Книга - Her Pregnancy Bombshell

Her Pregnancy Bombshell
Liz Fielding


Expecting her boss's baby!Pilot Miranda Marlowe is too sick to fly her plane, and she must face the truth: she's pregnant! She knows well enough that her boss, Cleve Finch, is still grieving for his late wife, so to think, she heads to her sister's new inheritance, Villa Rosa.Despite the spiders and dust, the Mediterranean palazzo is as gorgeous as ever. Until Cleve turns up with a dramatic offer: a convenient marriage as soon as it can be arranged! It may be the sensible answer…but is it enough for Miranda?Summer at Villa Rosa - Book 1 of 4







Expecting her boss’s baby!

Pilot Miranda Marlowe is too sick to fly her plane, and she must face the truth: she’s pregnant! She knows well enough that her boss, Cleve Finch, is still grieving for his late wife, so to think, she heads to her sister’s new inheritance, Villa Rosa.

Despite the spiders and dust, the Mediterranean palazzo is as gorgeous as ever. Until Cleve turns up with a dramatic offer: a convenient marriage as soon as it can be arranged! It may be the sensible answer...but is it enough for Miranda?


Exhausted, a little shaky from a rough ferry crossing, Miranda handed her passport to the border-control officer.

‘Buongiorno, signora. What is the purpose of your visit to L’Isola dei Fiori?’

‘I’m running away,’ she muttered.

From her job, her life, and from the man she’d been in love with since the life-changing moment when he’d applauded her touch-down in a treacherous crosswind.

Hiding the secret she was carrying.


Her Pregnancy Bombshell

Liz Fielding






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


LIZ FIELDING was born with itchy feet. She made it to Zambia before her twenty-first birthday and, gathering her own special hero and a couple of children on the way, lived in Botswana, Kenya and Bahrain—with pauses for sightseeing pretty much everywhere in between. She now lives in the west of England, close to the Regency grandeur of Bath and the ancient mystery of Stonehenge, and these days leaves her pen do the traveling.

For news of upcoming books visit Liz’s website: www.lizfielding.com (http://www.lizfielding.com).


To Kate Hardy, Scarlet Wilson and Jessica Gilmore,

who helped bring Villa Rosa and L’Isola dei Fiori

to life. It was a joy working with you.


Contents

Cover (#u30c793fc-1165-504a-bfc4-79fc3ef33238)

Back Cover Text (#u9e6e6ad4-c064-58fb-b5eb-829d64df9649)

Introduction (#ue2ee2872-bbd7-5a76-97a9-e18b1b78f89b)

Title Page (#uf43432d7-6c05-56ed-b7e5-e57b188435e7)

About the Author (#u1fd3c3d9-2c6a-51de-94ac-366ccfbf6674)

Dedication (#u770fbf46-7c72-5652-a2b5-9290ff619ec8)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_b76ccb20-4257-5ded-b366-56ef8be2f128)

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_ae232bc5-5861-5f28-a351-875ad44e40b6)

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_8bf254ca-5982-52a1-90d7-e79ae3933e77)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_0523714c-6db5-5c1d-9a83-e2eff63228a9)

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,

Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not...

William Shakespeare

‘MIRANDA...’

Andie Marlowe lifted her coat from the rack, took a breath and fixed her face into a neutral smile before turning to face Cleve Finch, the CEO of Goldfinch Air Services.

It had been nearly a year since his wife had been killed when the little six-seater she was flying was taken down by a bird strike but his grief was still unbearable to watch. He’d lost weight, his cheekbones were sharp enough to slice cheese and right now the pallor beneath his runner’s tan gave him a jaundiced look.

‘Cleve?’

‘You’re off this afternoon?’

‘I stood in for Kevin last weekend.’

‘I wasn’t questioning...’ He shook his head. ‘I just wondered if you could spare me a couple of hours.’

She did her best to ignore the totally inappropriate way her heart lifted at the suggestion he needed her. He was her boss. He simply wanted her to take on a last-minute job.

‘No problem. The ironing can wait.’

‘Ironing? It’s Friday. Shouldn’t you be getting yourself ready for a hot date?’ He almost managed a smile.

She almost managed one back. ‘Men don’t date any more, they just want hook-ups.’

‘Men are idiots,’ he said.

‘You’ll get no argument from me.’ She’d tried Internet dating in the vain hope that it would take her mind off the only man with whom she’d ever wanted to get naked. It didn’t so she’d stopped. ‘My evening involves nothing more exciting than a darts match in the village pub but if anyone on the visiting team is under fifty I might get lucky.’ She glanced up at the white board on which the flight schedule had been written but couldn’t see any obvious gaps. ‘Has someone called in sick?’

‘No.’ He lifted a hand, curled his fingers back into his palm. ‘Imogen called.’

‘My sister?’ The sudden heart-pounding obliterated the uncomfortable sensation of being out of control of her limbs whenever she was around Cleve, taking her back to another time when her twin had been the sole focus of her concern. But Immi was fine now, happy, about to be married... ‘Has something happened to Mum and Dad?’

‘No!’ He reached towards her and, for a moment, his hand hung in the air between them. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you. She called to let me know that the new aircraft...’ He stopped as if the words were stuck in his throat.

Every instinct was to take his hand, hold it, give him her warmth, comfort, whatever he needed. Before the message reached her brain and she could do anything so stupid he was dragging his fingers through thick dark brown hair that had once been streaked by the sun but was now shot through with silver.

Cleve’s grief in the year since his wife’s death had been painful to witness. And he wasn’t the only one. The Mayfly, the six-seater aircraft she’d been flying when she died, had been built by Marlowe Aviation, the company started by Andie’s family right at the beginning of aviation. Both companies had wobbled in the aftermath.

The Air Accident Inquiry had absolved everyone from guilt; it was clear from all the evidence that the aircraft had been brought down by a bird strike. The shocking revelation that Rachel had been in the early stages of pregnancy—something Cleve had kept to himself until the inquest—and the coroner’s suggestion that, since she was such an experienced pilot, nausea or fainting might have contributed to the accident, had made it a double tragedy.

When the enquiry was over Andie’s mother, fearful that her father would follow their grandfather into an early grave, had insisted he take a complete break and, leaving Marlowe Aviation in the capable hands of Immi and her fiancé, her parents were crossing India by bus like a couple of old hippies.

Cleve, on the other hand, had not taken a day off since the funeral, insisting that his responsibility was to his staff and Goldfinch, the company he’d built from nothing.

Andie suspected that deep down he was afraid that if he walked away, didn’t get straight back in the cockpit, he never would. And, once the insurance claim had been settled, Cleve, in the most selfless, most supportive of acts, had ordered a replacement for the wrecked aircraft from Marlowe Aviation. The exact same model in which his wife had died.

Now her sister had called to tell him that it was ready to be collected.

‘I can pick it up,’ she said, quickly. ‘I’ll take the train, stay overnight and fly back tomorrow.’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘There are procedures. Engineering checks to sign off.’

‘I can handle all that.’

Andie had a degree in aircraft engineering and would have been in the design office right now if a good-looking flier, negotiating the purchase of one of her father’s aircraft, hadn’t promised her a job if she got her CPL. If he hadn’t sealed his promise with a kiss that’d had her flying without the need for wings.

Cleve had been wearing a newly minted wedding ring by the time she’d completed her degree and arrived at his office clutching her CPL, but he’d given her a congratulatory hug and kept his promise. His wife, no doubt able to spot her crush from ten thousand feet and used to fending off silly girls, had smiled sympathetically, confident that with her in his bed he was oblivious to such distractions.

‘I just need you to fly me up there, Miranda,’ he said. ‘If it’s not convenient just say and I’ll take the train myself.’

‘I just thought...’ Obviously this was something he felt he had to do but she wasn’t about to let him go through it on his own. ‘When do you want to go?’

‘Now? Oscar Tango is free this afternoon. If the darts team can spare you.’

‘They’ll probably heave a collective sigh of relief,’ she said. ‘I was flying home tomorrow anyway. Immi’s been nagging me about...’ Her sister had been nagging her about a fitting for her bridesmaid dress but she couldn’t bring herself to say the words. ‘If you don’t mind squashing into my little two-seater?’

‘Whatever suits you.’

He held the door for her as she took out her phone and sent a quick text to her sister to let her know she’d be available for the fitting the next day.

‘Is it pink?’ he asked as they crossed to the control office to file a flight plan.

‘Pink?’

‘The dress.’

‘You read my text?’

‘I didn’t have to. I received an invitation to her wedding and I imagine she wants her sisters as bridesmaids. The rare sight of you in a dress is almost enough to tempt me to accept.’

She glanced up at him but the teasing smile that had made her teenage heart stand still was now rarer than a sighting of her in a skirt.

‘If it’s pink with frills there’s no way I’m going to miss it,’ he added.

‘Please... Not even as a joke.’

‘I hope her fiancé has done his duty and lined up a best man to make your day memorable.’

‘Portia’s the oldest.’ The glamorous one that not only the spare men but those who were firmly attached would be lusting after. ‘She has first dibs on the best man.’ And if he was anything like the groom she was welcome to him. ‘Posy and I will have to make do with the ushers.’

‘You’re not impressed with your future brother-in-law?’

‘I didn’t say that.’ Had she?

‘You pulled a face.’

She lifted her shoulders a fraction. ‘Marrying the boss’s daughter is such a cliché. As long as Immi’s happy that’s all that matters.’ Feeling a bit guilty that she hadn’t quite taken to her future brother-in-law, she added, ‘Dad seems to like him.’

‘I congratulate him. Your father has very high standards.’

‘Er...yes...’ Talking about weddings with Cleve was too weird and, relieved to have finally reached the control office, she said, ‘Will you go and fuel up for me while I deal with the paperwork?’

His brows rose a fraction. ‘I’ve never known you let anyone but you touch her,’ he said. ‘You even service herself yourself.’

‘I’m cheap,’ she said, rather than admit that he was the only person she’d allow to touch the aircraft her father had given her on her eighteenth birthday.

The day she’d got her PPL.

The day Cleve had kissed her.

‘Do not drip any fuel on the fuselage,’ she said, taking the keys to the security lock from her pocket.

She would have tossed them to him but he reached out, wrapping his long, cold fingers around her hand to keep her from turning away. His eyes locked onto hers and she stopped breathing.

‘I’m honoured.’

‘Make that suckered,’ she said, just so that he wouldn’t think she was going soft. ‘You’ll be using your card to pay for the fuel.’

She would have turned away but he held her hand for a moment longer until, with a nod, he took the keys and walked away, leaving her normally warm hand like ice.

* * *

‘Do you want to take the stick?’ she asked, out of courtesy rather than any expectation that Cleve would say yes. He wasn’t a back-seat flyer and had no hang-ups about women pilots—he’d married one after all. The fact was, he hadn’t been flying much since the crash.

He complained that his time was fully occupied running the business these days, setting up the new office in Cyprus. And, when he was forced to leave his desk, the murmurs reaching her suggested that he was taking the co-pilot’s seat and letting his first officer have the stick.

That he had lost his nerve.

He shook his head, climbed aboard and closed his eyes as she taxied out to the runway. His attempt at humour on the subject of her bridesmaid dress had apparently drained him of conversation and any excitement about picking up the new aircraft would be inappropriate.

Forty silent minutes later she touched down and taxied to her personal parking space on the Marlowe Aviation airfield.

She didn’t wait for him to thank her. She signed off, climbed down and, before he could dismiss her, crossed to where the chief engineer, no doubt warned by the tower of their arrival, was waiting for them.

‘Hello, Jack.’

‘Andie...’ He took her hand, kissed her cheek, then looked up as Cleve joined them. ‘Cleve. Good to see you,’ he said, not quite quick enough to hide his shock at Cleve’s pallor. Any other time, any other man, Jack would have made a joke about women pilots, she would have rolled her eyes, and they would have got on with it.

‘Jack.’ Cleve’s brief acknowledgement did not encourage small talk.

‘Right, well, we’re all ready for you.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Andie, you’ll be interested in seeing the updates we’ve incorporated into the latest model of the Mayfly to come off the production line.’

It was a plea not to leave him alone with Cleve but, with the tension coming off him in waves, she wasn’t going anywhere.

‘I can’t wait,’ she said, touching her hand to Cleve’s elbow, a gentle prompt forward, and she felt the shock of that small contact jolt through him. She caught her breath as the responding flood of heat surged back along her arm, momentarily swamping her body.

She held her breath, somehow kept her smile in place as he pulled away from her.

‘The new tail design is largely down to Andie,’ Jack explained to Cleve as they walked towards the hangar. ‘The sooner she gets tired of life at altitude and gets back to the design office, the better.’

‘Miranda was born to fly,’ Cleve said before she could answer.

‘No doubt, but my time will come.’ Jack grinned confidently. ‘Some lucky man will catch her eye and she won’t want to be up and down all over the place once she starts a family.’

Desperate to cover the awkward silence that followed Jack’s epic foot-in-the-mouth moment, she crossed to the aircraft, sleek and gleaming white but for the new tail that bore the stylised red, gold and black goldfinch identifying the ever-growing Goldfinch Air Services fleet.

‘She’s a beauty, Jack.’

She turned to Cleve for his reaction but he looked hollow and she thought, not for the first time, that this very public support of Marlowe Aviation and the aircraft her father built had been a mistake.

‘Why don’t we go and deal with the paperwork first?’ she suggested. ‘If Immi’s in a good mood she might make us—’

‘Let’s get this over with,’ Cleve said, cutting her off before she could suggest a bracing cup of tea. But she was the one making all the right noises, asking all the questions as Jack ran through the new design details.

The chief engineer’s relief when a loudspeaker message summoned him to take a phone call was palpable.

‘I’m sorry but I have to take this,’ he said, handing her the clipboard. ‘We’ve just about finished the externals. Why don’t you take her out, try a few circuits? Get a feel for her.’

‘Thanks, Jack,’ she said, when Cleve did not reply. ‘We’ll see you later.’

‘I’ll be in the office...’

She gave him a reassuring nod when he hesitated, then turned back to Cleve.

He was staring at the aircraft, his face set as hard and grey as concrete. Her hand hovered near his elbow but she was afraid that if she touched him again he would shatter.

As if he sensed her uncertainty, he said, ‘Go and find your sister, sort out your dress. I’ve got this.’

‘I don’t think so.’ He turned on her but before he could speak she said, ‘You’re not fit to fly a kite right now.’

They seemed to stand there for hours, staring one another down and then, as if a veil had been lifted to reveal all the pain, all the grief he was suffering, his face seemed to dissolve.

Before she could think, reach for him, he’d turned and stumbled from the hangar.

The airfield was bounded on one side by a steeply wooded hill and in the few moments it had taken her to gather herself he had reached the boundary.

‘Stop!’

She grabbed his arm and he swung around. For a moment she thought he was going to fling her aside but instead he caught hold of her, pulling her to him and, his voice no more than a scrape against his vocal cords, he said, ‘Help me, Andie...’

He hadn’t called her that since the days when he’d teased her, encouraged her, kissed her in the shadowy corners of her father’s aircraft hangar and her stupid teenage heart had dreamed that one day they would fly to the stars.

He was shaking, falling apart and she reached out, slid her arms around his chest, holding him close, holding him together until he was still.

‘I’m sorry—’

She lifted a hand to his cheek and realised that it was wet with tears.

‘I can’t—’

‘Hush...’ She touched her lips to his to stop the words, closing her eyes as he responded not with the sweet, hot kisses that even now filled her dreams, but with something darker, more desperate, demanding. With a raw need that drilled down through the protective shell that she’d built around her heart, that she answered with all the deep-buried longing that she’d subsumed into flying.

She felt a shiver go through him.

‘Andie...’

There was such desperation in that one word and she slid her hands down to take his, hold them.

‘You’re cold,’ she said and, taking his hand, she led the way along the edge of the runway to the gate that led to her parents’ house. She unlocked the door and led him up the stairs and there, in the room filled with her old books, toys, dreams, she undressed him, undressed herself and then with her mouth, her hands, her body—giving him all the love hoarded inside her—she warmed him.


CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_55304222-1e98-5e30-a270-a5809c807a4d)

EXHAUSTED, A LITTLE SHAKY from a rough ferry crossing, Andie handed her passport to the border control officer.

‘Buongiorno, signora.’ He glanced at the back page of her passport and then gave her the kind of searching look a Roman traveller landing in the ancient port of Sant’Angelo two thousand years ago would have recognised. The kind of look that would bring even the most innocent traveller out in a guilty sweat. ‘What is the purpose of your visit to L’Isola dei Fiori?’

‘I’m running away,’ she muttered.

From her job, her life, from the man she’d been in love with since the life-changing moment when he’d applauded her touchdown in a treacherous crosswind.

Hiding the secret she was carrying.

‘Scusi?’

She swallowed down the lump in her throat. ‘I’m on holiday.’

He did not look convinced. She didn’t blame him but the clammy sweat sticking her shirt to her back had nothing to do with guilt.

‘You are travelling alone?’ he asked.

That rather depended on your definition of alone...

She nodded. ‘Yes, I’m on my own.’

‘And where are you staying?’

‘At Baia di Rose. The Villa Rosa.’ His brow rose almost imperceptibly. ‘My sister inherited it from her godmother. Sofia Romana,’ she added, in the face of his scepticism.

The man’s eyebrows momentarily lost touch with gravity. Clearly the mistress of the late King Ludano would not be everyone’s choice as godmother but Sofia had started school on the same day as their grandmother. Their friendship had endured through a long lifetime and by the time their fourth daughter had arrived her parents had probably been running out of godmother options.

He cleared his throat, returned to her passport, flipping through the pages. ‘You travel a great deal?’

‘Yes.’ She was in and out of airports all over Europe and the Middle East on a daily basis. ‘I’m a commercial pilot.’

‘I see.’ He gave her another of those long, thoughtful looks but it wasn’t his obvious suspicion that was making her feel faint, cling like a lifeline to the edge of the desk that separated them. ‘You look unwell, signora Marlowe.’

‘I’m not feeling that great,’ she admitted. Her skin was pale and clammy and her hair, blown out of the scarf she used to tie it back on the blustery deck of the ferry, was sticking to her cheeks and neck.

She knew exactly what he was thinking and in his place she’d probably think the same.

‘I have to ask you if you are carrying—’

‘A baby.’

She blurted out the word. It was the first time she’d said it out loud. She’d told her sister that she was tired, needed a break, and Posy, unable to get away herself, had been so happy that someone would visit the villa, make sure everything was okay, that she hadn’t asked her why she wasn’t going to some resort where she could lie back and be waited on.

The first person in the world to know that she was going to have a baby was a border control officer who was about to ask her if she was carrying an illegal substance... ‘I’m carrying a baby,’ she said, her hand instinctively rising to her waist in an age-old protective gesture as she backed away from the desk. ‘And I’m about to be sick.’

The ferry crossing from Italy had been choppy. The sandwich she’d forced herself to eat had gone overboard within minutes of leaving the harbour but her stomach seemed capable of creating a great deal out of nothing. It had been years since her last visit to the island but the Porto had not changed and she made it to the toilet before she disgraced herself.

Once the spasms had passed she splashed her face with cold water, retied her hair, took a breath and opened the door to find the officer waiting with her passport, wheelie and a sympathetic smile.

‘Complimenti, signora.’ She hardly knew how to respond and he nodded as if he understood that she was feeling grim and might just be having mixed feelings about her happy condition. As if that were the only problem... ‘My wife suffered with the vomito in the early days but it will soon pass,’ he said. ‘Relax, put your feet up in the sun and you will soon feel better. Is anyone meeting you?’

‘I was going to grab a taxi.’

He nodded, escorted her to the rank, spoke sharply to the driver who leapt out to take her bag.

‘I have told him to take it slowly, signora.’

Out of the noisy terminal building, standing in the fresh air, the afternoon sunshine warning her face, she managed a smile. ‘Did he hear you?’

His shrug and wry smile suggested that his words might well have fallen on deaf ears.

‘Could you ask him to stop at a shop...il supermercato? I need to pick up some things.’

He exchanged a few words with the driver. ‘He will take you and wait.’

‘Grazie.’

‘Prego. Bon fortuna, signora. Enjoy your holiday.’

Andie lay back against the cool leather of the seat as the driver drew carefully away from the taxi rank, out of the port and after a few minutes pulled into the car park in front of a small supermarket.

Her sense of smell, heightened by pregnancy, had her hurrying past the deli counter. She quickly filled her basket with some basic essentials and returned to the car.

* * *

‘Baia di Rose?’ the driver asked.

‘Sì. Lentamente,’ she added, using the word that the border official had used and Sofia had called after them as they’d raced down the path to the beach. Slowly...

‘Sì, signora,’ he said, pulling out into the traffic with exaggerated caution.

It didn’t last.

He was a native of this ancient crossroads in the Mediterranean; his blood was a distillation of the Greek, Carthaginian and Roman invaders who had, over the millennia, conquered and controlled the island. His car was his chariot and the hoots of derision from other drivers as they passed him were an affront to his manhood.

She hung onto the strap as he put his foot down and flung the car around sharp bends, catching glimpses of the sea as they climbed up out of the city and headed across the island to Baia di Rose and the villa that guarded the headland.

She’d left London on a cold, grey day that spring had hardly touched. How many times had she and her sisters done that in the past when her grandmother had whisked the four of them out of England in the school holidays to give her mother a break?

She still remembered the excitement of arriving in a spring so different from the one they’d left behind. Being met in a sleek Italian car by Alberto who, with his wife, Elena, looked after the Villa Rosa, its gardens and acted as chauffeur to Sofia and who treated them as if they were little princesses. The exotic flowers, houses painted in soft pastels and faded terracotta and the turquoise sea glittering in invitation.

The house was only a few hundred yards up the hill from the village, perched on an outcrop in a swathe of land that stretched from the coast to the rugged, forested lands that led to the peak of the mountains in the heart of the island that King Ludano had declared as a national park.

Portia, her older and more worldly sister had shocked them all by suggesting the real reason was to keep his visits to his mistress from prying eyes.

Whatever his motive it had preserved this part of the island from commercial exploitation, the ribbon development of hotels along the east coast.

The last stretch to an elevated promontory was reached by a narrow, twisting road. As children, they’d competed to be the first to catch a glimpse of the pale pink Villa Rosa. With its tiered roof and French doors opening onto a garden that fell away to the sheltered cove below, it was so utterly different from home.

Inside was just as exciting. Endless rooms to explore and the excitement of being allowed to join grown-up parties in the vast drawing room with its arched ceiling painted in the pale blue, pink, mauves of an evening sky.

There were dusty attics filled with treasures to explore if you dared brave the spiders and, her favourite place of all, the cool covered veranda looking out to sea where you could curl up with a book in the heat of the afternoon.

When they were children the gates had stood wide open in welcome and as soon as the car came to a halt they’d tumbled out, rushed down to the beach, kicked off their shoes and socks and stood at the water’s edge, shrieking with excitement as the water ran over their feet.

Today the gates were closed and it was too early in the year to swim in the sea. Too late in the day to go down to the beach. She just wanted to curl up somewhere and sleep off the flight from London, the ferry trip across from the Italian mainland.

The driver asked her a question in something that wasn’t quite Italian, that she didn’t understand, but his look of concern suggested he was asking if she was in the right place. She nodded, smiled, paid him and waited while he turned and headed back down the hill.

Once he’d gone she took the weighty bunch of keys that Posy had given her from her bag, opened the small side gate and stepped into the peace and tranquillity of the villa courtyard.

On one side there was a low range of buildings that had once been stables but, for as long as she had been coming here, had been used as garages and storerooms. On the other side of the courtyard was the rear of the house with its scullery and kitchen. The door that, wet and sandy from the beach, they’d used as children.

It had been eight years since their last visit. She and Immi had been sixteen, Posy fifteen. Portia hadn’t come with them. She had been in her first year at uni and thought herself far too grown-up for a family holiday by the sea, even in a glamorous villa owned by the mistress of the island’s monarch.

Those years had not been kind to the villa.

King Ludano had died and Sofia had been left alone with only her memories to warm her in their love nest. Alone without her lover to call whenever something needed fixing.

It was an old house, there were storms in the winter and the occasional rumble from the unstable geology of the island.

The pink was faded and stained where rainwater had run from broken and blocked gutters. There were some tiles missing from the scullery roof and there was a crack in the wall where the stucco had fallen away and a weed had found a home.

Posy’s wonderful bequest from her godmother needed some seriously expensive TLC and she would have been lumbered with something of a white elephant if it weren’t for its location.

The Villa Rosa was the only property on this spectacular part of the coast. It had a private beach hidden from passing boats by rocky headlands that reached out into the sea like sheltering arms and, thanks to the island’s volcanic past, a pool fed by a hot spring where you could bathe even in the depths of winter.

As soon as she put it on the market she would be swamped with offers.

The sea sparkled invitingly in the low angle of the sun, but this early in March it would still be cold and all she wanted was hot mint tea and somewhere to sleep.

Tomorrow she would go down to the beach, feel the sand beneath her feet, let the cold water of the Mediterranean run over her toes. Then, like an old lady, she would go and lie up to her neck in a rock pool heated by the hot spring and let its warmth melt away the confused mix of feelings; the desperate hope that she would turn around, Cleve would be there and, somehow, everything would be back to normal.

It wasn’t going to happen and she wasn’t going to burden Cleve with this.

She’d known what she was doing when she’d chosen to see him through a crisis in the only way she knew how.

She’d seen him at his weakest, broken, weeping for all that he’d lost, and she’d left before he woke so that he wouldn’t have to face her. Struggle to find something to talk about over breakfast.

She’d known that there was only ever going to be one end to the night they’d spent together. One of them would have to walk away and it couldn’t be Cleve.

Four weeks ago she was an experienced pilot working for Goldfinch Air Services, a rapidly expanding air charter and freight company. She could have called any number of contacts and walked into another job.

Three weeks and six days ago she’d spent a night with the boss and she was about to become a cliché. Pregnant, single and grounded.

She’d told the border official that she was running away and she was, but not from a future in which there would be two of them. The baby she was carrying was a gift. She was running away from telling Cleve that she was pregnant.

He would have to know. He would want to know, but the news would devastate him.

She needed to sort out exactly what she was going to do, have a plan firmly in place, everything settled, so that when she told him the news he understood that she expected nothing. That he need do nothing...

She sorted through the keys, found one that fitted the back door. It moved a couple of inches and then stuck. Assuming that it had swollen in the winter rain, she put her shoulder to it, gave it a shove and her heart rate went through the roof as she was showered with debris.

‘Argh...’ She jumped back, brushing furiously at her hair, her shoulders, shaking herself, shaking out her hair, certain that there would be spiders...

* * *

Cleve tossed his cap onto its hook and crossed to the white board listing the flight schedule.

‘Where’s Miranda?’ he asked. ‘I don’t see her on the board.’

‘She’s taken a few weeks’ leave.’

Leave? He turned to Lucy, his office manager. ‘Since when?’

‘Yesterday afternoon. She flew down to Kent in the morning and picked up the guys from their golf tournament but she wasn’t feeling too good after lunch,’ she said, without looking up from her VDU. ‘She hasn’t been looking that great for a few days.’

‘She’s sick?’ His heart seized at the thought.

She shrugged. ‘She appears to have picked something up. The punters take exception to the pilot using the sick bags so I told her to take a few days off to get over it.’ Lucy finally sat back, looked up. ‘She hasn’t taken more than the odd day off since last summer so she decided to make it a proper break.’

‘As opposed to an improper one?’

‘Let’s hope she gets that lucky.’

He bit down hard in an effort to hold in the response that immediately leapt to his lips. ‘Why didn’t you run this by me?’

‘You’ve been in Ireland for the last three days.’

‘You’ve heard of email, text, the phone?’

‘I’ve heard you tell me not to bother you with the minor details,’ she reminded him. ‘If you want me to call and ask you to approve time off for someone who never takes a day off sick, who hasn’t had a holiday in nearly a year, then you need to start looking for a new office manager.’

‘What? No...’ Lucy might be a total grouch but he couldn’t run the office without her. ‘No, of course not, it’s just that...’ It was just that he’d finally geared up the courage to face Miranda, talk to her. ‘She’s...that is everyone...is supposed to give a month’s notice before taking time off.’

‘She could have taken a week’s sick leave,’ she pointed out, clearly not impressed with his people skills.

‘I know. I didn’t mean...’

He turned to the gallery of Goldfinch pilots on the office wall. Miranda looked back at him from her place in the top row, her calm, confident smile never failing to instil confidence in her passengers and guilt, sitting like a lump of lead in his chest, exploded.

He’d broken every rule in the book. He’d lost control, taken advantage of her kindness, behaved in a way that he would have utterly condemned in anyone else.

He’d been a wreck and Miranda’s sweet tenderness had been a healing balm, a gift that he could never repay. Her scent, the softness of her skin, her hair falling from its pins and tumbling over his skin, the life-giving sweetness of her mouth...

Every time he thought about her he was swamped with the memory of that night. Waking with her spooned against his body, the curve of her neck just inches from his lips. Fighting the temptation to rouse her with a kiss and take more of her precious warmth.

Not moving because he knew what he would see in those tender green and gold eyes.

Understanding, pity, a smile that let him off the hook and the awkwardness of a morning after that neither of them knew how to deal with.

Not moving, because the moment she woke it would be over.

He’d drifted back into the kind of sleep that had eluded him for more than a year and the next time he woke, hours later, it was to a note propped against a cold mug of tea.

I’m taking the new aircraft back to base. Take my two-seater, or the train runs hourly at seven minutes past.

See you Monday.

M.

Bright and businesslike, a forget-it-and-move-on message. He couldn’t leave it like that and he couldn’t wait for the train.

He’d flown her little aircraft back to base, his need to see her, reassure her, overriding the PTSD he’d been experiencing since Rachel’s crash. In the darkness of that night there had been no thought of protection and he needed her to know that she was safe, but by the time he touched down no one was answering at her flat and her car was gone.

She must have anticipated the possibility of him turning up at her door, tongue-tied, not knowing what to say and chosen to put some distance between them so that she could face him in the office on Monday morning as if nothing had happened.

It was, undoubtedly, the sensible thing to do and, maybe, if he’d been there on Monday, a shared look would have been enough to get them past that first awkward moment, but on Sunday night the call had come from Cyprus. His local partner had been hurt in a car crash and he’d had to fly out to take control.

He’d told himself that he would call her; he’d picked up the phone a dozen times and then put it down again. Unable to see her face, read her body language, have a clue what she was thinking, he had no idea what to say. Men were from Mars...

His father relied on flowers to cover the word gap and he’d got as far as logging onto an online florist but stalled at the first hurdle when he was invited to choose an occasion. Birthday, anniversary, every cause for celebration you could imagine. Unsurprisingly, there wasn’t an option that would cover this particular scenario.

And what flowers?

His father had been lucky—all it took was a tired bunch of chrysanthemums from the garage forecourt to provoke an eye roll, a shake of the head and a smile from his mother.

His own experience of married life suggested that nothing less than long-stemmed red roses would do if you were grovelling. No power on earth would induce him to send them to Miranda.

She deserved more. Much more. She deserved to hear him say the words. If only he could work out what they were.

He’d arrived back from Cyprus determined to clear the air but she was in the Gulf picking up a couple of mares that were booked for a visit to stud. Then he was in France and so it had gone on. Maybe it was coincidence, but if someone had arranged their schedules to keep them apart they couldn’t have done a better job.

Miranda couldn’t change his schedule, but she could swap her own around. Clearly she needed space and he’d had to allow her that.

Until today.

He’d flown back from Ireland determined that, no matter what, he’d talk to her. He still could.

‘I’ll stop by on the way home and take her some grapes,’ he said. It was okay to be concerned about someone you’d known, worked with for years. And grapes didn’t have the dangerously emotive subtext of flowers. Red, black, white—they were just grapes.

‘You’ll have a wasted journey. She checked the times of the trains to London before she left and then called her sister to let her know what time she’d be arriving.’

‘Which sister?’

‘Portia was on the box covering the post-awards parties, she’d have flown home if it was Immi, so it must be the one with the Royal Ballet.’

‘Posy. Did she say how long she’d be away?’

‘She asked me to take her off the schedule for a month.’

‘A month!’

‘She’s worked a lot of extra days covering for other people, including you. She’s owed six weeks.’ She gestured in the direction of his office. ‘Maybe she said more in the note she left on your desk.’

A cold, sick feeling hit the pit of his stomach as he saw the sealed envelope with his name written neatly in Miranda’s handwriting.

He didn’t have to open it to know that she wasn’t coming back.

He sat down, read the brief note saying that she was taking leave owed in lieu of notice. She didn’t give a reason; she didn’t have to. Determined not to let this happen, he reached for the phone.

‘Imogen, it’s Cleve Finch.’

‘Hi, Cleve. What can I do for you? There isn’t a problem with the new aircraft?’

‘No... No, it’s fine. I just need Posy’s address.’

‘Posy?’ She sounded surprised, but there was nothing guarded in her response. Evidently Miranda hadn’t shared what had happened with her twin.

‘I’m going to be in London this evening and I wanted to drop something off for Miranda,’ he said, trotting out the excuse he’d rehearsed. ‘Obviously I’d have asked her for the address but her phone appears to be switched off. She is staying with Posy?’

‘You’re kidding. Posy has a room you couldn’t swing a cat in. Andie was just dropping in to pick up the keys before catching her flight.’

‘Flight?’ So much for his plan to take her out to dinner somewhere, talk things through. ‘Where’s she gone?’

‘To L’Isola dei Fiori. Didn’t she tell you?’

‘I’ve been in Ireland all week.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, Posy inherited an amazing old house from her godmother. It’s got a fabulous conservatory and the most glorious gardens...’ Her voice trailed off. ‘I imagine they’re all overgrown.’ There was a little sigh. ‘We used to stay there in the school holidays. It was magic.’

‘I’m sure it was wonderful, but—’

‘Sorry, I was having a moment... Posy can’t get away until late summer and she’s been worried about leaving it empty so Andie’s using her leave to give it an airing. It’s a bit off the beaten track,’ she added. ‘She might not get a signal. Is it important or will it wait until she comes back?’

‘What?’

‘Whatever you were going to drop off at Posy’s?’

‘Yes... No...’

She laughed. ‘Okay...’

‘Yes, it’s important. No, it won’t wait,’ he said, quickly.

‘In that case you’ll want her address.’


CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_ba358003-328f-5bc9-bc10-1a0bc194eea0)

ANDIE GATHERED HERSELF AND, having braved the door for a second time, discovered that it was the scullery ceiling that had sagged and was blocking the door.

Afraid she’d bring the whole lot down if she tried to force her way in, she trundled her wheelie and shopping around to the main entrance, found the correct heavy iron key and let herself in.

There were no worries about wet sandy feet messing up the gleaming marble tiled floor now. It was thick with dust and there was a drift of feathers where a bird must have got in through the roof and panicked.

She gave a little shiver, hoping that it had got out again.

Everywhere was shuttered. The only light was from the open door and, as the sun slid behind the mountains, that was fading fast. Using her bag to prop the door open, she crossed to a light switch but when she flicked it down nothing happened. She tried another in case it was just a duff bulb but with the same result.

She’d remembered the house as inviting, full of light, air, laughter. She’d never given a thought to how it might be in the winter, to be alone here, but the damp chill, dark shadows were weirdly creepy and suddenly this didn’t seem such a great idea.

She could manage with candles for light—there had always been tall white candles in silver holders throwing their soft light in the evenings—but she was going to need hot water to clean the place up.

If rainwater had got into the wiring she was in trouble.

She hurried through the house opening shutters, letting in what light remained before braving the cupboard under the stairs in search of a fuse box.

There was good news and bad news. The bad news was that this had to be a regular occurrence. The good news meant that there was a torch and fuse wire on top of the old-fashioned fuse box.

More bad news was that the torch battery was on its last legs and she checked the fuses as quickly as she could, found the blown one and had just finished when the torch died. She shoved it back into place and breathed a sigh of relief as a light came on in the hall.

She carried her shopping into the old-fashioned kitchen. Someone had had the sense to leave the door of the huge old fridge open. It would need a good wash down but holding her breath in case it blew another fuse, she switched it on at the mains, still holding her breath as it stuttered before reluctantly humming to life.

Better.

She tried a tap. Nothing. The same someone had sensibly turned off the water and drained the tank.

She left the taps turned fully on and looked under the sink for a stopcock. It wasn’t there and she opened the door to the scullery.

It was a mess. Directly below the damaged part of the roof the rain had seeped down through the upper floor and the ceiling was sagging dangerously and she certainly wasn’t about to risk switching on the light.

Using the little light spilling in through the kitchen door, she picked her way across the debris to the big old sink in the corner and opened the door of the cupboard beneath it.

Something scuttled across her foot and she jumped back, skin goosed, heart pounding.

It was a mouse, she told herself. Not a spider. She’d seen a tail. She was almost sure she’d seen a tail...

Swallowing hard—and desperately trying to think why she’d thought this was a good idea—she bent down and peered into the cupboard. It was too dark to see anything and too deep for her to be able to reach the stopcock without getting down on her hands and knees and sticking her head inside. She swallowed again, knelt gingerly and, with a little squeak as her face brushed against cobwebs, made a grab for the tap handle.

She was about to give it a turn when the bright beam of a torch lit up the inside of the cupboard to reveal the thick festoon of cobwebs and a startled mouse frozen in the spotlight.

Then, out of the darkness, a man’s voice rapped a sharp, ‘Come?’

Already on edge, a notch away from a scream, she leapt back, caught her head on the edge of the cupboard and saw stars.

‘Mi dispiace, signora...’

Too damn late to be sorry...

‘Don’t dispiace me!’ Andie staggered to her feet and, hand on top of her ringing head, turned furiously on the intruder. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

‘Oh, you’re English.’

‘What in the name of glory has that got to do with anything?’

‘Nothing. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’

‘Epic fail,’ she retaliated gamely, but her shaky voice wouldn’t have scared the mice, let alone the man standing in the doorway, blocking out what little light there was. Half blinding her with his torch. She put up her arm to shield her eyes from the glare. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’

‘Matthew Stark.’ He lowered the torch, took a step forward, began to offer her his hand but wisely thought better of it. ‘I’ve been keeping an eye on the villa for the owner.’

‘Oh? She didn’t mention you when I picked up the keys. Rosalind Marlowe is my sister.’

‘Rosalind?’

‘She prefers Posy.’ She would have cursed her sister for not warning her that she had appointed a caretaker but she’d carefully timed her arrival at her sister’s digs for the moment when she would be dashing off to warm up for the evening performance. Sisters had a way of looking at you and instantly knowing that something was wrong. ‘I’m Miranda Marlowe.’

‘Oh...’ He sighed with relief, clearly not that keen on evicting a squatter. ‘Of course. You were at the funeral. If she’d let me know you were arriving I would have come up earlier and turned on the water. Checked that everything was working.’

‘It was a last-minute decision and, since I’m the practical one in the family, she knew I could handle a stopcock—’ spiders were something else and, stepping back to let him in, she said, ‘—but knock yourself out, Matthew Stark.’

‘Of course.’ He stepped forward.

‘Don’t stand on the mouse,’ she warned.

‘You like mice?’

‘Not in the kitchen, but I don’t want to have to clean up the bloody body of one you’ve squashed with your size tens.’

‘Right,’ he said, his tone clearly that of a man who wished he’d stayed at home. ‘No squashed mice...’

That was one squashed mouse too many and her stomach heaved as he ducked beneath the sink. He immediately backed out again and looked up at her. Breathing through the wave of nausea, she was grateful for the dark.

‘You’d better turn the tap on or the air—’

‘It’s already done,’ she snapped.

‘Of course it is,’ he muttered.

He re-emerged from the cupboard a moment later with a cobweb decorating his hair, which made her feel marginally more generously disposed towards him.

They retreated to the kitchen; he brushed the dust off his hands. ‘Shall we start again? And it’s Matt, by the way. Nobody calls me Matthew.’

‘Andie,’ she replied discouragingly as the pipes began to clang and air spurted noisily from the tap. ‘How did you know I was here? Did I trip an alarm?’

‘Chance would be a fine thing. No mobile signal, no Internet. I saw the light.’

‘Very low tech.’

‘You work with what you have. We were Sofia’s nearest neighbours as we live at the edge of the village. I looked out for her.’ He looked around. ‘Are you staying here on your own?’

She recognised that his question was provoked by concern—obviously if there had been anyone else in the house they would have appeared by now—but, conscious of her isolation, she responded with a question of her own.

‘You knew Sofia? How was she? I hadn’t seen her for several years before she died.’

‘Independent, crotchety, glamorous to the end and impossible to help but she was kind to my mother. She’s crippled with arthritis, which is why we came to the island. For the warmth, the hot springs,’ he added.

‘I’m sorry.’

He shrugged. ‘It is what it is. She was using the spa at Sant’Aria but when Sofia heard she invited her to use the hot spring here on the beach whenever she liked. I laid some decking across the sand which made it easier for both of them to access the pool. I think she enjoyed having someone to talk to.’

‘My grandmother still came when she could.’

‘Yes. I met her once... Posy is happy to continue with the arrangement until the house is sold.’

She sensed a question and nodded. ‘Your mother is welcome any time.’

‘Thanks.’ He looked around. ‘This isn’t exactly home from home. Do you need any help clearing up? That ceiling is a mess.’

‘Are you a builder?’ she asked.

‘No, but I can handle a broom.’

He obviously meant well but she just wanted to lie down.

‘I think it’s going to need a little more than that but if you don’t mind I’ll worry about that in the morning.’

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ he asked, frowning.

‘Long day, rough crossing,’ she said, letting go of the chair back she was clutching for support. ‘And the taxi ride up here was rather more exciting than I’m used to.’

He didn’t look convinced but he let it go. ‘If you’re sure, I’ll leave you in peace.’ He paused at the door. ‘There’s no phone line but you’ll find a cord by the bed in the master suite and another by the sofa in her little sitting room. If you need anything, a tug will ring a bell I rigged up in the garden. I will usually hear it. Very low tech,’ he added, a touch sarcastically, ‘but—’

‘You work with what you have.’

He’d put himself out, come running when he thought Posy’s house was being robbed and she’d been barely polite.

‘Thank you, Matt. You’ve been a very good neighbour and I promise you, I’m a much nicer person when I’ve had eight hours’ sleep.’

‘I’m sorry I gave you a fright.’

‘You saved me from having to stick my head in a cupboard full of cobwebs,’ she said, with a little shiver. ‘You are totally forgiven.’

He smiled, nodded, headed for the door. She watched him out of sight then shut the door and locked it, returned to the kitchen. The water was now running freely and she turned off the taps.

She had light and water, all she needed now was somewhere to sleep. Sofia had a master suite on the ground floor but she couldn’t bring herself to use that. As children they’d slept upstairs and she had fondly imagined curling up in her childhood bed, watching the lights of passing ships. Right now the prospect wasn’t that inviting.

The stairs were cobweb festooned, littered with stuff she didn’t want to examine too closely. No worries about what she was going to be doing tomorrow. Cleaning...

She brushed her teeth in the downstairs cloakroom, washed her face in cold water.

There was a throw on a sofa in the room Sofia had called her ‘snug’. Andie opened the French doors, hung it over the edge of the veranda so that any creepy crawlies would fall down into the garden and gave it a thorough shake.

Out in the distance she could see the lights of a ship and she paused for a moment, leaning on the wall, breathing in the fresh air coming off the sea. Then a yawn caught her and she shut the French doors, climbed into her PJs and wrapped herself in the lightweight silk robe she’d packed, wishing she’d brought her fleecy one.

Having located the bell cord and tied it up safely out of harm’s way—the last thing she needed was to set it off and have Matt racing back convinced that she had a concussion—she stretched out and was asleep almost before she’d closed her eyes.

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.





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