LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘I’m a grown woman, Father,’ Althea replied coolly. She’d stopped calling him Papa when she was twelve.

      ‘Acting like a spoiled child! Every day there is another story in the tabloids about what you’ve done, who you’ve been with. How am I to hold my head up in town? At work?’

      Althea shrugged. ‘That’s not my concern.’

      ‘It is, alas, mine,’ Spiros said coldly. ‘And if you cannot see fit to curb your behaviour then I shall have to do so for you…by whatever means necessary.’

      Althea had shrugged again and gone upstairs. He’d been threatening her for years with consequences he never cared to enforce. She refused to take her father seriously, refused to grant him the respect he demanded—the respect he felt he deserved—and it infuriated him. But he’d lost the right to her respect too many years ago for her to even consider giving it to him now.

      With another sigh Althea swung her legs out of bed. She felt woozy, even though she hadn’t had much to drink last night. Just the cocktail and the glass of wine provided by Demos.

      Demos… The mere thought of him caused her to wrap her arms around herself in a movement guided by self-protection. Safety.

      He’d affected her too much. Made her think, made her feel, and she didn’t want to do either. She thought of the way his lips had almost—almost—brushed hers last night, and even now a deep, stabbing shaft of need made her realise she’d wanted his kiss.

      She still did.

      With a sigh she pushed her hair from her face and gazed dispiritedly at her reflection in the mirror. She was pale—too pale. The freckles were standing out on her cheeks and nose, her eyes burning bright and blue, and her hair a tangled mass pushed carelessly away from her face. She looked like the unruly child her father had accused her of being last night.

      Althea’s mouth twisted. Yet what recourse did she have? Living in her father’s house, a high school drop-out, with no education, no money, no hope.

      Hope.

      Elpis.

      He’d never been so far from the truth.

      She slipped into a pair of skinny jeans and a close-fitting cashmere sweater in a soft, comforting grey, then tied her hair back with a scarf and slapped on a bit of make-up.

      As she left the room she paused by the blazer she’d slung on a low settee. Against her better judgement she picked it up and held it to her face. It smelled of the nightclub, of stale cigarette smoke and cheap beer. But underneath those familiar and unpalatable scents was something deeper, foreign yet intimate. Demos.

      She breathed in the tang of brine mixed with the clean scent of a woodsy aftershave. After a second’s hesitation she felt the pockets, but they were empty. Her lips curved in a reluctant smile; she had no doubt this was intentional. Demos Atrikes was going to find her, not the other way round.

      And did she want to be found? Pushing the question as well as the unformed answer away, she left her bedroom.

      Downstairs the housekeeper, Melina, was arranging a display of purple asters in a vase in the foyer. She gave Althea a sorrowful look and shook her head. ‘What have you done to make your papa so cross?’

      Althea smiled thinly. ‘Nothing more than usual.’

      Melina frowned, turning back to the flowers. ‘You were a good girl once,’ she said, which was her standard protest.

      ‘People change,’ Althea replied, with a deliberately wicked little laugh, and Melina’s frown deepened.

      ‘You need to be good to him. He works hard for you.’

      ‘And for himself,’ Althea replied, but she softened this reply by kissing the older woman’s wrinkled cheek. ‘Don’t fuss at me this early in the day, Melina.’

      Melina sighed, and Althea moved past her into the kitchen. She liked Melina, yet she’d long ago recognised how much the housekeeper was capable of. These mild, ineffectual protests were the extent of her involvement in the family’s affairs.

      Althea paused on the threshold of the dining room. Her father sat rigidly at the head of the table, a teacup halfway to his lips. He didn’t turn as he said, ‘Althea. Are you joining me for breakfast?’

      She hadn’t eaten a meal with him in months. ‘No, I’m going out.’

      Spiros bristled. ‘Where, may I ask?’

      ‘Shopping.’

      ‘You need more clothes?’ He turned slightly, and Althea saw his eyebrows rise haughtily. He was a banker and a millionaire, but he had always been tight-fisted.

      ‘As a matter of fact, no. But my friend seems to think she does, and I’m going with her.’ Althea made to leave.

      ‘When will you return?’

      She turned back and saw the faint look of bewilderment on her father’s face, as if he couldn’t understand how they had come to this, descended to this. When she was little he’d taken her to the seaside, bought her ice creams, tucked her in bed. He looked at her now as if he wanted to know why that adorable little girl had become this defiant young woman. Yet he couldn’t quite bring himself to ask the question.

      And Althea would never bring herself to answer it.

      That confused, saddened look had used to soften her, but now it only disgusted her, moved her to contempt rather than compassion.

      She shook her head, her eyes hard.

      ‘Later.’ Without another word she left the townhouse.

      The sunlight sparkled on the placid water of the marina at Mikrolimano as humble fishing boats and luxurious yachts bobbed next to each other against a vista of whitewashed apartments and shops.

      It was morning, but the sun was hot on the deck of Edward Jameson’s yacht as Demos stretched his legs out and took a sip of strong black coffee. ‘Tell me what you know of Spiros Paranoussis.’

      Across the table Edward Jameson cut his fried egg into precise squares. Even though he spent half a year on his yacht in various European harbours, he still insisted on a full English breakfast to start his morning. Now he looked up, raising his eyebrows. Underneath shaggy white brows his pale blue eyes glinted shrewdly, full of easy humour.

      ‘Spiros Paranoussis? Why should I know anything of him at all?’

      Demos smiled and shrugged. ‘Because I know enough to know he’s a banker in Athens, and you know everyone in finance in this city—as well as in most others in Europe.’

      Edward smiled faintly and inclined his head. ‘Spiros Paranoussis…’ he mused. ‘Yes, he’s a banker. Second generation, current CEO of Attica Finance. Solid businessman, although rather uninspired. He hasn’t made much money, but he’s kept what he has.’

      Demos nodded thoughtfully, his gaze on the expanse of blue-green sea that stretched to a cloudless horizon. He took another sip of coffee, aware of Edward’s speculative gaze.

      The older man had been a mentor to him for twenty years, ever since Demos had loitered longingly by his yacht, eager, desperate for work. Jameson had employed him, and later helped him win a scholarship to study marine architecture. He would have given him much more, but Demos had refused. He would pay his own way, earn his own money, provide for his own family. And so he had, for as long as he’d been allowed.

      ‘As far as I know,’ Edward remarked mildly, ‘he is not the kind of man to be interested in yachts.’

      Demos smiled. ‘No?’

      Edward waited, too shrewd and too polite to ask Demos directly why he was fishing for information about Paranoussis.

      ‘And his family?’ Demos asked after a moment. ‘What do you know about them?’

      Edward’s

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