LITMIR.BIZ

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by both her mother and her father. They had taken her in and loved her when others had rejected her, ashamed of her and for her. Shame. Such a terrible word to a proud Sicilian. The scar that covered her shame throbbed angrily and painfully. She’d have done anything rather than come here, but she owed her grandparents so much.

      In all the calculations she had made about what might be asked of her, what penance she might have to pay in order to remove the stain of dishonour from their family name and win agreement for the burial of her grandparents’ ashes, she had never thought to factor in the fact that she would be confronted by this man and forced to answer to him for her sins. The truth was that she had thought he’d be as antagonistic towards such a meeting as she was herself. She had obviously underestimated his arrogance.

      ‘As you know, I alone am not responsible for any decision made with regard to your request. The village elders—’

      ‘Will take their cue from you. As you must know perfectly well that I know that. You are the one who holds the authority to grant my grandparents’ request. To deny them this, their chosen final resting place, would be beyond unfair and cruel. To punish them because—’

      ‘That is the way of our society. The whole family suffers when one member of it falls from grace. You know that.’

      ‘And you think that is right?’ she demanded scornfully, unable to prevent herself from saying acidly, ‘Of course you do.’

      ‘Here in this part of Sicily people live their lives to rules and customs that were laid down centuries ago. Of course I can see many faults in those customs and rules, and of course I want to assist in changes that will be for the benefit of my people, but those changes can only come about slowly if they are not to lead to distrust and unhappiness between the generations.’

      Louise knew that what he was saying was true, even if she didn’t want to admit it. Even if something in the trained, professional part of her was thinking eagerly of the opportunities for good that must surely come from being in a position to put in place changes that would ultimately benefit so many people and help them to understand and reach out for the gifts of the future, whilst laying to rest the ghosts of the past. Besides it was her grandparents’ wishes she wanted to discuss with him.

      ‘My grandparents did a great deal for their community. In the early days they sent money home here, for their parents and their siblings. They went without to do that. They employed people from the village who came to London. They housed them and looked after them. They gave generously to the church and to charity. It is their right to have all that they were and all that they did recognised and respected.’

      She was a passionate advocate for her grandparents, and he couldn’t doubt the strength of her feelings, Caesar acknowledged. A discreet bleep from his mobile phone warned him of an impending appointment. He hadn’t expected this interview with her to take as long as it had, and there were still things he needed to say—questions he needed to ask.

      ‘I have to go. I have an appointment. However, there are things we still need to discuss,’ he told her. ‘I shall be in touch with you.’

      He was turning to walk away, having made it clear that he intended to keep her on edge and anxious. A cruel act from a man who had cruelty and pride bred into his blood and his bones. Perhaps she shouldn’t have expected anything else. And the relief she felt because he was going? What did that say about her and her own reserves of strength?

      He was only a couple of metres away from her when he turned. The sun slanting through the cypresses caught against the sharp, hard bones of his face, throwing it into relief so that he looked as if he could easily have traded places with one of his own fierce warrior ancestors—that toxic mix of pre-Christian Roman and Moor was stamped clearly on his features.

      ‘Your son,’ he said. ‘Have you brought him to Sicily with you?’

Once A Rebel…

      NIKKI LOGAN lives next to a string of protected wetlands in Western Australia, with her long-suffering partner and a menagerie of furred, feathered and scaly mates. She studied film and theatre at university and worked for years in advertising and film distribution before finally settling down in the wildlife industry. Her romance with nature goes way back and she considers her life charmed, given she works with wildlife by day and writes fiction by night—the perfect way to combine her two loves. Nikki believes that the passion and risk of falling in love are perfectly mirrored in the danger and beauty of wild places. Every romance she writes contains an element of nature and, if readers catch a waft of rich earth or the spray of wild ocean between the pages, she knows her job is done.

      For Tracy Scarparolo.

      And to Dan, the best office-mate and friend a girl could have.

       PROLOGUE

       www.remembermrsmarr.com

       Front row seats for a Beethoven symphony

       Bungee jump in New Zealand

       Run a marathon

       Ride like The Man from Snowy River

       Hunt for a dinosaur fossil

       Commune with the penguins in Antarctica

       Float in a Hot Air Balloon

       Climb the Sydney Harbour Bridge

       Take a gondola ride in Venice

       Climb Everest

       Abseil down a cliff face

       Be transported by a touch

       Get up close and personal with dolphins

       Take a cruise

       Hold my grandchild

       www.rem—

      SHIRLEY keyed the first letters of the web address into her browser before it auto-completed the rest. She visited enough that it knew exactly where she wanted to go.

       www.remembermrsmarr.com

      The simple site opened and she spent the first moments—as she always did—staring at the face of her mother, captured forever in time in a delighted, head-thrown-back kind of joy. Exactly as she would have wanted people to see her. Exactly as her students did see her. And exactly how Shirley chose to remember her now, with the benefit of distance.

      Clicking through to the list she knew was on the next page only disappointed.

      Still nothing in the first column—the one headed ‘HT.’

      After all this time.

      Hayden Tennant had been her mother’s all-time favourite student. He’d been the one—hurt and grieving—to suggest the tribute website in the first place. So that they could each do the items on her mother’s bucket list. All the life experiences an unlicensed drunk-driver had robbed her of.

      Hayden had pledged.

      He’d vowed in that gorgeous, thick, grief-filled voice.

      Yet every single square next to every single item on www.remembermrsmarr.com was empty where Hayden’s initials should have been.

      Today was an extra sucky day to be staring at the list and finding it empty. Because today was ten years since Carol-Anne Marr had taken her last breath. How many weeks had passed before he’d forgotten all about it? Or was it days? Hours? Did he think no one would notice? Did he think his teacher’s

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