Read the book: «Innocent Obsession»

CHAPTER ONE

‘I don’t think I can do it, Margot,’ said Sylvie carefully, breaking off a spear of celery and biting into its crisp heart. Margot’s table was always liberally spread with low-calorie foods, and after a lunch of only cottage cheese and fresh pineapple, Sylvie’s healthy young stomach was still far from satisfied.

‘Why can’t you do it?’ her sister demanded impatiently, fairly snatching the bowl of celery out of Sylvie’s reach and gazing at her penetratingly. ‘What do you plan to do from now until October? Vegetate?’

Sylvie shrugged, causing the corn-gold curtain of her hair to swing forward around her cheeks. ‘I was going to try and find a job,’ she admitted, reduced to blotting up the crumbs of cottage cheese that still lingered on her plate, and Margot leaned towards her triumphantly, pointed elbows resting on the table.

‘There you are, then,’ she declared. ‘This is a job I’m offering you. Go out to Alasyia, look after Nikos for six weeks. I’ll pay you, and I’ve no doubt Leon wouldn’t be averse to—–’

‘No, Margot.’

‘Why not?’

Sylvie shook her head. ‘Margot, Leon asked you. Nikos is your child. Don’t you want to help your own son?’

Margot’s fashionably thin face gained a little unbecoming colour as she sank back in her chair, long, scarlet-tipped nails tapping irritably on the arm. ‘Sylvie, you’re being unreasonable,’ she said, drawing in her breath and expelling it again with emphasis. ‘You know perfectly well that I can’t leave London at this time. Maurice has just found me this part—and it’s a good one. I won’t—I simply won’t be dictated to by you or anyone else!’

Sylvie tilted her head to one side and considered her reflection in the silver-plated coffee pot. As sisters they weren’t very much alike, she acknowledged, without rancour. Margot, nine years her senior, was at least three inches taller, and slender as a reed, while Sylvie’s five feet four inches were infinitely more rounded. Margot’s hair was silver blonde, and she wore it in a gamine cut that gave her a boyish air, totally belied by slanting green eyes and curling lashes. Sylvie, on the other hand, couldn’t afford the expense of a regular trip to the hairdresser, and in consequence, her hair was long and thick, and abysmally straight, and the colour of wheat at harvest time. Still, she reflected, her skin was good, and she tanned quite easily, which Margot never had, and if her looks were only interesting, whereas Margot’s were striking, that was only fair when Margot’s appearance was so much more important to her.

‘I think you should write to Leon,’ Sylvie said now, looking across the table at her sister again. ‘Explain the situation. Tell him that it’s impossible for you to get away at this time. Ask him if there isn’t someone else who could take care of Nikos.’

Margot’s lips tightened. ‘You think it’s that simple, don’t you?’ she demanded. ‘You really think if I write to Leon and explain the situation, he’ll make other arrangements?’

Sylvie grimaced. ‘I don’t see why not.’

Margot made an impatient sound. ‘You forget, Sylvie, Leon isn’t like us. He’s not English, he’s Greek. And Greek men have an entirely different idea of women from Englishmen.’

‘He married you, didn’t he?’ Sylvie frowned. ‘He knew you were an actress.’

‘He knew I was trying to be,’ retorted Margot shortly. ‘I hadn’t actually done anything. As a matter of fact, I was desperate. If Lewis hadn’t suggested I joined his modelling group for that trip, I’d never have met Leon, would I? Never have married him!’

Sylvie absorbed this. Seven years ago, when Margot married Leon Petronides, she had been eleven, and scarcely old enough to understand her sister’s situation. All she remembered was Margot’s elation when she came home from the modelling trip to Athens, her exuberance at having met Aristotle Petronides’ son, and later on, her excitement when Leon followed her to London. The wedding that followed soon afterwards had seemed like a dream come true. Despite his parents’ disapproval, Leon had refused to give Margot up, and their honeymoon in Fiji had been the envy of all her friends. It was only as Sylvie grew older, after Margot’s son, Nikos, was born, that the flaws in their relationship became evident, and although Margot’s life with Leon had seemed idyllic, she had begun to get bored.

Twelve months ago, things had come to a head. After six years of behaving as Leon’s parents expected their sons’ wives to behave, her own father had died, and as Leon was away at the time on a business trip to the United States, Margot had flown home alone to attend the funeral.

Unfortunately, she had not wanted to go back. Initially, using her mother’s grief as an excuse, she had stayed on, sharing the house in Wimbledon with Sylvie and her mother, littering the place with her make-up and perfumes, monopolising the bathroom in the mornings, when Sylvie was trying to get ready for school.

Eventually, of course, she had been unable to resist contacting her agent, Maurice Stockton, and as luck would have it, he had just the part for her, in a play that was about to go on tour. The actress who had originally accepted the role had been taken ill, and Margot had jumped at the chance. She had moved out of the house in Wimbledon, much to her mother’s relief, and by the time she returned to London, she had enough money to rent this furnished apartment, in a converted Victorian mansion in Bayswater.

Leon had objected, of course, and Mrs Scott, Sylvie’s mother, had tried to placate him on those occasions when he had rung the house; but she found it hard to be convincing when she objected, too, and was alternately worried about her grandson and the precarious state of her elder daughter’s marriage.

At Easter, Leon had come to London to take his wife home, only to find her embroiled in rehearsals for a new play. He had ranted and raved, but Margot had been all-appealing, all-persuasive, earning herself a further three months’ grace. But now, Leon was adamant. Margot must come home—not least, because the nursemaid who had taken care of Nikos since his babyhood was leaving to care for her sick mother.

‘Anyway,’ Margot went on now, ‘Leon won’t listen to me. Don’t you think I’ve tried? It’s that family of his, of course. They’ve put him up to it. Without their interference, I could probably have wheedled another six months out of him, but—–’

‘What about your son?’ Sylvie broke in protestingly. ‘It’s almost a year since you saw him. Don’t you care about him at all?’

Margot assumed a brooding expression. ‘Of course I care,’ she retorted sharply. ‘But I’m an actress, Sylvie. I have a career, and to succeed in any profession you have to be dedicated.’

‘Then get a divorce,’ declared Sylvie practically. ‘Tell Leon the truth. Tell him you don’t want to be married to him any longer. You’re a British citizen. He can’t force you to go back to Greece.’

Margot gave her sister an irritated look. ‘I didn’t say I didn’t want to be married, did I?’ she exclaimed, and while Sylvie stared at her incredulously, she continued: ‘I—well, I want to do both. Other women do. Other women have both a marriage and a career.’

‘Not when their husband lives in Greece, and they live in London,’ replied Sylvie crisply. ‘Oh, Margot, why won’t you be honest? What you really mean is, you don’t want to let Leon go because he’s a meal ticket, a sure-fire insurance to fall back on, when—if—your acting career falls flat!’

‘You little prig! Don’t you dare to preach to me like that,’ Margot declared angrily, her voice rising ominously. ‘You know nothing about it. Just because you’ve got a few academic qualifications, you think you know it all, don’t you? Well, you don’t. When it comes to the real world, you’re sunk! And don’t think three years at Oxford will make the slightest bit of difference, because it won’t!’

Sylvie sighed, shrugged her shoulders, and rose to her feet, glancing down at her uniform of jeans and tee-shirt without resentment. Margot was probably right. She was only eighteen, after all, and she had just finished her final exams. Going to Oxford was important to her, but she had to admit that compared to Margot’s experiences, her own were prosaic. She had never mixed with artistic people, gone on modelling assignments, had handsome men phoning her at all hours of the day and night; and no wealthy Greek was likely to defy his parents and marry her. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help thinking that such experiences seemed far more desirable from a distance, than they did close to.

‘So you won’t help me?’ Margot stated, looking up at her with cold accusing eyes, and Sylvie felt a moment’s contrition.

‘I can’t,’ she said, wishing she hadn’t such a soft conscience. ‘I’m sorry, but this is something you’re going to have to work out for yourself, Margot.’

‘Then I’ll ask Mummy,’ her sister declared, standing up also, tall and slim and vaguely intimidating, and Sylvie gasped.

‘You wouldn’t!’

‘Oh, I would,’ Margot nodded. ‘I’m desperate, Sylvie. One way or the other I’m going to do this play, and no one’s going to stop me.’

Sylvie sought about for words to dissuade her. ‘But—but Mummy would hate it,’ she exclaimed. ‘She doesn’t know Leon’s family. Why, she hardly knows Leon himself.’

‘I know that.’ Margot was unmoved.

‘But, Margot, she’s just making a life for herself here.’ Sylvie spread her hands. ‘Since Daddy died, you know how lonely she’s been, but now she’s joined the Women’s Institute, and she plays bridge every Friday—she’s even learning to play golf! You can’t take her away from all that.’

Margot moved across to the screened fireplace and took a cigarette from the pack lying on the mantel. Lighting it, she said, slowly and deliberately: ‘Do you think she would turn her back on Nikos? Do you think she would allow him to be cared for by strangers?’

Sylvie made a sound of impatience. ‘That’s blackmail, Margot!’

‘No, it’s not.’ Margot swung round, exhaling delicately. ‘If you won’t help me, there’s no one else.’

Sylvie’s shoulders hunched. ‘Leon will never agree—–’

‘We won’t tell him,’ declared Margot dispassionately. ‘You will simply arrive in my place—–’

‘No!’

‘No?’

Sylvie’s tongue circled her dry lips. ‘What will he think? What will he do?’

‘You’ll convince him that it was impossible for me to leave London at this time,’ said Margot relentlessly. ‘Leon won’t argue—he’s too much of a gentleman for that. And by the time he’s thought of a way to circumvent my plans, Dora will be back.’

‘Dora?’

‘The nursemaid. Her mother won’t remain sick for ever.’

Sylvie ran troubled fingers up the back of her neck and into the heavy weight of her hair. ‘Margot—–’

‘Well?’ Margot’s aristocratically thin features were cold. ‘Are you going to turn me down?’

Sylvie moved her head helplessly from side to side. ‘When are you supposed to leave?’

‘Next Tuesday.’

‘Tuesday!’ Sylvie sounded panic-stricken. ‘Margot, I can’t be ready to leave by Tuesday.’

‘Why not? What do you have to do? Pack a couple of swimsuits, and a dress for the evenings.’ Her sister’s lips curled. ‘Not, I trust, those disgusting denims you’re wearing at present. Do you have any idea how tight they are?’

Sylvie broke the news to her mother after dinner that evening.

She was going to a disco with Brian Jennings, and in her uncertain mental state she thought it would be easier if her mother got over the shock while she was not around. But to her astonishment, Mrs Scott’s reaction was one of relief, not disapproval.

‘I knew Margot was going to ask you,’ she said, causing Sylvie to catch her breath in confusion. ‘I told her there was no possibility of me going, after promising to help the vicar with the summer youth festival, but I thought you might enjoy it, as we haven’t booked a holiday this year.’

Sylvie was dumbfounded. Margot had tricked her. Far from hesitating over asking their mother to take her place, she had actually come to her first, and the threatening tone she had adopted towards Mrs Scott’s involvement had been just so much hot air.

‘But don’t you think Margot is being a little selfish?’ she ventured now, as Mrs Scott settled herself in her chair in front of the television set, hoping for an unfavourable reaction, but her mother only shrugged.

‘Margot must get this acting bug out of her system,’ she declared, flicking through the pages of a television magazine. ‘Turn on the set, will you darling? I don’t want to miss my serial.’

Sylvie was thoughtful at the disco that evening, and Brian took exception to her silent introspection.

‘What’s wrong?’ he demanded, drawing her into a corner and shielding her from the rest of the gathering with his stocky body. ‘Is it something I said, or didn’t you want to keep this date or something?’

‘No. No.’ Sylvie slipped her arms around his neck apologetically, smiling at his angry expression. ‘It’s just something that happened today, that’s all. Something I don’t much like—but which I’ve got to do now, because I promised.’

‘What?’ Brian was puzzled. ‘You didn’t agree to go on that dig, did you? I thought you said—–’

‘It’s not the dig,’ retorted Sylvie flatly, momentarily dispelling his frown. Mr Hammond, her history tutor, had invited her to join a dig he was organising in Northumberland: but in spite of her interest in antiquity, she had declined, mainly because she had felt the need to get a job, and contribute something to the family budget. Besides, Brian, whose own interests lay in a more technical direction, had objected to her spending several weeks camping up north while he was kicking his heels in London, and she realised his reaction to her proposed trip to Greece was going to be far harder to handle than her mother’s.

‘As a matter of fact, I am going away,’ she said now, distracting his attention from the soft curve of her neck, and Brian drew back.

‘Going away?’ he echoed. ‘You mean—on holiday? But I thought you said—–’

‘Not on holiday,’ Sylvie contradicted with a sigh. ‘It’s a job really.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m going to Alasyia to look after Margot’s little boy for a few weeks.’

‘Alasyia? You mean—Greece, don’t you?’

Sylvie nodded.

‘I see.’ Brian drew back completely, and Sylvie’s hands dropped to her sides. ‘When was this decided?’

‘Just today—I told you.’

Brian looked sceptical. ‘You mean—today was the first you heard of it?’

‘Well, not exactly. I mean—–’ Sylvie was finding it difficult to be honest, ‘Margot knew about it, of course, and I knew Leon wanted her to go—–’

‘Leon? That’s your brother-in-law, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ Sylvie nodded again. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, Leon asked Margot to go home, but she’s busy with a play at the moment—–’

‘—–so she asked you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you want to go?’

Sylvie grimaced. ‘You have to be joking!’

‘So why didn’t you refuse?’

‘I did, at first. But then—oh, Brian! She said she’d ask Mummy, and I thought Mummy would go, and she’d be miserable, so I had to agree.’

Brian’s mouth compressed. ‘It doesn’t matter about me, of course.’

Sylvie sighed. ‘Yes, it does—I’ve told you. I didn’t want to go. But now I’ve promised, so I have to.’

Brian frowned. ‘Why doesn’t this—Leon employ a nanny?’

‘He did. He does. Dora—that’s her name—she’s had to go and take care of her sick mother—–’

‘Her sick mother!’ Brian was scathing.

‘It’s true!’ Sylvie flushed. ‘Can’t you try and understand? This isn’t easy for me either. Leon expects Margot, and I’m going in her place!’

Brian sniffed. ‘For how long?’

‘I don’t know. Two or three weeks …’ Sylvie was doubtful, but unwilling to mention the six weeks Margot had stipulated.

‘Three weeks!’ Brian was aggressive. ‘That’s longer than the dig was going to last!’

‘I know it.’ Sylvie touched his sleeve tentatively. ‘I don’t want to go, Brian, honestly.’

Brian’s jaw jutted. ‘So you say. But what about me? What am I supposed to do for three weeks? Hang about, waiting for you to come back? I’m going to be a laughing stock!’

‘No, you’re not.’ Sylvie wriggled a finger through the buttonhole in his leather jacket. ‘Besides,’ she ventured a smile, ‘aren’t I worth waiting for?’

‘I don’t know, do I?’ Brian retorted. ‘You haven’t let me find out yet!’

Sylvie’s colour deepened. ‘There’s more to a relationship than sex,’ she said huskily. ‘And I don’t sleep around.’

‘I’m not asking you to sleep around,’ Brian countered, slipping his arms around her waist again and drawing her towards him. ‘Only with me.’

‘No, Brian.’

‘What do you mean? No—now, no—later, or no—for all time?’

Sylvie licked her lips. ‘Just no.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I can’t.’

‘Or won’t?’

‘Brian, why is it so important to you?’ Sylvie shook her head. ‘Everyone knows I’m your girl. Why should it matter whether or not we’ve been to bed together?’

Brian let her go with a smothered oath. ‘If you have to ask that, I’m wasting my time,’ he declared harshly. ‘Sylvie, don’t you ever—want to?’

‘Not—not specially,’ she admitted, wondering with a sudden pang whether there was something wrong with her. Brian was handsome and popular, and all the girls in school had tried to attract his attention, but for more than three months now he had been dating Sylvie. Their association had been good, at least so far as she was concerned, and his early attempts to take their lovemaking beyond the bounds she had set had given way to a steady relationship. But this evening, she realised, he had only been biding his time, and given the impetus of her proposed departure, he was being forced to precipitate his objective.

‘I don’t get you, do you know that?’ he said now, raking back his thick fair hair with an impatient hand. ‘You look such a sexy lady, but underneath I guess you don’t even know the score, do you?’

Sylvie absorbed this in silence, slightly amazed by his description of herself as a ‘sexy lady’. Was that how he saw her? She couldn’t believe it. Not after that unfavourable comparison with Margot this afternoon.

‘Come on,’ he said now, ‘I’ll take you home. There’s not much point in pursuing this, is there? I mean, what with you going away and all. Call me when you get back, and we’ll talk it over, hmm? Until then we’re free agents, right?’

You mean you are, thought Sylvie, but she didn’t say anything, and although she had a sinking feeling in her stomach when he left her at her gate, she couldn’t wait to examine her reflection once again, to see what she had missed.

Sylvie had never been to Alasyia before, but she knew of it from Margot’s descriptions. It was on a peninsular, south-east of Athens, a pine-clad promontory overlooking the blue-green waters of the Aegean. Leon’s parents lived in Athens itself, and Sylvie vaguely recalled Aristotle Petronides’ leathery-brown face, and his wife’s more aristocratic features. They had attended the wedding in London, with evident misgivings, and had insisted on a more orthodox ceremony taking place, once they returned to Athens. Leon’s brothers and sisters—he was the second son in a family of eight—had not all been at the wedding, but his elder brother, Andreas, had been best man, and two of his younger sisters had accompanied their parents. Sylvie hardly remembered them, engrossed as she had been in her own role as bridesmaid, and although she supposed she might meet them again, she was not in a hurry to renew their acquaintance. Leon she might be able to handle; Aristotle Petronides was another matter.

Her plane landed in Athens just after four o’clock in the afternoon, and in spite of the warmth of London in early July, nothing had prepared her for the heat wafting up from the tarmac as she stepped out of the aircraft. It was like a blanket, wrapping itself around her and stifling her, and she could well understand why a house at the beach was so desirable. She was glad she had taken her mother’s advice and worn a dress, instead of the inevitable trousers she was used to, although the liberal folds of Indian cotton were soon sticking to her legs. Her hair, too, felt hot and heavy, and she entered the airport buildings lifting its silky dampness up from her nape.

It was then that she saw him, a tall man, dressed formally in a grey silk lounge suit, standing beside a pillar, watching her. He was evidently Greek, although taller and leaner than many of the men around him, and his raven-dark hair was smooth, and not curly, his dark eyes long-lashed and hooded. He was certainly an attractive man, she acknowledged, and yet there was something about that intense scrutiny that troubled her, something vaguely menacing about that frank appraisal. It made her glance about her anxiously, hoping Leon was not far away, bringing an awareness of her own vulnerability, in a country that was unfamiliar to her.

She dragged her gaze away, concentrating on finding her passport in her shoulder bag, checking that she had all the necessary information. Leon had said that he would meet Margot at the airport. She had no reason to feel apprehensive. And it was obvious that a man like the man standing by the pillar would have some objective in coming to the airport in the first place, and not any intention of accosting a girl without any claims to sophistication.

‘Excuse me!’

She had been so intent on avoiding the man’s eyes, she had failed to notice that the queue she had joined had moved on, and the deep male voice that addressed her sent a ripple of awareness up her spine. Swinging round, she came face to face with her adversary, and her lips parted in dismay when she realised he was blocking her path.

‘If you don’t mind—–’ she began, uncaring as to whether or not he understood her, only eager to reach the comparative security afforded by the passport officer, and his somewhat thin lips compressed.

‘I think I know you,’ he insisted, to her consternation. ‘You are—Sylvana Scott, are you not? Margot’s sister?’ He frowned, as she gazed at him aghast. ‘But tell me, what are you doing here? Where is Margot? Is she with you?’

‘Wh-who are you?’

Sylvie’s lips could scarcely form the words. This wasn’t Leon. It certainly wasn’t Aristotle Petronides. And yet—and yet there was a resemblance.

‘Do you not remember me?’ he enquired, although he seemed loath to make the distinction. ‘I am Andreas Petronides, Leon’s brother. Now will you tell me where Leon’s wife is?’

Sylvie licked her lips. Andreas Petronides! Of course—Leon’s best man. She would not have recognised him, and yet he had recognised her. Was she so little changed from the child she had been?

‘Miss Scott?’

He was speaking again, demanding a reply, and she looked beyond him to where the passport officer was now waiting, the queue having cleared, waiting to clear her passport. Obviously the Petronides name enabled this man to move freely in an area where identification was all important, but that was scarcely important now.

‘I—I—shouldn’t I pass through passport control first?’ she ventured, seizing on the diversion, and his dark eyes narrowed.

‘First you will tell me where Margot is,’ he insisted, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth so that he should not see her indecision.

‘She’s not here,’ she admitted reluctantly, then gasped when he caught the softness of her upper arm between his fingers, painfully compressing the flesh.

‘What do you mean—she is not here?’ he demanded, and then with an eye to the inquisitive stare of the passport officer, he urged her forward. ‘Do it,’ he said. ‘Show him your identification. I will wait for you in the Customs hall.’

Still a little unnerved, Sylvie did as she was told, mildly alarmed by her tacit obedience to his wishes. Was this what Margot had meant when she said Greek men were not like Englishmen? Certainly she could not imagine any man of her acquaintance behaving so arrogantly towards a virtual stranger. It all added to the feeling of alienation that had possessed her, ever since she saw him standing there, as she now knew waiting for her—or waiting for Margot, which was just the same—and she was beginning to realise just how reckless she had been in agreeing to come here.

He was waiting for her beside her suitcases, apparently having arranged that she should be discharged with the minimum amount of fuss. Another man was with him, and her heart sank at the expectation that this might be yet another brother, come to censure her, but his black uniform dispelled her apprehensions. He was evidently a chauffeur, and she hoped with eager urgency that he might be in Leon’s employ, and that her interrogation by Andreas Petronides would soon be over.

‘Come.’

Clearly that time wasn’t quite yet, and Sylvie was obliged to accompany Leon’s brother out into the brilliant sunshine that bathed the airport. The chauffeur had taken possession of her cases, and they were stowed into the boot of a silver-grey limousine waiting for them, and then Andreas stood back politely to allow her to precede him into the capacious back of the car.

Sylvie hesitated. ‘Leon—–’ she began, feeling the need for some reassurance, but Andreas merely gestured more forcibly, and she was obliged to obey him once again.

The limousine was air-conditioned, and after the sticky heat outside Sylvie could not suppress the sigh of relief that escaped her. It was only as the chauffeur seated himself behind the wheel in the partitioned driving compartment, and the car began moving, that she realised she had asked for no identification, and her lips parted anxiously at the awareness of her folly.

But, even as she turned towards the man beside her, he spoke, and what he said temporarily robbed her of any other consideration. ‘Now, you will tell me when Margot intends to join us,’ he ordered harshly, ‘or is she so without conscience that not even the knowledge of her husband’s illness is sufficient to bring her home?’