Baby Surprise For The Spanish Billionaire. Jessica Gilmore
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Now it was a ghost of its old self, just one cleaner, one groundsman and a cook in residence, a couple of maids journeying over from the mainland. No guests at all. Anna suppressed a shiver. It was too quiet. Maybe she would head over to the mainland today after all, even if she only went to the small village just a few hundred metres away across the narrow strip of sea to have lunch.
The island wasn’t very big, less than a mile from one end to the next, and it didn’t take Anna long to reach the sheltered beach overlooking the mainland. Palms fringed the delicate yellow sand and Anna paused, taking in a deep breath, tasting the salt of sea, the lemon wafting over from the citrus trees. The sea was so blue it almost hurt, a deep turquoise that tugged at her, enticing her closer and closer. She shucked off her shoes, stepping onto the soft sand, wiggling her toes into the warm grains. When had she last been barefooted outside? Holding out her arms, she closed her eyes, feeling the sun penetrating every atom, every cell, warming her straight to her bones. The dark hair and olive skin she had inherited from her mother never really felt warm enough in Oxford; they craved this contact with the Mediterranean sun, even an early May sun better than none.
She took another deep breath, her bones aching as they absorbed the longed-for heat, inhaling the scents that always conjured up the island. For the first time in a long while she felt as if she was home.
She jumped, pulled back to the job at hand as the sound of a vacuum cleaner buzzed through the air. She wasn’t on holiday, she was here to help her mother—and more importantly she was here to forget her troubles. A month away from her classes, from her research, from expectations, might give her overtired mind the reboot it so desperately needed.
Anna pulled out her notebook. She might as well start off by checking the seaworthiness of the boats. The jetty was in the next cove along, situated by the natural rock harbour, which separated the gentle, sheltered mainland-facing beaches from the more rugged sea-facing ones. The wide wooden jetty housed all the small kayaks and rowing boats kept for guests who wanted to venture out in the safe strip of sea.
Pushing her refreshed feet back into her pumps, Anna followed the narrow path as it wound round the corner and past the trees until, pushing her way through a particularly overgrown fern, she emerged, blinking, onto the boardwalk, her hair falling over her eyes.
What is that? She skidded to a stop, staring at the jetty in disbelief. In addition to several kayaks pulled high onto the pebbly beach and the boats moored tightly to the wooden posts, a white and chrome boat sat proudly in the deeper water. It was large enough to be an ocean-going boat, but this was no practical craft. Every gleaming rail, every white sail, every fitting she could see screamed ‘rich man’s toy’ at her.
An equally gleaming dinghy was tied onto the jetty, a clear sign that someone had come ashore.
The island was private property, but occasionally day-trippers or passing boats did stop—and if they had money to spend were usually welcome. Anna looked around. She hadn’t seen anyone on the main path. ‘Hola!’ she called. ‘Hello. Can I help you?’
No answer.
She hesitated. The sign on the jetty clearly instructed visitors—in six different languages—to head straight along the main path to Reception. Not that there was anyone actually on Reception...
‘Dammit, as if I don’t have enough to do.’ What was her mother thinking? How could she possibly think a staff of four enough to get the island into shape for the season, let alone prepare for the wedding of the year? Sancia’s airy assurances that she had enough seasonal staff ready to start soon rang hollow. They should be here by now, painting, cleaning and making sure the island was in tip-top condition.
Swivelling, Anna looked around, sucking in her breath as she saw a tall, broad figure casually strolling around the nearest bungalow, peering in through the shutters as if he had every right to be there. She thrust her shoulders back, indignation filling her. The signs were quite clear—this was private property. Without stopping to think twice she marched over to the bungalow by the straightest possible route, pushing her way through the overgrown trees and shrubs, barely noticing the branches scratching her skin.
‘Excuse me.’ Her Spanish completely escaped her as she reached hailing distance of the bungalow. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’
Indignation had carried her within touching distance before common sense reasserted itself and she stopped abruptly, catching her breath as she took in the intruder. This was no overentitled, overweight businessman out for a gentle sail. This was a pirate. Over six feet of muscled pirate. There wasn’t an inch of fat—no, not a centimetre of fat—on him; his bare torso, exposed by his open white shirt, could have served as the model for Michelangelo’s David. His dark hair was cropped short, his even darker eyes raking her up and down with an arrogance that made her tremble with rage.
Rage and awareness of just how grubby she was, no make-up, a crumpled old T-shirt, hair bundled hastily up. She resisted the urge to straighten her top, to shake out her hair and did her best to ignore the zing that shot straight through her traitorous body as his gaze travelled over her.
‘Doing? I’m wondering if this is a hotel or a film set for a disaster movie,’ he replied in heavily accented English.
‘We haven’t finished preparing for the opening of the season yet,’ she said as loftily as she could, the heat mounting in her cheeks at the contempt in the dark depths of his eyes.
‘Finished? You haven’t even started. I don’t know what kind of scam you’re running here, señorita, but my sister will not be part of it.’
‘Your sister?’
‘Rest assured she will find somewhere else for her wedding.’ He turned, his business clearly done, setting off along the overgrown path leading back to the jetty.
Anna’s brain tried to unscramble the words. The big wedding, the model, the event that had sent her mother into such a spin she had summoned both her daughters to her side, the event her mother was counting on to restore the hotel’s fortunes. The mess the island was in might be down to her mother’s mismanagement, but how could Anna let the idyllic playground of her childhood, her beloved grandparents’ legacy, fade away? Whoever this man was she had to try and persuade him not to give up on the island. ‘You’re the bride’s brother?’
He barely paused. ‘Sí.’
Casting a look around for help and coming up blank, Anna realised with a sinking heart that it was up to her to persuade him not to tell his sister to cancel the booking. Breaking into a light jog, she followed him up the path, breathlessly braking as she reached his side. ‘Look, señor, I know the island is in a bit of a state, but, I promise you, it will be perfect for your sister’s wedding.’
Halting, he turned a scathing look on her. ‘How? You have an army of elves?’
‘No. No army.’ How did one get an army of elves? Maybe some could write her book for her while they were here. ‘We’re a little behind, I admit, but I always meet my deadlines, señor, and this is no different. Give us the opportunity and I promise your sister will have the wedding of her dreams.’
Her words echoed round her head. ‘I always meet my deadlines’, her stomach lurching with the same sickening jolt it always gave when she thought about her agent’s increasingly urgent emails. But she held her head high and met his thoughtful gaze, that same unwanted zing zipping through her body as his attention focussed on her. ‘Please,’ she said again, not too proud to beg, holding her breath while she waited for him to reply. ‘Just give me a chance to prove it to you.’
* * *
Leo stared at the tall woman as she stood imploringly opposite him, hands clasped before her. He’d been surprised when she’d spoken to him in English, her accent so clear cut she could only be a native of that damp island. With her thick mass of dark hair and clear olive skin she looked like some kind of mythological Mediterranean nymph, her eyes, fringed with long dark lashes, the colour of the sea, her lips the pink of a summer sunset.
‘Are you the owner?’ Not that it made any