第1章

Sylvia was just too beautiful. Hers was a pale, languorous beauty to which men were drawn as if by some magnetic force. That ravishing curve of the rosy lips, the cream skin like alabaster, those enormous innocent eyes, blue as the sky in the full summer of June, that enticing body and those long, slim legs… all combined to create an attraction that men found hard to resist. At thirty-two she had become the wife of Frederick Northway and stepmother to his seventeen-year-old daughter, Jenny. Now, at thirty-four, she was widowed and, to her great consternation, heiress to a mere quarter of her husband's estate. Not that the estate was worth very much in any case, because, unknown to either his wife or his daughter, Frederick Northway had gambled so heavily during the last six months of his life that the fortune for which Sylvia had married him had been lost, so all he left was the house and furniture and a few thousand pounds in the bank. Jenny had been left three quarters of everything, Sylvia one quarter.

Strangely, there was no anger in Sylvia's reaction; certainly she felt no malice towards Jenny, with whom she had got along fairly well right from the start, Jenny's attitude being that her father had his own future to think about and, if the entry of Sylvia into his life would give him happiness, then who was she to raise an objection?

Jenny had realised, though, as the months passed, that her father regretted his hasty marriage. Beauty, he once told Jenny, was all very well, but it was what lay underneath that really mattered. Sylvia was shallow; her first marriage had failed because her father-in-law, wise to her extravagance and mercenary traits, had cut off his elder son and made his younger son a partner in his business. Disappointed but resigned, Sylvia had quickly decided that the marriage would not work, and she and her husband were divorced on quite amicable terms. That was how it was with Sylvia. She was a good loser. Jenny knew this, having learned of the woman's personality merely by listening to her conversations with Jenny's father and with visitors who came to the house. And now she was not grumbling too much at all about the will, although she did remind Jenny that with the law as it stood she could successfully contest it.

'However,' she added, stretching her long legs luxuriously as she reclined on the couch, 'for what small amount I'd get it isn't worth losing your good opinion of me.'

'It really makes no difference,' Jenny hastened to assure her. 'You'll live here just the same, because I don't want to see the house-' She stopped to glance inquiringly at her stepmother. 'Perhaps you want to sell, though-so that you can have your share?'

'I've thought about it, darling, and feel I must have time to decide. The house is old, and as it's been sadly neglected it might not fetch very much at all.'

Jenny frowned, her soft grey eyes wandering to the big window and the view across a sweeping lawn to the wooded hills of Dorset beyond. The house was old, admitted, and a trifle faded, but, to Jenny, this was where its charm lay. It was lived in, and when Jenny's mother was alive it had known an abundance of love. She had died nine years ago, when Jenny was scarcely ten years old, and the years during which she and her father had lived alone had on the whole been happy ones. Then into Frederick's life had shot the dazzling star that he could not resist snatching. For he was almost sixty, a fatal age for a man, who would, if the opportunity arose, seize the chance of romance, attempting to recapture his youth.

'This house is very attractive,' Jenny pointed out, bringing her attention back to the woman on the couch. 'It's the kind that many people want these days, with the land and the stream and the lovely old woodwork in the building itself.'

'Oh, I do agree to a certain extent, dear,' returned Sylvia languorously, 'but I'm sure we wouldn't get a high price because of all that needs to be done-the plumbing, for instance, is almost archaic, and the electric wiring wants attention. Then the paintwork, and that leak in the library roof…' Sylvia shrugged her elegant shoulders and sighed. 'It's a pity dear Frederick gambled the way he did. I wish I'd suspected-but there you are. Men do love having secrets from their wives and children.' She leaned forward to pick up a gold cigarette case from a small table on which there was a large box of chocolates, with the lid off to reveal that the box was half empty, and a gold lighter to match the case that Sylvia had picked up.

Jenny was on a chair by the fireplace, a magazine unopened on her knees. She watched as Sylvia flicked the lighter, then regarded her stepdaughter through the blue film of smoke that floated up before her. 'You know, darling, all our troubles would be over if you married charming David Bransley. He's inherited the entire Bransley fortune in the last year, what with his father dying, and then his uncle, and David being the only Bransley left.'

A pause followed. Jenny frowned into the empty fireplace. 'Couldn't you bring yourself to accept him, dear?' added Sylvia at her most persuasive. 'After all, love doesn't last five minutes, so it isn't as if you'd be missing much.'

Frowning more heavily, Jenny wondered why she found it impossible to dislike this stepmother of hers. But there was something quite appealing about her, something that acted as a shield against people's hurting her. Jenny often lost patience with her, which was natural, yet she scarcely ever voiced even the mildest reproach or criticism. Sylvia was, at heart, a child-a charming, irresponsible, gay and friendly child. The trouble was that those lovely innocent blue eyes so easily filled up, and you felt the biggest heel alive, but this happened only if Jenny disagreed with something her stepmother said or did.

'Oh, how cruel you are, Jenny!' Sylvia would cry in a choked little protest. 'I did so want you to come shopping with me today so that you could help me choose a dress for the dinner-dance tonight. Must you sit there mending that skirt? You could come out with me and buy a new one.'

Or, on another occasion: 'You've upset me, Jenny, and I feel like weeping! I only asked you to lend me your gold bracelet.' It was the bracelet that Jenny's mother had received from Frederick as a wedding present. She was selfish not to lend it, Jenny knew, yet she loathed the idea of her stepmother's wearing it.

Sylvia had stared mistily at her and in the end the bracelet had changed hands. But it had proved to be too small for Sylvia's wrist and Jenny had felt like a hateful cat on being glad that her stepmother could not borrow the bracelet after all.

Now Sylvia was speaking again, recalling Jenny from her reflections. She was talking about David, enumerating his good points and leaving out such minor details as his being a fop and a flirt, and the fact that he was not an inch taller than Jenny and that it certainly wasn't his looks that attracted the girls to his side.

'I detest him!' declared Jenny with feeling when at length Sylvia stopped and hopefully awaited the result of her efforts on David's behalf. 'I wouldn't marry him if there wasn't another man on earth!'

'Nonsense, darling! And that wasn't very original, was it? Now, try to assess the advantages of marriage to David. You'd live at the Manor, while I could have that lovely Dower House. I'd renovate it beautifully, and-'

'Sylvia, you don't need to go on! I am not marrying David Bransley!'

A deep sigh of martyrdom escaped Sylvia before she said, in an unfamiliarly petulant voice, 'Then I must look around. One of us must marry money.'

'You married Father for his money?' Jenny knew the answer, always had known it, but some impulse made her phrase the question. As soon as she saw her stepmother's changing expression she was sorry, a pang of guilt darting through her, making her want to withdraw the question. How did Sylvia manage it? How did she make you feel so utterly rotten? The big blue eyes had filled up; the pretty mouth moved tremulously. Sylvia stubbed out her cigarette and gave a jerky little sigh that sounded like a sob coming from the very depths of her being.

'How can you accuse me of anything so mercenary! Oh, Jenny, I sometimes think you hate me for marrying your dear father.' A handkerchief-or, rather, a scrap of snow-white lace-was tremblingly produced and held to Sylvia's eye, while the other was covertly fixed upon Jenny's half-averted face. 'I c-can't answer that b-because I'm too f-full up!'

'I'm sorry.' Jenny rose from her chair, tossing the magazine onto the table by the window. 'I shouldn't have said it. Forgive me.' But her voice was curt, her grey eyes frowning.

'It isn't as if I've come into anything, is it?'

'No, it isn't.'

'I've got practically nothing. It's you who's come into most of what your dear father left. Yet I'm unselfish enough not to consult a lawyer and contest the will-'

'All right, forget it. I've said I'm sorry.'

'But not very graciously,' sniffed Sylvia, dabbing the lace to her eyes. 'Perhaps I should go away, leave you with everything.'

'No, you should not! In fact, you're entitled to half. I'll see the lawyer and have it put right.'

'I won't accept. Oh, Jenny, dearest, why don't you marry David? If you keep on like this he'll find someone else. That's what's worrying me.'

Jenny stared. So that was it! Sylvia wasn't worrying about what Frederick had left simply because she was sure that in the end she could persuade Jenny to accept David's offer of marriage.

***

'I ought to dislike her intensely, yet I don't.' Standing in her bedroom a few minutes later, Jenny spoke aloud, her eyes drifting to the colour photograph on the table by her bed. Slowly she walked over and picked it up. Her lovely mother. Strange that she could still feel the pain, whereas for her father, who had died only a couple of months ago, she felt scarcely anything at all. They had drifted apart since his marriage, and in the last half-year he had rarely been at home other than to sleep.

Jenny looked down at the face of her mother, the big grey eyes so clear and frank, the mouth a trifle large for real beauty but revealing infinite compassion and understanding. The skin was pale and unlined, the forehead high beneath a halo of shining dark brown hair that waved naturally and curled up at the ends. Jenny moved to the mirror and stared at her own reflection. Yes, her father had been right when he said she was the image of her mother. 'I'm glad I'm like you, darling,' she whispered. If only her mother had lived, Jenny knew for sure, her father would never have gambled away his fortune.

***

It was less than a fortnight later that Sylvia, having been out to dine with some friends, announced that she had met the most charming gentleman-a Greek whose business was shipping.

'A millionaire!' she told Jenny with a soulful sigh. 'And he's seventy if he's a day! Just think, if I marry him and he dies, I'd probably get millions from his estate! Don't look like that, darling, please! I did say that one of us must marry money, didn't I? And as you won't even consider poor David's offer, I'm the one who must do something to get us out of this mess. Now, don't come that again-' Sylvia wagged a forefinger at her stepdaughter. 'Your expression's so revealing, love. I am not going out to work! Yes, you've said that if both of us work it will solve our problems, and you've been out over and over again looking for a job. But you haven't any experience and neither have I, so it's marriage, my love.

'Now, about this gentleman I've met. He's old and can't last long. You read the papers and know just what a wife can get in the way of millions from these Greek shipping magnates. Just imagine if I were to get even one million! And it isn't beyond the bounds of possibility that I could get three or four times that amount!'

'What makes you think he's so very rich?'

'Shipping, my love!' Again Sylvia sighed, this time in a completely ecstatic manner. 'Next to oil, shipping's where the millions are made!'

'This man has no family?'

'Oh, yes, a son and a daughter. The son runs the business from what I could gather. He's thirty-one and seems to be an arrogant sort of man who feels his father needs watching. I expect he's afraid that dear Glavcos will marry and leave his money to his wife.'

'Glavcos? What's his other name?'

'Kyrou, and his son's name's Daros. His daughter has a pretty name, it's Vienoula. They live on the island of Camina. Do you fancy living in Greece, darling?' Sylvia, still in a flowing evening gown and with a mink wrap thrown carelessly over her shoulders, stood with her back to the fireplace in the living-room and eyed Jenny speculatively. From the depth of her armchair Jenny uttered one brief word.

'No!'

'But you haven't even given it a thought,' protested Sylvia, pouting. How young and vulnerable she looks, thought Jenny, suddenly feeling much older than her nineteen years. It was so hard to avoid going along with her schemes, no matter what your better judgement might tell you.

'I don't intend to give it a thought. Nor should you. These Greeks are awful people-especially the men. You obviously haven't read anything about their way of life. The men are the masters, always. Their wives and daughters are nothing more than chattels.'

'Oh, rubbish, Jenny! How melodramatic can you get? Chattels, in this day and age? I don't believe a word of it. You're just trying to put me off marrying my millionaire.'

Jenny cast her a sidelong glance, noticing the faraway look in her eyes. 'Has this Glavcos asked you to marry him?' she wanted to know.

'Don't be sarcastic, Jenny! I met him only this evening! But I can get a proposal of marriage out of him; you needn't have any doubts about that!'

Jenny had no doubts whatsoever. She had seen the attraction her stepmother had for men. Her very presence in a room made it buzz with the excitement of the male sex; every other woman just looked on… with envy.

'When are you seeing him again?' Jenny's grey eyes were questioning, but frowning too, and her mouth was set and stern. That Sylvia had never loved her father was obvious; nevertheless, for decency's sake she ought not to be thinking about other men just yet, much less be avid for marriage.

'On Wednesday evening. He's asked me out to dinner at the Angel. Frightfully expensive, the Angel. He's sending a car for me, as he doesn't drive himself.'

'Sylvia,' protested Jenny, 'you can't really be interested in a man twice your age!'

'Why not?' Sylvia slipped the wrap from her shoulders and threw it down onto a chair. She looked adorable in the dark Edwardian-style blue velvet gown, cut on lines that made her appear no more than twenty-five at the most. Again Jenny felt old. 'He's rich, my sweet! And he's on the verge of falling head over heels in love with me!'

'But you…?' Jenny's eyes reflected censure. 'You don't care a toss for the poor man.'

'Serves him right! "There's no fool like an old fool,"' quoted Sylvia contemptuously. 'He ought to know better, but as he doesn't then why shouldn't I exploit him? If I don't some other woman will.'

'How long has his wife been dead?'

'Four years.'

'His children aren't going to be very happy if he does ask you to marry him.'

'I know it, but what can they do?'

'You might have a difficult time,' warned Jenny. 'I've told you, these Greeks are unpredictable.'

'You believe the son will make things awkward for me?'

'I think that "awkward" is a mild word. He could make things so difficult that you'd come to wish you'd never been so foolish as to marry his father-' Jenny stopped, aware that both she and Sylvia were way ahead of the present situation.

'I'd never regret marrying a millionaire.' Sylvia smiled complacently. 'And between us we could manage this son of his.'

'Between us?'

'You'll come with me to Greece, darling. It would be a chance too good to miss.'

Jenny was shaking her head. 'No, Sylvia. If you marry this Greek it's the parting of the ways for you and me. I couldn't even think of living on someone else's money.' She paused, deliberating on the outcome should Sylvia marry and go abroad to live. She might want her share of the house and the furniture, in which case it would all have to be sold. Well, Jenny felt, she would not be sorry. She must find a job in any case, and she would not want this great house just for herself, even if it were possible to keep it.

'Don't say such things, Jenny. You and I get along so well. I'd not be happy without you now.'

'In that case,' returned her stepdaughter implacably, 'give up the idea of going to live in Greece.'

***

But after several further dates with the Greek Sylvia was more excited than ever. And, listening to her as she related what had happened, Jenny began to accept the possibility of marriage between this Glavcos and her stepmother. However, after another evening out with him, Sylvia came home with the information that Glavcos wanted her to meet his children before they talked about getting married.

'I'm a little disappointed in him.' Sylvia frowned. 'I did think he'd marry me and then take me over to Greece.'

'It's far better for you to meet his family first,' returned Jenny. 'In any case, you've not known him any length of time. Getting married in a rush is stupid.' But Sylvia had married in a rush before, to Jenny's father. The couple had known one another a mere fortnight when Frederick announced to his daughter that he was thinking of getting married again. Such was Sylvia's effect on him, on all men. She just couldn't help herself.

'I've a feeling that if I don't get married in a rush I shan't get married at all.' Sylvia lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. 'Glavcos seems a little afraid of his son, yet I don't see why. The business is his and not Daros's. If his son objects to me then he can cut him off!'

Jenny's eyes flew open. 'Cut his own son off! Sylvia, are you crazy? No man would do a thing like that for a woman he scarcely knows!'

'Whose side are you on?' Sylvia's mouth trembled. 'You can be very unkind to me at times, Jenny. And it isn't as if I've ever been unkind to you, is it?'

Jenny bit her lip. As always, a feeling of guilt swept over her when a situation like this arose. 'No, you haven't ever been unkind to me, Sylvia,' she agreed. 'But, really, that has nothing to do with it,' she could not help adding. 'I can't see how I'm being unkind in pointing out something that should be obvious. Glavcos has only just met you, and even though he's fallen head over heels in love with you, you can't expect him to cut off his children simply because he wants to marry you. After all, his son runs the business for him, so it's unlikely that the old man could now manage it himself.'

'You're so practical,' complained Sylvia.

'One of us has to be practical,' rejoined Jenny impatiently. And, after a pause: 'When are you going over to Greece to meet his children?'

'Just as soon as I want to.' She inhaled again, looking at Jenny. 'I'm hoping that you'll come with me-with us, that is.'

'You've told Glavcos about me?'

'Yes, of course I have.' Sylvia rose from her chair and wandered restlessly about the room. 'I told him I wanted you to come with me to Greece.'

'On the visit?'

Sylvia nodded her fair head. 'Yes; I'd like you to live with us when we're married-'

'I've already said I won't.'

'Will you come on the visit?'

Jenny hesitated. For some inexplicable reason, she hated the idea of Sylvia's going to Greece alone-or, rather, with this man Glavcos. There were times when her stepmother seemed utterly fragile and helpless, so vulnerable, unable to take care of herself. From what Jenny had read about Greek men she feared that Sylvia might need protection, or at least some sort of support. Not that Jenny in any way agreed with the idea of her marrying this old man; the whole idea was absurd, mainly because the difference in their ages was far too great. However, it was only with the hope of becoming a widow within a few years that Sylvia was contemplating marriage at all, so perhaps she would resign herself to putting up with certain discomforts for the time being. Jenny glanced at her, watching as she moved with that long-limbed charm of manner, as if she floated rather than walked. It was a pity she set such store by money, deriding love and saying it never lasted. Sylvia could have her pick of the men she met, and it seemed to Jenny that if only she would change her attitude she could marry for love and be idyllically happy.

'I don't know if I really want to come with you,' she said at last. 'You ought to give it thought, Sylvia. You might decide you don't want to marry Glavcos after all.'

'I do want to marry him. I can't be poor, Jenny. It's not for me and you know it. Come! It will be fun; you'll see.'

'Very well; I'll come with you.'

'You angel! I knew you would, though!' Sylvia stopped moving about and lit another cigarette. 'There needn't be any delay. Can you be ready by Thursday or Friday?'

'I expect so,' replied Jenny with a sigh of resignation. I wonder what I'm letting myself in for? she added, but silently.

'I'll phone Glavcos and tell him to arrange the flight.'

'How does he come to be in England?' Sylvia had told her once, Jenny recollected as soon as the question was voiced.

'He came on a visit to friends.'

It was a pity he ever came at all, thought Jenny. Fate certainly played peculiar tricks, disorganising people's whole lives like this.

***

Within two days everything was arranged. A car came for them and they met Glavcos at the airport. Jenny stared at him, a tall, upright man with very dark eyes and clear-cut features etched on classical lines. Only the mouth was alien to the rest of the face, being weak, loose-lipped and sensual. It seemed to take the strength from the chin, even though the chin was prominent. The man's skin was dark, his forehead lined beneath a shock of straight white hair.

He smiled at Jenny, offering a hand as Sylvia introduced him.

'Glad to meet you.' His voice carried a very noticeable accent. 'Sylvia's told me a lot about you. Nineteen? And very pretty with it. The Greek men'll be staring at you, so be prepared.' But his glance moved to Sylvia and it seemed that already he was jealous of the fact that she would attract many more stares than Jenny ever could.

***

A uniformed chauffeur was waiting with a car at the airport. A short drive along leafy lanes glowing with hibiscus and oleanders brought them to more hilly terrain, which they entered, climbing through a forest whose bordering trees were beautifully flamboyant, flaring brilliant crimson in the sunshine. Jenny took it all in, determined to make the most of this visit to a land she had always wanted to see-though not quite in circumstances like these!

The house came into view, a magnificent villa gleaming white with pale blue shutters and verandas dripping with flowers. A fountain played to one side of a smooth velvet lawn; statuary and sunken rose gardens, a fantastic shrubbery flaunting every colour, a terraced parterre… all combined to give a delightful picture of order and beauty, of wealth and good taste. Suddenly Jenny knew a feeling of tenseness, of apprehension. She wondered why she was here, why she had become involved in the affairs of her stepmother. Sylvia, on the other hand, was cool and full of confidence; Jenny glanced at her and wondered why she had ever thought that Sylvia needed support. Behind her subtly feigned innocence she held a reserve of strength which, decided Jenny, would carry her through the coming ordeal triumphantly enough.

That she herself might be vulnerable and need support never for one moment occurred to Jenny until, a couple of hours later, as she was in the garden, wandering about among the flowers, she found herself face to face with the formidable Daros Kyrou. She had met him on her arrival with her stepmother, but briefly, as he and his father and Sylvia had gone off somewhere to talk in private. Jenny had been shown to a lovely bedroom by a smiling Greek girl, Luciana, one of the three young maids who were kept by the Kyrou family in addition to the manservant who had admitted them. There were two gardeners, a chauffeur and an elderly man whose occupation appeared to be that of handyman about the house and grounds.

Now, having changed into a pretty sun dress of primrose cotton, Jenny was enjoying the sunshine when she suddenly became aware of footsteps on the path that ran along the other side of the hibiscus hedge. She looked up, and her eyes met those of Daros… eyes of steely grey that pierced and probed even while their apparent expression was one of cold arrogance and contempt. Jenny's head tilted automatically; she was not used to being looked at like that!

The man strode along on the other side of the hedge but Jenny stood still, angry that her heart was fluttering with apprehension. He reached the end, swung into her path and stopped, a man of towering height, his lithe, lean frame clad in a pair of navy-blue slacks and a white shirt, open at the throat and contrasting startlingly with his burnt-sienna skin. Jenny stared up into his haughty face, her senses alert as if she were preparing for a battle. A most objectionable man, she branded him, a man full of his own importance whose tongue, she strongly suspected, could lash unmercifully. Before her vision rose the statues of Greek gods and athletes she had seen in books and in the British Museum, and she mentally compared the face of this man with those hard, implacable visages of stone. His nobly chiselled features bore such a strong resemblance that he might have been made of stone himself, especially as he was so still and silent, regarding Jenny with unmoving eyes that were so disconcerting that she found herself averting her head, taking the more acceptable course of avoiding his gaze.

He spoke at last, to ask if she were comfortable in her room. She nodded and said yes, very comfortable; and as the room and its bathroom were so luxurious that they could not possibly be other than comfortable, Jenny knew that the words were merely an introduction, an opening for something far less pleasant. And she was right.

Speaking in a voice that carried a profoundly attractive alien accent, Daros said softly, 'Perhaps you and I can have a talk, now that the preliminaries are over. I'm afraid I failed to understand your mother-your stepmother, I believe?' and when Jenny merely nodded, 'The whole story was so incredible as to be difficult to accept. Am I to understand that your stepmother is serious in wanting to marry my father?'

Despite her own ideas regarding Sylvia's ambition, Jenny could not resist answering in a way that would give her intense satisfaction, since it was plain that Daros was exceedingly troubled at the prospect of having Sylvia for his stepmother.

'Certainly she's serious. Why else would she be here? I think it's an ideal match, and I hope there won't be any unnecessary delay with the wedding plans.'

His mouth compressed. 'You think it an ideal match, eh? Well, miss, I can assure you that there won't be a match. It's clear to me that the pair of you are interested only in my father's money and that you'll await his death with the utmost impatience!'

Jenny coloured guiltily-not on her own account, of course, but on Sylvia's, Daros's deductions being only what she had expected-and lowered her head against his accusing gaze. To her amazement, and without the slightest warning, he put a hand under her chin and forced her head up with a jerk that made her feel as if her neck were being dislocated. She gave a small cry of pain and protest, trying to swing away, but he caught her wrist in a grasp that brought another cry of pain. She stood there, her eyes filling up, staring at him, noticing the fury in his expression. This man could be dangerous, she decided, wishing she had never come to Greece.

'Take notice,' he rasped, his mouth curling with contempt. 'There'll be no marriage between your stepmother and my father! The pair of you can go and find some other rich fool who's outgrown his common sense, because you'll never succeed in your schemes where my father is concerned!'

Releasing her, he swung away. She stood there, trembling, and watched him disappear from her view. Why, she asked herself, had she spoken words she did not mean? More important, what had made her act so guiltily when he was accusing her of being interested in his father's death? It was Sylvia who was the guilty one. But Jenny knew for sure that her wily stepmother would be adopting an attitude of seraphic innocence; and should Daros speak to her in the way he had spoken to Jenny, Sylvia would exert every ounce of her expertise and, with tears and protests and all the other devices at her disposal, would probably reduce him to the point where he would come to regard himself as the greatest cad alive.