Captive in Crete: The First Jet Wilson Cozy Mystery (Jet Wilson Cozy Mysteries Book 1) by Lyssa Stanson (phonics story books .txt) 📗

Was he mocking me? “It’s short for Jeanette, not so unusual really.” I was totally managing the sparkling repartee. Oh, wait, I wasn’t aiming for sparkling repartee. Polite disinterest, that’s what this situation called for. I think I was managing that.

“You haven’t told me where you are staying” he persisted. “My truck is parked just round the corner; I could easily give you a lift. That suitcase looks heavy.”

“Thanks, but I’ll take a taxi. I’m sure one will appear by the time I finish my coffee; they always do.”

He chuckled, a rumbling in his throat that sent warm shivers down my spine. “Not today, Jeanette Wilson. They are all on strike. You had much better let me take you.”

Oh yes! I mean oh no! I looked around but there were still no taxis in sight. I tried to think of some way of confirming what he said without implying that I thought he was lying. I couldn’t just accept a lift from a stranger. Even serial killers could be handsome. I decided to take a little longer over my coffee and hope that either a taxi turned up, someone I knew turned up, or Aristede got bored waiting and left me to it.

“So, what brings you to my beautiful country?”

“I’m visiting my grandmother; she lives in Sivas.” No need to mention the broken love affair that drove me here, nor the vow of celibacy I’d taken in the wake of it.

“Really, what’s her name? I might know her.” He looked quite excited by the idea; I was less so. After my experience with Harry, the last thing I needed was to fall for another beautiful man who would just be amusing himself with me, or worse.

“Her name is Sheila Jones. She’s only lived in the village for about three years though, so I doubt you know her.” I crossed my fingers and was rewarded by his reply.

“No,” his brow furrowed in thought, in a most attractive way, and I inwardly sighed. “I don’t think I know your grandmother. But I’m sure I will know someone who does.” He finished with a triumphant smile. Curse that Cretan optimism!

At that point, his phone rang, and he answered in an unbroken flow of Greek. Greek conversations always sound like arguments to me, and this one more so than usual. Whoever was on the other end clearly won; Aristede looked sombre as he ended the call.

“I have to go.” He stood up and started to gather his wallet and keys. His body was muscular, but not overly so. His jeans were a snug fit and I struggled to focus on his face. He pulled a card from the back pocket of his jeans and gave it to me.

“This should only take twenty minutes or so. Give me a call when you are ready, and I will come back and take you to your grandmother’s house.” I stuffed the card in my purse without looking at it. I was too busy looking at the rear view of Aristede as he walked away.

Half an hour and another coffee later, there were still no taxis in sight. Despite Aristede’s offer, I decided to walk. It was only five miles to Sivas, and I was young and fit. Well, young. Plus, my phone had run out of charge somewhere over the Libyan Sea.

I didn’t get far before I was dripping with sweat and my arm (the one pulling the suitcase) felt like it was about to drop off. I had only managed about a mile and was just past the outskirts of Mires. Buildings had given way to olive fields and the scent of herbs was starting to permeate the air. I decided that maybe hitchhiking would be safe enough after all. Maybe some nice tourists would stop for me or, more likely, a farmer with room in the back of his truck with the goat.

Nothing was in sight and nothing had passed me for the last 10 minutes. I carried on walking whilst keeping an ear out for vehicles coming up behind me. I had gone another half mile before I finally heard a noise. I eagerly stuck out my thumb and turned with what I hoped was a bright smile rather than the hot and sweaty grimace it felt like.

Great, a pick-up truck, must be a local. Fortunately, I didn’t see any sign of a goat head peeping round the cab. I crossed my fingers and waited as the truck slowed and came to a stop just in front of me. Phew, definitely no goat, just a tanned, muscular arm hanging nonchalantly from the driver’s window. I ran to the cab, looked through the open window, and pulled up short. Aristede’s gorgeous face stared back at me. Even scowling he could melt the heart of an angel.

“I told you to call me. You should not be hitchhiking alone, a beautiful woman like you. It is safe enough in Crete, but you must not take chances.”

“Oh, but taking a ride with a man I just met is perfectly fine?” I wasn’t sure quite why I was so angry. Maybe because I hate being told what I can and, more so, what I can’t do, or maybe because— Woah, did he just call me beautiful? I don’t look like the back end of a bus or anything but I’m short, pale, and mousey. A long way from the tall, elegant blonde I had hoped to grow into.

“But I am hardly just any man.”

Aristede’s face relaxed back into its lazy grin as he watched mine clearly articulate my disbelief at his arrogance.

“You did not even look at my card, did you?” he asked, “Nor try to call me.”

I blushed. Even after walking over a mile in the Mediterranean sunshine, I could still feel the heat travelling up my neck.

“I already