by Liz Fielding
She was woken, cold, stiff and with a crick in her neck, by the low sun streaming in through the open shutters. She lay very still for a moment hoping that her stomach had given up on the vomito.
No such luck.
Teeth brushed, hair tied back, she made her way to the kitchen in search of something that would stay put.
The rising sun exposed the state of the villa in a way that artificial light had failed to do as she crossed the gritty floor in search of a kettle. She let the water run for a few minutes before she rinsed the kettle, filled it and put it on the old-fashioned stove. While it was boiling she located the switch for the water heater and, holding her breath, turned it on. The fuses held.
She took a mug from the dresser, washed it under the tap and tossed in one of the mint teabags she’d brought with her. That and a plain biscuit usually stayed down.
She carried them out onto the veranda, planning to let the crisp morning air clear her head but the cushions were missing from the chairs. She crossed the garden to a bench, put down the mug and stretched out her neck. Then, enticed by the soft, lulling splash of the waves breaking over the sand in the enclosed little cove below her, took the familiar path down to the beach.
Kicking off her sandals at the edge of the sand, she walked to the edge of the sea and stood for a moment as the water, ebbing and flowing, sucked the sand from beneath her feet.
One bold ripple rushed in, covering her feet up to her ankles, chilly but exhilarating. She longed to plunge into the water but she’d have to go back for her swimsuit…
There were some moments you could never recapture and this was one of them. If she walked back up the steep path she wouldn’t come back to the beach.
She looked around but the cove was private. Unless you knew it was there you wouldn’t notice it from the sea and it was too early for a call from even the most diligent of neighbours.
Rolling her eyes at her totally British reserve, she slipped off her robe, stepped out of her PJs and tossed them on a nearby rock.
The gesture was oddly liberating and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to raise her arms to the heat of the fast-rising sun, welcoming the soft breeze that rippled across her body like a lover’s touch.
As she stepped forward the cold water swirled around her ankles and calves, goosing her skin. Another step and it was up to her knees, thighs, a chill touch against the heat of her body, and she lay her hand against her still-flat belly, reliving the moment when Cleve, insane with grief, scarcely knowing what he was doing, had cried out as he’d thrust inside her and made their baby.
She shivered, but not with the cold.
It had been wrong, selfish, she’d taken advantage of his moment of weakness and now, instead of saving him, she was going to bring him more pain.
She caught her breath as the water lapped at her belly and then she dived in, striking out for the far side of the cove.
There and back was more than enough; splashed through the shallows and ran, shivering, straight to the hot pool. She had just stepped into it, lowered herself up to her chin, when her brain processed what she’d seen.
She turned slowly and peered above the rocks.
Cleve was leaning against the rock where she’d left her clothes, arms crossed, and he was grinning. ‘That was worth flying thirteen hundred miles to see,’ he said.
Blue with cold and covered in goose bumps? She doubted that…
‘How long have you been there?’
‘Long enough.’
Of course he had. He must have been in the garden when she stripped off, witnessed her mad salute to the sun…
‘A gentleman would have looked the other way.’
‘Only an idiot would have looked the other way. A gentleman would have saved your blushes and pretended he hadn’t seen you.’ He kicked off his shoes, peeled off his socks then tugged the polo shirt he was wearing over his head and tossed it next to her robe. ‘But as I’m sure your father has told you, I’ve no pretensions to being a gentleman.’
‘So if you’re not an idiot and not a gentleman, what are you?’
‘Honest?’
He reached for his belt.
‘Stop! What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Joining you in that oversized hot tub while we discuss why your resignation is not going to happen,’ he said, then paused as he was about to slip the buckle. ‘Unless you’d rather get out and join me over here.’
They had been naked together for an entire night, no holds barred. He’d already watched her take a skinny dip, seen her run across the beach. Modesty was ridiculous but nothing would induce her to climb out and walk over there with him watching her every step of the way.
‘I didn’t think so,’ he said when she didn’t move, and the buckle was history. He flipped the button at his waist and dropped his trousers to reveal a pair of soft white boxers that clung to his hips and buttocks like cream to a peach…
‘That’s far enough!’
She’d had her hands inside that underwear, her hands on that tight backside as she’d undressed him. In her head he was already naked. In her head she wanted him naked, beside her, inside her…
‘Pass me my robe.’
He hooked it off the rock and held it out. She snatched it from him, wrapped it around herself, careless of the hem falling into the water.
She’d intended to climb out and go back up to the villa so that she could face Cleve wearing proper clothes, but he was already walking across rocks worn smooth by centuries of water running from the spring and foaming into the sea.
‘I was going to get out,’ she said.
‘Why?’ He found himself a comfortable spot to sit opposite her, stretched his arms out along the rocks and closed his eyes. ‘Your sister’s villa is a wreck but I’ll put up with it for this.’
‘Not necessary. You’ll be on the next ferry out of here.’
‘I don’t think so.’ His smile had a touch of the old Cleve Finch—like the devil in a good mood. ‘Jerry Parker’s been trying to sell me his Lear for months. We closed the deal yesterday afternoon and I thought I’d celebrate by taking a few days off and seeing what it could do.’
She frowned. ‘There isn’t a commercial airport on the island.’
‘No, but there’s a flying club. They gave me permission to land and one of the members gave me a lift here.’
The international camaraderie of flyers…
‘Who’s looking after Goldfinch?’
‘I promoted Lucy to Operations Manager.’
‘Oh… Well, not before time,’ she said. ‘She’s been doing the job for the last year.’
‘You might not be so keen when I tell you that she’s brought in Gavin Jones to cover your absence.’
‘Tell her to give him a contract because I’m not coming back.’
Cleve had always run an early morning circuit of the old wartime airfield that was Goldfinch’s base but since Rachel’s death he’d run longer and harder. His shoulders were wide, his body lean, the muscles in his limbs strongly defined and his long, elegant feet were just a toe length from her own.
Worse, while she was no longer naked, the thin silk of her robe was clinging to every inch of her body. Even in the warmth of the pool her nipples were like pebbles and she lowered herself deeper into the water.
He smiled. ‘Was the sea very cold?’
‘Why are you here, Cleve?’ she demanded.
‘Did you think I’d let you run away?’
‘I’m not—’
‘You pull a sickie, tell Lucy you’re going on holiday and leave your resignation on my desk. In my book that’s running away.’
Okay, he had a point but she’d needed time to work this out. To try and find a way to tell him about the baby without destroying him.
‘I was sick.’ Seriously. ‘And I didn’t want to tell Lucy before I told you that I’d got another job.’
‘First you run away and then you lie. There is no job.’
> ‘I’ve had plenty of offers.’
‘That I don’t doubt. I know of at least three companies who’ve attempted to lure you away from me in the last year. More money, the chance to get rated on larger aircraft, but you turned them all down.’
‘You knew?’
‘There are no secrets in this business. If you’d accepted a job offer I’d have heard about it ten minutes after you’d shaken hands.’ He looked across the pool at her, his face giving her no clue as to what he was really thinking. ‘If you’d got a great new job,’ he continued, ‘you’d have told the people you’ve worked with for years, colleagues who care about you, who would want to throw the kind of party that you’d never forget.’
‘I don’t need a hangover to remember you.’ He’d already given her the most precious gift… ‘I’ll never forget you. Any of you,’ she added quickly. ‘And the reason you haven’t heard about my new job is because I’m going to work for my father. In the design office.’ Because of course that was what she’d have to do. She was effectively grounded, not by regulations, but by the memory of what had happened to Rachel, and she’d have to live close to home so that she’d have baby support, at least until the baby was old enough for day care. ‘Jack was right,’ she added.
‘Are you telling me that you’ve caught the eye of some lucky man and you’re going to settle down and raise babies?’ His voice was low, but a muscle was ticcing in his throat. ‘Only forgive me for mentioning it, but a month ago the most exciting thing in your diary was a darts match in the village pub.’
‘Cleve…’
‘Does he know about the pity—’
‘Stop!’ She stood up, water streaming from her, the robe clinging to her body, her legs, the material no doubt transparent, before he could say the word. Turn what had happened into something dirty. ‘Not another word.’
She stepped out of the pool, grabbed her PJs and sandals and ran, dripping, back up the path to the house. And, lo, as if the day couldn’t get any worse, Matthew Stark was hovering by the open veranda door.
Terrific.
‘Did I trip over the bell and summon you like some genie, or is this a social call?’ she asked.
‘No. Yes,’ he said, flustered by her attack. ‘I was a bit concerned…’ His voice trailed away and she didn’t have to look around to know that Cleve was walking across the garden towards them. Matt’s face said it all.
‘Is this him?’ Cleve hadn’t bothered to put his trousers on over his wet underwear. Why would he?
‘I’m sorry,’ Matt said. ‘I thought you were on your own.’
‘So did I,’ she snapped. ‘How wrong can you get?’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘A COUPLE OF WEEKS,’ she muttered as she grabbed her wheelie and retreated to the privacy of Sofia’s bedroom. A little time to get her head around an entirely new future. Was that too much to ask?
The shutters were closed and the light bulb didn’t respond to the switch but there was enough light filtering through the louvres to find her wash bag. The water would be barely warm but at least she’d have the bathroom to herself while she grabbed a few minutes to take a shower and wash her hair.
She’d once crept into Sofia’s private suite and it had seemed the most glamorous thing in the world to her. The windows had been dressed in something gauzy, the bed had been covered with an embroidered silk throw and in the bathroom there was a huge, claw-footed bath with brass fittings that had been polished to a gleaming gold.
There had been piles of fluffy white towels and, on recessed glass shelves, there had been an array of gorgeous scented bath oils, bubbles and soaps from the most expensive retailers.
Rosa Absolute, Gingerlily, Orange and Bergamot…
She placed her rather more basic shower gel and shampoo on the shelf, turned on the shower and, looking for a towel, opened the cupboard and pulled one out.
The water was emerging in fits and spurts that had the pipes rattling and it was only lukewarm but it would do and, having peeled off her wet robe, she stepped into the tub.
*
Cleve watched Miranda walk, stiff-backed, into the house. The effect was totally undermined by the wet silk clinging to every curve and her hair, always sleekly pinned up under her uniform hat at work, was loose and curling as it dried. Catching fire in the sunlight.
Aware that he wasn’t the only one enjoying the view, he turned on the man standing beside him.
‘How long?’ he asked.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘How long have you known Miranda Marlowe?’
‘To the nearest minute?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Thirteen hours and twenty minutes give or take the odd second. She told me that she was nicer after eight hours’ sleep.’ He pulled a face. ‘I’m not convinced.’
‘But if you’re not…’ He let the unwelcome thought die. There was no one. He was responsible for her decision to leave, although why she’d choose to give up flying… ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’
‘Matthew Stark. I live in the village. I kept an eye on Sofia and now I keep an eye on the house. When I saw the light…’ He shrugged.
‘You thought she was a burglar?’
‘There was a time when you could have left the door unlocked but these days there are villains who’d have the lead off the roof and strip out the pipes for scrap metal.’
‘You took a risk coming up here on your own.’
‘If there had been a truck I’d have gone back to the village and called the polizia. I assumed someone had broken in looking for anything they could steal or a place to sleep.’
‘And instead you got Miranda in a bad mood.’ Realising that he’d been curt, he offered his hand. ‘Cleve Finch.’
‘To be fair the bang on the head couldn’t have helped and the house is a mess. I’m glad she’s got company,’ he said, as he took it, then offered him the bag he was holding. ‘Cornetti. From the village bakery. They were supposed to be a peace offering.’
Cleve ignored the bag. ‘What bang on the head?’
‘She had her head in the cupboard under the sink looking for the stopcock when I arrived. She gave it a bit of a crack when she looked up. She looked a bit unsteady for a moment but she said she was just tired and wanted to sleep.’
‘And you left her?’
‘She didn’t give me a choice. The phone line to the villa came down in a storm several years ago and was never repaired, but I did explain how to call if she needed help.’ He gestured with his head towards the house. ‘Have you known her long?’
‘Six years.’ Six years, eight months and four days. ‘It was her eighteenth birthday, she’d just got her pilot’s licence and had taken the plane her father had given her for a spin. There was a tricky crosswind as she approached the runway but she touched down as light as a feather.’
That perfect landing, her brilliant smile as she jumped down onto the tarmac with her newly minted pilot’s licence in her hand, the sun catching the hint of cinnamon in her hair and setting it ablaze, was as fresh in his mind as if it had happened yesterday.
There had been kisses and cake for everyone. He wasn’t part of the family or Marlowe Aviation. He’d been there completing a deal to buy his first freight aircraft and maybe he’d been on a high too, because he’d assured her that if she went for a commercial licence he’d give her a job. She’d instantly invited him to her and Immi’s party and later, in a shadowy corner of her parents’ garden, they’d shared a kiss that hadn’t been about celebrating her PPL. It had been just about them. Would have been a lot more than a kiss if her younger sister—giddy on champagne—hadn’t stopped him from doing something of which he would have later been ashamed.
There had been other kisses. She’d lain in wait for him when she knew he was flying in. And she’d never let him forget his promise to give her a job.
He realised that Matt Stark was waiting but there was nothing more he wanted to share. ‘Thanks for these,’ he said, finally taking the bag. ‘Hop
efully they’ll sweeten her mood.’
‘Good luck with that.’ He let himself out through the side gate and a few moments later Cleve heard the unmistakable buzz of a scooter heading down the hill.
Deciding that some clothes might help his case, he pulled his shirt over his head, stepped into his trousers and had just made it to the kitchen when there was an ear-splitting scream.
He dropped the bag and ran in the direction of the sound, bursting through the door into what, disconcertingly, was a bedroom.
‘Miranda!’
There was a whimper and he found her in the en-suite bathroom, teeth chattering, backed up into the corner of the bath, her gaze fixed on a seriously impressive spider on the wall behind the shower.
He picked up a towel that was out of her reach on a wicker chair and offered it to her. Frozen to the spot, she made no move to take it. This was a full-on case of arachnophobia.
He draped the towel over her and as he lifted her clear of the bath she clung to him as he had clung to her.
‘It j-just appeared out of n-nowhere,’ she said, regaining the power of speech now the spider was out of sight.
‘I’ll handle it,’ he promised. ‘Can I put you down?’ She nodded and he set her down and walked her through to the bedroom but she continued to cling to him. ‘Will you be all right on your own in here while I get rid of it?’
‘Don’t kill it! It’s unlucky to kill spiders.’
‘Is it?’
‘Don’t laugh!’
‘I’m not laughing, I promise.’ He might just be smiling but then, with his arms unexpectedly filled with a naked woman who was clinging to him for dear life, he had a lot to smile about. That spider deserved to live a long and happy life. ‘I’ll put it out of the window.’
‘No!’ She pulled back a little, looked up at him, her eyes desperate. ‘It’ll just climb back in through the air vent. You have to take it right away. Outside the gates.’
He didn’t think it would be a good idea to point out that a spider could just as easily climb the gates and make its way back inside. There was nothing rational about her fear.
‘Outside the gates,’ he promised.
