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then Laura had been present at that first fateful meeting, and Charlotte could not convince her that she was doing the right thing. Charlotte had arranged that Laura should look after the house for her, but this had only increased Laura's suspicions. She could see no reason why Charlotte should want to retain such an expensive dwelling when she would be living thousands of miles away. In addition, as Alex had his own apartment in London, there would be no future need for the house in Glebe Square.
    Charlotte had made some excuse about keeping it on for sentimental reasons, and Laura eventually had to accept it. But she had no way of knowing that Charlotte saw the house as a lifeline, a bolt-hole where, if things became too impossible, she could snatch a few days' freedom.
    They landed in Athens in the late afternoon. A fugitive sun was escaping with confidence from the clouds, gilding the white-painted buildings of the airport, and lengthening the shadows across the tarmac. The tension of the landing gave Charlotte some excuse for her suddenly pale cheeks, but still she thought the men with her husband were regarding her rather strangely. Did they know what she was doing here? she wondered, rather hysterically. Had they been informed of her primary function? Did they see nothing unusual in their employer's sudden entry into matrimony? Or was that how things were done here? She had heard that women did not have the same standing in Greece as they did in England, but were they all treated so casually?
    The plane taxied to a halt, and Alex unfastened his safety belt. Standing up, he approached Charlotte's seat. She wondered in dismay whether he was about to tell her that they were breaking their journey here. Somehow the idea of spending her first night with him in an hotel seemed worse than the prospect of spending it at his home. Hotels were big, impersonal places, full of strangers. How could she go through with it there? How could she face anyone after ... after ... ?
    Her anxiety showed in her face, and Alex's tone was im patient as he said: "Stage one completed. Stage two is by helicopter."
    Charlotte's lips trembled. "What am I?" she whispered. "Stage three?"
    "I'll let you know," he retorted smoothly, and turned away.
    Charlotte undipped the safety belt with burning cheeks. Was this how it was always to be? A continual battle of words? And who was to blame? She seldom spoke civilly to him, but then how could she? In the circumstances? How could she let him think, even for a moment, that she was getting anything out of this?
    Outside the air was warm, increasingly so as they left the shadow of the plane. Charlotte walked behind her husband as he strode ahead with George Constandis , clutching her shoulder bag and vanity case with nervous fingers.
    Airport formalities were kept to a minimum. The author ities called Alex by his name, and he spoke to them with the ease of long, experience. There was a brief interchange when he introduced his wife and Charlotte was subjected to the admiring glances from half a dozen pairs of dark eyes. For the first time she was glad of the elegance of her appearance in the cream suede slack suit she had worn to travel in, the wedges at her heels giving her extra height. The wife of a man like Alex Faulkner could not be seen in shabby jeans and a cotton tee-shirt even if they were the things she felt most comfortable in.
    A black limousine driven by yet another chauffeur appeared to take them to the heliport, and Charlotte had her first few moments alone with her husband in the back of the car. George Constandis accompanied them, but he sat in front with the chauffeur, and a glass screen separated the compart ments. The Santos brothers were not around, and Charlotte, needing something to break the uneasy silence between them, said: "What - what about the others?"
    Alex, who had been staring broodingly through the smoked glass of the car window, turned his attention to her. " Vittorio and