The Tycoon's Mistress. Sara Craven

might have arrived under protest, but she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t impressed.

      For the first few days she simply relaxed under an umbrella on one of the sun terraces, swam in each of the three pools, had a couple of tennis lessons, and tried her hand, gingerly, at windsurfing. She also sampled all of the restaurants on the complex.

      For once the brochure had spoken nothing but the truth, she thought wryly. The Hellenic Imperial was the height of opulence. The service was excellent, and no element of comfort had been overlooked.

      But by the end of the first week Cressy was beginning to feel that it was all too perfect.

      Most of the other guests seemed perfectly content to stay on the complex and be waited on hand and foot, but Cressy was restless. She rented a car, and took in the sights. The island’s capital, with its harbour full of glamorous yachts and its sophisticated shopping facilities, left her cold. She much preferred driving up throat-tightening mountain roads to see a church with famous frescoes, sampling dark, spicy wine in a local vineyard, or drinking tiny cups of thick, sweet coffee in kafeneions in remote villages.

      But, more and more, she found herself looking across the glittering sapphire of the Aegean and wondering exactly what lay there on the horizon.

      One morning, when she was changing some money at Reception, she said casually, ‘How do I get to Myros?’

      The clerk could not have looked more astonished if she’d asked what time the next space ship left for the moon.

      ‘Myros, thespinis?’ he repeated carefully.

      Cressy nodded. ‘It’s not that far away. I presume there’s a ferry.’

      He pursed his lips. ‘There are boats,’ he said discouragingly. ‘But tourists do not go there, Kyria Fielding.’

      ‘Why not?’

      He shrugged. ‘Because everything they want is here,’ he returned with unshakeable logic.

      ‘Nevertheless,’ Cressy said equably, biting back a smile, ‘I’d like to know where the boats leave from.’

      The clerk looked almost distressed. ‘You don’t like this hotel, thespinis? You find it lacking in some way?’

      ‘Not at all,’ she assured him. ‘I’d just like a change.’

      ‘But there is nothing on Myros, kyria. It has no hotels, no facilities. It is a place for farmers and fishermen.’

      ‘It sounds perfect,’ Cressy said, and left him in mid-protest.

      She was aware of curious glances as she sat in the bow of the caique watching Myros turn from an indistinct blur into a tall, mountainous ridge, the lower slopes softened by patches of greenery. She was without question the only foreigner on the boat, and the skipper, who looked like an amiable pirate, had initially demurred over accepting her fare.

      As the caique traversed the shoreline, Cressy saw long stretches of pale sand, sheltered by jagged rocks.

      The fishermen and the farmers have been lucky so far, she thought. Because this place looks ripe for exploitation to me.

      The harbour was only tiny, with no smart boats among the battered caiques. Row upon row of small white houses seemed to be tumbling headlong towards the narrow waterfront where fishing nets were spread to dry.

      Somewhere a church bell was ringing, its sound cool and sonorous in the hot, shimmering air.

      Cressy found her heart clenching in sudden excitement and pleasure.

      Her canvas beach bag slung over her shoulder, she scrambled ashore.

      There was a sprinkling of tavernas and coffee shops on the harbourside, most of them frequented by elderly men playing a very fast and intense form of backgammon.

      Cressy chose a table under an awning at the largest, waiting while the proprietor, a stocky man in jeans and a white shirt, finished hosing down the flagstones.

      ‘Thespinis?’ His smile was cordial enough, but the black eyes were shrewdly assessing.

      Cressy asked for an iced Coke, and, when he brought it, enquired if there was anywhere she could hire a car.

      The smile broadened regretfully. The only vehicles on Myros, she was told, were Jeeps and pick-up trucks, and none were for rent. The roads, the kyria must understand, were not good.

      Well, I knew they didn’t cater for tourists, Cressy reminded herself philosophically. But it was a setback.

      She said, ‘I saw beaches, kyrie. Can I reach them on foot?’

      He nodded. ‘It is possible, thespinis. Our finest beach is only a kilometre from here.’ He paused thoughtfully, fingering his heavy black moustache. ‘But there is a better way.’ From a storeroom at the back of the taverna, he produced an ancient bicycle. ‘It belonged to my sister,’ he explained. ‘But she is in Athens.’

      ‘And you’ll lend it to me?’ Cressy raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s very kind.’

      He shrugged. ‘She will be happy for you to use it. It is an honour for her.’

      ‘But how do you know I’ll bring it back?’

      The smile became almost indulgent. ‘When the kyria wishes to leave Myros, she must return here. Also, she must eat, and my taverna has good fish. The best.’ He nodded. ‘You will come back, thespinis.’

      Cressy hadn’t ridden a bicycle for years. She waited while the proprietor, whose name was Yannis, ceremoniously dusted the saddle for her, then mounted awkwardly.

      She said, ‘I hope it lasts the distance, kyrie.’

      ‘A kilometre is not too far.’ He paused. ‘I do not recommend that you go further than that, thespinis.’

      ‘We’ll see,’ Cressy said cheerfully. ‘Once I get the hang of it, I may do the grand tour.’

      Yannis’s face was suddenly serious. ‘Go to the beach only, thespinis. I advise it. Beyond it the road is bad. Very bad.’

      Now, why did she get the feeling that Yannis was warning her about more than the state of the road? Cressy wondered, as she wobbled away.

      But he hadn’t been exaggerating. Outside the small town, the road soon deteriorated into a dirt track, with olive groves on one side and the sea on the other, and Cressy had to concentrate hard on keeping her eccentric machine upright, and avoiding the largest stones and deepest potholes.

      Apart from the whisper of the sea, and the faint breeze rustling the silver leaves of the olive trees, Cressy felt as if she was enclosed in a silent, shimmering landscape. She was glad of the broad straw hat protecting her blonde hair.

      The beach was soon reached, but, she saw with disappointment, it was only a narrow strip of sand with a lot of pebbles and little shade.

      The others I saw were much better, she thought. Yannis can’t have meant this one.

      In spite of the road, she was beginning, against all odds, to enjoy her unexpected cycle ride, and decided to press on to one of the secluded coves she’d glimpsed from the ferry.

      Ten minutes later, she was beginning to regret her decision. The gradient on her route had taken a sharp upward turn, and her elderly bone-shaker was no mountain bike.

      This must have been what Yannis meant, she thought grimly. Certainly it warranted a warning.

      She halted, to have a drink from the bottle of water which he’d pressed on her and consider what to do next.

      Myros was only a small island, she argued inwardly, and the next beach couldn’t be too far away. So, it might be better to leave the bike at the side of the track—after all, no one in his right mind would steal it—and proceed on foot.

      She laid the ancient machine tenderly on its side in the shade of an olive tree, blew