The islanders were going crazy. Their pleasure in Athena’s arrival was a measure of how terrified they’d been that Demos would destroy them. It was also a measure of confidence that Athena wouldn’t betray them.

Did he believe it?

Up until she was nineteen he’d believed it. He and Athena had plotted what they’d do if Giorgos was to die without an heir.

He grinned now as he thought of their plans. They’d build a cinema. They’d set up a surf school-Thena thought she’d make a great surf instructor-and what the heck, they’d invite a few rock groups over. But in their serious moments they’d had a few more solemn ideas. They’d slow-start the diamond mines. They’d ensure every child had the funds to get a decent education. They’d set up a democracy.

All of these things had been discussed over and over, as they’d wandered the island, as she’d come with him in his family’s fishing boat and helped him haul pots, as she’d sat at his mother’s kitchen table and helped shell peas or stir cakes.

When had he first figured he loved her? It had crept up on him so slowly he hardly knew. But suddenly their laughter had turned to passion, and their intensity for politics had turned to intensity of another kind.

The night her mother had died…She’d been seventeen. He’d cradled her against his heart and thought his own heart would break.

And then…suddenly it had been over. It seemed she had a chance of a journalist apprenticeship in New York.

Leaving had never been in his vocabulary, and he’d never believed it could be in hers.

And now she’d returned-she was standing at the ferry’s rail looking lost, and he was standing on the jetty wondering where he could take it from here.

She had Nicky by the hand. Mother and son. And dog. The sight made him feel…Hell, he didn’t know how he felt.

‘Go on, Nikos.’ His mother, Annia, was beside him, holding Christa. ‘Go and speak for all the islanders. You know it’s your place.’