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everything, she thought with a sudden shiver. The air we breathe. Even what we have to drink.
    She found herself suddenly wondering how old he was. He looked to be only in his early to mid-thirties, yet in spite of that he’d managed somehow to survive the dangers of the past few years in Greece under the Colonels, and prosper.
    She recalled that Denys had mentioned he was a widower, and wondered how long he’d been married, and when his wife had died. Then paused, startled.
    Now, why would I want to know that? she asked herself blankly. When there are other aspects of the situation that should concern me more?
    Under the general buzz of conversation, she turned to Denys. She said very quietly, ‘I’m being watched.’
    ‘Of course you are, my pet.’ He flashed a conspiratorial smile at her. ‘You’re a very beautiful girl, and I want you to be looked at.’
    ‘But it’s not in the right way or by the right person,’ she protested, troubled. ‘I really think it would be better if I found some reason to leave.’
    ‘Don’t be silly, darling.’ His smile widened, became fixed. ‘Everything’s fine and I need you to stay exactly where you are. They’re raising the ante and the stakes are about to become very interesting.’ He took a satisfied breath. ‘We’re on our way, sweetheart. Trust me.’
    ‘Then at least allow me to get some fresh air before you make our fortune.’ She rose restlessly from her chair and walked towards the balcony door, taking care to look at no one, and to ignore the inevitable glances that came her way.
    Once outside, she stood for a moment filling her lungs with a couple of deep, steadying breaths before advancing to the elaborate metal railing and leaning against it, moving her shoulders gently in an attempt to ease the tension in her muscles.
    The darkness seemed to wrap her like a warm blanket, while below her the stillness of the hidden garden was disturbed only by the rasping of cicadas.
    And beyond, in the bay, she could see the lights of the boats challenging the stars as they rode at anchor, dominated by the looming grandeur of Persephone.
    No matter where I turn, she mused wryly, Vassos Gordanis seems to be dominating the picture.
    But he’d chosen an odd name for his yacht, she thought, recalling the stories of the Greek myths she’d read at school. Persephone, if memory served, had no connection with the sea. She’d been a springtime goddess captured and carried off by Hades, the dark god of the Underworld, while she was picking flowers.
    ‘A classic example,’ her teacher Miss Gordon had said, ‘of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
    As a result of Persephone’s abduction, so the story went, her mother Demeter was in such grief that she forbade the crops to grow until her daughter came back to her.
    So Zeus, the supreme deity, decreed that Persephone should be returned to earth, as long as she had nothing to eat or drink while she was in Hades’ power.
    Only one day she’d found her favourite fruit—a pomegranate—in a dish on the table and eaten six of its seeds, enough to condemn her to spend half of each year in the Underworld. While the earth above stayed cold and barren, only coming back to life with her return for six months each spring.
    ‘Which is,’ Miss Gordon told them, ‘a nice, convenient explanation for the annual change in the seasons.’
    At the time, a much younger Joanna had mused wistfully that if Persephone had only managed to resist the temptation of the pomegranate altogether it would have been summer all the year round, with no frozen knees on the hockey pitch, chilblains, or horrible colds.
    Now, with a swift wry smile at her own naïveté, she turned to go back into the suite, pausing with a gasp as she realised her way was blocked by a tall, lean and quite unmistakable figure lounging in the doorway.
    Joanna took an instinctive step backwards. She said huskily, ‘I—I didn’t know anyone was there.’
    The question