One Summer Night: An Indecent Proposition / Beholden to the Throne / Hers For One Night Only?. Carol Marinelli
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smile. ‘Except the unpacking. I don’t know, I love airports, the excitement. I love going to new places, exploring them. My friend Shirley and I …’ She did not continue, for sometimes she choked a little when she thought of those times, and the hours between flights that had been spent so well.
‘Have you looked around Xanos?’
‘Not yet,’ Charlotte said. ‘Maybe later today.’ He was such good company, such an intriguing man, because it was not he who pushed for information. Instead, Charlotte asked the questions for he fascinated her so. When asked, he told her about his hotel chain, about the casinos he owned, about his life on the other side of the world.
‘You must have missed this, though,’ Charlotte offered, turning to watch as he stared out to the Mediterranean, just as he had yesterday.
‘Australia is hardly lacking in beaches,’ Zander pointed out. ‘I have an office and a property in Sydney that overlooks what is arguably the most beautiful harbour in the world.’ If it sounded like a boast, it had not been intended as one. More, Zander was trying to convince himself. For how could he miss a place that had brought nothing but pain—a view, this view, that as a child and later as a teenager he had wept into.
It should be hard to fathom now, strong, independent, beyond wealthy, it should be impossible to recall with precision just how afraid and confused he had once been, but when he looked out to the ocean, to a small mound of rocks a few hundred metres out where the waves crashed and broke up, he could wipe away twenty years. He could feel the fear and the confusion, the bruises on his back and legs from his father’s beating, the wrenching pain that came with true hunger and the bewilderment of being left behind—that a mother, his mother, might have left him to deal with this. It was painful to recall it even now.
Each minute that passed brought him a minute closer to his brother, to the twin his mother had chosen to take.
Each minute that passed brought him closer to the confrontation of which he had long dreamed, the moment where he would finally face the brother who had lived in the lap of luxury while he had eaten from bins, the brother who had had been given the velvet-glove treatment, while he had been ruled by a fist.
‘Every beach is different though …’ Charlotte’s voice was softer than his thoughts. ‘And this feels like a slice of heaven.’
Or hell.
‘It was not all happy.’ He heard his voice, heard his own words, and it stunned him into silence, for he never revealed anything and certainly he should not to the PA of his twin. And yet as she turned, as she did not speak, just moved her mouth into a wry smile, she offered not words but the space of her mind. She turned her attention fully to him, and for once he did not want to retreat. ‘The memories are not all good.’
‘But are there some good ones?’
And his mind shifted because, yes, there had been some. He looked back at the ocean, to the same mound of rocks, and recalled teenage boys jumping, he in the middle, egging each other on. He remembered waiting for the tourist buses before it had turned more sordid, when pretty young things would arrive and he could escape. He remembered then the happier bits, instead of later—when he had relied on his looks to secure a bed, had kissed older, drunk women, for it had meant breakfast the next day. And his mind turned to the market at the north of the island, to being chased for stealing fruit and then laughing with friends as they’d eaten. There had been no innocence in his youth, but there had been some fun.
‘We would go to the market …’ Again, he was stunned that he told her, yet it felt good to speak, to share with another. ‘We were about twelve.’ He told her of the thieving and she laughed, but not too much, for after all he had been hungry. And he told her too of the taverna that would fill with tourists at night, how he had always looked older … He did not tell her about the women, or scrabbling through the bins out the back for something to eat. He told her the better bits and smiled at the better bits, and then Zander surprised himself again.
‘I will show you Xanos,’ he offered. ‘The real Xanos.’
She thought, because it was Zander, that she would be swallowed again by a huge limo, that the island of Xanos would be revealed to her through thick darkened glass, but instead he rang ahead and by the time they had made their way back, to her surprise and nervous delight two scooters had been delivered to the foyer of the hotel.
‘I’ve never ridden a scooter …’
‘I thought you liked exploring.’
‘On foot,’ Charlotte said, and then laughed. ‘Or on camel.’
He smiled at the thought. ‘Few tourists have ridden a scooter when they come here. You’ll soon pick it up.’
She wanted him to change his mind, to offer to let her climb on his scooter, to coast the island nestled into his back, but never did he offer easy; instead, he pushed her out of her comfort zone. She was grateful for it, for after a few nervous goes she enjoyed the thrill of riding her little scooter, the absence of a helmet not the only rule that was broken. With Zander she felt as if she were flying the trapeze without a safety net. It was wild and dangerous, the thrill of the chase, cat and mouse, as he accelerated ahead of her and waited for her to catch up, then sped off, laughing again.
The only blot on her happiness was a phone that still had not rung, and as they parked their bikes in the marketplace and they walked into a taverna, she caught him looking as she checked her phone.
‘It’s up to you whether or not you tell him, Charlotte,’ Zander said as they took a seat. ‘I don’t want to put pressure on you. I just had hoped to surprise him. I have long thought of the day that we see each other again.’
‘He’s my boss,’ she attempted, and thankfully he did seem to understand.
‘I have put you in an impossible situation,’ Zander said. ‘Really, I should have just stayed in my suite. I should be there now …’ He looked into her eyes and the world seemed to stop. ‘But then we would have missed out on our day, so I cannot regret it.’
Neither could she.
It seemed like for ever since she had been so self-indulgent, not just with the food or the views, but with the company and conversation, and though she did her utmost to remain distant, warned herself it was a distinct lack of male company in recent years that made Zander impress her so—that a couple of years ago, she could so easily have handled him—she knew that she was lying to herself. For in whatever life she might be living, in whatever circumstances they might meet, Zander would have consumed her on sight.
‘Soon you will be back in London,’ Zander said, ‘and I will be back in Australia.’ His words were a brutal reminder that all they had was measured in days, a warning—or was it permission he was giving her?—to just enjoy this, to be the glamorous party girl that he perceived she was. ‘To our day,’ he said, and raised his glass. How delicious the sparkling water tasted as it slid down her throat, how heady and exhilarating it was to be with him, but she felt her face redden when her phone rang. There was sweat beading on her lip, which probably wasn’t the most attractive of looks, but she was not thinking of that as she picked up her phone and saw that finally Nico was returning her call.
‘Excuse me a moment.’ Charlotte stood. ‘I might take this outside.’
He wanted to know what was discussed, he needed to know, so Zander had a word with the waiter and handed him a very nice tip, warning him to be discreet. The waiter then headed out to clear the tables.
Charlotte took a seat at a small table, and took a deep breath as she answered, nervous to tell Nico but knowing she had to, no matter what Zander might think, no matter the surprise she spoiled, Nico was her boss and somehow, despite the dizzying effect of Zander close by, she must keep her head and remember that fact.
‘Charlotte, it’s Constantine.’ The sound of Nico’s wife caught her by surprise. ‘Nico knows you’ve been trying to get hold of him—he asked me to ring you back.’
‘I really