was a man in black trousers and shirt. Everyone seemed to be staring, waiting.
And then, from one of the cars, a man emerged.
‘Oh, my God,’ she heard being whispered along the row. ‘Everybody take cover. Here comes the walking sex bomb.’
Coral strained to see clearly. Was Raffaele Rossini really such a big deal? With her photographer’s eye she scanned and judged.
Tall and toned—just like they all were. Proportions? Perfect. Head to shoulder, chest, waist, hips, legs. Handsome? Yes. Off the charts. Brown hair as opposed to black. Shorter than execs normally wore it. And a close-cropped beard that sculpted his cheeks, lips and jaw. Stubble wasn’t her thing. Normally.
He moved around the cars and then she felt it. Wow. There was no way to deny that this man was utterly magnetic.
But he was going to be her boss. Off-limits was the only rule that applied.
He moved forward slowly. There was nothing to see under the mirrored shades of his Aviators. The slant of his mouth was neutral. But the slow nod of his head as he checked them all out was like a caress. His voice, when he spoke, an embrace. They sighed as they budged a little closer.
‘Welcome to the Island of Hydros. I hope you had a good flight. My men will escort you to your villas and make sure you’re comfortable.’
Mariella breathed her appreciation as everyone else fluttered thank you with their eyelashes.
‘You have all signed non-disclosure agreements, so you’re fully aware that there will be no unauthorised photography, recording or social media.’
The gang gushed an obedient yes. He turned to Mariella.
‘And your protégée, Mariella—where is she?’
As if she was infected with some plague, everyone shuffled away from Coral. The dust from the ground swirled and the wind blew her hair. Coral lifted her hand to sweep it from her face as his gaze zoomed to her.
‘This is Coral Dahl, Raffa. She’s the one I told you about.’
Coral smiled and waited for him to speak, but he didn’t. His eyes flashed over her quickly, and then he seemed to nod slightly.
‘You won the commission to photograph Kyla.’
It didn’t sound like a question, but she found herself nodding.
‘Yes, that’s right. I’m really thrilled to meet you and get a chance to work on the magazine.’
He stared.
Silence settled over the whole group as he began to walk towards her.
‘Let’s talk about that as we drive. Pass me your bag.’
She looked down stupidly to the huge leather tote that doubled as handbag, briefcase and holdall.
‘No, no. It’s fine. I’ll manage,’ she said cheerfully.
He waited, as if she hadn’t understood him, and then she got it. Obviously whatever Raffaele said, happened. No questions, no rebuttals, no argument. She handed it to him. Fine.
‘There.’ He indicated the second car in the line—low and sleek, compared to the four-wheel drives. He opened the passenger door and she slid inside.
She scented leather and musk, and then the man who got in beside her. The brilliant day was left behind as he closed the door and sealed them in.
She didn’t so much as glance to the side as they passed the others but she could sense them all staring. Raffaele turned off down a narrow road and immediately put his foot down. She lurched back, grabbed at the seatbelt.
‘So, Coral, tell me a little bit about yourself.’
‘Well, I’m twenty-four. I live in London, in a little flat in Islington. I work in a café round the corner. But all my life I’ve wanted to be a fashion photographer. So that’s why this commission is my dream come true.’
‘I see. And you studied art?’
She braced herself as he took the corners on the road which twisted like a corkscrew along the cliff.
‘Yes, I started out doing Fine Art. My mother is an artist and I practically lived in art galleries growing up. She took me all over the country when she could. When she wasn’t...’
‘Wasn’t?’
‘What I mean is, I chose photography for my Master’s because my mother had struggled so hard to make ends meet. I want to have a creative career but with an income, and—’
‘It’s a crowded market. What makes you think you will succeed?’
‘Because I’m good,’ she said. She didn’t mean it as a boast. She knew she was good.
She waited to see what he was going to say, but he drove on in silence. From the corner of her eye she could see the length of his thigh and the hard muscle that flexed as he pressed on the pedals. There was no doubt about his physical perfection, but it was almost impossible to read what he was thinking.
‘You took a Master’s in photography. And my senior creative director thought your work was outstanding.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, suddenly brightening. Finally a compliment.
‘But, for me, this is too important a project to take risks with a novice.’
So that was what the problem was. Oh, dear. It wasn’t all going to land in her lap after all.
‘Let’s start with the creative angle. What have you got in mind? A story? A concept?’
So much for outdoors on the loggia. She wasn’t going to be the one to tell him that Mariella had it all decided. Her heart raced. Her mind ran. She looked at the vista, the distant scattering of volcanic islands wrapped in ribbons of blue sun and sea.
‘Of course! I—I’ve been thinking since we took off—knowing that the light would be so good and the colours so strong—that I’d like to take a fresh look at the Greek goddess trope.’
Words poured from her mouth before she even knew what they were, but it was obvious that she had to sell him something pretty amazing or she was going to be sent home.
‘When I think of Athena and all those mythical goddesses I’m seeing seventies women—liberated, but still incredibly feminine. I want to use the clarity of the landscape and the light and juxtapose it with soft silhouettes.’
‘I see.’ He frowned as he turned down a road.
A modern building came into view, its huge windows curving off to the right as it hugged the cliff.
He parked and got out beside a wide stone entrance where two huge black dogs lay sleeping in the sun. She glanced up at him as she got out of the car. His eyes were still hidden behind sunglasses, his mouth impassive. But at least he wasn’t telling her to go home.
‘Avanti,’
