- -
- 100%
- +
‘Relax.’
His sister’s voice echoed down the phone, and he imagined her curled up on the sofa in Belmont Manor while her two small sons played havoc around her.
‘Lucas Brightmore recommended the most discreet agency in London. Their staff sign cast-iron confidentiality agreements and would never divulge anything you tell them. I think it could work.’
‘Cassie, you are a menace. I don’t care how discreet this … secretary is. If I wanted a personal assistant I would have brought one. I have excellent staff working for me. Remember? And I would never, ever invite them here to the villa. I need privacy and space to get the work done. You know me.’ His voice slowed and dropped lower in pitch. ‘I have to get my head into the detail on my own before I can go public with anything. And I need peace and quiet to do that.’
‘You’re right. But this is not a business project you are evaluating. This is our mother’s life story. It has to do her justice, and you’re the only person in the family with the faintest bit of creativity. I know I couldn’t do it in a million years. I don’t have nearly enough patience. Especially when it comes to the difficult bits.’
Cassie took a breath and her voice softened.
‘Look, Mark, this is hard for all of us. And it’s incredibly brave of you to take over the project. But that makes it even more important to get the job done as quickly as you can. Then we can all get on with our lives and Dad will be happy.’
‘Happy?’ Mark repeated with a dismissive cough. ‘You mean like he’s happy about my plans to renovate those derelict cottages on the estate into holiday lets? Or the restructuring plans for the business that he’s been blocking since Christmas?’
‘Probably not,’ Cassie answered. ‘But you know as well as I do that it isn’t about you or me. It has a lot more to do with the fact that he’s ill for the first time in his life and he’s just lost his wife in a surgical procedure she never even told him about. He doesn’t know how to deal with that any more than the rest of us.’
Mark ran his tongue over his parched lips. ‘How is he today?’
The delay before Cassie answered said more than the sadness inherent in her reply. ‘About the same. This round of chemotherapy has really knocked him back.’ Then her steely determination kicked back in, tinged with concern. ‘You don’t need to put yourself through this. Hand back the advance from the publisher and let some journo write Mum’s biography. Come home and run your business and get on with your life. The past can take care of itself.’
‘Some journo? No, Cassie. The press destroyed Mum’s last chance of dignity, and I don’t even want to think about what they’d do with a true-life exposé based on lies, innuendo and stupid gossip.’ He shook his head and felt a shiver run down his spine despite the heat. ‘We know that her friends have already been approached by two writers for hire looking for dirt. Can you see the headlines? Read All About It: The True Sordid Past of the Real Crystal Leighton Belmont.’ He swallowed hard on a dry throat. ‘It would kill him. And I refuse to let her down like that again.’
‘Then finish the book our mother started. But do it fast. The agency said they were sending their best ghost writer, so be nice. I’m your sister, and I love you, but sometimes you can be a little intense. Oh. Have to go. Your nephews are awake and need feeding. Again. Take care.’
‘You, too,’ Mark replied, but she had already put the phone down.
He exhaled slowly and willed his heart rate to slow.
He had never been able to stay angry with Cassie. His sister had been the one constant in his father’s life ever since their mother had died. She had her own husband, a toddler and a new baby to take care of, but she adored the manor house where they had grown up and was happy to make a home there. Her husband was a doctor at the local hospital whom Cassie had met when she’d taken their father for a check-up. Mark knew that he could totally rely on her to take care of their father for a few weeks while he took time out of the office.
She had even taken over the role of peacemaker on the rare occasion when he went back to Belmont Manor.
But she shouldn’t have talked to the publisher without telling him about it.
Suddenly the decision to come to Paxos to finish the biography seemed ridiculous. He’d thought that being on his own would help, but instead he’d become more agitated and irritable by the day. He needed to do things. Make things happen. Take responsibility just like he’d always done. It infuriated him that he’d found it impossible to focus on the task he had set himself for more than a few minutes without having to get up and pace around, desperate for an opportunity to procrastinate.
Cassie was right. This biography was too close. Too personal.
His mother had always been a hopeless housekeeper, and organisation had never been one of her strong points. She’d liked the creative world, and enjoyed making sense of the jumble of random photographs, letters, newspaper clippings and memorabilia.
And he was just the same. An artist in many ways. His natural inclination was to push through the boundaries of possibility to see what lay beyond and shake things up. Little wonder that he was increasingly at loggerheads with his father’s almost obsessive need to keep things in order. Compliant. Unchanging. Private and quiet.
Or at least that had been the case until six months ago.
But now?
Now his father was on his second round of chemotherapy, his beloved mother had effectively died on a plastic surgeon’s operating table, and his on-off girlfriend had finally given up on him and met someone she actually seemed to love and who loved her in return.
Mark felt as though the foundations on which he had based his entire life had been ripped out from under him.
His fingers wrapped tightly around the back of the chair until the knuckles turned white with the pressure.
No. He could handle this trauma. Just as he had abandoned his own life so that he could take his brother’s place in the family.
There was no point in getting angry about the past.
He had given his word. And he would see it happen on his own, with the privacy and the space to work things through. The last thing he needed right now was a stranger entering his private space, and the sooner he persuaded her that the publisher was wrong and she could head off back to the city the better.
Think. He needed to think.
To stop herself shaking Lexi gripped her shoulder bag with one hand and pressed the other against the back of the leather sofa. She couldn’t risk ruining her carefully contrived show of being completely unfazed as she looked at Mark Belmont, pacing up and down the patio next to the swimming pool, her cell phone pressed to his ear.
Only this was not the business-guru version of The Honourable Mark Belmont that usually graced the covers of international business magazines around the world. Oh, no. She could have dealt with that stiff, formally dressed office clone quite easily. This version was an entirely different sort of man: much more of a challenge for any woman.
The business suit was gone. Mark was wearing a pair of loose white linen trousers and a short-sleeved pale blue striped polo shirt that perfectly matched the colour of his eyes. His toned muscular arms and bare feet were tanned as dark as the scowl he had greeted her with, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a bronzed, muscular chest.
His dark brown hair might have been expertly cut into tight curls, but he hadn’t shaved, and his square jaw was covered in a light stubble much more holiday laid-back than designer businessman. But, Lord, it suited him perfectly.
She knew several fashion stylists who would have swooned just at the sight of him.
This was a completely different type of beast from the man who’d defended his mother so valiantly in the hospital. This was Mark Belmont in his natural setting. His territory. His home.
Oh, my.
She could lie and pretend that her burning red neck was simply due to the heat of a Greek island in late June and the fact that she was overdressed, but she knew better.
Her curse had struck yet again.
She was always like this around Adonis-handsome men. They were like gorgeous baubles on display in a shop window. She could ogle them all day but never dared to touch. Because they were always so far out of reach that she knew she would never be able to afford one. And even if she could afford one it would never match the disorganised chaos of her life.
This particular bauble had dark eyebrows which were heavy and full of concern. He looked tense. Annoyed and anxious.
It had seemed only right to ring the publisher for him. Just to clarify things.
Only judging by the expression on his face the news that her assignment was not a practical joke after all had not gone down well.
Normally her clients were delighted that a fairy godmother had dropped into their world to help them out of a tricky situation.
Apparently Mark Belmont was not seeing his situation in quite the same way.
She had to persuade him to allow her to stay and help him with … with what? She still had no idea what type of book Mark Belmont was writing. Business management? A family history? Or … she swallowed … the obvious. A memoir of his mother.
Lexi looked up as Mark turned towards her from the door, lowering the phone, and searched his face for something—anything—that would help her make the decision.
And she found it. In his eyes of frosty blue.
The same eyes that had looked at her with such pain mixed with contempt on that terrible day in the hospital. When his heart had been breaking.
Decision made. If he could survive writing about his late mother then she would do her best to make the book the best it could be. Even without his help.
She could make this work. It would take a lot of effort, and she would have to be as stubborn as a stubborn thing in Stubbornland, but she could do it. She had stood her ground before, and she’d do it again.
Mark stood still for a moment, eyes closed, tapping the cell phone against the side of his head.
‘If you’re quite finished with my phone, Mr Belmont?’ A sweet, charming voice echoed out from behind his back. ‘It tends not to function very well after being used as a percussion instrument.’
Mark opened his eyes and stared at the offending cell phone as though he had never seen it before. He’d never used a purple phone in his life and he was extremely tempted to throw the offending article into the pool and leave it there. With its owner. The hack writer.
Fortunately for the phone, good manners kicked in and, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, he turned and extended his arm towards Lexi.
To her credit, she was not wearing a self-satisfied smirk but the same look of professional non-confrontational indifference he was used to seeing from city suits around the boardroom table where some of his riskier ideas were discussed.
Except for him this was not a job. It was very personal. And even the idea of sharing his deepest concerns and emotions about his parents made him bristle with resentment and refusal to comply.
He hadn’t built a venture-capital company from the ruins of his father’s business without taking risks, but they had been calculated risks, based on information he had personally checked and worked on until he’d known that the family’s money would not be wasted on the investment.
This girl—this woman—in this ridiculous outfit had arrived at his home without his approval.
His sister might have confidence in the talent agency, but he knew nothing about the plan, and if there was one thing guaranteed to annoy him it was things being planned behind the scenes without his knowledge.
Cassie was perfectly aware of that fact, but she’d done it anyway. Her intentions might be excellent, but the reality was a little difficult to stomach.
A light tapping broke Mark out of his reverie, and he flashed a glance at the girl just in time to see her keying furiously into the cell phone, her sparkly purple-painted fingernails flashing in the sunlight. Although how she could see through those huge sunglasses was a mystery to him.
In the living room she had been more stunned than stunning, but in the bright white light reflected back from the patio her skin appeared pale and almost translucent, as though she hadn’t seen sunlight for quite some time. The contrast between her English-rose complexion and the startlingly bright scarves wrapped around her neck was so great that it distracted him for a moment from the fact that she was talking.
‘I’ll be with you in a moment, Mr Belmont,’ she said away from the phone. ‘I’m just trying to find out the location of the nearest hotel on the island. Unless, of course, you can recommend one to me?’
She looked up and gave him a half smile—a pink-cheeked, polite kind of smile that still managed to brighten her whole face, drawing his full attention.
‘I apologise for not booking accommodation before I arrived, but this assignment was rather last-minute. I’ll need to stay somewhere close by, so I don’t waste too much time travelling back and forth. Don’t worry,’ she added, ‘I’ll be out of your hair within the hour.’
‘A hotel? That is quite out of the question,’ he answered.
‘Oh?’ She raised her eyebrows and her fingers stilled. ‘And why is that?’
Mark pushed his hands into his pockets to keep them from fastening around that pretty pale neck and squeezing hard.
‘Well, for one thing there is indeed a small hotel in Gaios. But it is currently closed for over-running refurbishments. And secondly …’ He paused before saying the words. ‘Paxos is a very small island. People talk and ask questions. I hardly think it would be appropriate for you to stay in rented accommodation while you’re working on a confidential project for the Belmont family. And I’m afraid that you certainly don’t look like a package holiday tourist.’
To her credit, she didn’t look down at her outfit to check if something was amiss. ‘I don’t? Excellent. Because I have no intention of looking like a tourist. I want to look like me. As for confidentiality …? I can assure you that I’m totally discreet. Anything you tell me will be in strict confidence. I’ve worked on many confidential projects, and none of my previous clients ever had any problems with my work. Now, is there anything else you’d like to know before I head to town?’
He lifted his chin and dropped his shoulders back, chest out, legs braced, creating the sort of profile his media consultants had recommended would be perfect to grace the covers of business magazines. Judging by the slight widening of her eyes, it was equally effective on the patio.
‘Only this. You seem to be under the illusion that I’ve agreed to this arrangement. That is not the case. Any contract you might have is between my publisher and your agency. I certainly haven’t signed anything. And I have a big problem with being railroaded. Which is exactly how I’m feeling right now. I dislike surprises, Miss Sloane.’
She lifted her chin, and instantly the firmness of the jawline on her heart-shaped face screamed out to him that this was a girl who rarely took no for an answer.
‘It’s unfortunate that you weren’t expecting me,’ she replied with a tight smile, ‘but I can assure you that I have no plans to return home before this assignment is completed.’
She reached into the tiny pocket of her jacket, pulled out a small business card and presented it to him. ‘I’ve just survived two long international flights, one hour on the hydrofoil from Corfu, and twenty minutes negotiating car hire with the charming Greek gentleman at the port to get here. I don’t intend to leave until my boss instructs me to. So. May I suggest a compromise trial period? Let’s say twenty-four hours? And if you don’t find my services valuable, then I promise to jump into my hire car and get out of your life. One day. That’s all I’m asking.’
‘One day?’ Mark echoed through gritted teeth.
‘Absolutely.’
A smile warmed her lips, and for the first time since they’d met it was a real smile. The kind of smile that made the Cupid’s-bow curve of her full lips crinkle girlishly at the edges and the pink in her cheeks flush with enjoyment. She was enjoying this. And she was clearly determined to make him do all the work.
‘Very well. Twenty-four hours it is. In which case there is only one possible option,’ he continued. ‘You will be staying here at the villa with me until I decide whether I need your help or not, Miss Sloane.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘YOU want me to stay here at the villa?’ Lexi looked around the patio, then back towards the house. ‘You did say you lived here alone, Mr Belmont? Is that correct? I’ll take your silence as a yes. In that case, aren’t you worried about what your wife or girlfriend will think about the arrangement? A single man living here alone suddenly has a young lady houseguest? There are bound to be questions.’ Lexi glanced at him. ‘Perhaps you have nieces?’
‘I’m afraid not. Two nephews. Both under five. Go by the names of Charles and Freddie.’
‘Shame.’ She nodded and screwed up her face. ‘How about cousins? Old schoolfriends? Casual acquaintances that just happen to pass by?’
‘No subterfuge will be necessary, Miss Sloane. You can call yourself a business colleague or personal assistant for as long as you stay here. Take your pick.’
‘Business colleague it is. Personal assistant smacks too much of a girl who organises your dry-cleaning, runs your office and buys presents for your lucky lady-friends—of which I’m sure there are many.’
Lexi leaned forward slightly towards Mark.
‘I don’t actually perform those particular duties, by the way. In case you’re wondering. Ghostwriting. That’s it. Okay? Splendid. Now, seeing as I’ll be staying here, would you mind helping me with my suitcases? I do have quite a few.’
‘What do you mean a few?’
Mark strolled over to the edge of the patio and stared at the tiny hire car. Lexi tottered past him and descended the two low steps that curved down to the driveway.
‘You men have it easy.’ She laughed, opening up the boot and heaving the two massive matching cases out onto the pebble driveway. ‘A couple of suits and that’s it. But I’ve just spent three weeks on the road with different events every evening.’
A cabin bag and a leather Gladstone bag followed.
‘Clients expect a girl to wear different outfits for each film launch to keep the photographers happy,’ she added, walking around to the passenger door and flinging it open. The top garment bag had slipped a little down the back of the driver’s seat, so she tugged it free and folded it over one arm before grabbing hold of her travel bag with one hand and slinging the shoulder strap of her overnight case across the front of her jacket.
Lexi pushed the car door closed with one foot and looked around for Mark. He was standing open-mouthed, still watching her from the terrace as though he could hardly believe what he was looking at.
Lexi rolled her eyes, took a firmer hold of her bag and tottered across the pebbles of the car park onto the patio steps. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ she said, ‘I’ve left the heavy bags down by the car. Any time today will be good.’
‘No problem,’ Mark murmured under his breath. ‘The porter will be right with you.’
He reached for his shoes, which he had stashed under the lounger. Unfortunately, as he bent over, Lexi tottered past his very fine rear end in her high-heeled sandals, and as he stood up his elbow jogged the overnight bag she was carrying.
At exactly the same moment the slippery silk fabric of her garment bag slipped down her arm. She snatched at it with the hand holding the travel bag, twisting her body round to stop it from falling to the ground.
And she took one step backwards.
The stiletto heel of her right sandal hit the smooth marble edge of the swimming pool, her right leg shot forward, she completely lost her balance and instinctively flung both arms out to compensate.
For one millisecond she was airborne. Arms twirling around in wide circles, both legs in the air, luggage thrown out to each side and the thin silk fabric of her overdress inflated up to her waist as a parachute.
She squeezed her eyes tight shut and prepared herself for a dunking in the swimming pool. But instead her feet lifted even higher off the ground as a long, strong arm grabbed her around the waist and another arm swept under her legs, taking her weight effortlessly.
Lexi flashed open her eyes, gave a high squeak of terror, and flung both her arms around Mark’s neck by sheer instinct, pressing herself tight onto his shirt. Unfortunately she forgot that she was still clutching her travel bag for dear life, and succeeded in hitting Mark on the back of the head with it.
To his credit, he gave only a low, deep sigh instead of yelling like a schoolboy.
She opened her mouth to apologise, then closed it again. Her lungs seemed to have forgotten how to work and her breathing had become a series of short panting noises—which would have been perfect for a spaniel but which, from her lips, managed to sound both pathetic and wheezy at the same time.
She had never been picked up before.
And the last time she’d been this close to a handsome man had been on Valentine’s night, when her ex-boyfriend had confessed he’d been sleeping with a girl she’d thought was her friend. So it would be fair to say that it hadn’t ended well.
This, on the other hand, was turning out to be a much more positive experience.
Below his loose blue shirt Mark was muscular, warm and solid against her body, and in the position he was holding her their faces were only inches apart. His eyes locked onto hers, and suddenly it made perfect sense just to lie there in his arms while he took her weight.
Up close, she could see that his eyes were not a perfectly clear blue, as his mother’s had been, but were flecked with slivers of darker blue and grey, so that under the shade of the terrace they looked like a cloudy summer sky.
His wiry dark brown hair was curled at the base of his neck with the heat of the afternoon, and she inhaled an intoxicating aroma of some fragrant shampoo or shower gel, freshly laundered linen shirt and something much deeper and muskier.
She had no clue what it was, but that extra something had the power to make her heart beat faster than was probably safe. So fast that it was all too easy to recall that she was here to work. Not to cuddle the client or to partially strangle him with her arms after trying to knock him out.
‘I should have warned you about the pool. Are you okay now?’ he asked, his voice low with concern.
She swallowed, and gave a smile and a short nod. Instantly the arm around her waist slackened and her brief adventure came to a halt as he slowly lowered her back down and her sandals made contact with solid ceramic tile.
Strange how her arms seemed reluctant to lose contact with Mark’s shirt and practically slid the full length of his chest—before the sensible part of her brain took over and reminded her that her agency contract included some rather strict rules about fraternising with the clients.
Lexi tugged down on the hem of her dress and pretended to be straightening her clothing before daring to form actual words.
‘No problem. I prefer not to go swimming fully clothed, so thanks for saving me from a dunking. And sorry about the bag.’ Her fingers waved in the direction of his head.
‘Well, at least we’re even,’ Mark replied, gesturing with his head towards the swimming pool, where her garment bag was floating on the surface and making small glugging noises.
‘Oh, drat,’ Lexi replied and her shoulders slumped. ‘There go two cocktail dresses, a business suit and a cape. The dresses I can replace, but I liked that cape.’