by Anne Weale
Luxuriously stretching her naked body, Summer decided to leave him sleeping while she slipped out of bed and had a look round their home for the next three weeks.
A few minutes later, wearing the white trousseau nightgown in which she had yet to sleep, she returned to the large, high-ceilinged living room she had seen briefly the night before.
Someone, presumably the maid who had welcomed them to the house, had opened the folding double doors under the wide-ribbed fanlight which reminded her of those she had seen on early New England houses. Now it was clear why the cushioned bamboo sofa and armchairs were placed facing those doors for, through them, was an incredible view of near and far islands lapped by the bluest of seas under a blue morning sky.
Adjoining the living room, beyond some more folding doors, was a pillared dining veranda with another glorious sea-view.
She had explored the garden with its swimming pool and palm-thatched gazebo when James appeared on the sun deck outside the living room and she hurried to join him.
'Darling, what a lovely place! But isn't it time you revealed to me where we are?' she said, after they had kissed good morning.
'These islands are the Grenadines. The one we're on is Mustique and out there is Petit Mustique, Canouan, Union and Carriacou,' he said, keeping one arm round her and pointing them out with the other.
'Mustique... isn't this where Princess Margaret has a holiday house?'
'Yes, a place called Les Jolies Eaux. Mustique used to belong to an English family who lived in St Vincent, but about twenty-odd years ago it was bought by Colin Tennant who's a friend of Princess Margaret. When she married he gave her some land at the southern end of the island as a wedding present. Some years later she commissioned Oliver Messel, the famous theatrical designer who was also an architect, to design a house for her.'
'Which end of the island is this? Are we anywhere near the Princess's house?'
'Yes, but you won't see anything of her. She won't be here while we are.'
'How do you know?'
He grinned and kissed the tip of her nose. 'Because this is Les Jolies Eaux.'
'This is Princess Margaret's house?' she exclaimed in amazement. 'Do you know her? Has she lent it to you?'
'No, I've rented it. When the Princess isn't using it herself, she lets other people enjoy her retreat from the world. When I was considering places where we could be alone together this seemed an ideal spot. There's a cook and a gardener, and a car if we want to get about. However, as I'm told we have one of the best and most secluded of the island's beaches on our doorstep, I don't think we'll want to go far. Shall we have a swim before breakfast?'
They spent most of the day on the beach. It was while she was lazily floating in the crystalline sea that Summer suddenly had an idea for a spectacular evening belt incorporating the pearls James had given her and her lion's paw shell. It pleased her that, after eluding her for so long, the perfect design should have been conceived on her honeymoon.
After dinner they danced for a while. But it wasn't long before she had both arms round his neck and his hands were stroking her hips, pressing her closer to him.
'Another early night, d'you think?' he suggested huskily.
'What a good idea.'
In the middle of the night, her body not yet adjusted to the change from European time, she woke up and, knowing she couldn't lie still for the hours until sunrise, went to swim by moonlight in the Princess's pool.
She hadn't been in the water long when James came to find her. Coming down the steps from the house he looked like a magnificent naked savage.
'The last time we did this you made a tremendous fuss,' he reminded her teasingly, when he joined her in the pool.
'Naturally. What did you expect? You behaved disgracefully, and I was scared out of my wits.'
'You weren't really afraid of me, were you?'
'Considering that I was a virgin who'd never even been kissed before, you were lucky I didn't have hysterics. Who would have thought that the next time I went skinny-dipping I'd be your wife?' she murmured happily, hugging him.
*****
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anne Weale was born in Liverpool. She is married, with one son, and currently lives with her husband on the Mediterranean coast of Spain. Her great-grandfather was the first in the family to be published, and it is to him that Miss Weale attributes her writing "genes." Castle in Corsica was her first Harlequin novel. Since then she has written more than forty romances, which have been translated into eighteen languages and sold in eighty countries.
