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Greek’s Bartered Bride
Sharon Kendrick
For Eileen and George Riddiford, for all their help
while researching the magical city of Venice.
And also to Guy Black for introducing me to the
marvelous Riddiford family!
CHAPTER ONE
Thecoldblastof emotion to his heart was unprecedented and extremely unwelcome.
Oblivious to the chill of the February day, or the spray of the speedboat as it powered towards the shore, Odysseus narrowed his eyes to stare at the instantly recognisable skyline.
La Serenissima, they called her. Venice. He had seen pictures of the place. The dark, silent waters. The intricate buildings which edged the canals. The spellbinding light, even in winter. At times he had even dreamt about it. But this was his first visit. His mouth flattened into a grim line. Surprising, really, given his ancestry.
With the faint mist of rain clinging to his face, he tensed as the boat approached the Academia Bridge and once again found himself asking the question which had been plaguing him for weeks.
Why the hell had he come here?
To free himself from the ghosts which had haunted him for as long as he could remember?
Or was it something more primitive? Something bone-deep and atavistic for the Greeks had a very satisfying word. A word he could almost taste on his lips—bitter and sweet.
Ekdikisi.
Revenge?
No.
His lips curved into a smile which people always observed never really reached his eyes. Revenge implied victimhood and Odysseus had never considered himself a victim, despite the savage circumstances which had forged him and spat him out. This trip to his mother’s homeland was motivated by curiosity, or perhaps that was too mild a description for something which felt like the drawing of a final line. A desire to meet with his only living relative before the old man died.
‘Siamo qui, signor,’announced the driver as he anchored the bobbing boat and turned to his passenger, his gaze watchful.
What did the boat keeper see? Odysseus wondered, pressing a wad of notes into the man’s palm before leaping from the boat with an athlete’s natural grace. A powerfully built man with an unruly mane of dark hair who would have looked equally at home on a ramshackle old fishing boat? Or did he simply register the expensive clothes—the sophisticated exterior which marked him out as one of the richest men in his native Greece and beyond? The costly coverings which hid the true nature of the man within. A man who women complained had a heart of ice. A man his rivals described as unknowable. The lone wolf, they called him in the handful of the countries in which he operated, but he could live with that. In fact, he rather approved of the soubriquet, even though it wasn’t intended to be flattering. His mouth hardened. But other people’s approval had never been high on his wish-list.
The ancient edifice of his hotel was only a few steps away from the mooring and the doorman sprang to attention as Odysseus walked up to the main desk. One of the female receptionists automatically pulled her shoulders back to draw attention to her breasts, but he failed to react as he signed his name. Registering her disappointment, he gave the ghost of a smile as she handed his passport back and he headed for the elevator.
Within minutes he was established in a suitably lavish suite overlooking the Grand Canal, which his assistant had booked, along with the requisite costume for tonight’s ball, which was hanging in the wardrobe, awaiting his arrival. He cast a curious gaze over it, for it was essentially a fancy dress costume. But he had wanted a condensed Venetian experience, and this was all part of it. Satin breeches. A voluminous cloak. Buckled shoes and a tricorn hat. And the mask of course. An elaborate covering of the eyes, which should guarantee him a certain anonymity.
Not that anyone knew him here.
Not even his grandfather. At least, not yet.
He turned away from the wardrobe to study the milky waters of the lagoon.
Tomorrow he had an appointment to meet with Vincenzo Contarini though he hadn’t yet worked out what he intended to say. A pulse began to beat at his temple as he thought about all the things hecouldsay. About how much blame and bitterness he could apportion towards the old man. But that was not his style. He didn’t do emotion. He had learnt to temper his reaction to things beyond his control because in every aspect of life there was immense power and advantage to be gained from not reacting.
But he wasn’t going to think about that. Not tonight. Tonight he would watch the Venetians at play—for his assistant, Andreas, had procured him a ticket to the city’s most exclusive ball.
‘Only one ticket, Kyrios Diamides?’ Andreas had enquired curiously.
‘Neh,’Odysseus had growled. ‘Only one.’ For although a hundred women would have dropped everything to be seen on his arm, he did not need the distraction of a partner. He was here as an observer, nothing else. To confront the past, after so many years of ignoring it. Would it achieve some kind of closure? His mouth hardened. Who knew? Maybe it would be better to leave the wound open and untreated. To remind himself of how toxic families could be and thus reinforce his determination never to have one of his own.
But for tonight, at least, he would participate in something he’d never done before and the novel was always a tantalising prospect. So many of life’s big prizes had come glittering his way at a prodigiously young age. Money and women had been there for the taking and Odysseus was aware that lately his attitude had grown jaded—a crazy situation for a man barely thirty-four years old and at his sexual peak. Didn’t Andreas and even his personal pilot sometimes drop large hints that all work and no play posed their own danger?