Read Online The Collectors Book Two: Full Circle (The Collectors Series 2) by Ron Sewell - Free Book Online Page A
Book: The Collectors Book Two: Full Circle (The Collectors Series 2) by Ron Sewell
Read Free Book Online
Authors: Ron Sewell
Ads: Link
wonders of technology,” said Costas.
* * *
Nitsa Charalambus lay naked on the bishop’s bed. Her lover, Pavlo Constanides, snuggled close. Most of the men in her life arrived, stayed briefly and were then discarded. Pavlo satisfied her sexual needs. She in turn dangled the use of her body as bait. Always wanting more, he would obey like a well-trained dog.
She gave Pavlo a hard nudge in the ribs. “I need to talk to you.”
“Not now, Nitsa, it’s hot and I’m tired. Let me sleep. I have work tomorrow.”
“Wake up or I shall deny you what you want most.”
Pavlo turned towards her and sighed. “What’s your problem?”
“A million euros?”
Pavlo shrugged. “Dream on. Go back to sleep.”
“Very well,” said Nitsa. She lifted her knees, placed both feet on his back and pushed hard. She laughed when Pavlo tumbled onto the tiled floor. “If you don’t want the money, you can’t have me. I’ll find someone who does.”
He picked himself up. “Jesus Christ, Nitsa,” he exclaimed. “Where is this money?”
“It’s not actual money, but it’s hidden in an old church in Famagusta.” After explaining what Costas told her, Pavlo understood.
“I want those icons but we must wait until the time is right.”
Pavlo stroked Nitsa’s thighs.
“The thought of money excites me.”
Nitsa moaned when he pulled her against him. She changed her position and sank onto his chest.
Chapter Eight
The House of Georgiadis Stamati
Dark clouds covered the moon. Georgiadis drove from the airport to a modest, post-war terraced house in Enfield, located not more than a hundred metres from his beloved school. He parked in the driveway, turned off the ignition and opened the door. He stood staring at the empty house, cold since his wife died three years ago from pneumonia.
With a deep sigh he removed the key from his trouser pocket and opened the main door.
“Welcome,” he said. “Take your luggage to your room. I will heat dinner.”
Costas went up the familiar worn, blue-carpeted stairs. Nothing had changed, apart from the floral wallpaper that had faded to a shade lighter. An air of sadness hung like a grey shroud over the house.
Five minutes elapsed before Georgiadis shouted, “The food’s hot and on the table.”
Costas entered the spacious dining room and sat down opposite Georgiadis. The furniture consisted of a large oak table with six chairs placed at intervals around it. An aged long-case clock ticked loud in the gloom of a corner. Pictures of rural Cyprus adorned the walls and heavy red velvet curtains covered the windows.
Georgiadis poured two large glasses of red wine. “Not a Cyprus wine. It’s on special offer at Tesco’s. Six bottles for twenty pounds.”
Costas smiled, thanking God for friendship and food.
Throughout and after the meal, Georgiadis replenished their glasses from an imitation crystal decanter. He studied his friend’s face. “Is something troubling you? Do you wish to share your thoughts?”
Something in his tone caused Costas to hesitate. Rain battered the window adding to his problem. He waited a long time before answering, “Were you in England when the Turks invaded?” he said quietly.
“Yes, and if I remember, I was teaching. Why do you ask?”
“If you don’t want to answer, it doesn’t matter. It has always puzzled me. Why did you leave Cyprus?”
“My father, God rest his soul, enlisted with EOKA and when the revolt against the British gathered momentum so did the fight against the Turks. Before my mother died, she told me that my father fought only for money. When Cyprus became independent in 1959, both the Greeks and the Turks humiliated my family. Coming to England gave us hope. Here I studied, obtained my degree, taught English to foreign students until my school opened in 1983 and I became headmaster.”
Costas
* * *
Nitsa Charalambus lay naked on the bishop’s bed. Her lover, Pavlo Constanides, snuggled close. Most of the men in her life arrived, stayed briefly and were then discarded. Pavlo satisfied her sexual needs. She in turn dangled the use of her body as bait. Always wanting more, he would obey like a well-trained dog.
She gave Pavlo a hard nudge in the ribs. “I need to talk to you.”
“Not now, Nitsa, it’s hot and I’m tired. Let me sleep. I have work tomorrow.”
“Wake up or I shall deny you what you want most.”
Pavlo turned towards her and sighed. “What’s your problem?”
“A million euros?”
Pavlo shrugged. “Dream on. Go back to sleep.”
“Very well,” said Nitsa. She lifted her knees, placed both feet on his back and pushed hard. She laughed when Pavlo tumbled onto the tiled floor. “If you don’t want the money, you can’t have me. I’ll find someone who does.”
He picked himself up. “Jesus Christ, Nitsa,” he exclaimed. “Where is this money?”
“It’s not actual money, but it’s hidden in an old church in Famagusta.” After explaining what Costas told her, Pavlo understood.
“I want those icons but we must wait until the time is right.”
Pavlo stroked Nitsa’s thighs.
“The thought of money excites me.”
Nitsa moaned when he pulled her against him. She changed her position and sank onto his chest.
Chapter Eight
The House of Georgiadis Stamati
Dark clouds covered the moon. Georgiadis drove from the airport to a modest, post-war terraced house in Enfield, located not more than a hundred metres from his beloved school. He parked in the driveway, turned off the ignition and opened the door. He stood staring at the empty house, cold since his wife died three years ago from pneumonia.
With a deep sigh he removed the key from his trouser pocket and opened the main door.
“Welcome,” he said. “Take your luggage to your room. I will heat dinner.”
Costas went up the familiar worn, blue-carpeted stairs. Nothing had changed, apart from the floral wallpaper that had faded to a shade lighter. An air of sadness hung like a grey shroud over the house.
Five minutes elapsed before Georgiadis shouted, “The food’s hot and on the table.”
Costas entered the spacious dining room and sat down opposite Georgiadis. The furniture consisted of a large oak table with six chairs placed at intervals around it. An aged long-case clock ticked loud in the gloom of a corner. Pictures of rural Cyprus adorned the walls and heavy red velvet curtains covered the windows.
Georgiadis poured two large glasses of red wine. “Not a Cyprus wine. It’s on special offer at Tesco’s. Six bottles for twenty pounds.”
Costas smiled, thanking God for friendship and food.
Throughout and after the meal, Georgiadis replenished their glasses from an imitation crystal decanter. He studied his friend’s face. “Is something troubling you? Do you wish to share your thoughts?”
Something in his tone caused Costas to hesitate. Rain battered the window adding to his problem. He waited a long time before answering, “Were you in England when the Turks invaded?” he said quietly.
“Yes, and if I remember, I was teaching. Why do you ask?”
“If you don’t want to answer, it doesn’t matter. It has always puzzled me. Why did you leave Cyprus?”
“My father, God rest his soul, enlisted with EOKA and when the revolt against the British gathered momentum so did the fight against the Turks. Before my mother died, she told me that my father fought only for money. When Cyprus became independent in 1959, both the Greeks and the Turks humiliated my family. Coming to England gave us hope. Here I studied, obtained my degree, taught English to foreign students until my school opened in 1983 and I became headmaster.”
Costas
Similar Books
