The Greek Tycoon's Achilles Heel

CHAPTER EIGHT

PETRA wondered how Lysandros would be when they met again at breakfast, whether he would show any awareness of what had happened. But he greeted her cheerfully, with a kiss on the cheek. They might have been any couple enjoying a few days vacation without a care in the world.

‘Is there anything you’d like to do?’ he asked.

‘I’d love to go to Gastouri.’

She was referring to the tiny village where the Achilleion Palace had been built.

‘Have you never been before?’ he asked in surprise.

‘Yes, but it was a hurried visit to get material. Now I’ll have time to explore properly.’

And perhaps, she thought, it would help her cope with the sadness of being rejected again.

The village lay about seven miles to the south, built on a slope, with the Palace at the top, overlooking the sea. This was the place that the Empress Elizabeth had built to indulge her passion for the Greek hero, who seemed to have reached out to her over thousands of years. His courage, his complex character, his terrible fate, all were remembered here.

As soon as they entered the gates Petra was aware of the atmosphere-powerful, vital, yet melancholy, much as Achilles himself must have been.

Just outside the house was the statue of the Empress herself, a tiny figure, looking down with a sad expression, as though all hope had left her.

‘She used to annoy my father,’ Lysandros said. ‘He said she was a silly woman who couldn’t pull herself together.’

‘Charming.’

‘When my mother brought me here he’d insist on coming too, and showing me the things he wanted me to remember, like this one.’

He led the way to a tall bronze statue showing Achilles as a magnificent young warrior, wearing a metal helmet mounted with a great feathered crest. On his lower legs was armour, embossed at the kneecaps with snarling lions.

From one arm hung a shield while the other hand held a spear. He stood on a sixteen-foot plinth, looming over all-comers, staring out into the distance.

‘Disdainful,’ Petra said thoughtfully. ‘Standing so far above, he’d never notice ordinary mortals like us, coming and going down here.’

‘Perhaps that’s how Sisi liked to picture him,’ Lysandros suggested with a touch of mischief.

‘Sisi knew nothing about it,’ Petra said at once. ‘After her death the Palace was sold to a man, and he put this statue here.’

He grinned. ‘I might have guessed you’d know that.’

‘So that’s who your father wanted you to be,’ she reflected, straining her head back to look up high to Achilles’ face.

‘Nothing less would do for him. There’s also the picture inside which he admired.’

The main hall was dominated by a great staircase, at the top of which was a gigantic painting depicting a man in a racing chariot, galloping at full speed, dragging the lifeless body of his enemy in the dirt behind.

‘Achilles in triumph,’ Petra said, ‘parading his defeated enemy around the walls of Troy.’

‘That was how a man ought to be,’ Lysandros mused. ‘Because if you didn’t do it to them, they would do it to you. So I was raised being taught how to do it to them.’

‘And do you?’

‘Yes,’ he replied simply. ‘If I have to, otherwise I wouldn’t survive, and nor would the people who work for me.’

‘Parading lifeless bodies?’ she queried.

‘Not literally. My enemies are still walking about on earth, trying to destroy me. But if you’ve won, people have to know you’ve won, and the lengths you were prepared to go to. That way they learn the lesson.’

For a moment his face frightened her, not because it displayed harshness or cruelty, but because it displayed nothing at all. He was simply stating a fact. Victory had to be flaunted or it was less effective, and she could see that he didn’t really understand why this troubled her.

They moved on through the building, looking at the friezes and murals, the paintings and statues all telling of another world, yet one that still reached out to touch this one. Lysandros might speak wryly of his mother’s fascination with the legendary Achilles, yet even he felt the story’s power over him.

Heroism was no longer simple as in those days, but he’d been born into a society that expected him to conquer his enemies and drag them behind his chariot wheels. The past laid its weight on him, almost expecting him to live two lives at once, and he knew it. Fight it as he might, there were times when the expectations almost crushed him.

If she’d doubted that, she had the proof when they moved back into the garden and went to stand before the great statue depicting Achilles’ last moments. He lay on the ground, trying to draw the arrow from his heel, although in his heart he knew it was hopeless. His head was raised to the heavens and on his face was a look of despair.

‘He’s resigned,’ Lysandros said. ‘He knows there’s no escaping his destiny.’

‘Then perhaps he shouldn’t be so resigned,’ Petra said at once. ‘You should never accept bad luck as inevitable. That’s just giving in.’

‘How could he help it? He knew his fate was written on the day he was born. It was always there on his mind, the hidden vulnerability. Except that in the end it wasn’t hidden, because someone had known all the time. None of us hide our weaknesses as well as we think we do.’

‘But perhaps,’ she began tentatively, ‘if the other person was someone we didn’t have to be afraid of, someone who wouldn’t use it against us-’

‘That would be paradise indeed,’ Lysandros agreed. ‘But how would you know, until it was too late?’

They strolled for a while in the grounds before he said, ‘Is there any more you need to see here, or shall we go?’

On the way home his mood seemed to lighten. They had a cheerful supper, enlivened by an argument about a trivial point that he seemed unable to let go of, until he covered his eyes with his hands, in despair at himself.

‘It doesn’t matter, does it?’ he groaned. ‘I know it doesn’t matter and yet-’

‘You’re a mess,’ she said tenderly. ‘You don’t know how to deal with people-unless they’re enemies. You deal with them well enough, but anyone else-you’re left floundering. You know what you need?’

‘What’s that?’

‘Me. To put you on a straight line and keep you there.’

‘Where does this line lead?’

‘Back to me, every time. So make up your mind to it; I’m taking charge.’

He regarded her for a moment, frowning, and she wondered if she’d pushed his dictatorial nature too far. But then the frown vanished, replaced by a tender smile.

‘That’s all right, then,’ he said.

She smiled in a way that she could see he found mystifying. Good. That suited her perfectly.

Quickly she reached into her pocket, drew out a small notebook and pencil that never left her, then began counting on her fingers and making notes.

‘What are you doing?’ he demanded.

‘Calculating. Do you know it’s exactly eighteen hours and twenty-three minutes since you made love to me?’ She sighed theatrically. ‘I don’t know. Some men are all talk.’

Before he could think of an answer, she rose and darted away.

‘Hey, where are you going?’

‘Where do you think?’ she called back over her shoulder from halfway up the stairs.

He managed to pass her on the stairs and reach the bedroom first.

‘Come here,’ he said, yanking her close and holding her tightly, without gentleness. ‘Come here.’

It was less a kiss than an act of desperation. She knew that as soon as his lips touched hers, not tenderly but with a ferocity that mirrored her own. They had shared kisses before, but this was a step further. In the past she’d been struggling with her own reaction, and doubtful of his. But the previous two times they’d made love had told each of them something about the other, and where they were going together.

Now there were no doubts on either side, no room for thoughts or even emotions. They wanted each other as a simple physical act, free of everything but the need for satisfaction.

His mouth seemed to burn hers while his tongue invaded her, demanding, asking no quarter and giving none. His urgency thrilled her for it matched her own, but she wouldn’t let him know that just yet. She had another plan in mind.

‘Mmm, just as I hoped,’ she murmured.

He ground his teeth. ‘You pulled my strings and I jumped, didn’t I?’

‘’Fraid so. And you have another problem now.’

‘Surprise me.’

‘I’m a horrible person. In fact I’m just horrible enough to get up and walk away right now.’

His hands tightened on her in a grip of steel. ‘Don’t even think about it.’

She began to laugh with delight, revelling in the ruthless determination with which he held her, threw her onto her back and invaded her like a conqueror. She was still laughing when her explosion of pleasure sent the world into a spin.

Afterwards he looked down at her, gasping and frenzied.

‘You little-it’s not funny!’

‘But it is funny. Oh, my darling, you’re so easily fooled.’

He began to move inside her again, slowly, making her wait but leaving her in no doubt that he had the strength and control to prolong the moment.

‘Were you expecting this too?’ he whispered.

‘Not exactly expecting, but I was hoping-oh, yes, I was hoping you’d do just what you’re doing now-and again-and again-oh, darling, don’t stop!’

She ceased to be aware of time, losing track of how often he brought her to climax. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he’d transported her to another world, while giving her the vital feeling that she too had transported him. Whatever happened to them happened together, and she cared about nothing else.

When he finally managed to speak it was with ironic humour.

‘I did it again, didn’t I? Danced to your tune. Is there any way I can get one step ahead of you?’

She seemed to consider this. ‘Probably not. But I’d hate you to stop trying.’

Now it was his turn to laugh. She felt it against her before she heard it, and her soul rejoiced because it was through laughter that she could reach him.

The next few days were hazy. They spent much of the time out, wandering the island or lazing on the beach, their evenings indoors, talking with a freedom which once would have been impossible. They spent the nights in each other’s arms.

She knew it couldn’t last for ever. For now they were living in a world apart, where each of them could yield to the new personality the other could evoke. He could doff his harsh exterior, emerge from the prison cell where his heart normally lived, and let her see the side of him that was charming and outgoing.

But it was unreal. Such perfect happiness could never last unchallenged. Sooner or later she must face the part of him that remained hidden from her, or retire in defeat because he wouldn’t allow her in.

She’d never told him of the night she’d followed him to the distant room. Once she slipped upstairs to try the door and, as she’d expected, found it locked. In her mind it came to symbolise the fact that she still hadn’t gained entry into the deepest heart of him. Despite their happiness, she wondered if she ever would.

One night she awoke to find herself alone again. The door was open and from a distance she thought she could hear sounds. Quickly she scrambled out into the corridor and was just in time to see Lysandros turning the corner. He walked in a slow, dazed manner, as though he was sleepwalking.

When she reached the little staircase he was just standing at the top. He approached the door slowly, then, before her horrified eyes, he began to ram his head against it again and again, as though by seeking pain he could blot out unbearable memories.

Suddenly she was back on the roof all those years ago and he was in her arms, banging his head against her, seeking oblivion from misery too great to be borne. And she knew that fifteen years had changed nothing. In his heart he was the same young man now as then.

She would have run to him, but he stopped suddenly and turned, leaning back against the door. Through the window the moonlight fell on his face, showing her a depth of agony that shocked her.

He didn’t move. His eyes were closed, his head pressed back against the door, his face raised as though something hovered in the darkness above him. As she watched, he lifted his hands and laid them over his face, pressing them close as though he could use them as a shield against the Furies that pursued him. But the Furies were inside him. There was no escape.

Wisdom told her to retreat and never let him know that she’d seen him like this, but she couldn’t be wise now. He might try to reject her, but she must at least offer him her comfort.

She moved the rest of the way quickly and quietly, then reached up to draw his hands away. He started, gazing at her with haggard eyes that saw a stranger.

‘It’s all right; it’s only me,’ she whispered.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I came because you need me-yes, you do,’ she added quickly before he could speak. ‘You think you don’t need anyone, but you need me because I understand. I know things that no one else knows, because you shared them with me long ago.’

‘You don’t know the half of it,’ he whispered.

‘Then tell me. What’s in that room, Lysandros? What draws you here? What do you see when you go inside?’

His reply startled her. ‘I never go inside.’

‘But…then why…?’

‘I don’t go in because I can’t bear to. Each time I come here, hoping to find the courage to enter, but that never happens.’ He gave a mirthless snort of laughter. ‘Now you know. I’m a coward.’

‘Don’t-’

‘I’m a coward because I can’t face her again.’

‘Is she in there?’ Petra asked.

‘She always will be. You think I’m mad? Well, perhaps. Let’s see.’

He opened his hand, revealing the key, allowing her to take it and put it in the lock. Turning it slowly, she pushed on the door. It stuck as though protesting after being closed for so long, but then a nudge opened it and she stood on the threshold, holding her breath, wondering fearfully what she would find.

At first she could see very little. Outside the dawn was breaking, but the shutters were still closed and only thin slivers of light managed to creep in. By their faint glow she realised that this room had been designed as a celebration of love.

The walls were covered in paintings depicting gods, goddesses and various Greek legends. Incredibly, Petra thought she recognised some of them.

‘These pictures are famous,’ she murmured. ‘Botticelli, Titian-’

‘Don’t worry, we didn’t steal them,’ Lysandros said. ‘They’re all copies. One of my mother’s ancestors wanted to “make a figure” in the world. So he hired forgers to go all over Europe and copy the works of great artists-paintings, statues. You’ll probably recognise the statues of Eros and Aphrodite as well.’

‘The gods of love,’ she whispered.

‘His wife directed matters, and had this room turned into a kind of temple.’

‘It’s charming,’ Petra said. ‘Had they made a great love match?’

‘No, he married the poor woman for her money, and this was her way of trying to deny it.’

‘How sad.’

‘Love often is sad when you get past the pretty lies and down to the ugly truth,’ he said in a flat voice.

But now she scarcely heard him. Disturbing impressions were reaching her. Something was badly wrong, but she wasn’t sure what. Then she drew closer to a statue of Eros, the little god of love, and a chill went through her.

‘His face,’ she murmured. ‘I can’t see, but surely-’

With a crash Lysandros threw open the shutters, filling the room with pale light. Petra drew a sharp, horrified breath.

Eros had no face. It looked as if it had been smashed off by a hammer. His wings, too, lay on the floor.

Now she could look around at the others and see that they were all damaged in a similar way. Every statue had been attacked, every painting defaced.

But the worst of all was what had happened to the bed. It had been designed as a four-poster but the posts too had been smashed, so that the great canopy had collapsed onto the bed, where it lay.

Someone had attacked this temple to love in a frenzy, and then left the devastation as it was, making no attempt to clear up. Now she could see the thick dust. It had been like this, untouched, for a long, long time. That was as terrible as the damage with its message of soul-destroying bitterness.

‘You asked if she were in here,’ Lysandros said. ‘She’s been here since the night I brought her to this house, to this room, and we made love. She’ll always be here.’

‘Was she here when-?’

‘When I did this? When I took an axe and defaced the statues and the pictures, smashed the bed where we’d slept, wanting to wipe out every trace of what I’d once thought was love? No, she wasn’t here. She’d gone. I didn’t know where she was and after that-I didn’t find her until she died, far away.’

He turned to the wrecked bed, gazing at it bleakly as though it held him transfixed. Shivers went through Petra as she realised that he’d spoken no more than the truth. His dead love was still present, and she always would be. She followed him through every step of his life, but she was always here, in this house, in this room, in his heart, in his nightmares.

‘Come away,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing here any more.’

It wasn’t true. In this room was everything that was terrible, but she wouldn’t admit that to him, lest her admission crush him further. She drew him to the door and locked it after them. She knew it would take more than a locked door to banish this ghost from his dark dreams, but she was determined to do it.

He’s got me now, she told the lurking presence in her mind. And I won’t let you hurt him any more.

She didn’t speak to Lysandros again, just led him back to their bed and held him in her arms.

At last some life seemed to return to Lysandros and he roused himself to speak.

‘Since we’ve been here together, I’ve found myself going more and more to that room, hoping that I could make myself enter and drive the ghost away.’

‘Perhaps I can help you do that,’ she suggested.

‘Perhaps. I’ve resisted it too long.’

‘Am I something you need to resist?’ she whispered.

He took so long to reply that she thought he wasn’t going to say anything, but at last he spoke as though the words were dragged out of him by pincers.

‘From the first evening you have filled me with dread,’ he said slowly. ‘With dread-with fear. There! That’s the truth. Despise me if you will.’

‘I could never despise you,’ she hastened to say. ‘I just can’t think of any reason why you should be afraid of me.’

‘Not of you, but of the way you made me feel. In your presence my defences seemed to melt away. I felt it when we met at the wedding. When I discovered that you were the girl on the roof in Las Vegas I was glad, because it seemed to explain why I was drawn to you. We’d been practically childhood friends so naturally there was a bond. That’s what I told myself.

‘But then we danced, and I knew that the bond was something far more. I left the wedding early to escape you, but I called you later that day because I had to. Even then I couldn’t stay away from you because you had an alarming power, one I shied away from because I’d never met it before and I knew I couldn’t struggle against it.

‘Do you remember the statue we saw in the Achilleion Palace? Not the first one where Achilles was in all his glory, but the second one, where he was on the ground, trying to remove the arrow, knowing that he couldn’t? Did you see his face, upturned to the sky, begging help from the gods because he knew that this was stronger than him and only divine intervention could save him from its power?’

‘But he was fighting death,’ Petra reminded him. ‘Do I represent death?’

He smiled faintly and shook his head.

‘No, but you represent the defeat of everything I believed was necessary to keep me strong. The armour that kept me at a cautious distance from other people, the watchfulness that never let me relax, so that I was always ahead of the game and all the other players. In your presence, all of that vanished. I implored the gods to return my strength so that I could be as safe against you as I was against everyone else, but they didn’t listen-possibly because they knew I didn’t really mean it.

‘Your power over me came from something I’d never considered before. It wasn’t sex, although there was that too. Lord, how I wanted to sleep with you, possess you! It drove me half demented, but I could cope with that. It was something else, much more alarming.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I could make you laugh. I’ve always loved doing that, not because it gave me power but because I hoped it might make you happy.’

‘It did, but it also alarmed me because it meant I was vulnerable to you as to nobody else in the world, man or woman. So I departed again. This time I went away for days, but then I began to worry that you might have returned to England, and I discovered I didn’t want that after all. I was acting like a man with no sense, wanting this, wanting the opposite, not knowing what I wanted-like a man in love, in fact. So I called you.’

‘I was with Nikator,’ she remembered. ‘He guessed it was you and warned me against you.’

‘He was right.’

‘I know he was. I never doubted that for a moment. Do you think I care what that silly infant thinks, as long as you come back to me?’

‘When I saw you again I knew I couldn’t have stayed away any longer,’ he said, ‘but I also knew I’d come back to danger. I was no longer master of myself, and that control-that mastery-has been the object of my life. I understood even then that I couldn’t have both it and you, but it’s not until now-’

It was only now that he’d brought himself to face the final decision, and for a moment she still wasn’t sure which way it would go. There was some terrifying secret that haunted him, and everything would depend on what happened in the next few minutes.

Suddenly she was afraid.