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Captive in Crete


Lyssa Stanson

Copyright © 2021 Lyssa Stanson

The right of Lyssa Stanson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

This book is Copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licenced or publicly performed or used in anyway except as specifically permitted in writing by the publisher, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable Copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters, businesses, organisations and events are entirely fictitious and any resemblance to actual events, organisations, businesses or people, living or dead, current or historical, is entirely coincidental. Where towns mentioned are real, they are used fictitiously and their topography may have been altered for literary purposes.



For Dad

Table of Contents

Chapter One – Monday morning

Chapter Two – later Monday morning

Chapter Three – Monday afternoon

Chapter Four – Monday evening

Chapter Five – Tuesday morning

Chapter Six – Tuesday afternoon

Chapter Seven – Wednesday morning

Chapter Eight – Wednesday afternoon

Chapter Nine – Wednesday evening

Chapter Ten – Wednesday evening (still)

Chapter Eleven – Thursday morning

Chapter Twelve – Thursday afternoon

Chapter Thirteen – Friday morning

Chapter Fourteen – Friday night

Chapter Fifteen – Friday night (still)

Chapter Sixteen – yup, still Friday night

Chapter Seventeen – do these people never sleep?

Chapter Eighteen – Saturday morning

Chapter One – Monday morning

I stepped down from the bus into blinding light and a wall of heat. A five-hour stopover in Hannover on my way from London to Crete had not enhanced my journey and I was tired and grumpy. Coffee was the first item on my agenda, followed by a taxi to my grandmother’s house.

I looked left and right to get my bearings; it was a while since I had made this trip. Touch down in Heraklion, bus south to Mires, then taxi the five miles to Sivas. Easy peasy, what could possibly go wrong?

I started walking towards the town square, dragging my suitcase behind me. The pavements were cracked in some places while in others, trees had been planted to slow the progress of all but the most determined. Every so often I had to detour into the road to avoid the tables that spilled out from small cafes. I needed coffee but my goal was the kafenion on the corner of the square where I could drink my coffee whilst keeping an eye on the unofficial taxi line, ready to pounce on my ride at the optimal moment.

It only took five minutes to get there but I had warmed up considerably after the chill of the air-conditioned bus and was grateful to sink into a roadside seat. I ordered my “café Elliniká, metrio” (Greek coffee, semi-sweet) and relaxed back, turning my face to the sun and closing my eyes against the glare.

When my coffee arrived, I took an eager sip. The hot, bitter liquid scalded my tongue and I hastily downed some of the water that is always served alongside. A dark chocolate voice undulated from behind me.

“You should never drink as soon as it’s served. They boil it for at least 10 minutes. The water should always come first.”

“I know that thanks, but it’s been a while. I’m out of the habit.”

I silently kicked myself. Never engage in conversation with disembodied voices, no matter how silky smooth. It always ends in disappointment when the owner of the voice turns out to be 65, with a pot belly and receding hairline.

“Ah, you’ve just arrived? Where are you staying? Do you need a lift?” The famous Cretan hospitality kicked in swiftly.

“Thank you, I don’t need any help.”

“Of course not, a strong, capable woman like you. But sometimes it’s worth accepting a little help. You know, just to be polite. Then everyone is happy.” The voice paused. “maybe I could make you happy.”

That was just a little too much. I turned around in disbelief, ready to give my standard “modern woman in no need of pandering to male ego” speech but instead was struck dumb when I came face to face with the most gorgeous brown eyes imaginable. The irises were tinged with flecks of old gold and were ringed almost in black. They were framed by thick, black lashes that many a super-model would kill for and topped by heavy lids, giving them a sleepy, satisfied look that was part cat that got the cream and part post-coital slumber.

The eyes were set in a square jawed face with skin the colour of warm honey, topped with a shock of dark brown hair that reached down to skim his shoulders. As I watched, his full lips slowly curved upwards in a most inviting smile.

I realised I was sitting silently, with my mouth gaping open and tried to think of an apt response. Unfortunately, I couldn’t remember what it was I was supposed to be responding to, so I simply said “Hello, I’m Jet Wilson.”

“Aristede Theodopulous. Pleased to meet you Jet Wilson.” He held out his hand and I took it. His skin was warm from the sun and his handshake was firm.

I shook myself mentally – and possibly also physically although I really hope not – unfortunately, I was too caught up by the Adonis in front of me to be sure of anything much. I had come to Crete to put a broken love affair behind me, not to start a new one. I needed to put as much distance between myself and Adonis, I mean Aristede, as possible.

“Jet, that’s a very unusual name.

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