Xenakis's Convenient Bride(2)

"Starting when? We all have responsibilities," Alejandro reminded.

After a considering pause, Sebastien canted his head. "Fair enough.  Clear the decks at home. But be prepared for word from me-and two weeks  in the real world."         

     



 

"You're really going to wager half your fortune on a cakewalk of a challenge?" Alejandro said.

"If you'll put up your island. Your favorite toys?" He took in all three men. "I say where and when."

They all snorted with confidence.

"Easy," Stavros said, already anticipating the break from his grandfather's badgering. "Count me in."





CHAPTER ONE

Four and a half months later...

SHE FLOATED IN the pool on a giant ivory-colored clamshell, the pattern  on her one-piece bathing suit a stark contrast of pink and green  geometry against her golden, supple limbs. Her black hair spilled away  from her face, a few tendrils drifting in the water. She wore sunglasses  and red toe polish.

She was fast asleep.

As Stavros took in the way her suit painted her breasts and cut high  over her hips, then smoothed over her mound to dip into the fork of her  thighs, he stirred with desire. A detailed fantasy played out in his  mind of diving in and coming up next to her, rolling her into his arms  like an ancient god stealing a nymph and having her on that wicker sofa  in the shade, behind the curtain of water on the far side of the pool.

The only sound in the high-walled courtyard was the patter of the thin  waterfall. It poured off the edge of the ivy-entwined trellis that  formed a roof over the lounge area and bar. The raining noise muffled  his exhale as he set down the box containing power tools, a  sledgehammer, trowels and adhesive compounds.

He stood and drank in another eyeful.

Perhaps being cast as a pool boy wasn't so bad after all.

Last night, he'd stood in a tiny, stuffy, not air-conditioned bachelor apartment cursing Sebastien with sincere vehemence.

His two-week challenge had started and his new "home" was a walk-up over  a coffee-roasting operation. The smell was appalling. He couldn't  decide which was worse: window open or closed. He had left it open while  he compared his inventory of supplies with Antonio's photo from two  weeks ago.

At least he'd had a heads-up from his friend as to what this challenge  entailed. Given Antonio had been sent to Milan, Stavros had suspected he  would be sent to Greece, and here he was.

Which had given Stavros a moment of pause. He didn't care if he lost the  boat, and even Sebastien's grand gesture was one he could make himself  if it came right down to it. He had stepped off so many cliffs and  platforms and airplanes at twenty-thousand feet, he shouldn't have  hesitated to step off a ferry onto the island of his birth.

But he had.

Which made him feel like a coward.

He had forced himself to disembark and walk to his flat where he had  discovered that, like Antonio, he had been provided a prehistoric cell  phone and a stack of cash-two hundred euros. Lunch money. But where  Antonio had been given a set of coveralls, Stavros had been given board  shorts.

They were supposed to go two weeks without their wealth and reputation,  but apparently his dignity had to be checked at the door, as well. At  least his costume wasn't one of those banana hammocks so popular on  European beaches. The uniform was tacky as hell regardless, pairing  yellow-and-white-striped shorts with a yellow T-shirt.

Squinting one eye at the logo, Stavros had read the Greek letters as  easily as he read English, and was offended in both languages. Zante  Pool Care. Sebastien had told him to book vacation time, ensure his  responsibilities were covered, then had sent him to work as a pool boy.

His phone was loaded with exactly three contacts: Sebastien, Antonio and  Alejandro. He had texted Antonio a photo of his supplies along with the  message, Is this for real?

If it turns out anything like mine, you're in for more surprises than that.

Antonio had discovered a son. How much more astonishing could it get?

If Stavros had a child living here, it would be a miracle. He'd left  when he was twelve and had only kissed a girl at that point. Once he  moved to America, high-risk behavior had become his norm. His virginity  had been lost at fourteen to a senior at the private school he'd  attended. She had favored black eyeliner and dark red lipstick-and young  men with a keen interest in learning how to please a woman. Scrappers  were her favorite and he'd been one of those, too.

A year later, he'd been making conquests of his grandfather's secretary  and the nanny looking after his youngest sister. He wasn't proud of  that, but he wasn't as regretful as he probably should be. Sex had been  one of the few things to make him happy in those days.

Sex with that woman right there would certainly take the sting out of today's situation. The next fourteen days, in fact.

Another rush of misgiving went through him. This challenge was not a  simple two weeks of pretending to be an everyman. Sebastien had left him  a note.         

     



 

You may remember our conversation last year, when you came to visit me  as I was recovering from the avalanche. You opened that excellent bottle  of fifty-year-old Scotch whiskey in my honor. I thank you again for  that.

At the time you told me how losing your father had given you the  strength to dig through the snow to save my life. Do you remember also  telling me how much you resented your grandfather for taking you to New  York and forcing you to answer to your American name? I suspect you were  really saying that you didn't feel you deserved to be his heir.

Sebastien had chided Stavros for not appreciating his family and  heritage, since Sebastien hadn't had those advantages. In his note, he  continued:

I grant you your wish. For the next two weeks Steve Michaels, with all  his riches and influence, does not exist. You are Stavros Xenakis and  work for Zante Pool Care. Report at 6:00 a.m. tomorrow, three blocks  down the road.

Antonio lasted two weeks without blowing his cover, so I have committed  the first third of my five billion to the search-and-rescue foundation.  Do the same, Stavros. It could save a life. And use this time to make  peace with your past.

-Sebastien

Stavros had stayed up later than he should have, some of it jet lag, but  mostly conjuring ways to get out of this challenge. Besides, he  couldn't sleep in that hot room, tossing and turning on the hard single  bed. Old-fashioned honor had him accepting his lot and falling asleep.

Then, even earlier than he needed to rise, the sun had struck directly  into his eyes. Large trucks with squeaky brakes had pulled in beneath  the open window.

Disgusted, Stavros had eaten a bowl of dry cereal with the canned milk  he'd been provided. He'd bought a coffee from a shop as he walked to  "work."

His boss, Ionnes, had given him a clipboard that held a map, a handful  of drawings and a work order. He had dangled a set of keys and pointed  at a truck full of supplies and equipment, telling him to be sure to  unload it since he wouldn't have the vehicle tomorrow.

Stavros might have booked a flight home at that point, but he had left  his credit cards in New York, as instructed. He'd been completing  Sebastien's challenges since his first year of university. None had  killed him yet.

Nevertheless, as he'd followed the map, he had recognized the dip and  roll of the road through the hills, eighteen years of changes  notwithstanding. His heart had grown heavier with each mile, his lungs  tighter.

Perhaps he wasn't defying his own death with this challenge, but the loss of his father was even more difficult to confront.

He had sat in the driveway a full five minutes, pushing back dark  memories by focusing on the changes in the home they'd occupied until  their lives had overturned with the flip of a boat on the sea.

The villa was well tended, but modest by his current standards. It had  been his mother's dream home when she married. She was a local girl from  the fishing village on the bottom of the island. She had insisted her  husband use this as his base. It had been a place where he could enjoy  downtime. Quality time, with his children. She had called him a  workaholic who was losing his roots, spending too much time in America,  allowing the expanding interests of the family corporation to dominate  his life.

The villa hadn't been new. It had needed repairs and his father had  enlisted Stavros to set fresh paving stones at the front entrance while  his mother and sisters had potted the bougainvillea that now bloomed in  masses of pink against the white walls.

The memories were so sharp and painful as Stavros sat there, he wanted to jam the truck in Reverse and get away from all of it.

But where would he go? Back to the blaming, shaming glint in his  grandfather's hard stare? Back to the understudy role he hated, but  played because his father wasn't there to be the star?

Cursing Sebastien afresh, Stavros glanced over his work order. He wasn't  cleaning the pool, but repairing the cracked tiles around it. Déjà vu  with paving stones. The mistress of the house would direct him.