Read Moon of Aphrodite for Free Online

wholly her father's daughter. She had
    never ever looked Greek, she thought in perplexity.
    After a while, she rose and walked to the edge, threading her way between the
    chattering groups with their clicking cameras. The view was stupendous. She thought
    she could even catch a glimpse of the sea in the distance.
    She turned away at last, feeling a little giddy. The sun reflecting off the white rock she
    stood on was almost overwhelming, like some exotic moonscape. It would surely be
    cooler, more bearable indoors. She went down a brief flight of steps, past a large stone
    owl and into the museum. She found an unoccupied bench and sank down on to it,
    pressing her fingers against her forehead with a little sigh.
    When the hand descended on her shoulder, she looked up with a start, thinking it was
    one of the attendants- Instead she found herself looking into the coldly furious face of
    Damon Leandros.
    'Oh.' She stared up at him, her brows drawing together. 'It's you. How did you find
    me?'
    'It did not require a great deal of thought to deduce where you were going,' he said
    icily. 'I saw you enter the museum and followed. What is the matter? Are you il ?'
    'A slight headache, that's al ,' she returned stiffly, and heard his exasperated sigh.
    'I asked you to rest for precisely this reason/ he said after a pause. 'I do not wish to
    present you to your grandfather suffering from heatstroke or exhaustion.'
    'Of course not, although I needn't ask whether that's prompted by concern for me or
    concern for your job.' She pushed her hair back from her face with defiant fingers. 'I
    suppose my grandfather might not be too pleased that you'd left me to my own
    devices.'
    He gave her a long, hard look. 'Your grandfather was perfectly wel aware that I had
    business to attend to this afternoon, and that our departure for Phoros would be
    delayed for a few hours.'
    'Real y?' Helen smiled in spite of her pounding head. 'I saw your—-business beside you
    in the car. Nice work if you can get it,' she added with deliberately airy vulgarity.
    But the expected explosion did not transpire. When he did speak his voice was softer
    than ever.
    'Miss Brandon, did your father never heat you when you were a child?'
    'Of course not.' Helen dismissed from her mind the memory of numerous childish
    chastisements. 'Why do you ask?'
    'Idle curiosity. There could, of course, be no other reason.' His tone was silky. 'Are you
    prepared to return to the hotel with me now, and rest?'
    Helen lifted her chin. 'But I haven't had a chance to look round the museum yet,' she
    objected.
    'Then by al means let us do so.' She didn't like the smile he gave her as he lifted her to
    her feet.
    Half an hour later, she was wishing with al her heart that she had meekly acceded to
    his original suggestion o£ returning to the hotel. Her head was pounding almost
    intolerably, and she felt desperately thirsty and slightly queasy at the same time. At any
    other time—-and of course if he had been anyone else—she would have been
    fascinated by what he was tel ing her about the transition from the Archaic to the
    Classical style in sculpture, but his words seemed to buzz meaninglessly in her ears.
    And the curving smiles on the Korai, the maidens carved out of stone as offerings to the
    virgin goddess of the city, Athena, seemed to mock her everywhere she looked.
    She swal owed, staring down at the floor, refusing to admit defeat. She was being a
    tool, she knew. After al , Damon Leandros had been detailed by her grandfather to look
    after her, and she was sure she only had to give a hint and she would be out of this
    increasingly stuffy atmosphere, and back in that comfortable hotel room, with the
    shutters closed. But if she asked him to take her back, he would have won in some
    obscure way and that she could not al ow. She gave a little stifled sigh and forced
    herself to concentrate on the head of a boy, known as the 'blond youth', Damon told
    her, because there were stil