in strength. What time was it? she wondered. And where had she left her watch?
She eventually found it in the bathroom. She’d adjusted the time on the plane and she saw now that it was barely seven o’clock. Nudging the bedroom blind aside, she peered through the French windows. It was a glorious morning and, despite herself, she felt her spirits rise.
There didn’t appear to be anyone about and, unlatching the window, she pushed it open. Warmth flooded into the room and with it came the tantalising scent of tropical blossoms and the unmistakable tang of the sea.
She saw now that beyond the gardens was the beach she’d glimpsed so briefly on her arrival. Feathery palm trees framed the blue waters of the Atlantic, a frill of foam creaming along the shore.
Slipping between the vertical blinds, she stepped out onto the balcony. Below her, the swimming pool sparkled in the sunlight, tubs of shrubs and hibiscus and oleander marking the curve of a patio that was half-hidden from her view.
A maid appeared with a watering can, evidently intent on her task, and although Cleo was inclined to step back inside she resisted the impulse. After all, her bra and panties were no more revealing than a bikini. It was amazing, she could stand here in the sunlight, when it had been wet and cloudy yesterday morning in London.
She wondered what time her grandfather got up. Whether he’d expect her to join him for breakfast. Her nerves jangled a little at the prospect, though from what she’d seen the night before, he didn’t seem a very intimidating figure. Unlike Dominic…
Her pulse quickening, she wondered if Dominic had stayed the night at Magnolia Hill. Had he ever lived here at all? He’d told her his parents had had their own house when he’d explained about Celeste—her mother. Goose pimples feathered her skin at the memory.
But still, she couldn’t stop thinking about where he might be at this moment. Perhaps he lived with his girlfriend, though that thought was less easy to engage. Whatever, it was really no concern of hers, so she should just get over it. Before she saw him again and let him guess how she felt…
A shadow moved at the far side of the pool.
For the first time, she noticed that there were cabanas there; small cabins where a person using the pool could change their clothes.
A man had emerged from one of the cabanas. A tall man, bare-chested, with a towel draped around his neck. He was wearing swimming shorts that barely skimmed his hip bones. Wet shorts that clung to every corded sinew.
As she watched, he used the towel to dry his hair, and she saw the growth of dark hair beneath his arms and arrowing down his chest. His skin was brown and sleek with muscle, his stomach flat above long, powerful legs.
Cleo’s palms were suddenly damp. She didn’t have to wonder any longer about Dominic. He’d obviously been swimming. But how long had he been there? And was he able to see her?
Her throat drying, Cleo eased herself back into her bedroom. Then, allowing the blinds to fall back into place, she took a moment to calm her racing heart. Wherever he lived he’d evidently spent the night at Magnolia Hill, she thought breathlessly. Would he be joining his grandfather for breakfast, too?
She was spending far too much time speculating about Dominic Montoya. Impatient with herself, Cleo smoothed her palms down her thighs and knelt beside her suitcase.
What to wear? That was the problem. Well, not a bikini, she assured herself, with another glance in the mirror. The tank suit Norah had persuaded her to buy was probably going to remain unworn in her case.
Half an hour later, she emerged from the bathroom in narrow-legged lemon shorts and a white cotton T-shirt. Smart, but casual, she thought, remembering something else Norah had told her. It wasn’t cool to look overdressed.
Besides, the last thing she wanted was for anyone to get the impression that she was looking for admiration. Or sex, she added grimly, abruptly recalling the last months of her mother’s life.
She decided she could hardly blame Lily Montoya for being hostile. After all, her husband had had an affair with Celeste. But as for her being attracted to her adopted brother… Cleo sucked in a breath. There was no way history was going to repeat itself.
Her hair was still a little wet, so she found an elasticated band in her bag and looped it up in a ponytail. Then, stepping into thonged sandals, she checked her appearance once more before opening her door.
The place seemed very quiet. Without the knowledge that there were at least half a dozen servants working in the house, she might have thought she and Dominic were its only occupants.
She blew out a breath, inwardly chiding herself. She had to stop punctuating every thought with Dominic. He meant nothing to her. How could he? She hardly knew him. And it went without saying that she meant nothing to him.
A long hallway with a window at the end led to the staircase. However, before reaching the downward curve of a scrolled iron banister, the landing opened out into a pleasant sitting area. From here, it was possible to overlook the lower foyer, circular leaded windows allowing sunlight to stream into the stairwell.
As Cleo started down, she saw the huge potted fern that filled the turn of the staircase. Tendrils of greenery clung to the iron and brushed her fingers as she passed. There was something almost sensual about its twining fronds, she mused ruefully. Or perhaps she was just extra-sensitive this morning.
Certainly, she had climbed this staircase the night before. But then, exhaustion, and a certain amount of tension, had clouded her view. Not that she was any less tense this morning, she thought, pausing to admire the view from an arching window. Even the sight of the alluring shoreline couldn’t quite rid her of the feeling that she shouldn’t be here.
A West Indian maid appeared below her. She looked up at her with expectant eyes, and Cleo wondered what she was thinking. ‘Can I help you, Ms Novak?’ she asked, and Cleo was relieved to find she hadn’t been introduced to the staff as Cleo Montoya.
‘Um—you could tell me if Mr Montoya is up yet,’ she said, deciding she might as well be proactive. If her grandfather wanted to see her, there was no point in her dragging her heels.
The maid gestured across the delicately patterned tiles of the foyer. ‘Mr Dominic is having breakfast on the terrace,’ she said politely. ‘You like I should show you the way?’
‘Oh—no.’ Cleo had no desire to spend any more time with Dominic than she had to. ‘I meant—Mr Montoya Senior. What time does he usually get up?’
‘Your grandfather has breakfast in his room at about seven a.m.,’ remarked a disturbingly familiar voice from behind her. Cleo turned to find Dominic standing in the arched entry to the adjoining room. ‘He’ll be down later.’
Thankfully, he was dressed now. Albeit in khaki cargo shorts and a tight-fitting black T-shirt that exposed taut muscles and a wedge of brown flesh at his waist.
Which seemed far too casual to her way of thinking. It was easier to keep him at arm’s length in a formal suit and tie.
He had evidently heard their voices and come to investigate. The acoustics in the foyer must have allowed the sound to circulate around the ground-floor rooms. Cleo realised belatedly that she should have thought of that.
However, the maid turned towards him with evident enthusiasm. ‘Ms Novak
