come,’ she said, turning back to Charlotte. ‘Come and meet Iannis Kiriakos.’

      There was no escape, so she might as well face up to him, Charlotte mused wryly. What a ring to his name—she loved it! Best of all, Kiriakos was a popular surname on the island—and his first name was popular in all of Greece. She couldn’t have named him better, as far as her article was concerned—but she would have to keep him anonymous, she remembered with