Sleeping With A Stranger. Anne Mather

the perfect response. ‘How is your wife these days?’

      Milos’s jaw hardened. ‘We are divorced,’ he said tersely, obviously resenting her question just as much as she’d resented his. ‘Your—husband must have been very young when he died.’

      ‘He was—’

      ‘’Course, he was stoned at the time,’ put in Melissa, apparently growing tired of being ignored. Then, before either of the adults could respond, ‘Wow, are these your wheels? Cool!’

      Helen met Milos’s eyes without really being able to stop herself. She could almost see what he was thinking. He was wondering what kind of genes had spawned such a monster, and she couldn’t blame him. She couldn’t even blame it on Richard’s premature demise. Melissa had been out of control long before then.

      Making no response, Milos swung open the door of the sleek Mercedes before saying tersely to the girl, ‘Get in the back.’

      There was an unmistakable edge to his voice and predictably Melissa responded to it. ‘Who are you talking to?’ she demanded, making no effort to do as he’d asked. She propped her hip against the car and ran a black-lacquered nail over the gleaming silver paintwork. ‘You can’t tell me what to do, Milos. I’m not your daughter.’

      A look of savagery crossed Milos’s face at that moment and Helen guessed he was thinking that no daughter of his would ever act like this. If he only knew, she thought, unaware she had let anything of her feelings show in her face until he threw her an uncomprehending look. But, ‘Just do it!’ was all he said, daring Melissa to argue with him again, and, with a muffled swear word, Melissa straightened from her lounging position.

      ‘Please,’ Helen appended, dreading another scene. ‘Melissa, please!’

      ‘Oh—all right.’

      Melissa sniffed, but finally she gave in. Forcing the front seat forward, she flung her backpack onto the soft Moroccan leather and climbed in after it. But she made no attempt to keep her scuffed trainers from scraping across the back of the seats in front and Helen’s teeth were on edge by the time she’d settled down.

      ‘Happy now?’

      Helen was far from happy, but this wasn’t the time to voice it. She was too aware of the dangers Milos represented, and of her own pitiable ability to keep the truth from him. The day had started badly, after that sleepless night on the ferry, and it had suddenly got a whole lot worse.

      She got into the car when Milos indicated that she should, but she noticed that he was far from relaxed when he flung open his door and got in beside her. What was he thinking? she fretted. Had he seen anything in Melissa’s face, in her words, to give him pause? Oh, God, what was she going to do if he had?

      Her skirt had ridden up her thighs as she got into the vehicle and she concentrated on pulling it down as Milos thrust the car into drive and depressed the accelerator. But she couldn’t help being aware of him beside her, of his lean strength coiled behind the wheel, of his long fingers on the controls. Long fingers that had once…

      ‘I’m gonna have a car like this when I’m older,’ declared Melissa from the back seat, and Helen wondered if she’d sensed the tension between them.

      ‘You’ll have to do some work first,’ she said, anything to distract herself. ‘Cars like this cost money.’

      ‘I could always find myself a rich husband,’ remarked her daughter irrepressibly. ‘Even one who’s more than twice my age.’

      Helen sucked in a breath. But she refused to let herself be drawn by Melissa’s unsubtle reference to her employer. ‘Do—er—do you live at Aghios Petros, too?’ she asked, addressing Milos, and, although she sensed his reluctance, he was forced to look her way.

      ‘I live—not too far from there,’ he replied at last. ‘But I don’t spend all the year on Santoros. I also have a home in Athens.’

      ‘You do?’ Helen was surprised. If he did work for her father, he was evidently paid very well.

      ‘My family isn’t involved in winemaking,’ he told her flatly, successfully shattering her preconceived ideas about him. ‘My father owns—ships.’

      ‘Ships?’ It was Melissa who broke in again. ‘What? Like that leaky old crate that brought us from Crete?’

      ‘Melissa!’

      Helen cast another impatient look at her daughter, but Milos had apparently had enough of her insolence. ‘No,’ he said harshly. ‘Not ferry boats, thespinis .’ He emphasised the word. ‘Tankers. Oil-tankers. Regrettably, I am one of those rich old men you spoke of so scornfully a few minutes ago.’

       CHAPTER TWO

       T HE villa stood on a rise above terraced slopes burgeoning with green vines. A long drive wound between cypress and olive trees, with the flowering blooms of tamarisk bushes edging the road. It was a fairly large dwelling with hanging eaves, overgrown with flowering vines and bougainvillea.

      ‘Is this it?’

      Melissa was leaning forward now, her elbow digging into the back of her mother’s neck, and Milos wondered what the hell Sam would make of his granddaughter. She was obviously going to be nothing like he’d expected.

      ‘Mum!’

      Helen had said nothing and Melissa prompted her to speak. ‘I think this must be your grandfather’s house,’ she said, glancing sideways at Milos. ‘Those are vineyards, aren’t they?’

      ‘ Ineh —they are,’ he agreed. ‘This is the Ambeli Kouras .’

      ‘ Ambeli Kouros?’ Once again, Melissa had to have her say. ‘What the hell is that?’

      ‘Melissa!’

      Helen tried to restrain her, but Milos decided she was wasting her time. ‘It means the Kouros vineyard,’ he told her patiently. ‘Kouros was your grandfather’s wife’s family name. When he took over, he retained it.’

      Melissa was reflective for a moment. ‘My grandfather’s wife,’ she said at last. ‘That would be that evil bitch Maya , right?’

      ‘For goodness’ sake, Melissa—’

      Helen was obviously horrified, but Milos recognised Helen’s mother’s voice in that description. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘So be warned. Maya doesn’t take any prisoners.’

      Melissa huffed, but she sat back on her seat, clearly disappointed she hadn’t aroused a more explosive reaction. Helen felt obliged to intervene. ‘I’m afraid Maya’s name isn’t particularly welcome in my family,’ she said. ‘I have to admit, my mother didn’t want me to come.’

      So, what’s new? thought Milos drily. Sheila Campbell hadn’t liked him either. ‘I expect she doesn’t trust Sam,’ he ventured mildly. ‘Either that, or she thinks it’s too soon for you to be thinking of starting over.’

      ‘You mean, since Richard died?’ Helen queried, her lips folding together in a thin line. ‘No. She—er—she’s of the opinion that I should get married again.’ And he could make what he liked of that! she seemed to add silently.

      ‘Yeah, she wants Mum to marry a wrinkly,’ put in Melissa, before Milos could make any comment. Which was just as well. Helen’s statement had thrown him for six. ‘Mark Greenaway. He must be sixty if he’s a day. Like I’d want him for a daddy !’

      Helen caught her breath. ‘Mark is not a wrinkly,’ she protested hotly. ‘And he’s nowhere near sixty.’ She cast Milos an awkward glance. ‘He’s my boss. He owns an engineering company and I’m his personal assistant.’

      ‘Really?’ Milos managed to sound only marginally interested. ‘Does he have family, too?’

      ‘If