her sisters—and their various husbands and fiancés—had all helped make the inside more home-like, but there was no way she could even consider opening to paying guests until she had fixed the roof, put in a new boiler and pulled the kitchen into the twenty-first century. Then she’d have to make sure the bathrooms were all in decent enough condition for non-family use and check each bed for broken springs or damp. She’d need bed linen as well. And she still needed actually to qualify as a Pilates and ballet teacher...
She sighed. The way she saw it she had two choices. Either she sold the villa or she stopped it being a liability and turned it into an asset. And it could, with some work—okay, a lot of work—be a very considerable asset. The island was famed for its hot springs, the rock pool offered a natural bathing experience all year round and the view and the gardens were tranquil enough to soothe any stressed city dweller. She had bedrooms to spare, more bathrooms than she could use if she bathed in a different one every day and plenty of nooks where people could settle with books or just to doze.
She had the space, she had the contacts, she had the knowledge and, if she sold the car and ransacked some of the contents of the villa, she might be able to muster up enough money.
Posy blew out a frustrated breath. Her other choice was to sell. That would solve the money problem but left her with no idea what a twenty-four-year-old ex-ballerina with one good GCSE to her name could do for the rest of her life.
And the Marlowes were famously long-lived.
Of course there was nothing stopping her jumping on a plane and returning to London either. When she’d falteringly handed in her notice Bruno had taken a far too keen look at her before telling her to keep in shape and exercise and if she changed her mind within the year there would still be a place for her in the company. For all her resolution to start again, when she lay awake in the middle of the night the prospect of slinking back and resuming her place in the Corps de Ballet was far too tempting. But if she returned to London would that make her a double failure? Prove that she didn’t know how to live?
But she’d lived last night...
Heat flared in her cheeks, an answering warmth in her breasts and low deep in her stomach and she fought the urge to hide behind her hands like a small girl caught out in a misdeed. What had she been thinking? Taking her clothes off in front of a complete stranger? Allowing him—no, wanting him—to touch her like that in public? She had never behaved so recklessly, so provocatively. It was all too easy to blame the moonlight, the sea, the need to feel wanted. But she was the one who had wanted. She was the one who had initiated. Not that she’d kept that control for long...
She shivered as flashbacks of deep, sweet kisses, long, torturous caresses, whispered endearments overwhelmed her. She had never known it to be like that, at once so wild and urgent and yet so tender. It had taken every inch of resolution to walk away, disappearing before midnight because every fairy tale reader knew not to stay beyond the witching hour. They’d agreed on just the one evening but she’d taken her time as she’d moved along the beach, just in case he called after her, asked to see her again.
She’d been half disappointed when he hadn’t, the feeling intensifying when she’d reached the jetty and turned back to find him gone. Okay, more than half disappointed.
Posy wandered back towards the house, the day stretching before her, empty and meaningless just like the day before and the day before that. She’d mechanically stretched and gone through her exercises earlier that morning, keeping her muscles warm and her body supple, but her books sat unopened, her crochet hook lay unused and the colouring books were still pristine. Turned out she wasn’t much good at relaxing and doing nothing.
Maybe she should start going through the house—she had a list of contents somewhere along with valuations. Whether she sold up or sold enough to convert the villa into a retreat she still needed to know what was where and if she wanted to keep any of it—not that her tastes ran to shelves filled with vases, ornaments, boxes and the numerous other knick-knacks that filled the villa. When she had come to visit her godmother as a child she’d loved to play with them all, creating intricate games and scenarios for the various china animals. Now they were just clutter, gathering dust.
The double doors that led into the grand double-height conservatory stood open, the sun reflecting off the panes of coloured glass randomly interspersed with the plain glass. It must have been gorgeous in Sofia’s, her godmother’s, heyday, filled with climbing plants winding their way up the leaded panes, providing much-needed shade and contrast. Sofia had held parties in the room attended by movie stars, European aristocrats and millionaires; if Posy closed her eyes she could still see the glittering jewels around the throats and in the ears of the women, the long, elegant cigarette holders, the cocktails circulating on silver trays. If rumour was to be believed Sofia had had her own share of diamonds and other precious stones but all that was left was paste and crystal, pretty but worthless. Sofia had sold them all as her looks had faded and her lovers had melted away.
She’d still been a consummate hostess though. Posy had loved coming here. Sofia had always treated Posy and her sisters as if they were small adults, not children. Posy had never known what to expect from one day to the next—they might get dressed up in some of Sofia’s old couture gowns and hold a party, canapés and mocktails at three in the afternoon for just them. Or Sofia might decide they needed to redecorate the dining room, or teach them to snorkel, or take them into the town for oysters and champagne. But mostly she allowed them freedom to swim, sunbathe and run free so that they returned to the UK tanned and relaxed. Posy treasured the visits even more once she had started at ballet school, her holidays no relaxing time off but filled with residential courses around the country. The two carefree weeks she managed to snatch at Sofia’s were a welcome contrast to the rigid, disciplined life she had chosen. The rigid, disciplined life she was trying so hard not to miss.
She jumped as the bell tolled solemnly. Who could that be? The house had been empty since Immi left a month ago and no one apart from her family knew she was here.
She didn’t have to answer it. If she stayed quiet they would probably just go away.
The bell tolled again, low and commanding. ‘Don’t be such a coward,’ she scolded herself. After all Imogen’s fiancé, Matt, had lived on the island for several years. It would be just like Immi to get a friend of Matt’s to check up on her. She knew her sisters were worried about her decision to move into her money pit of an inheritance, to leave London, to quit her hard-fought-for career; of course they’d send in an intervention.
Well, the intervention could just intervene right out. She was fine. Almost.
The bell tolled for a third time as she moved briskly through the hall, a room large enough to hold a ball in if the conservatory was otherwise engaged, and she wrenched open the front door, indignation buzzing through her veins. ‘Hold your horses. I’m here. Oh!’
Her hand tightened on the door. ‘Nico?’
She wasn’t sure at first. The expression in the blue eyes was a mixture of surprise and determination, the dark hair slicked back, the broad shoulders and narrow waist covered by a perfectly cut light suit. But her body knew him instantly, every pulse beating rapidly as he looked straight at her.
‘Hello, Posy.’
Any thought he might have come looking for her, that this was the start of the kind of whirlwind romance she’d read about but never experienced, evaporated in the late morning sun. There was no flirtatiousness in his voice, no seduction in his eyes. Whatever Nico wanted here it didn’t include a re-enactment of last night.
That was fine. She didn’t expect anything else. Hoped maybe, in that first flare of surprise, that he
