The Highest Stakes of All by Sara Craven

studied if monosyllabic courtesy, and of course Hara, who had radiated ungracious hostility from the first morning.
    Although that did not prevent her from doing her job, Joanna admitted wryly. The hated mini-dress and other garments had been removed from the floor, never to return, while she slept. Her case had been unpacked, and its inadequate contents stowed in a mere fraction of the wardrobe space. And she was woken in grim silence each morning with coffee and the freshly laundered clothes from the day before.
    Surely, she thought, if she had to be waited on, there must be someone younger and more cheerful among all these people.
    But she soon discovered her mistake the first time she encountered one of the young maids upstairs and smiled, only to find the girl looking away and spitting three times.
    When Joanna went to Stavros to express her indignation, he’d only shrugged. ‘She cannot be blamed, thespinis. She was warding off the evil eye.’
    ‘But that’s ridiculous,’ Joanna said hotly. ‘There’s no such thing.’
    ‘Not in your country, perhaps. Here—is different. It is a strong belief,’ he added drily. ‘Be glad you do not have blue eyes.’
    ‘Is that what they all think?’ she demanded. ‘That I’m some kind of witch?’
    ‘Ne, thespinis. Having learned from Hara a little of the harm you have done, that is indeed what they believe.’
    ‘From Hara?’ Joanna drew a furious breath. ‘Well, that settles it. Please find her something else to do. Because I don’t want her hanging round me any more, like some—geriatric Medusa.’
    ‘Hara is the sister of Andonis Leftanou, and she has served the Gordanis family faithfully for many years.’ His eyes snapped at her. ‘I advise you do not speak of her again without respect.’ He paused ominously. ‘If you know what is good for you.’
    ‘Good for me?’ Joanna echoed in derision. ‘What in this whole ghastly situation could possibly be described as good for me?’
    ‘You are fortunate that things have not been very much worse.’
    ‘Oh, sure,’ she threw back at him bitterly. ‘And no doubt it’s also an honour for me to be forced to belong, as you put it, to your disgusting employer. Well, I hope he rots in hell—and you with him! ‘
    Stavros looked at her with distaste. ‘I suggest you keep such thoughts to yourself, thespinis. Or when Kyrios Gordanis arrives here he may teach you a much-needed lesson,’ he added grimly, and walked away.
    In an attempt to keep occupied and fight her sense of isolation, she swam each day in the pool, then lay on the cushioned lounger under its parasol provided daily for her use by unseen hands. She ate her solitary though delicious meals, provided by Andonis’ wife Penelope, in a vine-covered arbour at one end of the terrace, rested in her room with the shutters closed for an hour or so each afternoon and spent her evenings alone in the saloni.
    She didn’t dare touch the state-of-the-art music system, in spite of the mouth-watering record collection in its well-filled racks, and there were few English language programmes to tempt her on television. There was also a video machine, with a number of pre-recorded cassettes, but these were labelled in Greek, and she wasn’t sure how to operate the player anyway.
    And all hell would freeze before she asked for help of any kind.
    But if her days were difficult, the nights were far worse, when she woke with a start from disturbing restless dreams, convinced that a man’s hand had stroked her face. Touched her body. And that he was there, lying beside her, his skin hot with desire.
    Sometimes it was Peter Mansell who pressed his mouth suffocatingly on hers as she tried to fight him away. But invariably the dream would change at some point, when her oppressor would become Vassos Gordanis, his ruthless kisses stifling her pleas for help. Or for mercy.
    It was all so terribly real. Too real. Because she awoke each morning drained and on edge, a feeling