LITMIR.BIZ

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Finally the moment she had been waiting for arrived, and, drawing back her arm, she tossed the small band of gold as far out to sea as she could. As wealthy men’s wives went she had been a disaster, and the ring was the last symbol of that time.

      Closing her eyes, she pictured it sinking to the seabed, and as it sank her spirits soared until finally relief wrapped around her like a warm blanket. Settling down again onto the sand, she curled her legs round to her side and took stock. The world was comfortingly unchanged, but at last she felt different, felt free. This must be how a butterfly felt on the day it shook out its wings.

      Leaning back on her fists, she spotted the winged horse Pegasus laid out in stars above her head and felt it was a sign. The divorce was behind her. Her life was about to take flight.

      Hugging her knees, Charlotte thought about the future. There were certain things she wouldn’t change. She was an established lifestyle journalist—have laptop, can travel—and she could live anywhere, thanks to the Internet. Perhaps she should move somewhere new, somewhere exciting and different—somewhere like this? But some things had to change first—recovering her zest for life, for instance. She had been on the island almost a month and hadn’t even ventured out at night yet—and her trip to Greece was supposed to be about rebuilding her self-esteem as well as her career. Up to now the change of scene had not helped. The inspiration she needed to write had proved elusive, and her self-esteem still hovered around zero.

      Her thoughts flew to the flimsy dresses lying neglected at the bottom of her suitcase. They were fabulous designer freebies, courtesy of the magazine she worked for—but they came at a price. When her editor had said, ‘Find a gorgeous Greek and write about him,’ it had been code for, Bring back a barnstorming feature article to revive a career that has been badly shaken by your divorce. Trouble was, gorgeous Greeks appeared to be in short supply on Iskos.

      Her green gaze idled along the base of the cliffs, where the sea was as sleek as black satin, and then swept out across the bay to where the water lay still and as smooth as a silver-grey plate. Lights were twinkling around the taverna at the water’s edge, and the occasional shout or burst of laughter bounced eerily off the rocks at her back, telling her it was time to go.

      Springing to her feet, Charlotte slapped her hands together to get rid of the sand, and then froze as another sound intruded. Standing very still, she listened until she identified the regular swish of oars.

      Scanning the sea, she spotted a lantern glowing in the prow of a small rowing boat. Everything was stripped of colour in the half-light, and it was hard to pick out anything with certainty, but thanks to the lantern Charlotte made out a man in silhouette. His stroke was sure and confident, as if he used the stars and moon to steer by and had a fixed point of destination.

      Watching the oarsman was strangely hypnotic. He gave off an impression of power, and Charlotte smiled as her imagination kicked in. She had seen any number of wiry, weatherbeaten fishermen on the island, but something told her this man was different. He was tough, but graceful like a tiger…beautifully co-ordinated, dangerously strong. Her mind continued to throw up images in an attempt to give the shadowy form more substance—and quite suddenly she felt a hunger to start writing everything down.

      Quickly retrieving her sandals, she slipped them on. The main thrust of the article was still hidden from her—but it would have something to do with the man in the boat, she was sure of it. Heading back in the direction of the steep trail that led up through the cliff to the villa she was renting, Charlotte began to run.

      The outdoor terrace had a traditional pebble floor that wrapped right around the single-storey villa. There was a long table, set close by the stone balustrade to make the most of the view, and it was here that Charlotte set up her improvised desk. Like most homes in a warm climate the villa was blessed with plenty of outdoor lights, and she could write all night should she want to.

      The whole time she was working Charlotte was conscious of the lantern, a tiny pinprick of light on the sea. The man and his boat were indistinguishable, but it was comforting to know he was there. It kept her imagination fired and the words flowing easily.

      Gradually the list of ideas and impressions she was jotting down in preparation for writing the article was growing longer: lithe grace, physical strength, effortless coordination, sense of purpose, aura of power. Charlotte paused, and when she lifted her head she realised that her heart was racing. Determinedly she forced her attention back to the keyboard. Sheen of raven hair in failing light, harsh profile seen for the space of a heartbeat in silhouette, moonlight glancing off flexing muscles—She paused again, conscious that her breathing was faster now too. As her fingers hovered over the keys she gazed into the night at the tiny beacon, then, with a wry shake of her head, she dragged her gaze away again. Concentrate, she told herself sternly.

      She wasn’t even aware how fast the words were tumbling from her fingers until a drop in temperature broke her concentration. Shivering a little, she sat up and eased her shoulders. A fresh wind had kicked up, whipping her long Titian hair round her face, lashing her eyes and making them water, and plastering annoying strands to her lips.

      The last time she’d looked the sky had been gunmetal-grey, with just the hint of a magenta border where the sun-trail lingered, but now it had blackened into a deep Greek night—a deep, chilly Greek night, Charlotte amended, pulling her pashmina a little closer. After a few more minutes she was forced to concede defeat and retreat inside.

      A heavy silence greeted her in the cool interior of the luxury villa, but it was a calming silence that filled her with relief rather than loneliness. She had known the moment the agent showed her round that this was the perfect setting in which to recover. A well-appointed property, at the high end of the market, it offered her the freedom from concern she so badly needed. She was too bruised inside, too shaken up to recover her fighting spirit without a little help.

      The failed marriage had left behind more scars than she could ever have anticipated. There were the feelings of guilt—that she could maybe have done some things differently or better—a sense of failure, and then the grief. And that had really taken her by surprise. But she was a survivor, and this break in Greece was an investment in her future. Whatever else the article turned into, she was determined that the theme at the heart of it would be optimistic and uplifting.

      Clutching the stack of printed sheets close to her chest, Charlotte shouldered open the heavy oak door that led into her bedroom. Like the rest of the house, this room was traditional in style, its terracotta floors scattered with richly patterned rugs in subtle shades of red.

      With the most discerning rental client in mind, restoration had been undertaken with no expense spared. Freshly whitewashed walls framed the broad spread of a high bed, positioned so that its occupant could look out over the sea. And it was a bed designed to appeal to a novelty-seeking high spender. A well-sprung mattress lay on a platform of smooth rock, and the linen sheets were piled high with cushions in jewel-coloured silks. The throws flung casually over the top of that were cashmere.

      There was even a large en suite bathroom through another door, which boasted brand-new white fittings housed in baby-blue wash-painted units. Charlotte decided she would take a long, lazy bath there as a reward for making a start on the article, but first something drew her back to the window.

      Ideas were fine, she mused, inhaling the fragrant air as she thought about her work, but they were only ingredients for the cake—and nothing without careful preparation. With just a week left to get it right, she would need an early start the next morning.

      The moon had slipped behind a cloud, and even the branches of the olive trees a few feet from the window seemed to have dissolved into the night. Closing her eyes, she drew a deep, steadying breath. There was a faint smell of lemons on the air, and an owl hooted in the distance as it drifted on silent wings in search of prey. Opening her eyes again, she tried to find the tiny dot of light. It was out there somewhere on the sea. She frowned, thinking it had gone. But then quite suddenly it appeared, glowing like a nightlight in the inky-black void.

      ‘Goodnight,’ she murmured softly, smiling a little to herself as she turned away.

      It

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