Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.
Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown;
With that wild wheel we go not up or down;
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.
Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands;
Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands;
For man is man and master of his fate.
Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd;
Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud;
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate."
Violet finished reading and frowned. "What is this obsession with poetry?"
"You loved poetry once. I remember that well. Maybe that's why he's been selecting poems for your messages."
True, she'd loved poetry . . . once upon a time, maybe. Back when she'd been romantic and silly. She'd lost all interest in it when reality had slapped her in the face. Ignoring Jonathan's astute comment, she scanned the letter again, looking for hints. "I don't see a clue like before. There must be a message in the meaning of the poem itself. Either that, or yours has the message and mine is just fluff." She looked over at him. "Do you recognize this poem?"
Jonathan took the letter from her and considered it. After a pause, he shook his head. "It sounds vaguely familiar, but I don't know who wrote it."
"Well, we can research it on the Internet," she told him, taking her letter back and folding it carefully. "What does yours say?"
He opened his envelope and a small chuckle escaped him.
"What?" She tried to peer over his shoulder without seeming too eager.
He offered her the letter. She took it and scanned the contents. It was two simple words: Kallista Hotel.
Violet gasped. "The Kallista?" That was the hotel she and Jonathan had stayed at together, back during that fateful summer in Santorini.
"I know. It immediately made me think of the Akrotiri dig. Your father has to be leading us there for a reason."
Her throat dry, Violet said nothing for a long moment. She didn't know what to think. She didn't want to go back to Santorini, that magical isle where she and Jonathan had fallen in love.
But it seemed like her father was determined to send them back. Was this just so he could throw the past in their faces and remind Jonathan of his connection to Violet? Surely there were easier ways; she knew Jonathan was generous when it came to her father's projects. All he had to do was ask and Jonathan would pull out the checkbook. So why this? Why send them there?
"Are you all right?" he asked her, his hand brushing down her arm in a way that made her shiver.
She shook her head as if to clear it and handed the letter back to him.
"You look pale," he said in a firm voice. He got to his feet and offered her his hand. "Come."
"I'm fine," she said irritably, pushing his hand away.
"You're not fine," he insisted, and offered her his hand again. "Let me take care of you for once, Violet. You're pale and you're shaking. I don't like to see that." His voice softened. "Let me take care of you."
Her skin prickled at the intensity in his voice, and she looked up at him. That focus was back in his eyes, that ardor, that burning need that was all-consuming. She was trembling, too, but not because of the letter. Because of Jonathan. Because she was still attracted to him and she didn't know what to do, and every location her father sent them to seemed designed to get them to rekindle that ill-fated romance from ten years ago.
But she could no more resist Jonathan Lyons now than she could ten years ago. Placing her quivering hand in his, she allowed him to haul her upright. If he held her against him for a bit longer than necessary, she didn't complain. When he looped an arm over her shoulders and pulled her under his arm, she didn't protest. She liked it. Heaven help her, she liked it.
"Come," he said gently. "Let's get you some coffee and breakfast, and we'll talk."
He led her across the green, grassy park. The sun was coming out and the fog had lifted, but the air was still brisk and she still shivered in Jonathan's jacket. He led her to the nearest coffeehouse and pulled out a chair for her at a table near the window. "Sit here and I'll get you something to eat and drink."
She should have protested, really. She should have been strong, needs-no-one Violet and ordered her own damn breakfast. Instead, she shivered at the table and clutched her envelope with the poem in it while Jonathan ordered her food and a hot drink.
Let me take care of you, he'd insisted. Violet wasn't good at letting others take control. It was hard to trust people enough to leave your own well-being in their hands, and Violet was used to just fending for herself. She'd done so as a child, especially when her mother was in one of her depressive spells, and she'd done so as an adult when she'd found herself abandoned and pregnant.