9

      Michael Sarkis’s Mustique villa, La Esperanza, was the complete opposite of the gaudy deluxe hotels for which he was famous. Perched at the tip of a lush headland jutting out into the hazy turquoise waters of the Caribbean, it was a huge, Balinese-style mansion with a jade green infinity pool, ornate koi carp pond full of lilies and an enormous sweep of terrace overlooking the sea.

      ‘I can’t believe we’ve been here two days already,’ sighed Serena, nibbling on a lobster salad as she swung in an enormous blue cotton hammock on the terrace, eyes gazing upwards at the palm trees.

      ‘It’s the Cotton House cocktail party this evening,’ said Venetia, looking over the top of her Valentino sunglasses. ‘Shall we wander down for a few martinis? Or are you still officially in hiding?’

      Serena put down her salad bowl and plumped the soft linen pillow under her head. ‘Darling, the whole point of coming to Mustique is to avoid tourists rather than actively seek them out,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you understand and you know I appreciate you being so supportive.’

      ‘Oh, and I appreciate being here. Whatever you want to do,’ laughed Venetia, taking a swig of mineral water. ‘The villa is lovely enough on its own.’

      ‘Can you believe Cate refused to come?’ said Serena. ‘That ungrateful sod. Not that you were second choice or anything,’ she added quickly.

      ‘She’s not ungrateful,’ said Venetia with a wry smile. ‘But you know she always feels guilty about having fun. Actually, I think she is really busy this time. I spoke to her this morning because I thought she might be a bit depressed and she said she was working on some magazine idea she wants to try and launch.’

      ‘Well that’s typical, isn’t it?’ sniffed Serena. ‘While she’s unemployed she should be doing something useful like going to see Tom for me, rather than pretending she’s Donald Trump. She is so impossibly selfish.’

      Venetia smiled to herself. Cate’s heart was as big as Serena’s ego, but she knew it was fruitless to say anything. Tired from their morning’s ride – they had picked up two gorgeous chestnut horses from the Mustique Equestrian Centre that morning to take for a canter along L’Ansecoy Beach – she lay back and opened a historical biography, pulling her sunglasses down deep onto the bridge of her nose to avoid the sun glaring back up from the page. She tried to stop herself smiling, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl. Jonathon had been furious when she’d announced she was off to Mustique. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision after she’d got the first results of her hormone tests. Her mind instantly had become too full of things she did not want to think about. A failing marriage. Failing ovaries. Failure. She had to escape.

      A steward in a pristine white uniform appeared with a frosted pitcher of fruit punch and a plate of brilliant-white coconut slices. Obediently, he placed a glass of punch in Serena’s outstretched hand.

      ‘I also have a fax for you,’ said the handsome steward, handing Serena a rolled sheet of cream paper on another silver platter.

      ‘A fax?’ asked Venetia, craning her neck over. ‘What is it? Don’t say the press have tracked you down here already. I don’t feel prepared for my paparazzi close-up.’

      ‘Oh,’ said Serena after a moment, scanning the scratchy black words.

      ‘What’s the matter?’

      ‘Michael says he’s flying into Esperanza this evening. He would like to join us for dinner.’ She shot a puzzled expression in Venetia’s direction, which slowly began to pull into a smile.

      ‘It’s an awfully long way to come from New York, isn’t it?’ she said as her mouth continued to curl up.

      ‘And a bit weird just barging in?’ said Venetia, taking a bite of coconut. She paused, the penny dropping. ‘Or did you know he was coming?’

      She raised an eyebrow at her sister who sat, sphinx-like, saying nothing and everything all at once. Venetia was irritated, despite herself. It was typical of Serena to drag her all the way to the Caribbean just to while away the time until someone more interesting came along. Serena had always been the high priestess of manipulation.

      ‘Well, Michael didn’t specifically say he was coming,’ said Serena, looking her sister confidently in the eye. ‘But it’s hardly barging in. It is his place, after all, and he’s entitled to pop by whenever he likes.’ She bit a crisp crescent out of the coconut and smirked like the cat who’d got the cream.

      ‘Two thousand miles for supper is hardly popping by.’ Venetia stopped and eyed her sister suspiciously. ‘You fancy him, don’t you? I feel so stupid for not thinking of it sooner.’

      ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Serena dismissively, lying back in the hammock and closing her eyes. ‘This isn’t school, you know! And in case you’ve forgotten, I am in the middle of a desperately painful break-up. Getting involved with someone else, even someone with a villa like Michael’s, is really not on my agenda.’

      Venetia looked at her sister lying half naked in the Caribbean sun and doubted that was the case.

      The runway at Mustique Airport was too short for Michael’s Gulfstream to land so, like all the other thousands of visitors that arrived on the island, he came by tiny charter jet, being picked up by one of the villa’s staff in a Mercedes. By the time he found the girls, standing on the terrace sipping early evening cocktails, he was relaxed and playful.

      ‘Hello girls,’ he beamed, scooping them both up in a huge hug and kissing them both on the cheek. ‘How are you enjoying yourselves?’

      Venetia moved back, her good breeding a little overwhelmed by this stocky man. He was certainly more attractive than she was expecting, and he was definitely the sort of man whose presence took up more space than his body. Michael’s gaze was intense, his clothes – a pair of linen slacks, navy polo shirt and tan Tods loafers – oozed a casual power and, despite her reserve and the gun-running rumours, Venetia found herself gushing. ‘Oh, it’s