Free Follow a Stranger by Charlotte Lamb Page A

gnarled
    old olive trees.
    The house was of an ornate, oriental design, the
    windows all curves and arches, the stonework fretted.
    Kate was so nervous that when Marc, with a sharp
    glance, smiled and held her hand as if she were five years
    old, she did not protest, but clung to his protection.
    “Suppose he’s angry because you brought me?” she
    whispered. “He probably prefers his privacy, like most
    famous people.”
    He squeezed her fingers comfortingly. “Goose! I told
    you, he loves pretty blonde girls!”
    She giggled, and then the door opened and a fierce old
    man, his thick grey moustaches quivering, glared at them
    from flashing black eyes.
    Marc spoke to him, in Greek, grinning affectionately,
    and the old man answered in a low, grumbling voice, his
    hands moving in vivid emphasis. Kate saw him shooting
    those black eyes at her, and looked nervously up at Marc.
    He laughed, slipping an arm around her shoulders. “He
    says he does not like young ladies coming here because
    Pyrakis always falls madly in love with them, especially
    when they are blonde and beautiful, like you!” And his

    grey eyes glinted wickedly.
    She blushed and stammered, “I don’t believe he said
    anything of the sort!” She moved away, so that his arm
    slid off her shoulder.
    Marc’s eyes continued to laugh at her. He spoke again
    to the old man, grinning, and the old man laughed, deep
    in his throat.
    He talked gutturally, gesticulating, and Marc laughed.
    Then they walked into the cool, shadowy hall and the old
    man shuffled away, his great hooked nose like an eagle’s
    beak, in profile.
    Kate stared around her in fascination. The floor of the
    hall was tiled in black and white marble. A gold-painted
    tub stood in one corner, full of tall waving ferns, and
    opposite her hung a gilded mirror in which her own face
    swam, like a translucent mermaid’s, against the dim
    background of the hall.
    “That is Kyril. He has been with Spiro for years and is
    devoted to him, in a fierce, scornful way. They shout at
    each other and swear to kill each other, but they are
    inseparable.” Marc came up behind her, staring over her
    shoulder at her face in the mirror.
    Their eyes met. Hers fell away, shyly, at something
    odd in his. Then Kyril came back and led them down the
    hall. The room they entered was long, austere and as
    shadowy as the hall. Beyond open french windows she
    could see a cluster of bushes and tall cypress, whose
    branches darkened the room, giving it an undersea look,
    a cool greeny light filtering through and spilling over
    books, tables, chairs.
    In a shabby old armchair sat Spiro Pyrakis, his
    leonine head turned towards them.

    He rose, holding out his powerful fingers, first to Kate.
    Kate. “ Mia kyria ,” he murmured, his slightly protruding
    blue eyes appraising her. Then his polite smile widened.
    “Marc,” he said, in charmingly accented English, “you lied
    to me, you dog!”
    Marc raised an enquiring eyebrow.
    “You told me she was pretty,” said Pyrakis. “She is
    enchantingly lovely!” And the blue eyes gleamed down on
    her. She was not so inexperienced that she could not
    recognise the glance of desired possession, and a hot
    blush rose to her cheeks.
    Marc moved restlessly, but said nothing. Pyrakis
    raised her fingers, very very slowly, and kissed each one
    separately, his eyes still fixed on her pink face.
    “What innocence, what delicacy!” he murmured. “To
    see her blush is like seeing a rosebud open.”
    Marc moved to the window and stood with his back to
    them, his hands jammed into his pockets. “She is a
    pianist, Spiro, and an admirer of yours.”
    “Of course,” purred Pyrakis, smiling. He turned Kate’s
    hands over, inspecting them. “Your fingers told tales to
    me,” he said, softly. “These little tips work hard. Either a
    typist or a pianist. I suspected a pianist, because of this
    ...” and he delicately touched the pulse which beat at the
    base of her slender throat.