by Avery Aster
Oscar studied the way his boss lifted his hands in a frustrated whatever gesture.
In his dark Savile Row suit Nico always looked effortlessly immaculate, not a black hair out of place, like a cover model for GQ.
He'd met Nico Ferranti years ago through one of his best pals since school, Alexander Ludlow. Alexander was Nico's business partner. At the time Oscar had been in the military, a British Green Beret, and had spent his leave hell-raising around Europe with Nico and Alexander. Oscar's mouth kicked at the memory. Happy days.
Oscar respected Nico Ferranti, a lot. He respected the way Nico loved and adored his gorgeous blonde wife, Bronte, and their kids. Nico was first and foremost a family man. Oscar also respected the way that Nico had built, and ran, his professional life, too. Business concerns that encompassed many interests, technology, public-relations, communications, plus the five star Ferranti Hotels and Spas and a new venture, the Ferranti And Conti city Boutique hotels.
Oscar realised Nico had nothing but his best interests at heart, but he'd rather have a root canal without anaesthetic than deal with unwanted press attention. Oscar knew he was lucky because he didn't work only to make money. He didn't need to. From his paternal side, he'd inherited part of the Spencer banking legacy, a fortune that meant Oscar was truly independent. Pity his family couldn't, or wouldn't, take pride in his achievements. According to his father anything less than a merchant banker, or something in the City, simply wasn't acceptable behaviour from his second son. And that included joining the army, or being an award winning chef. Well, that suited Oscar just fine. He'd always been a wild-card. Even as a child he'd stood out. Independent, and no matter how hard they'd tried, a nonconformist.
And unbreakable.
* * *
"You are one obstinate bastard," Nico growled.
Oscar couldn't help but grin at the pissed-off tone and how Nico's Italian accent rose to the fore.
"Look, I know it would be good publicity for Ludlow Hall to have the series filmed here, Nico, but I hate a media circus."
"Si, it would be good for business," Nico admitted, shrugged. "But I understand your reluctance." Behind a huge oak desk, leaning back in his ergonomic chair, the Italian's dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he studied Oscar. "When was the last time you took a vacation?"
Oscar blinked at the abrupt change of subject.
He seriously couldn't remember.
Three years ago he'd left the military to follow his dream. If there was one lesson war had taught him, life was too short. A man's life could be snuffed out in an instant with none of his potential or his dreams fulfilled.
Oscar's dream had begun from the age of ten. His mother had actively encouraged his avid interest the dynamics of creating fresh bread and taught him everything she knew. Cooking was something he'd used to de-stress during the hard times, when he'd been at University and in the military. A little hobby, his father called it. But to Oscar the science of food, the combination of tastes, the use of fire and ice, simply fascinated him.
However, he'd also learned the hard way that not all dreams were meant to be.
Towards the end of his time in the military, he'd met a woman. A woman he'd been crazy about. But the relationship had burned too hot, too fast, and ended in disaster. Emma hadn't waited for him. After his final tour of duty, a twelve-month deployment where all comms had been blocked as he and his team engaged in what the spooks called, Unconventional Warfare, he'd returned to New York to find her on her honeymoon.
Stunned, at the time he simply couldn't get his head around the fact Emma Ludlow had married someone else. Hell, he still couldn't get his head around it. But what had blindsided him even more was that the warrior who had been Oscar Zamani had fallen apart. The medics said it could have been the result of PTSD and shock. But Oscar didn't believe it. He knew his shattered heart was the problem.
Nico and Alexander had rescued him from the bottom of the whisky bottle, offering him the chance to do something positive with his life by running the fusion kitchen of the Ferranti Hotel and Spa in Lake Como, and Oscar had grabbed the opportunity for a fresh start with both hands. Loyalty was important in the military. It meant the difference between life and death. And Oscar learned the lesson that the loyalty of good friends meant the same thing in civilian life, too.
He owed Alexander Ludlow and Nico Ferranti a huge debt.
The Italian's heart was set on Oscar doing a TV cookery series based at Ludlow Hall. Oscar knew it. He also knew that Nico, when he wanted something badly enough, never gave up. So the appearance of Nico giving-in so easily made Oscar... wary.
Nico picked up a crisp, expensive looking envelope and pushed it across the desk towards him.
Oscar’s brows met.
He studied the envelope as if it was improvised explosive device.
Suspicion tickled his gut.
This was Nico he was dealing with and Oscar always trusted his gut.
"What's that?"
Nico sent him a lazy smile.
"The perfect opportunity to chill out. Call it a busman's holiday."
Silence.
Nico muttered a curse in Italian, slapped his hands on the desk as he stood and gave Oscar a long, hard look.
"Every night I go to sleep I keep seeing Bronte's car in my head. Shattered glass, twisted metal, blood, fire. I keep seeing it. Keep thinking of her trapped, in pain, waiting to die. And it fucking terrifies me. You saved her, our bambino. And by saving her you saved me, mia famiglia. You act as if it what you did that day was nothing. And you never talk about it."
Oscar's face flushed. In his opinion there wasn't a man alive who wouldn't have done the exact same thing he'd done that day six months ago. However, he also didn't want to tell his friend that the psychological fall-out of Bronte's accident meant the nightmares had returned, with a vengeance. And that's why he was keeping his mouth shut.
"I didn't want to talk about it..." The image - Bronte's Range Rover kissing a tree, the hiss of the engine, the sweet scent of blood and diesel, him running with her in his arms and then the explosion - flashed into Oscar's mind. "Still don't. It wasn't a big deal."
Oscar winced as Nico roared, "Bastardo testardo. What you did was a goddamned big deal to me. I need to tell you that. Not once did you leave my side in the hospital when I thought I had lost her, lost our baby. My whole world had simply fallen away. There was nothing but a terrible, tearing grief. You held me together. And I need you to accept that and my undying gratitude. So take a fucking vacation."
Jesus.
Terrified that Nico might burst into Latin tears at any moment, maybe even kiss him on the mouth, Oscar snatched up the envelope and tore it open. Expensive parchment was his first thought as he read the invitation, the opportunity, to spend a month on an island a couple of hours off the coast of Florida. The island of Eden. He'd heard whispers that a billionaire, with more money than sense, had spent a fortune rebuilding a castle on the island. Access to Eden was by plane and invitation only for a few carefully selected guests. Seafood was in plentiful supply - no surprises there - with other fresh ingredients flown in as required. Oscar would be expected to use his legendary skills to train a small but enthusiastic staff to cater to the guests, to design an exclusive menu heavy on the use of local ingredients.
Sounded simple.
Sounded fun.
So what was the catch?
Oscar flicked Nico a leery look.
A Nico who's black brows shot into his hairline. "Well, what do you think?"
"I'm thinking it looks interesting. I'm thinking that I'm willing to compromise if you are. No TV series. But I can use the down time I'll have on Eden to put the finishing touches to the Ludlow Hall cookbook."
Nico's winning smile split his face as he rubbed his hands together with glee.
He moved around the desk.
"Eccellente!"
Oscar sent him a hard look, pointed.
"Hug me and I'll have to hurt you."
"Ah, il mio buon amico, I have heard there is magic in the air in Eden. Let us shake on our agreement." Oscar took his hand, sealed the deal. But Nico wasn't quite finished. "You never know, you might find amore on an island with sugar white sand, an ocean so blue it hurts the eyes." Nico wiggled his dark brows. "And do not forget night skies, dark as velvet, stars sparkling like diamonds."
Disgusted, Oscar looked to heaven for patience.
"You are my good friend, too, Nico. But for God's sake quit with the hearts and flowers. Save it for Bronte."
Oscar had a bad moment when Nico moved into him. But his good friend heeded the hug warning. Instead Nico smacked him on the back, hard enough to topple a rhino.
"Si. My wife holds my heart. One day you, too, will meet a woman worthy of your heart."
"I found her. I lost her. Don’t look at me like that, Nico. I'm happy as I am. Not everyone has your good luck."
Oscar could have kicked himself for alluding to Emma Ludlow, Bronte’s cousin, and by the look on his face, his good friend knew it, too.
Nico's dark eyes studied him carefully.
Eyes that saw too damned much.
"Enjoy yourself, bring me back a best-seller. Grazie," Nico purred.
As he recognised the self-satisfied expression on Nico's face, Oscar realised his blunder.
Shit.
Knowing the promotional pull of Nico Ferranti, the book probably would be a best-seller. Oscar's heart fell at what that success might mean for him, rounds of TV promotion, radio, and magazine interviews.
He couldn't believe he'd walked, with his eyes wide open, right into the trap.
That was Nico Ferranti all over, sneaky bastard.
"No TV," Oscar growled the warning.
Nico gave him a butter-wouldn't-melt look that he recognised too well.
"Non ti preoccupare."
"Do I look worried to you?" Oscar asked.
Nico's response was another energetic slap on the back.
Sounding like Don Corleone, Nico assured Oscar, "I have everything under control."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I just bet you do."
Oscar knew when his goose was well and truly cooked.
Chapter Two
It was love at first sight when Emma saw the island of Eden. She was filled with a sense of both relief and a certainty that, at last, she'd found a safe refuge. Relief that there was a wide expanse of water between her and the nightmare that was her life. She hadn't felt safe for over three years. It had taken her two of those three years to escape from the financial, emotional and ultimately abusive trap the spider, that was her ex-husband, had spun around her.
The process of unravelling herself was ongoing. She'd put almost a thousand miles between them. But even so Emma didn't feel secure, couldn't still the dragons of anxiety and fear.
On a bad day it was all too easy to slip back into blaming herself for not really seeing Richard for what he was. A monster disguised as Mr. Normal and Nice.
No-one who looked at her, at the mask she wore each and every day, could ever imagine that she was a lost soul. She didn’t look like a woman on the run. She didn’t look like a woman teetering on the edge. Thankfully her cousin Alexander Ludlow had visited her in New York with his new wife, Rosie. And they’d seen right through the mask she wore. A mask that had slipped when Alexander had held her tight, when she’d cried like a baby in his arms, when she’d sobbed out the whole sordid and sorry mess. And right there and then, Alexander had promised to help her.
True to Alexander’s word, two weeks later she'd received the Invitation To Eden. Her fingertips had slid over the expensive parchment-like paper, the letters and information engraved on the page. The handwriting was strong and sophisticated... masculine. There was almost a military phrasing in the language used in the invitation that made it seem more like a command rather than a request. It reminded her forcibly of the one man she'd truly loved. Oscar. A man who'd been a warrior. And a man who'd put his career first, who'd turned his back on her and walked away.
She'd been left utterly bereft.
Wounded.
Vulnerable.
* * *
Six months after Oscar had left her, her mother, a woman who was on a mission to get her daughter out of the house and ‘back to normal’, had dragged Emma to a cocktail party in Washington. A party where Senator-hopeful, Richard Murray III had taken one look at her, Emma Ludlow, only daughter of the late Sir John Ludlow, British Ambassador to the United States, and decided she was his. She'd been wide-eyed, on guard, reserved. And hadn't stood a chance against a charismatic charmer with a handsome face and pale blue eyes that missed nothing.
God knew she had been charmed, flattered, and for a short time revelled in what she thought was the love of a good man.
Richard had swept her off her feet.
And Emma had lived to bitterly regret a single moment of weakness.
He'd married her within months, promised her the world, love, fidelity, a family. Like a fool, she'd fallen for every slick lie and every clever put-down. And she’d lost herself in the process. But she wouldn't think of it now. Richard was behind her and she was moving forward, moving on.
Down, but not out.
* * *
Pressing her nose against the window of the chartered hydroplane, Emma took in the stunning setting of an island surrounded by a calm blue sea, long stretches of sugar white sand, the lush green of the forest, and the jaw-dropping castle, constructed of grey granite that glittered in the sun. With its turrets and sprawling gardens, it looked as if it had been plucked straight out of the Emerald Isle and dropped into the middle of Eden.
Gorgeous.
"Fabulous, isn't it?" The young pilot yelled above the roar of the propellers.
Emma turned to Joely and couldn't help but grin. The girl was petite with light brown hair that fell in glossy waves down her back. Dark eyes, filled to the brim with mischief, danced into hers. Joely was tanned and toned and dressed in khaki shorts of crisp cotton and a black polo shirt. And she handled the plane like a pro. To be honest, Emma hadn't been crazy about the idea of flying in something the size of a large SUV, but once they were airborne she'd relaxed and sat back to enjoy the two hour trip from Miami.
Joely did a full circle of the island before straightening up to land. The plane glided down as smooth as butter on hot toast and puttered to stop at a dock bleached by the sun. The pilot jumped out and unloaded Emma's meagre possessions. Emma clung to her laptop bag as if it held the Crown Jewels. She didn't care about her clothes, but her laptop was as precious to her as a first-born.
"I'll return when your time is up. Have a great holiday," Joely grinned and leapt back into the plane.
Emma waved as the plane rose up into the sky.
Alone on the dock, she did a slow spin to take in her surroundings.
Living in Manhattan, Emma was used to humidity. But the damp heat made her wish she'd worn something lighter than skinny jeans and a white silk shirt that clung to her skin. A soft breeze stroked her face like a lover's caress, and she raised her face to the sun, inhaling the delicious scent of the sea and frangipani.
Then a tall man strode towards her. He wore black slacks and a black shirt. As he drew closer, she realised he wore a black hood that obscured most of his face.
"Emma," he said, as if he'd known her for years. He extended his hand. "Welcome to Eden."
His deep voice was almost hypnotic and Emma found her small hand taken in a strong grip.
So this was the elusive, Theodisius Vardalos, the Master of the island.
"Thank you for inviting me," she said.
"I love your work. The island will weave its magic through your creativity. Perhaps you'll have another best-seller on your hands."
Emma fervently hoped so because the events of the last few months had meant she'd done nothing for weeks but sit at her laptop staring at a blank page.
"It's so tranquil, so peaceful and quiet, I love it," she admitted.
Although she couldn't see his face, Emma had the feeling that he was studying her very carefully.
"You haven't had a lot of peace lately, have you Emma?" he asked softly.
She blinked. And then realised he was referring to the miles of gossip that had gleefully documented every moment of the breakdown of her marriage to a man the society columns had labelled sex-on-legs. Richard had painted himself as the confused and heartbroken husband ruthlessly abandoned by the woman he loved. Even her own mother had ignored her daughter's obvious distress and unhappiness in her marriage and had begged her to reconsider, to pull herself together, and not throw away the chance of a lifetime.
"Not a lot," she admitted with something of an understatement.
He still held her hand in his.
"Just let yourself be whatever you want to be. The island will listen to your dreams, your desires. All you have to do is imagine."
Her hand slid from his as she turned around and took time to study the castle.
"Believe me, my imagination won't be a problem in this fabulous sett..."
She spun back and he was gone.
Emma blinked.
Maybe she’d zoned out for a moment?
She did a lot of that these days.
And then a tall, slim woman appeared from the direction of the castle. Emma wondered if everyone on Eden was gorgeous. She wore loose khaki pants in a flowing silk with a matching white sleeveless top that showcased lightly tanned arms. Her name tag told Emma she was Connie Hendrickson. Her hair was a glossy dark brown and scooped off her neck. The smile she shot Emma was warm and friendly.
"Emma," she said. "Welcome to Eden. If you will come with me, I'll show you to your suite. The Master has put you in one of the tower apartments. Your bags will be brought up shortly."
"Thank you," Emma said, following her up a leafy, winding path.
As they approached the immense entrance to the castle, sliding doors opened and she stepped into a blast of blissfully cool air. The entrance hall was spectacular with dimly lit sconces decorating mirrored walls. Vast vases of clear glass held stupendous arrangements of fresh flowers.
