Won by the Wealthy Greek. Cathy Williams
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a little, she sat up and eased her shoulders. A fresh wind had kicked up, whipping her long Titian hair round her face, lashing her eyes and making them water, and plastering annoying strands to her lips.
The last time she’d looked the sky had been gunmetal-grey, with just the hint of a magenta border where the sun-trail lingered, but now it had blackened into a deep Greek night—a deep, chilly Greek night, Charlotte amended, pulling her pashmina a little closer. After a few more minutes she was forced to concede defeat and retreat inside.
A heavy silence greeted her in the cool interior of the luxury villa, but it was a calming silence that filled her with relief rather than loneliness. She had known the moment the agent showed her round that this was the perfect setting in which to recover. A well-appointed property, at the high end of the market, it offered her the freedom from concern she so badly needed. She was too bruised inside, too shaken up to recover her fighting spirit without a little help.
The failed marriage had left behind more scars than she could ever have anticipated. There were the feelings of guilt—that she could maybe have done some things differently or better—a sense of failure, and then the grief. And that had really taken her by surprise. But she was a survivor, and this break in Greece was an investment in her future. Whatever else the article turned into, she was determined that the theme at the heart of it would be optimistic and uplifting.
Clutching the stack of printed sheets close to her chest, Charlotte shouldered open the heavy oak door that led into her bedroom. Like the rest of the house, this room was traditional in style, its terracotta floors scattered with richly patterned rugs in subtle shades of red.
With the most discerning rental client in mind, restoration had been undertaken with no expense spared. Freshly whitewashed walls framed the broad spread of a high bed, positioned so that its occupant could look out over the sea. And it was a bed designed to appeal to a novelty-seeking high spender. A well-sprung mattress lay on a platform of smooth rock, and the linen sheets were piled high with cushions in jewel-coloured silks. The throws flung casually over the top of that were cashmere.
There was even a large en suite bathroom through another door, which boasted brand-new white fittings housed in baby-blue wash-painted units. Charlotte decided she would take a long, lazy bath there as a reward for making a start on the article, but first something drew her back to the window.
Ideas were fine, she mused, inhaling the fragrant air as she thought about her work, but they were only ingredients for the cake—and nothing without careful preparation. With just a week left to get it right, she would need an early start the next morning.
The moon had slipped behind a cloud, and even the branches of the olive trees a few feet from the window seemed to have dissolved into the night. Closing her eyes, she drew a deep, steadying breath. There was a faint smell of lemons on the air, and an owl hooted in the distance as it drifted on silent wings in search of prey. Opening her eyes again, she tried to find the tiny dot of light. It was out there somewhere on the sea. She frowned, thinking it had gone. But then quite suddenly it appeared, glowing like a nightlight in the inky-black void.
‘Goodnight,’ she murmured softly, smiling a little to herself as she turned away.
It was possibly the most comfortable bed she had ever slept in in her life, Charlotte mused drowsily, settling back on the bank of plump pillows to stare into the night. Her gaze homed in on the lantern and settled there. She couldn’t help wondering about the man in the boat, the lone fisherman.
She moved restlessly on the cool sheets. How was she supposed to get to sleep while her mind was so active? With thoughts of the fisherman. Was she in lust with a shadow? Charlotte wondered wryly. Was this what it had come to? But it did no harm, she reminded herself. She was free now.
Her world had shrunk to an oasis of sensuality in the bedroom of a villa on a tiny Greek island in the Aegean sea, and it was a world full of possibilities if she allowed it to be. The island was far away from anyone she knew. She could have an affair and no one would be any the wiser. She could throw herself into a passionate sexual relationship with a man who wouldn’t expect anything from her—why should he? No strings, no consequences. And maybe that was exactly what she needed.
Her body certainly seemed to think so. Sensation was streaming through her as she watched the small light moving gently on the sea. Teasing vibrations had started to throb, with a warm and insistent pulse, but she took her hand away, resisting the road to loneliness, wondering instead if the answer to her frustration really did lie out at sea, in the small boat with the fisherman.
Sighing as she told herself not to be so foolish, Charlotte checked one last time that the lantern was still visible. Framed by the window, she saw that it was moving quite a bit now, as if the sea had grown rougher. Then she thought her imagination must have taken over, for with each beat of her heart it seemed to be coming a little closer. But however much she willed it to turn towards the villa it moved steadily away from her, towards the far side of the shore.
Who is he? Charlotte wondered as she thought about the fisherman. And, more importantly, how do I get to meet him? She was still mulling it over when sleep finally claimed her.
CHAPTER TWO
THE sound of turtledoves cooing in the split trunk of the olive tree outside her window woke Charlotte at daybreak. Easing herself down from the snug sleeping platform, she padded barefoot across the cool tiled floor and stared out of the open shutters. It took her a few moments to adjust to the low, slanting light, and then she sighed with disappointment.
What had she been expecting? She had seen the fisherman turn for shore in the middle of the night. But somehow that hadn’t been enough to prevent her imagination conjuring up an image of him waiting for her somewhere.
Directing her gaze upwards, she saw the sky was a pale, watery lemon, and smiled in anticipation. The new day held the exciting possibility that she might see the mystery man again.
These last few days on the island might well be worth all the others put together, Charlotte thought, suddenly feeling the crazy urge to lean out of the window and embrace the translucent light. She wanted to stamp the view on her memory for ever: the sand stretching away in an ivory crescent, looking as though it had been washed, cleaned and ironed just for her pleasure, and beyond that the fingers of mist lingering over smudgy green olive groves. The sea was translucent aquamarine, and mirror-flat between her side of the shore and the jetty where the fisherman must have tied up his boat. She stared intently, but there was no sign of either him or his boat.
Time to swim, she decided, pulling back decisively. And after that she would settle down to the business of writing.
Coming down the stone steps in just her pyjamas, Charlotte paused only to slip on her sandals. During her short time in Greece the sunshine and warmth had stripped away her inhibitions—that and the fact that so far no one had trespassed on the stretch of beach below the villa. She would swim naked today, as she had every day since her arrival.
By the time she reached the edge of the cliff her pulse was racing with more than her usual anticipation, and the first thing she saw out at sea were two red floats. His floats? Surely they must be. Her heart leapt, and, turning towards the steep donkey trail that led down to the beach, she tried not to run. But the markers were like magnets, drawing her to the shore.
They are just markers in the sea, Charlotte warned herself as she walked across the sand. Nothing to make a fuss about. She took her time removing her sandals, and made a point of ignoring them. But by the time she reached the water’s edge she could hardly breathe with excitement. He would come back—he had to come back at some point to claim them, she realised, ripping off her nightclothes and tossing them onto the ground.
Get a grip! she told herself, pausing a moment to enjoy the soft brush of the breeze on her naked body. If this was the way she was going to react, she would have done better staying up at the villa, where she was safe. How much safer to flesh out the fisherman in her imagination than to risk an encounter…
But as the cool water lapped over Charlotte’s feet her brain clicked into gear and a line of poetry swam into her