Lie With Me. Cara Summers
I had made the right decision in coming to Greece.
My driver made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “You’ll see the villa as soon as you walk around that curve.”
I tried to be patient as he opened the trunk and began to unload my luggage. Now that I was here, I wanted to get started on the rest of my life—the part that I’d named Post Roman. I’d cut my hair and my brother Kit’s fiancée, Drew, who was a dress designer, had helped me select a new sexy wardrobe. I barely recognized myself when I looked in the mirror.
I’d also done my homework and discovered that Corfu was believed by many to be the setting of Shakespeare’s The Tempest—hence, the name of Miranda Kostas’s hotel. The island was located off the west coast of Greece on the Ionian Sea.
I’d flown into Corfu Town, which was in the middle of the island across from the mainland of Greece. To reach the Villa Prospero, I’d hired a driver to take me to the other side of the island where the rugged coastline bordered the Ionian Sea.
My driver was an endless source of information, most of it gossip about the Castello Corli, which sat atop a cliff about two miles away from the Villa Prospero. Venetians had built the castle in the fourteenth century—thus, the Italian name. Below the fortresslike walls, there were a series of caves that were reputed to have been used by smugglers for hundreds of years. However, according to my very talkative driver, what the Castello Corli was famous for now were the extravagant biannual parties that its billionaire owner, Andre Magellan, threw. One of his famous soirees was due to take place in three days.
“You may actually meet some movie stars walking along the beach,” my mustachioed driver had said to me. “Or a member of royalty. When Andre Magellan throws one of his parties, the Castello Corli becomes a destination for the rich and the famous.”
Magellan’s family had supposedly been bankers in Rome for centuries. But local rumor had it that Andre was a spoiled playboy who expended all of his energy on living an opulent lifestyle and only visited his family’s banks to make withdrawals.
By the time my driver had unloaded my luggage and I’d paid him, thanking him again for a very informative ride, I was itching to get to the villa and begin my Grecian adventure. I hurried along the narrow lane, then stopped short as soon as I went around that first curve. Just as the driver had promised, the Villa Prospero had come into view to my right. Color was everywhere—from the ivy and roses that draped over pink stucco to the riot of flowers that edged the path to the front of the small hotel.
The building itself was two-storied and tucked into a hillside. Parked right in front of the entrance was a sporty red convertible. The terrain to my left was rugged, thick with cypresses and fell away steeply. Through the trees, I spotted a serpentine trail that wound its way to a brilliant expanse of turquoise-blue sea. As colorful as the villa was, it was the sea that pulled at me.
I stood for a moment torn between following my impulse to take that winding path down to the beach and checking in with my cousin Miranda. In the end, family obligation won. After all, she was expecting me. I couldn’t let her worry.
The ground floor was bordered by a wide terrace with several porticoes opening into the lobby. I crossed to one of them. At first I thought the lobby was deserted; there was no one behind the small reception desk. But then I heard the angry voice.
“I demand to speak with your son Alexi.”
“He’s not here right now, Mr. Magellan.”
Peeking through the open portico, I could see two figures to my right. I recognized my cousin Miranda from the photos Helena had shown me. Her voice was calm, pleasant, professional, but the tension in her body contrasted sharply with her tone. Miranda had the kind of face that medieval artists had captured in their portrayals of the Madonna. She wore a tailored white blouse, a black skirt and sensible shoes. Her hair was pulled back in a ballerina’s knot and gold hoops winked at her ears. She was average height, but the way Mr. Magellan was towering over her made her seem tiny.
I had no doubt that I was also getting an up-close-and-personal view of the rich, flamboyant playboy that my driver had described to me in such great detail. Magellan’s red print shirt and matching red slacks were made even more dramatic by the way he stood in front of my cousin, his hands fisted at his sides. Diamonds glittered from his watch and a ring on his pinkie.
“Of course he’s not here. Even as we speak, he’s probably trespassing on my land again. It has to stop. I’ve warned him more than once. And I don’t want him poking around in the caves, either. They’re dangerous—that’s why they’re posted. I should think as his mother, you’d see to it that he doesn’t go there.”
“You don’t understand. One of Alexi’s cats is missing—Caliban. Alexi just wants to—”
“I don’t give a damn about his cats or his fixation on them.” Magellan’s voice had grown shrill with temper. “I’ve warned him. If either of those cats are seen anywhere on the grounds of the Castello Corli, my men have orders to shoot them.”
“No, please, don’t hurt them.” Miranda pressed a hand to her chest. “I’ll speak to Alexi.”
“I’m filing a complaint with the police. If your son trespasses one more time, I’ll have him arrested.”
Anger flared inside me at the callous way he spoke of Alexi and the cats. I knew from Helena and my dad that my cousin Alexi was eighteen and had always been a bit slow in school. But since his father had died three years ago, he’d become quite good at helping his mother run the hotel.
Fueled by my temper, I was about to move into the lobby and give Mr. Andre Magellan a piece of my mind when he whirled and strode out through the main entrance. He vaulted over the door into the sporty red car. An instant later, tires squealed and gravel sprayed as he raced away.
The lobby was empty when I turned back. To my left, doors opened onto a sunny terrace where lunch was being served, and every table was filled. Helena had raved about the cuisine at the Villa Prospero, and it seemed that the current guests were in agreement. Miranda was now serving dishes from a loaded tray. I hated to interrupt her, so I wandered around the large, airy room. There was a small gift shop that opened off the lobby, and through its open door I caught a glimpse of glass cases as well as racks of T-shirts and wide-brimmed hats.
A young woman entered from yet another door. She, too, carried a loaded tray. The moment she saw me she paused and said, “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Her English was heavily accented, but she meant what she said. She returned to the lobby just as soon as she’d served a table of four.
“Sorry. You have a reservation?”
“I believe so. I’m Philly Angelis.” Her name tag said that she was Demetria.
“Oh, Ms. Angelis.” A smile warmed her whole face. “Welcome to the Villa Prospero. Mrs. Kostas is expecting you.
Over her shoulder, I could see Miranda chatting with the guests at a table for two as she cleared plates and cups.
“I’ll get her,” Demetria said.
“No, I can see she’s busy. And you’re busy, too. Why don’t I just leave my luggage here and go for a walk until things settle a bit.”
Relief swam in her eyes. “Are you sure? We’re shorthanded today because Alexi hasn’t shown up yet.”
I smiled at the young girl. “I’m positive. The sea is calling me. I thought I saw a path down to the beach.”
“Yes. Just go to the end of the gravel drive and turn right.”
With a final smile, I turned and after stopping briefly to get my camera out of my suitcase, I hurried out of the lobby. I believed in following my impulses, and something was pulling me to the beach, in much the same way that something had drawn me to Greece.
Of course, sometimes my acting on impulse had gotten me into trouble. A prime example was the day Roman had saved me from drowning.