“No daughters?” Melina teased.
“If you wish. But a son first.”
The day Melina learned she was pregnant, Constantin was ecstatic.
“He will take over my empire,” he declared happily.
In her third month, Melina miscarried. Constantin Demiris was out of the country when it happened. When he returned and heard the news he reacted like a madman.
“What did you do?” he screamed. “How could it happen?”
“Costa, I…”
“You were careless!”
“No, I swear…”
He took a deep breath. “All right. What’s done is done. We’ll have another son.”
“I…I can’t.” She could not meet his eyes.
“What are you saying?”
“They had to perform an operation. I can’t have another child.”
He stood there, frozen, then turned and stalked out without a word.
From that moment on, Melina’s life became a hell. Constantin Demiris carried on as though his wife had deliberately killed his son. He ignored her, and began to see other women.
Melina could have borne that, but what made the humiliation so painful was the pleasure he took in publicly flaunting his liaisons. He openly had affairs with movie stars, opera singers, and the wives of some of his friends. He took his lovers to Psara, and on cruises on his yacht, and to public functions. The press gleefully chronicled Constantin Demiris’s romantic adventures.
They were at a dinner party at the house of a prominent banker.
“You and Melina must come,” the banker had said. “I have a new Oriental chef who makes the best Chinese food in the world.”
The guest list was prestigious. At the dinner table was a fascinating collection of artists, politicians, and industrialists. The food was indeed wonderful. The chef had prepared shark fin soup, shrimp rolls, mu shu pork, Peking duck, spareribs, Canton noodles, and a dozen other dishes.
Melina was seated near the host at one end of the table, her husband next to the hostess at the other end. To Demiris’s right was a pretty, young film star. Demiris was concentrating on her, ignoring everyone else at the table. Melina could hear snatches of his conversation.
“When you finish your picture, you must come on my yacht. It will be a lovely vacation for you. We’ll cruise along the Dalmatian coast…”
Melina tried not to listen, but it was impossible. Demiris made no effort to keep his voice down. “You’ve never been to Psara, have you? It’s a lovely little island, completely isolated. You’ll enjoy it.” Melina wanted to crawl under the table. But the worst was yet to come.
They had just finished the sparerib course, and the butlers were bringing silver finger bowls.
As a finger bowl was placed in front of the young star, Demiris said, “You won’t need that.” And, grinning, he lifted her hands in his and began slowly to lick the sauce from her fingers, one by one. The other guests averted their eyes.
Melina rose to her feet and turned to her host. “If you’ll excuse me, I—I have a headache.”
The guests watched as she fled from the room. Demiris did not come home that night, or the next.
When Spyros heard about the incident, he was livid. “Just give me the word,” Melina’s brother fumed, “and I’ll kill the son of a bitch.”
“He can’t help it,” Melina defended him. “It’s his nature.”
“His nature? He’s an animal! He should be put away. Why don’t you divorce him?”
It was a question Melina Demiris had asked herself often in the still of the long, lonely nights she spent by herself. And it always came down to the same answer: I love him.
At five-thirty in the morning, Catherine was awakened by an apologetic maid.
“Good morning, miss…”
Catherine opened her eyes and looked around in confusion. Instead of her tiny cell at the convent, she was in a beautiful bedroom in…Her memory came flooding back. The trip into Athens…You’re Catherine Douglas…They were executed by the state…
“Miss…”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Demiris asked if you would join him for breakfast on the terrace.”
Catherine stared up at her sleepily. She had been awake until four o’clock, her mind in a turmoil.
“Thank you. Tell Mr. Demiris I’ll be right there.”