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  “Here,” she said, handing me a pair of sunglasses. “I picked these up for you when you were paying at the hairdressers.”

  “Thanks,” I said, slipping them on. “Hey, these were the ones I wanted.”

  “I know, I saw you try them on, smile in the mirror and then put them back when you looked at the price tag.”

  I frowned, remembering the price tag. “You shouldn’t have, they were too expensive.”

  “Count it as an early birthday present.”

  “But it’s not my birthday for ages!”

  “Quit arguing, come on, the plane will leave without you.” Giselle’s heels tapped on the hard floor as she strutted to the front door. “Go and chill out, enjoy, and call me if you need anything.”

  I took a deep breath and rolled my case along the tiles into the hallway. My heart fluttered, and despite the coolness of the apartment I could feel a patch of sweat in the center of my back. But it was too late now. Arrangements had been put in place, the deal had been sealed.

  I had been hired.

  *****

  Clifford was silent on the journey to the airport. I was grateful and sat in the backseat trying to project an air of calm around myself. I visualized the gentle sway of delicately frothed waves. Heard the clicking and clacking of tiny stones as they brushed past each other in the push and pull of the tide. Imagined my toes, with my new, glossy red nails, sinking into tiny grains of pure white sand and disappearing under little swells of cool water.

  By the time we pulled into the private parking lot next to the small runway, I was sufficiently calm and restored. I would be fine. I’d have a nice time and earn a packet of money in the process. There really was nothing to worry about.

  I stepped out and was greeted with the hum of the plane’s engines from fifty yards away. The hazy air was thick with the smell of aviation fuel and I longed for a fresh, salty breeze to embrace me. Clifford gestured for me to lead the way and I dropped my shades, and, in my new heels, headed across the sweltering Florida concrete.

  A navy-suited older gentleman with copilot written on his brass badge alighted from the plane as I approached. “Miss Ambrose,” he said with a broad beam. “I trust you had a pleasant trip to the airport.”

  “Yes, thank you.” I smiled and thought how nice it was to be treated civilly, unlike the way some of my more gruff customers spoke to me at The Grill.

  “Please, climb aboard, we’re almost set for takeoff.” He gestured up the steps then took my suitcase from Clifford.

  I touched the single metal rail to aid my trip up the steps. I wasn’t as used to high heels as Giselle, but I only made contact with the rail for a second—it was piping hot and seared my palm.

  Frowning, I rubbed my hands together as I stepped into the fuselage. I glanced left and saw the pilot studying his instruments, then turned right to search out a seat.

  There were only six seats and the front five were empty. In the sixth seat at the back sat an enormous hulk of a guy dressed entirely in black. He had tousled russet brown hair that touched the base of his collar, and a square jawline dense with stubble, heaviest over his top lip. His wide mouth was pressed into a thin line, his glossy Ray-Bans directed out the small oval window and his huge arms folded tight over his chest.

  Logan Taylor made no move to acknowledge my arrival aboard the plane, not a hello, not a curious glance, not even a twitch of his head.

  I didn’t let my gaze linger. If he wasn’t the chatty, sociable sort that suited me all the better. Taking the front seat, the one nearest the door, I buckled my belt and pulled a book from my handbag.

  The copilot dragged up the steps, shut the door with a series of levers and gave me a wink. “All set?”

  “Yes,” I said with a smile.

  “We’ll be in the air for just over an hour, it’s not far down to Mr. Gunner’s island retreat. Help yourself to refreshments once we’re up.” He nodded at a small glass-fronted fridge apparently stocked entirely with individual bottles of champagne.

  “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” He ducked into the tiny cockpit and closed the door.

  Within minutes we were in the air, soaring heavenward, the small engines droning as the wings sliced through thin wisps of cloud. I looked out of the window as we tipped southwest, trying to make out familiar landmarks.

  After a few minutes, I buried my head in a small digest on nursing calculations and hoped I wouldn’t get too many questions on math next month.

  Before I knew it my ears were popping and we’d begun our descent. I gazed out of the window again at an endless stretch of water. Tiny breakers whitened the surface and I could make out several boats bobbing lazily.

  There was a clunk as the wheels came down, then we were flying over land, fast. A blur of houses made up a small town. Dense woodland and few patches of farmland, all encircled by a ring of golden sand, which in turn was surrounded by the most beautiful shimmering turquoise I’d ever seen.

  A quiver of excitement settled in my stomach—I’d flown to paradise.

  As the plane came to a halt a rustle over my right shoulder reminded me that I wasn’t the only passenger. Logan had been so quiet I’d forgotten all about him.

  I turned and saw his head stooped and shoulders hunched as he struggled to stand within the confines of the plane. The man was a giant. I could stand comfortably without my head touching the roof. He certainly couldn’t, he was well over six feet. He reached for a battered brown bag, his shades still in place and his mouth still stern.

  The copilot burst out of the cockpit. “Welcome to Honeysuckle Key,” he said as he shoved at levers and flung open the door. He lowered the steps and climbed down.

  I descended after him into the sunshine, holding the now-cool steel rail. Pulling in the fresh, salt-laden air I looked around. The airport terminal was no more than a small, lime-washed hut. A shabbily suited man, cigarette hanging from his mouth and can of cola in his hand, ambled through the open door toward us.

  “Your lift is over there, Miss Ambrose,” the copilot said, pointing toward the terminal. “Mr. Fergal’s driver will take you to the villa.”

  I spotted a shiny black Mercedes. The tinted windows made it look like a secret agent’s car and the purring engine rumbled like a sleeping tiger.

  “ID,” the scruffy-looking official said around his cigarette butt.

  I handed over my driver’s license and as Logan did the same I bid goodbye to the copilot.

  “See you Friday,” he said, grinning. “Have fun.”

  “Thanks,” I said, matching his smile.

  Logan ignored him and set off toward the waiting Mercedes, leaving me to totter behind, dragging my suitcase over the uneven ground of the makeshift parking lot.

  It was a silent ride through the small town toward Fergal’s villa. Logan and I sat in the back with the gap between us as wide as possible. I tried to blank him out but his bulk and looming presence were hard to avoid. He took up way more than his share of the seat, and despite the fact it was a big car, his legs were overbent and his knees sat above the edge of the seat. His scent was also impossible to ignore. He wore a delicious cologne. It smelled expensive and masculine, perhaps sandalwood, or maybe cinnamon, I couldn’t quite decide. Whatever it was it swirled around the car’s air-conditioning and settled on my tongue like incense. It smelled so good I found it hard to believe it was radiating from such a sour man.

  We navigated through remote-controlled gates and the car bumped slowly up a long, palm-lined driveway. Through thick tropical greenery a low bungalow with a heavy reed roof came into view. Three steps led up to a large, glass-fronted door, on either side of which the house tapered sideways into the shrubs. Large dark windows faced onto the small roundabout at the front—a stone pond complete with a cherub on one leg spouting water from a curled horn.

  I unclasped my seat belt and sat forward. As soon as the car came to a stop I was out. Free from air-conditioning. I hoped the villa didn’t hav
e any. I might just be lucky. The sea breeze tickling over my skin and feathering through my hair for a whole week would do me fine.

  The driver handed me my suitcase then delved into his pocket. He produced a silver key on a small starfish key ring and held it out to Logan.

  Logan took it, offering no more than a gruff, “Thanks,” then turned, battered carryon in hand, and strode up to the house.

  “Thank you so much,” I said to the driver, irrationally feeling the need to overcompensate for my companion’s rude behavior. “It was real kind of you to pick us up.”

  “No problem, miss. If you want to go anywhere during the week my cell number is by the house phone. If I don’t hear from you I’ll be back next Friday morning to take you to the airport.” He pulled open the driver’s door and put a foot in. “The fridge is stocked from the local market as is the freezer, anything you need from the shop call Miranda, her number is next to mine. Oh, and a newspaper will be delivered every morning down at the main gate.” He shut the door with a quiet click then the Mercedes crunched through the gravel back onto the long driveway.

  My suitcase wouldn’t roll on the stones so I had to carry it, a considerable struggle in my heels. By the time I got to the open door I was hot and bothered and relieved to drop it on the terra-cotta-tiled floor.

  “You choose.” Logan’s deep voice rumbled from the darkness of the hallway.

  I lifted my shades and saw him standing, feet apart, arms crossed and his own shades perched on top of his head.

  “Pardon?” I asked, closing the front door.

  “You choose which bedroom you want, I don’t want to take the best and have you sulk.”

  “I don’t sulk, sulking is for babies, whiners and losers,” I said, toeing off my sandals and absorbing the coolness of the tiles through the balls of my feet.

  He grunted something incoherent, turned and walked deeper into the villa. I followed, dragging my case. He was by far the biggest sulker I’d ever met, and I hadn’t even officially met him.

  To the right was a corridor with several doors leading off. I decided to find a bedroom and dump my case before I explored the rest of the place.

  The first door I came to opened up to a beautiful big bedroom decorated in pale cream and a delicate moss green. A dark wooden bed was surrounded by white netting hanging from a hoop on the ceiling. Opposite were a huge dressing table and a towering wardrobe. Several pictures dotted the walls, mainly photographs of tropical woodland, each one in soft tones that complemented the hues of the room. I peered through a door to my right, and was thrilled to see a shiny white en-suite that smelled faintly of cleaning fluid. Perfect, this room would do.

  I moved to the window and to my delight saw it was in fact French doors. Pulling back the soft, cotton curtain, I caught my breath. The doors led right onto the beach. Well, there was a small decked area with a chair and a table and a few potted plants, but then it was just perfect white sand slipping down a gentle slope to the waves. Impatiently I fiddled with the lock and opened the doors. The sound of the sea meandered into my room, ebbing and flowing on the breeze I’d been dreaming of. I sent up a prayer of thanks to whichever spirit was looking after me today. Who’d have thought, Brooke the girl from The Grill who served fries and burgers, coffee and juice fifty hours a week, would be in a place like this? This really was more than I ever could have imagined.

  With renewed strength, I threw my suitcase onto the bed and plucked out my new bikini. It was black with big scarlet flowers dotted about randomly. The top had a good amount of support for my heavy breasts and the bottoms came up high enough to hide the bit I really wasn’t fond of at the base of my stomach. I fastened my blonde curls on top of my head and reached for a towel from the en-suite.

  Feeling like a kid let loose at the playground, I padded into the sunshine. Desperate to get those little grains of sand between my toes and the sea lapping over my body, I stepped down from my deck. I gasped. The sand was hot, real hot—I should have worn my new flip-flops.

  I made a dash down to the waves, holding my chest with flattened hands. My bikini was good, but not that good. I was relieved when my soles hit cool, wet sand and the burn receded. Turning, I chucked my towel onto the dry sand then paddled into the water.

  Squinting at the clear, straight horizon I sucked in the pure air. There wasn’t another person or any sign of habitation in sight, just miles of sea and sand and acres of crystal blue sky.

  I waded in deeper, sighing as my shoulders dipped below the surface. I pushed out and swam several fast strokes, throwing my arms over my head and releasing the tension in my shoulders. Then I flipped onto my back, shut my eyes against the glare of the sun and lazily swam parallel to the beach, kicking my legs and swishing my arms. It was bliss being in the cool water with the hot sun overhead. The peace and the quiet and being at one with Mother Nature were so good for my soul.

  And I was getting paid for it.

  After half an hour my stomach made a low, gurgling noise. It was well past lunchtime. I made my way back to shore in a lazy, made-up, sideways stroke and when I could touch the ground waded out of the sea. Forcing my legs through the back-flowing waves, I checked every part of my bikini was in position, then stretched my hands above my head, squeezed the drips from my hair and re-clipped the thick strands on top of my head.

  It was then I spotted Logan.

  He was leaning against a doorframe holding a bottle of beer. His shades were on, his mouth set tight and his right ankle was crossed over the left. I’d forgotten all about his surly presence.

  Prickles of self-consciousness suddenly washed over me. My breasts were big and soft and shifted up and down with each step. My hips rolled as I walked and my thighs met at the top. There was no getting around it, this was the shape I was. It was the shape my poor departed mother had been, which was why I’d always embraced it, accepted it. But being studied by a churlish superstar who was no doubt used to bedding waif-like supermodels pushed even my confidence and wavered even my faith in positive body image.

  But I refused to let him see I was ruffled. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. So I carried on strutting with barely a falter in my step, feeling the water lower around my thighs, knees and finally my shins and ankles. Since he wore shades I had no idea where he was actually looking, so I made a point of not making eye contact and instead stared at a patch of lush vegetation crammed with long-stemmed orange flowers as I tried to control the wild beating of my heart.

  Holding my chest, I stooped to pick up the towel I’d dropped earlier. Wrapping it around my body, I fisted it at my sternum, relieved to have my wobbling bits finally covered.

  I walked toward my room, trying to ignore the burn on my soles, which made me want to hop and skip. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Logan drain his beer and uncross his ankle. He pushed his bunched-up shoulder from the doorframe, turned and went into the darkness of the villa. The show was over, nothing else to see. His steely face made me think I wasn’t a show he’d particularly enjoyed, but hey, he hadn’t been asked to watch.

  It felt good to shower the salt from my skin and wash my hair with fragrant coconut shampoo and conditioner. Afterward I pulled on a soft pair of capris and a fuchsia vest top and combed the kinks from my hair, letting it hang damp around my shoulders. It wouldn’t take long to dry in this heat.

  I headed into the main room in search of food. Logan sat on a wide, L-shaped sofa with his feet up on a coffee table, new beer in hand. He was staring at a huge TV and, as Giselle had predicted, a hockey game was blazing across the screen. The crowd was cheering and shouting, the chattering commentator was overexcited and the players whizzed this way and that, crashing into the Plexiglas and tripping over one another.

  In the kitchen area, acres of marble surface set with all kinds of implements shone at me. The cupboards looked like bamboo but were perfectly smooth. A giant stainless steel fridge towered to the left of the complicated-looking stovetop and a deep double sink nestled bel
ow a window with thick, emerald leaves pushing up against the lower half of the glass.

  “Mother fuck, what the hell…The guy is fucking blind!”

  Startled by the sudden booming voice and negative energy coming from the living room, I spun toward Logan, who’d shifted to the edge of the sofa, slammed his beer on the table and looked ready to burst upward like a cobra coiled for striking.

  “Goddamn idiot,” he seethed, grabbing the remote and rewinding the game ten seconds. “How can he call himself a ref?” The game started up again, the same scream from the crowd, the same yelp of excitement from the commentator and the same piercing whistle from the referee.

  “Jesus, fucking, Christ!”

  I frowned. I much preferred brooding silence to angry cursing. It was easier on the ears. I took a deep cleansing breath and went to hunt out my iPod. I’d listen to something soothing and melodic while preparing a meal. It would be so much better for my spirit than his Neanderthal grunting. I was supposed to be working on harmonizing my balance, not tipping toward the edge of my nerves.

  Two minutes later, with Jack Johnson strumming his guitar gently into my ears, I examined the fridge. Like the driver promised, it was crammed with fresh island produce, colorful and vibrant—shiny red tomatoes, lush green salad leaves and rosy red peppers. The spread of fish, cheese, cold meat, wine and beer was decadent, more than I’d ever seen at my Aunt Belinda’s even at Christmastime.

  I spotted two plump, shiny tuna steaks on the bottom shelf and my mouth watered. Perfect. I reached for one, dropped it in a bowl, ducked back into the fridge and gathered up cilantro, garlic, chili and a lime. I glanced at the other steak. Should I cook for Logan too? No, that was silly, he was happy with his beer. He probably didn’t eat tuna anyway, he more than likely ripped raw meat from the bone with his teeth.

  I mashed up a paste to coat the steak. The smell was divine—the zing of cilantro mixing with lime and the pungency of the chili and garlic. But I’d made far too much, so, as Jack Johnson sang about banana pancakes I took the spare tuna steak and basted it alongside mine. No point in wasting my mushy, colorful creation, and if Logan didn’t want to eat, it would go on bread for my lunch tomorrow.