Aphrodite’s tears ebook

Praise for Hannah Fielding’s first novel, Burning Embers:

‘An epic romance like Hollywood used to make …’

Peterborough Evening Telegraph

‘Burning Embers is a romantic delight and an absolute must-read for anyone looking to escape to a world of colour, beauty, passion and love … For those who can’t go to Kenya in reality, this has got to be the next best thing.’

Amazon.co.uk review

‘A good-old fashioned love story … A heroine who’s young, naive and has a lot to learn. A hero who’s alpha and hot, has a past and a string of women. A different time, world, and class. The kind of romance that involves picnics in abandoned valleys and hot-air balloon rides and swimming in isolated lakes. Heavenly.’

Amazon.co.uk review

‘The story hooked me from the start. I want to be Coral, living in a more innocent time in a beautiful, hot location, falling for a rich, attractive, broody man. Can’t wait for Hannah Fielding’s next book.’

Amazon.co.uk review

Praise for The Echoes of Love (winner of the Gold Medal for Romance at the 2014 Independent Publisher Book Awards):

‘One of the most romantic works of fiction ever written … an epic love story beautifully told.’

The Sun

‘Fans of romance will devour it in one sitting.’

The Lady

‘All the elements of a rollicking good piece of indulgent romantic fiction.’

BM Magazine

‘This book will make you wish you lived in Italy.’

Fabulous magazine

‘The book is the perfect read for anyone with a passion for love, life and travel.’

Love it! magazine

‘Romance and suspense, with a heavy dose of Italian culture.’

Press Association

‘A plot-twisting story of drama, love and tragedy.’

Italia! magazine

‘There are many beautifully crafted passages, in particular those relating to the scenery and architecture of Tuscany and Venice … It was easy to visualise oneself in these magical locations.’

Julian Froment blog

‘Fielding encapsulates the overwhelming experience of falling deeply, completely, utterly in love, beautifully.’

Books with Bunny

Praise for Indiscretion (winner of Gold Medal for romance at the IBPA Benjamin Franklin Awards and Best Romance at the USA Best Book Awards):

‘A captivating tale of love, jealousy and scandal.’

The Lady

‘Indiscretion grips from the first. Alexandra is a beguiling heroine, and Salvador a compelling, charismatic hero … the shimmering attraction between them is always as taut as a thread. A powerful and romantic story, one to savour and enjoy.’

Lindsay Townsend - historical romance author

‘Rich description, a beautiful setting, wonderful detail, passionate romance and that timeless, classic feel that provides sheer, indulgent escapism. Bliss!’

Amazon.co.uk review

‘I thought Ms. Fielding had outdone herself with her second novel but she’s done it again with this third one. The love story took my breath away … I could hardly swallow until I reached the end.’

Amazon.com review

Praise for Masquerade (winner of Silver Medal for romance at the IBPA Benjamin Franklin Awards):

‘Secrets and surprises … Set in Spain in the 1970s, you’ll be enveloped in this atmospheric story of love and deception.’

My Weekly

‘Hannah Fielding writes of love, sexual tension and longing with an amazing delicacy and lushness, almost luxury. Suffused with the legends and lore of the gypsies and the beliefs of Spain, there is so much in this novel. Horse fairs, sensual dreams, bull running, bull fighters, moonlight swims, the heat and flowers and colours and costumes of the country. A superb read.’

Amazon.co.uk review

‘This was honestly one of the most aesthetically pleasing and sensual books I’ve read in a long time.’

Amazon.co.uk review

‘Masquerade contains the kind of romance that makes your heart beat faster and your knees tremble. This was a mesmerising and drama-filled read that left me with a dreamy feeling.’

Amazon.co.uk review

‘This engrossing, gorgeous romantic tale was one of my favorite reads in recent memory. This book had intrigue, mystery, revenge, passion and tantalizing love scenes that held captive the reader and didn’t allow a moment’s rest through all of the twists and turns … wonderful from start to finish.’

Goodreads.com review

‘When I started reading Masquerade I was soon completely pulled into the romantic and poetic way Hannah Fielding writes her stories. I honestly couldn’t put Masquerade down. Her books are beautiful and just so romantic, you’ll never want them to end!’

Goodreads.com review

Praise for Legacy (final book in the Andalucían Nights Trilogy):

‘Legacy is filled to the brim with family scandal, frustrated love and hidden secrets. Fast-paced and addictive, it will keep you hooked from start to finish.’

The Lady

‘Beautifully written, and oozing romance and intrigue, Legacy is the much anticipated new novel from award-winning author Hannah Fielding that brings to life the allure of a summer in Cádiz.’

Take a Break

‘In the vein of Gone With The Wind, this particular book is just as epic and timeless. Written with lively detail, you are IN Spain. You are engulfed in the sights, sounds and smells of this beautiful country. Great characters … and a plot with just enough twists to keep it moving along … Start with book one and each one gets better and better. I applaud Ms. Fielding’s story telling skills.’

Amazon.com review

‘Flawless writing and impeccable character building. Legacy takes the readers on a journey through the passions and desires that are aroused from romantic Spanish culture.’

Goodreads.com review

APHRODITE’S TEARS

HANNAH FIELDING

To my loving son, Christian, whose knowledge of ancient Greek and love of mythology was the wind beneath my wings in the writing of this book, such was his support and encouragement.

…There is the heat of Love, the pulsing rush of Longing, the lover’s whisper, irresistible — magic to make the sanest man go mad.

Homer, The Iliad

Kent, England, April 1977

‘Urgently wanted: experienced archaeologist to supervise licenced subsea exploration around a small, private Ionian island. Candidates to show impeccable academic credentials and experience of underwater archaeology. Apply to: The Administration, PO Box 7520, Athens, Greece,’ read the newspaper advertisement. Strangely, it carried no more details than that, although there was a phrase in bold letters at the end: ‘Do not waste your time or ours if you are not qualified for this job.’ It had certainly caught Oriel’s eye, not only because it mentioned Greece but also because of the arrogant turn of phrase. She could almost hear the autocratic voice that had dictated those words.

Still, it was an intriguing idea, working on a private island, Oriel thought as she let her gaze wander over the dreary Kentish view that extended beyond her window. It was the middle of spring, yet the weather behaved as if the countryside was still steeped in midwinter. She had come down from the house she shared in London with some of her old university friends for a few days’ holiday at her family home in Cranbrook, hoping for some sunshine so she could relax beside the pool. As she was an only child, her parents were always delighted to see and spoil her, particularly given that for most of the year Oriel worked abroad, travelling to archaeological sites that took her all over the world.

She sipped her steaming coffee, sitting at the desk in her old bedroom, which hadn’t changed since she was a teenager, and smoothed the page of the folded newspaper thoughtfully. Nostalgic memories haunted the edges of her mind.

Greece. It was a long time ago since she’d been back to that part of the world.

She sighed wistfully, remembering her faraway moonlight experience that night six years ago on the small Greek island of Aegina. The sky had been a velvet-dark tapestry, illuminated by a full moon that cast a breathtaking staircase of light on a midnightblue sea; a night for lovers’ meetings, not for goodbyes. She had been conscious of the pervasive silence, broken only by the whispering, rhythmic lapping of the Mediterranean on the sable shore – a soothing sound. How strange it is, the way our memories are selective, she thought, as that episode of her life came back to her in every pulsing detail.

At the age of twenty-two, Oriel had been on Aegina as part of her year’s placement, studying the Saronic islands for her MA in archaeology and anthropology. It had been a long day on the dig, made even longer by the anticipation of her fiancé Rob arriving that evening. Oriel had been excited about their week’s holiday, during which they were to make plans for their wedding. Kind, dependable Rob, who treated her like an equal and totally understood her drive to succeed in a man’s world. At Cambridge, she had fended off the attentions of many young men who underestimated her, but then Rob had come along. It hadn’t been just his good looks, intelligence and charming manner she had fallen for, they had been firm friends since their first meeting on campus.

When Oriel had returned to her hotel late that afternoon and saw the envelope addressed to her in Rob’s familiar scrawl, her reaction had been one of surprise and delight. An incurable romantic, she had resisted the urge to rip it open there and then, and instead had strolled down to the beach as the sun was setting to read his letter during that magic hour.

Maybe that was why the impact of its contents had been so devastating.

She had stood a long time with the letter in her hand, shocked and feeling sick. Scanning past the preamble of excuses and explanations, she’d gone over his final lines again and again, hardly believing what the words were spelling out: ‘I don’t know how to write what I have to tell you, but I have no choice. I know you will understand and forgive us, sweet Oriel. Please believe me that Alicia and I fought our attraction for months, but eventually it became something neither of us could deny. We couldn’t help it, we just fell in love. Alicia is carrying my child and we will be married next month.’

Rob and Alicia. Her fiancé and her best friend – how very unimaginative! She had trusted them both so implicitly. Staring at the innocent piece of paper that held such a cruel and bitter shock, a nauseous wave of disbelief had engulfed her. Later on, she acknowledged that she had been partly to blame, but it hadn’t made the sense of betrayal any better at the time. She had no doubt that her idealistic and rather old-fashioned attitudes to love and sex had been, to a great extent, the cause for Rob’s succumbing to Alicia’s alluring charms. Oriel had wanted the white dress and veil that she would be wearing on her wedding day to carry the authentic symbol of sexual purity, in the same way it had in her mother’s day. Rob had seemed patient and decent – but in the end had gone looking for greener pastures. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, she acknowledged that there had always been something missing: his kisses had not stirred her in the way she’d imagined they would, his touch didn’t move her to lose control as she thought it should. There was a passionate streak in her that was left untapped and unreleased. Perhaps that’s why she had found it easy to wait to surrender her virginity …

Now her eyes returned to the bold advertisement. To be in Greece again was an enticing thought. Subsea exploration. Her pencil circled the words aimlessly over and over again. A job tailor-made for her! She had just finished an excavation assignment in the medieval city of Trondheim in Norway and was shortlisted for another position in the North Sea, off the Shetland Islands. Another dark and dreary place, she thought, without enthusiasm. Still, the imperious words of the advert, the sun and the beautiful, ever-changing colours of the Mediterranean beckoned. Besides, this wasn’t Aegina, and she was twenty-eight now: older and wiser than the young woman who had been hurt all those years ago.

After all, it wasn’t just Rob who had caused her pain …

Her mind slipped back into those distant memories. In one night she’d been forced to grow up, her whole philosophy in life coloured by a determination never to be hurt again. She could still remember it all so clearly: sitting on a boulder with Rob’s letter in one hand and the photograph from her wallet of the two of them in the other, trying to control the shaking that possessed her as the numb sickness had given way to anger. While looking blankly towards the horizon, where the lanterns of fishing boats danced on the dark waters like fireflies, Oriel had been blinded with sudden self-knowledge and the most terrible scorn: scorn for herself. What a colossal, naïve fool she’d been with her hopes and her dreams and her unrealistic idealism. ‘I know you will understand and forgive us,’ he had said presumptuously. So they were an ‘us’. A double betrayal. How they must be laughing at her. The humiliation of it all was too deep for tears. Oriel found herself shaking with a terrible anger – and not all of it directed at them, she realized. She was furious at herself too, with a rage that screamed for an outlet.

Oriel had been sitting on the boulder for a long time, gazing distractedly towards the water, when she became vaguely aware of something moving in the shallows. The moon had by now disappeared behind a bank of cloud, extinguishing the glitter of the waves and the silvery patina on the rocks. The shift in darkness of the night sky made it difficult to see what had rippled the surface of the water. Frogmen night diving, she thought, or the slight undulation of the sea in the warm, salty breeze. She didn’t give it another thought, returning her attention to the winking lights of fishing boats on the horizon – and then, abruptly, he emerged …

It was a man, but not one wearing a wetsuit, fins or diving mask; this one was almost naked, his modesty barely protected by what could only be defined as an apology for a low-rise brief. He was no mere trick of the light. Sleek and glorious, he was suddenly hurtling out of the water, throwing spray off his body like Poseidon rising from the waves.

Oriel’s breath caught in her throat as she watched him, a small frown crinkling her brow. A curious sense of apprehension seeped into her veins. In the near-darkness he looked large, somewhat menacing and disturbingly masculine as he strode through the shallows. There was an air of unquestioned dominance about this man, an arrogant power that expressed itself in the controlled motion of his body as he sauntered on to the beach.

For that fateful minute, she was totally helpless, in the grip of emotions too basic to be controlled by rational thought. Instead of turning to leave quickly, she continued to stare at the stranger who had materialized like a Greek god wading from the depths of the sea. The moon slid into view again, throwing a wash of silver over long muscular legs and narrow hips, wide shoulders and a sculpted torso, all combined in a vibrantly athletic stance. As his approaching form became more discernible, each smooth, fluid curve of muscle, each long line of sinew and bone, and each angular feature glistened with a radiance that stabbed Oriel straight to the heart. Hair as dark as the devil’s soul was dripping wet across his forehead and he lifted his hand to slick it away from his face, the moonlight catching every droplet that glittered like tiny diamonds across his skin.

All at once, Oriel gathered her wits, conscious that she too was only lightly clad, just a muslin sarong covering her bikini. She remembered her mother’s warning that it wasn’t wise for a woman to venture out alone on a deserted beach, and she stood up to hurry back to her hotel, quickly tucking the letter and photograph into her sarong.

Too late! She had barely taken a step before she found herself confronted by the tall, dark figure. Well above the average height of other Greek men, he towered over her, a dark silhouette against the moonlit sky. His eyes gleamed like steel against his deeply tanned skin as his gaze wandered over her and then rested upon her hair, which cascaded heavily down her back, pale and shining as the moon on the water. He had a strong masculine face, rather insolent and somewhat primitive – so much so that despite the tinge of fear fluttering through her, Oriel couldn’t help but feel mesmerized by this Adonis.

‘What brings a beautiful girl to such a deserted place on this enchanting night?’ he asked in English. His obvious Greek accent gave a delightful, smoky edge to his deep voice and sent an involuntary warmth up her spine. Slicking back his wet dark hair once more, he studied her openly. ‘You look like the ocean nymph, Calypso, waiting for Odysseus on your island, ready to bewitch him with your mesmerizing voice.’

Oriel had been too startled, too alarmed, to reply at first. His comment was unexpected, and those glittering grey eyes seemed to hold her prisoner, flickering with amusement and something more intense. It was she who was bewitched.

‘I thought I was alone,’ she murmured, finally finding her voice.

His mouth quirked. ‘So did I.’ He nodded behind him. ‘I dropped anchor back there to come in for an evening swim. It’s been a hot day.’ His eyes returned to her, intent and appraising.

Oriel’s gaze flitted away and caught sight of a small boat, moored next to the rocks to her left. Partially obscured by the craggy ridge that shaped the deserted cove, only the top of the sail was visible, billowing gently in the balmy breeze. She’d been too preoccupied by her brooding thoughts to notice its arrival.

She felt an urge to push past this handsome stranger and run away to the safety of her hotel bedroom, but something about this man had held her there, transfixed. The intriguing power of his personality gripped her imagination. This stranger could have stepped straight out of Homer’s Odyssey.

A silky platinum lock slipped from the scarf Oriel had tied around her head in a band to keep her heavy, tumbling mane in place, and the breeze blew it across her face. He reached out a bronzed hand with tapering long fingers and lightly pushed the strand away, before caressing the length of her hair almost reverently. There was a sultry burn now in the gaze that wandered from her hair to her mouth and then settled on Oriel’s wild doe eyes, which stared back at him. Her stomach curled with instinctive heat.

She felt the impulse to escape, like a fawn fleeing into the brush. Instead, she stood there, pulse racing, her legs trembling as an unfamiliar and exquisite sensation flooded the lower part of her body. It was madness! Never before had this sense of danger – of seduction – hit her with such potency. Surely it was the island air that had gone to her head like an enchanted potion.

The dark waves murmured on the sand, their gently rolling edges lit a luminous blue under the moonlight. Everything was cloaked in unreality and it was as if the two of them were caught in a dream. Oriel sensed that the mysterious stranger before her was also aware of the extraordinary atmosphere that engulfed them.

His fingers were still touching her hair and she backed away. This man was so overwhelming, and she was disorientated. In a sudden, desperate panic, Oriel turned to run, hardly looking where she was going, her bare feet stumbling through the wet sand in the silver-washed half light. Before she had time to register it, her foot came into contact with something hard and she tripped and went sprawling forwards. In the same split second she was jerked sideways by a pair of muscular arms as the Greek god sprang forward and caught hold of her, their bodies colliding in mid-air.

Oriel gave a choked cry. The stranger fell with her, holding her, his body going into a complicated twist just before they hit the sand so that she landed on top of him, the fall softened for her by his body. She lay winded for an instant; then, before she was over the shock, he took her by the shoulders and gently slid her from him sideways. She found herself on her back, staring up at the milky moonlit sky. His bulk arched over her, blotting out the moon with the dark circle of his head, and she looked wildly up at him as the weight of his muscled body pressed down, splaying her against the sand.

‘Don’t!’ she cried out, struggling in his arms. His skin was hot and smooth, and she fought the impulse to relax and let herself melt into him.

The stranger’s eyes glittered and held hers beneath the perfect arc of black eyebrows. ‘You were headed for a nasty fall on that rock, you should look where you’re going.’ His was a face out of Greek tragedy itself. It was so close to hers that Oriel felt his warm breath on her cheek and her pulse quickened; with it came an acute awareness: the needs she had suppressed for years were suddenly rushing to the surface. An aching feeling was invading her lower limbs, a strange weakness. It was magnified a hundredfold when he leapt to his feet and a strong brown hand helped her up, his powerful frame looming over her. His silver eyes skimmed the taut curve of her breasts and she prayed her flimsy bikini top was displaying no signs of her arousal.

He didn’t let go of her hand as his eyes bored into hers. ‘You’re trembling, beautiful Calypso.’

Oriel blinked. He was terrifyingly attractive. She pulled her hand from his, now embarrassed at her clumsy attempt to flee. ‘It’s nothing. Thank you.’

His sensuous lips stretched into a slow smile, uncovering a row of pure white teeth. ‘You must have been here centuries ago, waiting for me on your island.’ Even his speech was theatrical. She found herself returning his smile and entered into the spirit.

‘And who were you?’ she breathed, the question almost catching in her throat; she already knew the answer.

‘Odysseus, of course. Remember? I was shipwrecked and washed up on the shore of this island. You fell in love with me and held me prisoner, but you weaved your magic spell over me with your beautiful long hair, spun from moonbeams, your mesmerizing voice and enticing body, and your manipulative ways.’

Oh, he was daring and arrogant – and irresistible, too. Despite herself, Oriel took up his allusion of the ancient Greek myth and ventured boldly down the same path, perilous though it was. ‘And even though I promised to make you immortal, you refused and wanted to return to Ithaca and your wife.’

Now it was the stranger’s turn to look surprised. He regarded her with amusement. ‘We made love and I was lost for seven years.’

‘But it was me who saved you and built the boat that eventually took you home.’

Finally he laughed, transforming the hardness of his features into an expression that was devastating, making Oriel’s heart leap. Even the sound of his laughter was huskily exotic. ‘Maybe you do not believe in the reincarnation of souls,’ he said.

‘I’ve never really thought about it.’

The images he evoked made Oriel long for him to take her in his arms, to be clasped by those strong hands that had stroked her hair with such gentleness … To lose herself beneath that powerful body again.

Surrounded by such beauty and serenaded by the sea, it was as though they were trapped in time. Maybe it was the lingering adrenaline of her anger at the contents of the letter and her heightened nervous system. Perhaps it was the nature of this deserted place that made everything seem like an alluring fantasy. Or maybe it was simply that this man was unlike any other Oriel had ever met. He was no Odysseus, she decided: that Greek hero had been a mere mortal. Indeed this man seemed the personification of Poseidon himself.

His eyes glinted darkly and pinned her with their glimmering steel, setting her nerves tingling. Had he read her thoughts? Was he aware of the emotions he had stirred up as he plucked at needs deep within her that no one had yet aroused? Oriel’s throat was dry, her lips parched, and she passed the tip of her tongue over them.

Oh Lord, there was no sense to this!

Shocked at her disturbing reaction, she stepped forward to move past him. ‘I’m sorry … I need to go,’ she murmured, but his fingers caught hold of her wrist. She felt the strength of them, before his thumb brushed sensually against her skin, caressing it, melting her very insides.

‘Don’t break the spell,’ he said faintly, his voice low and hoarse. Close to this man, every sensible instinct told Oriel that she had been right to make a run for it, but as the shifting moonlight caught and held in his irises, she stared into them, profoundly aware of his dark masculine beauty and power. Sometimes it took only a single glance to say everything and, in that moment, she felt her old beliefs crumble inexorably around her. She lowered her eyes and a frisson of emotion ran through her body.

‘You feel the magic as I do, yes? Anything might be possible on a night such as this.’ His voice was slow and heavy, tinged with the unmistakable edge of male desire.

A pulse beat fast in Oriel’s throat. She lifted her face and her huge green eyes gazed up at him, a delicious thrill coursing through her veins like brandy. She swayed slightly, her legs threatening to give way, and he pulled her against the hard wall of his chest. The bare heat of him seared her again. She could feel his heart beating and, as he tightened his embrace, the hardness of his need against her made her gasp imperceptibly. She could smell a mixture of soap and dried salt water on his skin, mingling with the manly scent of his body.

A sweet insanity was stealing over her. Shocked, Oriel felt her whole being jerk abruptly in physical response to him, as though he had already touched her in the most intimate way. The desire she felt for this unknown man brought in by the sea, the delight of his warm contact against her trembling flesh as his hands moved over her bare arms, was intoxicating. The unfamiliar sensations that were taking over every nerve in her body were so intense that she could think of nothing else but him and, in that moment, she wanted more than anything to give her virginity to the dark Greek god with silver eyes.

Oriel shuddered wildly. She felt the fear of something primitive and unpredictable racing through her and yet, obeying that sixth sense without question, she thrust herself even closer to this divine figure, hungry and demanding.

As if reading her mind, the Greek god’s steel-grey eyes darkened to almost charcoal, scanning her face until they settled on the sensitive curves of her lips. Without a word, he lowered his head a fraction but did not kiss her. Oriel’s breath caught sharply in her throat as she read the look in his piercing gaze that glittered with deep, adult fires.

Stars burned in the dark sky, a great silvery drift of them that seemed to hold the pair in stunned wonderment while they stared at each other as though bemused by an enchanted spell. Oriel had lost all sense of what had gone before or what might happen in the future. She simply thought to herself: Damn the consequences!

So that night, Poseidon, god of the sea, took his beautiful young virgin to that overwhelming, dazzling place where the world and everybody else in it ceased to exist. There were only the two of them and the blazing combustion they created between each other. When the heat built to that point of no return, she knew he felt her innocence. For a moment he paused over her, his diamond eyes now black with passion, questioning, waiting. In answer, Oriel drove her hands into his hair and pulled him towards her, urging him on. ‘Regret nothing,’ he’d whispered just before taking full possession of her with exquisite gentleness … then with a fire that consumed her, mind, body and soul.

She would never regret it, Oriel knew, even though what happened had violated all the principles she had so far held dear.

It had been a moonlit night of hedonism and passion. Spent and satiated, they slept in a small cave off the beach. When Oriel forced her heavy lids open the next morning, her Greek god had gone and she almost wondered whether the ecstasy she remembered just a few hours before had been real. As a new kind of desolation filled her, she fought back tears of bitter disappointment.

He had left her just as Rob had done – by stealth.

After that night, Oriel knew two things for certain: it was the last she would ever see of the stranger, and she would never let any other man abandon her again.

Athens, May 1977

Clad in a cool coral shirtwaist dress that showed off her exquisitely proportioned hourglass figure and long shapely legs, Oriel stood on a scorched sweep of airfield above the glittering Mediterranean. Colourful sailboats made bright etchings against the far-off horizon. The Greek sun beat down upon her platinum-blonde head and her fingers tightly gripped the handles of her overnight bag as her dark-fringed green eyes, hidden behind large sunglasses, looked around her.

It had been less than a month since she had seen the advertisement in the newspaper and she had wasted no time in sending out her résumé to Stavros Petrakis, works manager of the subsea excavation project. She’d had no difficulty securing the role: a few exchanged faxes, including her references, and within a week an engagement letter and contract had arrived and all arrangements had been made. Clearly these people were organized and efficient, she had thought, which perhaps wasn’t surprising, given the imperious tone of the original advert. Yet Petrakis had sounded very pleasant in his correspondence, making Oriel suspect that the person responsible for outlining the job specification had been the name signed at the bottom of her contract, ‘D. Lekkas’ himself. Anyhow, boss or not, already she didn’t like the sound of him. Hopefully he would keep out of the way and let her get on with her job.

The project was certainly exciting: an ancient wreck, possibly dating from Roman times, calcified and half buried in the sand, awaited a proper salvage operation. She had never worked on an argosy of such antiquity and was itching to find out more. Stavros Petrakis had sent her the basic works specification but assured her that once she was on site, she would be briefed further. He had given her all the particulars: Oriel would be met in Athens and taken on her employer’s private plane to Helios, a small island in the Ionian Sea, privately owned by the Lekkas family.

Oriel scanned her surroundings. Light aircraft of various sizes stood in orderly rows on the tarmac, their iron carcasses glistening in the afternoon haze. It all felt so familiar: the way the air smelled of pine trees, brine and sienna-coloured earth, the shimmering blue of the sky. Even the sunlight seemed to have a particular quality of its own.

I’m in Greece again, she thought. I’m really here at last.

She was about to approach a man who was busy painting a logo on to one of the jet planes when she heard someone behind her call out her name.

‘Despinis Anderson?’

Oriel turned abruptly. ‘Yes, that’s me.’

A polite smile greeted her from the wiry-framed Greek man with slicked-back hair and sideburns who was now extending a brown hand towards her. He was older than Oriel, with slightly pockmarked skin; his dark eyebrows slanted sharply away from a wide nose like two circumflex accents, giving his face a fox-like appearance. Neatly dressed in a short-sleeved white safari shirt and dark trousers, he would have seemed rather nondescript were it not for the large, expensive gold watch that glinted on his wrist. ‘Kalós ílthate stin Elláda, welcome to Greece. I am Yorgos Christodoulou, estate manager for Kyrios Lekkas.’

Oriel’s face broke into a smile as she held out her hand. ‘Chairō, pleased to meet you.’

Jet-black eyes that were small and beady skimmed an appreciative look over the young woman’s slim figure and her delicate Englishrose complexion.

‘Did you have a pleasant journey?’

‘Yes, thank you. I must say, arriving in sunny Athens after the dreary weather in England is truly uplifting.’

‘Your luggage has already been picked up by our courier and will probably arrive at Helios tonight.’ As he said this, Yorgos Christodoulou took Oriel’s overnight bag from her.

‘Efharisto.’

‘Parakaló, my pleasure.’ He took up a brisk pace, leading Oriel along the airfield towards a cluster of small aircraft. ‘You have learnt a few words of Greek, I see. It is always wise when going to a foreign country to have some knowledge of the language.’

‘I’m fluent in Greek,’ Oriel told him, switching to his own language. Something in the way he spoke made her suddenly feel the need to justify herself. ‘I read Classics at university before my Masters in archaeology, so I’m familiar with both ancient and modern Greek.’

He raised an eyebrow, answering her in Greek. ‘A clever young lady, I see. Very impressive. You speak our language well, Despinis Anderson, for a foreigner.’ He nodded ahead of them. ‘Kyrios Lekkas’s private plane is waiting to fly us to the island. It’s just a short walk from here. I imagine this isn’t your first visit to our country?’

‘No, I’ve visited various parts of Greece throughout my academic courses, including a few of the islands.’

‘You look very young for such extensive studies.’

She smiled brightly, trying to ignore his condescension. ‘Appearances are often misleading.’

He shot her a sideways glance. ‘I have nothing to do with the archaeological side of the island, that is Stavros Petrakis’s field, but if you don’t mind my saying so, as you are young and attractive, I think the Kyrios will find you unsuitable for the job so be prepared.’

Oriel was used to this – the perception, in a largely patriarchal society, that she had a man’s job. There was nothing new in the estate manager’s attitude. Still, this didn’t prevent her being irritated by his comments. ‘I stated my age on my résumé, I gave Kyrios Petrakis all the information he needed, and I have excellent credentials and references,’ she retorted. ‘My age and appearance are surely immaterial.’

Yorgos raised his eyebrows. ‘You certainly sound very confident, Despinis Anderson, and I wish you the best of luck.’

She nodded but felt an amused sort of mockery in his words. It was evident that the male population of this part of the world was still untouched by the sexual revolution. To most Greek men, a woman’s place was in the kitchen, and to be outdone by a female threatened their egos. Undoubtedly, Yorgos Christodoulou’s condescending attitude might well be typical on this job, Oriel mused. But what if he was right and the island’s owner took one look at her and sent her packing? Anything was possible if Stavros Petrakis had hired her without the sanction of his boss. She sighed inwardly. Was this to be a complete waste of her time?

The Lekkas Piper Saratoga prop plane was one of the smaller craft on the asphalt, yet its elegant steel frame stood out among all the other, more imposing planes. The tail and the top of its wings were adorned with a modern image of the sun, painted in glistening warm shades of orange, red and yellow, clearly designed to represent Helios, the sun god of Greek mythology, after which the island was named.

Yorgos signalled to the pilot, who waved back from the cockpit, before clasping Oriel’s elbow firmly and helping her up the steps and into the cabin. The twin-engine piston aircraft seated four passengers in a cosy but sleek cabin. The decor was elegant, pure and understated in its luxury, with an ivory-coloured interior that contrasted beautifully with the lacquered walnut of the pull-down tables and window frames. Oriel sat down in one of the leather seats.

‘Are you comfortable?’ the estate manager asked once she had fastened her seatbelt. ‘Can I get you something to drink? A glass of ouzo, maybe?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Perhaps a little wine?’

Oriel shook her head. After the brazen heat of the airfield, the cool cabin was welcome but her throat felt dry and her lips were parched. ‘Just a glass of water, please.’

He reached into a large coolbox tucked behind the seats at the back of the plane and poured some water, placing the chilled glass in front of her on the table. ‘Better to have your wits about you when you meet the Kyrios. I warn you, he takes no prisoners. Never has a man’s name been more appropriate.’ He poured himself a glass of ouzo and sat down opposite her, fastening his own seatbelt.

She frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

Yorgos gave a short laugh, seeming to relish her confusion, and his teeth gleamed against the dark olive of his skin. ‘Kyrios Damianos Lekkas.’ He regarded her with an assessing stare that she sensed was meant to intimidate her. ‘In ancient Greek, Damianos means master, tamer and conqueror. The name suits him well, you’ll find.’

Oriel was well aware of the meaning of the word but she also knew it would be a waste of time pointing that out to him. Instead, unflinching, she said: ‘I didn’t realize Kyrios Lekkas’s name was Damianos. On the contract I signed, his forename was only an initial. So, you say his name suits him well?’ She hardly wanted to ask but curiosity got the better of her: forewarned was forearmed.

‘Put it this way, the islanders call him Drákon Damian, Dragon Damian. Feared by everyone, he is himself fearless. He seems to have six heads, each with a pair of eyes. Nothing on the island escapes him.’ Yorgos appeared to look straight through her for a moment in reflection before his gaze fixed on her again. ‘It would be a brave and clever man who outwitted the Kyrios.’

Drákon Damian. The rather gothic epithet didn’t bode well, Oriel thought wryly. ‘You make him sound quite formidable.’

‘Of course the Kyrios is formidable. He is the island’s leader, a tough one, who demands respect.’ Yorgos’s obsidian eyes regarded her closely, making Oriel feel as if she were being pinned under a microscope and put in her place. There was something self-important about the estate manager; she had the sense that a weak and dull personality was being animated by guile and the affectation of substance.

Oriel schooled her features into an inscrutable mask, one that she was used to adopting when asserting herself at work. ‘I see how Damian Lekkas is the master of the island but “tamer” and “conqueror” are surely not adjectives he warrants,’ she said mildly.

Yorgos took a large gulp of ouzo and cleared his throat. ‘You think I exaggerate? He is both of those things. He hunts in the moonlight with the wolves and swims with the sea monsters in the deep and dark waters surrounding the island. The waters around Helios are known to be particularly dangerous.’ He leaned forward slightly. ‘Do you know that he once fought a shark and actually killed it?’

Oriel raised an eyebrow. No deep-sea diving excavation project was without its dangers and the way Yorgos Christodoulou was speaking was overblown; still, it made her feel uneasy. As for Lekkas himself, she was becoming increasingly intrigued by the enigmatic figurehead of Helios, despite her growing sense of foreboding. ‘A courageous man,’ she said in a neutral tone.

Yorgos regarded her suspiciously, clearly wondering if he were being mocked. ‘Yes, Despinis Anderson, a courageous man and a powerful one, too. He can be totally merciless with his enemies and when it comes to defending his property.’

‘Owning an island must bring a great deal of responsibility,’ she conceded. ‘Security being paramount, naturally. I suppose for that one needs to be hard.’

Yorgos sat back in his deep leather chair. ‘Hard, yes. Some people would say there is also a coldness about him. Even so, that doesn’t stop him exerting a strange power over women.’ He gave Oriel another calculating look. ‘In that way, he’s the conqueror, Despinis Anderson, since you ask. He just has to set his cap at a woman for her to kneel at his feet in submission.’ He shrugged, looking down into his glass. ‘I’ve seen it many times. Each year it’s the same. Another girl here, another girl there, all of them drawn to him like a magnet. And the Kyrios responds as any man would.’ Yorgos’s glittering eyes snapped back to Oriel’s face. ‘Oh, he will bed them, but he doesn’t care one iota for them. There’s only ever been one woman for him.’ At this, he gave a half smile and shrugged. ‘But the Kyrios is easily bored. As soon as a girl starts demanding things of him, he casts her out. He’s a man of stone, with a dead heart.’

Oriel tried to hide her distaste for the estate manager’s vulgarity, not to mention his disloyalty. Even if Kyrios Lekkas was all the things Yorgos Christodoulou was describing – although she put much of it down to Greek melodrama – she disapproved of the way he was criticizing the person on whom he depended for his livelihood.

‘That’s a harsh thing to say. Why do you work for him if you dislike him so much?’

Yorgos gave a forced smile and held his hands up as if to correct her misapprehension. ‘You misunderstand, Despinis Anderson. I don’t dislike him, I grew up with the man and understand his ways better than any other. We Greeks have a saying: if you do not praise your own home, it will fall on you and squash you. We do not speak badly about our own kind. But it is the Greek way to talk plainly, you’ll find out soon enough. There’s a difference.’

Is there? Oriel wondered. It sounded to her as if there were skant difference at all where Yorgos Christodoulou was concerned, but she bit her tongue.

‘I admire the Kyrios, of course,’ he continued, ‘but he’s a man to be feared. Everyone is wary of the Drákon. The locals all bow and raise their hats but behind their smiles, people whisper when he passes. Some say that, if crossed, he would be capable of anything. Even murder.’ A shiver rippled down Oriel’s back. She didn’t answer, glad that the plane’s engines were now rumbling to life, providing a distraction.

‘Ah, we’re about to take off.’ Yorgos finished off his ouzo and set his glass down. ‘The flight isn’t long.’

Oriel turned and looked out of the window as the aircraft began to taxi down the runway, avoiding further eye contact with the estate manager and concentrating instead on the golden landscape beginning to move faster outside. Then suddenly they were in the air. She gazed down on the shining surface of the emerald and cobalt waters of the sea with its rippling surf, drowsy lagoons and islands, so brilliantly green, floating in the vast ocean under the Mediterranean sun. The people became midgets; the palms looked like aspidistras; everything on earth a child’s toy set in the endless blue lake of the sea.

They had been flying for forty minutes in silence – Oriel having made it clear that she was disinclined to continue a conversation that she considered in poor taste – when Yorgos got up and leaned over her to the window. He pointed to an island that had suddenly come into view.

‘Helios,’ he announced.

Standing out with breathtaking detail in the dazzling afternoon sunlight, like a primitive red-and-green sculpture arising from the depths of a peacock-blue sea, the island of Helios seemed like an inhospitable rock, a place out of time. And as the small prop plane began its descent, a sense of apprehension tightened its grip on Oriel. Damian Lekkas – a man with a dead heart, who fought sharks, played with wolves and whose brutal magnetism made women fall at his feet! The leader of Helios was beginning to sound more like a medieval overlord by the minute. Did she really want to work for someone who was feared, almost as a god, by his people?

Lower and lower, the plane moved down towards the stretch of glistening sand that curved alongside the ocean like the undulating tail of a snake. The remains of a round tower, which in centuries past must have protected the harbour, sat jagged at the edge of a grey stone quay, whose crumbling walls extended to an old lighthouse, a grim sentinel guarding the toilers of the sea. Behind were mountains, topped by a huge cratered peak, shadowed with deep ridges as if the rock had been pulled and stretched towards the sky by a huge hand.

They flew over a group of low trees edging the quayside before heading for a clearing, where a wide strip of asphalt had been laid as a runway. Oriel’s heartbeat quickened as the small craft touched down smoothly.

‘We’re here,’ announced Yorgos.

Oriel unfastened her seatbelt, looking forward to seeing this astonishing island close-up. ‘Helios is volcanic. I hadn’t realized,’ she said.

‘Yes. We’re not far from the island of Kythira, almost opposite the south-eastern tip of the Peloponnese peninsula. Like Kythira, Helios has a history of earthquakes, but we’ve been lucky so far. Apart from a few tremors from time to time, we haven’t had any major quakes for two hundred years.’ Yorgos stood up and swung open the door to the plane, letting in a blast of hot air, the heat rising in waves from the baked runway outside. He was about to pick up Oriel’s overnight case but, before he could come to assist her, she slid from her seat and grabbed the bag, alighting swiftly on her own. He frowned as he followed her out.

‘The Lekkas residence is about ten kilometres away as the crow flies, almost on the opposite side of the island. I’m going to drop you there,’ he told her, leading her towards a Jeep parked under a stretch of gnarled olive trees.

It was cooler here than in Athens, with the breeze coming off the sea, but still sweltering enough to feel uncomfortable. Oriel’s first impression of Helios was one of blazing light, naked rock, cacti and thorns. Apart from the sparse olive trees, it was virtually without shade, unprotected from either sun or wind, and although the light was almost white in its brightness, this part of the island looked as desolate as any place she had ever seen.

Oriel experienced an unfamiliar sense of nervousness as she followed the estate manager, who, she had to concede, had disarmed her with his remarks. Hundreds of questions raced through her mind. What if she didn’t hit it off with her new employer? He sounded like a dreadful womanizer and a complete despot to boot. Even if he didn’t hold any reservations about her having the job, what if she wasn’t up to it? She’d handled difficult and complicated assignments before, and had plenty of diving experience, but maybe this time she wouldn’t be so lucky. Then she quickly berated herself: it was not like her to be so self-doubting.

When they reached the open-sided Jeep, Oriel let Yorgos take her case, which he stashed in the back of the vehicle. She looked around her at the remoteness of the landscape. This island was so very different to the others she’d seen, with its dry, red soil and scattered, shrivelled-up trees. To her, its almost derelict lighthouse and ruined round tower somehow seemed aggressive, guarded by flocks of screaming gulls that hovered menacingly overhead. It felt like an archaic place, desolate – cut off from the rest of the world.

‘This area of the island hasn’t yet been developed,’ Yorgos told her, as if uncannily reading Oriel’s mind. ‘It used to be part of a harbour, but approaching Helios by sea from this side is dangerous as there are fifteen miles of shifting sands. It’s been the graveyard of many a ship bound for the island.’

‘How eerie,’ she murmured, looking out to sea. Yet the archaeologist in her was fascinated by the imprints of the past that must lie undiscovered in such treacherous waters.

Yorgos gestured for Oriel to get in before climbing into the driver’s seat of the vehicle. ‘A few years ago, the Kyrios decided to develop a new harbour on the eastern side. It was just a tiny fishing village but now it’s a small port with a marina and much safer since it lies in a sheltered bay.’

She stared out at the bleak and timeless vista. ‘The island is certainly very wild.’

‘It’s not like this everywhere. Helios was divided between the two Lekkas brothers, Damian, the eldest, and Pericles, after the death of their parents and their uncle Cyrus not long after. Kyrios Damian’s part was planted with olive trees, and the plan had been to introduce blackcurrants to make something of Pericles’s portion.’ He paused, before adding: ‘If you ask me, Pericles was given the worst end of the bargain. It’s no surprise he didn’t make anything much of his part of the island.’

Yorgos pulled a packet of cigarettes out of the top pocket of his shirt and lit one, squinting through the strong plume of smoke as he exhaled. ‘He was a fun guy to hang around with … very misunderstood. Anyhow, that’s another story.’

‘And the brother, Damian, what did he achieve with his part of Helios?’ asked Oriel, fascinated as this almost feudal story unfurled.

‘He actually took over the running of the whole of Helios and ended up paying an annual income to Pericles, as he also did for their cousin, Kyria Helena.’

‘Why didn’t she have a share of the land?’ Oriel wanted to know.

‘That’s how it’s done here, the rules of the island.’

‘The rules of the island?’

‘On Helios, a girl does not inherit land, she receives an annuity. That’s how families keep their land intact. Now, since the murder two years ago, it all belongs to the Kyrios.’

Oriel’s head turned sharply. ‘Murder? You mean the brother, Pericles?’

Yorgos put the key in the ignition and paused. ‘Not only Pericles, God rest his soul.’ He took a quick drag on his cigarette and crossed himself with the same hand.

Oriel’s eyes widened. ‘What are you saying?’

‘What I’m saying is that the Lekkas family has been touched by tragedy more than once,’ he replied solemnly, watching her intently.

It was on the tip of Oriel’s tongue to ask more questions, but prying felt wrong. Clearly the estate manager revelled in being the keeper of knowledge about the Lekkas family and she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of providing a too-willing audience. Yet, inevitably, her curiosity was piqued. If there were a grisly story involving the Lekkas family, no doubt she would find out soon enough.

Yorgos stared into Oriel’s eyes with a curious little smile. ‘You are beginning to think that it wasn’t such a good idea to come to this island after all, eh?’

Though her apprehension was increasing steadily, Oriel lifted a defiant chin. ‘Not at all, I have come here to do a job. What happens on this island, the gossip, the rumours, is not my concern.’

‘Well, let me know if you want to return to the mainland,’ he persisted. ‘I’ve seen others turn tail once they find out what living on Helios, with its accursed ruling family, is like.’

He added slowly: ‘The island has a history, Despinis Anderson. A dark, passionate history, just like the tragedies of our ancient mythology, which cannot be ignored. Whoever lives here cannot help but get caught up in the dramas of Helios. They are part of everyday life.’

Yorgos studied her, one hand on the steering wheel where his cigarette smouldered between his thick fingers, the other still on the ignition, waiting to turn on the engine.

Oriel felt her heart thud quickly with a combination of excitement, indignation and fear. Was this some kind of warning? It seemed bizarre and melodramatic. She made her voice sound cool enough not to divulge her inner turmoil: ‘I have signed a contract, Kyrios Yorgos, and I’m not in the habit of reneging on my word.’

Her reply seemed to annoy him, and he threw away his cigarette half smoked. ‘What can I say? A very commendable trait in normal circumstances, I admit, but I wouldn’t speak too soon.’ Then the Jeep’s engine came to life and they were off.

The road towards the other end of the island took them over harsh terrain, Oriel’s hair streaming behind her as the Jeep bucked its way over the bumps and stones. She almost forgave the arrogant presumption of Yorgos Christodoulou – although she hoped she would have little to do with him in the weeks to come – as he turned out to be a remarkably knowledgeable guide. Above the grinding noise of the Jeep’s engine, he pointed out the cliffs rearing up with ravaged-looking remains of buildings on their crest. Somewhere inside these great rocks there were grottos, he said, where the islanders had on occasion taken refuge from pirates in times gone by. Towering precipices rose sheer from the sea, and the slashes in the rock, he told her, were believed to have been cut by St George’s sword.

Before them, the hills rolled like waves of an angry ocean and to the side of them lay rocky escarpments and steep gorges. It was just the sort of place where, in the language of Dodwell and other early nineteenth-century travellers through Greece, ‘a false step would mean death,’ Oriel thought, as they bumped along the road at an almost vertiginous speed.

It was like a dark fantasy world from an adventure book, and Oriel was all for adventure! She was the only child of ageing parents, who had tried to cosset and protect her for most of her life. This had, no doubt, bred in her a desire for escape and excitement. She had simply rebelled against her mother’s and father’s good intentions, finding every opportunity to assert her independence from them.

It was partly why she had been drawn to archaeology in the first place. As a young girl, she had spent many nights under her bedcovers with a torch, reading about the lost civilizations of the past, intrepid explorers and their tales of derring-do, imagining what it might be like to be a heroic adventurer who could travel back in time and experience those worlds for herself. Her mother was conventional down to her bones and although she had been proud that Oriel had secured a place at Cambridge, she was nevertheless alarmed at her choice of profession. Muriel Anderson had looked at her daughter with a slightly dismayed expression. ‘Are there any lady archaeologists, darling? Isn’t that what men usually do?’ From that day onwards, Oriel had been even more determined to follow her own star.

Oriel lifted her eyes towards the mountain she’d noticed from the air, which had been looming over their ride up the cliffside; it was huge and dominated the scenery, almost bewitching in its monstrosity. Yorgos followed her gaze.

‘You are looking at Typhoeus, our volcano. The great dragon!’ he said dramatically.

Now that he had mentioned the volcano, Oriel realized there was a pervading smell of sulphur that hung in the air, giving a diabolical flavour to the scenery. Yes, she could see its resemblance to a hideous behemoth. Or rather, a vast mouth with a good many teeth missing, like the model of a monster’s jaw made by an infernal dentist. White wisps rose from the top like the fumes that give away a secret smoker hiding behind a wall. Grim and forbidding, it frowned over the island.

‘The volcano has been dormant all my life, but the history of the island tells of angry gods turning our beautiful blue sky charcoalgrey for months,’ Yorgos told Oriel, who stared back at it, transfixed.

‘People have always created myths to explain acts of nature,’ she answered.

‘Myths are the food and drink of Helios.’ He pulled the steering wheel left and right as the Jeep lurched over uneven ridges in the road. ‘The people of our island have lived in near seclusion for many years. Few outsiders visit.’

Soon the aspect of the island began to change. The road had meandered towards a tiny natural port where the light was indescribably keen, yet soft. Here, Oriel could see that the volcanic soil of the island was highly pigmented: the rich brown earth was streaked with the emerald and jade of olivine, the dark pink of quartz, the silver-grey of chrome and the warm yellow of gold. On the right, the Ionian Sea sparkled invitingly, gentle waves ruffling its surface. Another road led down to a small marina, where a handful of brightly coloured boats bobbed imperceptibly, as if quite content to remain at their moorings instead of braving the open sea. Houses were set among tumbling cascades of jasmine that scented the air, their gardens leading down to the beach where the iridescent waters lapped softly against the sand. In the distance Oriel could distinguish gently rolling hills and dizzying mountain ranges: sheer needles of rock shot with veins of mineral pigmentation, shimmering in a halo of late afternoon haze. They passed a small chapel that lay dozing in the still heat. There was no movement anywhere, of man or beast, except for a few butterflies fluttering lazily among the cypress trees.

Everywhere Oriel looked conjured sharp pangs of memory, taking her back to her last visit to a Greek island. Not for the first time since that far-off night in Aegina, she wondered what had happened to the Greek god who had ravished her in the moonlight and then vanished like a dream. Who was he and where had he come from?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the estate manager’s voice. ‘Though the Kyrios won’t have returned yet, I’ve been told to take you straight to Heliades, the Lekkas residence, so you can wait for him there,’ he said.

‘I would prefer to use the time to book into a hotel for a couple of days while I look for an apartment to rent,’ she replied.

‘You won’t find any on the island, I’m afraid. And the only hotel is a two-star hovel,’ he said, casting her a sideways look, ‘which a sophisticated lady like yourself would not appreciate. This is a private island and the Kyrios doesn’t encourage tourists.’

‘Where do the other members of the team live, then?’

‘At the staff house.’

‘Then that’s where I would like you to take me, so I can tidy myself up before meeting Kyrios Lekkas.’

A mocking twist appeared on Yorgos’s mouth as his dark, unsettling eyes flicked over her. ‘Kyrios Damian wouldn’t allow that. The staff house is too primitive for a young lady like yourself.’