THE WEATHER IN Toulon was clear when they circled in for landing, the bright blue of the sky stretching as far as the eye could see along the Côte d’Azur, enhancing the beauty of a coastline that was coveted by holidaymakers and frequented year-round by the world’s famous and rich.
Nico had no interest in the glamorous beaches and glittering nightlife that gave the French Riviera its reputation as a decadent playground. Toulon featured on his itinerary several times a year only because it was the nearest mainland airport to Île de Lavande, the quiet, secluded home he retreated to when he wasn’t residing in Paris or New York or travelling across continents for business.
On occasion, however, when his mind grew restless and his body demanded a certain kind of release, he’d linger on the mainland for a night and venture into a glitzy casino or high-end bar. He’d order a shot or two of something—whatever he fancied on the night—and wait for them to come. And they always did. Those women with no hidden agendas who, like him, were simply looking for a good time. He would choose one—only ever one...gluttony wasn’t his thing—and take her to a luxury hotel suite, order champagne and anything else she desired from the menu and let her flirt and tease for a while if that was her wont.
But not for too long.
He could be a gentleman when he chose, but he was no saint. Not when his thoughts were dark and his body primed and the only way to obliterate his memories was by losing himself in the pleasure of soft flesh and tight, wet heat.
Sometimes, if the sex was outstanding, he’d take a number, hook up with the same woman again, even indulge in the occasional dinner or outing. But only if she understood that pleasure was the only offer on the table. He had nothing more to give. Nothing beyond the physical certainly.
Julia had been his one love.
His one chance at a normal, happy life.
He didn’t deserve another. Didn’t want another only to have it brutally torn from him.
The jet touched down and he channelled his thoughts back to the present as they taxied to a stop on a private strip of Tarmac, close to where his helicopter awaited. He released his seat belt and stood, glancing over to where Marietta sat, as silent now as she’d been for the last hour of the flight.
He still didn’t really know what their conversation in the air had been about. He’d wasted no time shutting it down, sensing it was going nowhere good, nowhere safe, but in so doing he’d spiked his awareness of her, and that awareness was still humming in his body like an electric current he couldn’t switch off.
Was she upset with him? Hard to tell. Her gaze was focused out of the large oval window so that all he could see was her proud, elegant profile. Dieu, but she was lovely. High cheekbones. Straight nose. Flawless skin. Hair like burnished mahogany. And her lips were soft and full—ripe for tasting.
He clenched his jaw. Not helpful.
‘Marietta?’
He half hoped she was annoyed. A little reserve, a touch of coolness between them, might be a good thing. He had one objective and that was to keep her safe. This spark of attraction he felt—there was no room for it.
She turned her head then and his hopes met a swift end. She didn’t look angry. Didn’t even look mildly irritated. Hell, she was smiling at him.
‘Are we flying to the island in that?’
For a moment he didn’t register the question, blindsided as he was by that smile. The pretty flush on her cheekbones. The breathless quality to her voice that seemed to stroke right into him.
She looked out through the window again and he leaned down, followed the line of her gaze to where his chopper sat on the Tarmac, its long rotor blades and black paintwork gleaming in the sunshine. A man in blue overalls and a fluorescent orange vest moved around the craft, completing a thorough safety check that Nico himself would repeat prior to take-off.
‘Oui,’ he said. ‘The island is accessible by boat, but the chopper is faster.’
‘I’ve never been in a helicopter.’ Her gaze swung to his. ‘Will you pilot it?’
‘Of course.’
She fired another look out of the window and then undid her seatbelt and smoothed the creases from her grey linen pants. ‘Okay. I’ll wait here while the luggage and my wheelchair are transferred,’ she said, her voice turning brisk. ‘Take me last.’
‘There’s a lift—’
‘No,’ she cut across him. ‘No fuss. Please.’ Her gaze didn’t quite meet his. ‘It will be quicker and easier if you carry me.’
Easier, Nico reflected ten minutes later as he settled Marietta into the cockpit of the chopper, was a relative term. Because the effort of willing his groin not to harden in response to holding a soft, warm woman in his arms—a woman who smelled enticingly of strawberries and vanilla and something faintly exotic—had not come anywhere close to being easy.
He strapped her into the harness, made a couple of adjustments that brought his fingers dangerously, agonisingly close to her breasts, then hastily withdrew his hands.
‘Comfortable?’ She nodded and he handed her a black helmet. ‘This has a built-in headset so we can communicate. I need to do a final weather check and then we’re set.’
Her gaze turned skyward. ‘The weather looks perfect.’
‘Oui. But we’re flying twenty miles south over open sea. The marine winds can be unpredictable.’
Rather like his body, he thought grimly.
* * *
Marietta’s heart raced and she gripped the edges of her seat. She looked down at the deep, surging swells of the Mediterranean Sea, then up again to the lone mass of land looming in the distance. Silhouetted against a bright blue sky, the island’s long, uneven shape teased her imagination and made her think of a great serpent slumbering on the horizon.
She’d always wanted to fly in a helicopter and now she was hurtling over the ocean in one and struggling to hold back a grin. Which was crazy. What reason did she have to smile or feel breathless and giddy?
Yesterday her life had been turned upside down, her home invaded by a man who at worst was a predator and at best was a disturbed individual in dire need of a shrink. Yet somehow, right at this moment, all of that seemed very distant and she really was fighting an insane urge to grin.
She let her gaze roam the cockpit’s interior, fascinated by the dials and buttons and levers. Beside her, Nico looked at home in the pilot’s seat, his large hands working the controls of the powerful machine with dexterity and ease.
Strong hands, she thought, recalling how he’d carried her from the jet to the helicopter as if she weighed next to nothing. As if carrying a woman was something he did every day and the experience left him unaffected. While she had been hyper-aware of everything. From the hardness of his body and the citrusy scent of his cologne to the tanned triangle of chest in the opening of his shirt and the glimpse of dark hair at the base of that V.
She’d wondered whether the texture of that hair was soft or coarse. If it thickened and spread across his chest or was merely a dusting. If it arrowed into a fine line that bisected his stomach and travelled into the waistband of his pants and lower.
Inappropriate thoughts she should not have had then and should not be having now. Not about the man she was going to spend the next few days cooped up with on an island.
She dragged her attention off his hands and back to the mass of land ahead of them that was appearing more substantial by the second. Running her gaze along the nearest stretch of coastline, she made out three separate white sand beaches and, nestled into the lee of a lush hill range, a large village and a port, where rows of colourful boats were moored to long wooden wharves jutting into clear turquoise waters.
‘You own a whole village?’
A short burst of static came over the headset before the rich timbre of Nico’s voice filled her helmet. It was an odd sensation—as if he was inside her head and all around her at the same time.
‘No. I own sixty percent of the island, including the southern and western coasts. The rest—including the northern beaches, the olive groves to the east and a small commercial vineyard—is now owned by various locals whose families have lived on Île de Lavande for hundreds of years.’
‘Now owned?’ she said. ‘Did they not always own it?’
‘Non. For several centuries the island was owned by a single aristocratic French family. They employed caretakers and servants who settled on the land with their families. It wasn’t until a wealthy American industrialist bought the island in the early nineteen-hundreds and decided to sell off some parcels of land that the locals finally had the opportunity to become landowners instead of leaseholders.’
Fascinated, she took a moment to absorb it all. ‘How do the islanders make their living? Fishing?’
‘Oui. And from olives and wine. Most of which they sell to the mainland. Plus a controlled level of tourism.’
‘Controlled?’
‘Limited numbers of tourists, and only at certain times of the year. During those months a passenger and car ferry visits twice a week—no more. The villagers rely on the revenue, but they also want to protect the environment—and their privacy.’
‘Are most of them descended from the original settlers?’
‘Many of them, oui.’
‘That must be amazing—to know the history of generations of your family.’ Silence crackled in her headset. ‘Do you have any familial links to the island?’ she asked.
‘Non,’ he said.
‘So...you have family living in France?’
‘Non.’
The message in that second abrupt no was clear. Subject off-limits. Marietta bit down on her tongue—and her curiosity—and focused on the scenery.
Ahead, an old sturdy fishing vessel rode the ocean swells as it chugged slowly into the calmer waters of the harbour. Nico flew the chopper directly over the boat, low enough to see the broad smiles on the fishermen’s upturned faces. They raised their arms and waved and Nico waved back—and Marietta’s surprise lasted only a second. Mr Security Conscious would know his neighbours, she realised. Even a whole village of them.
They neared land and he banked the helicopter to the right, angling them over the port and the outskirts of the village. She glimpsed red-tiled roofs and open shutters on whitewashed houses, an old stone church and the crumbling remains of a sprawling derelict structure on the crest of a hill.
‘Where’s your home?’
‘Further around the coast,’ he said. ‘Twenty-five minutes by road from the port.’
The village fell behind them and she looked down, saw rows upon rows of pine trees extending into the island’s interior. It was lush and dense—much more fertile and beautiful than she’d expected.
‘Will you show me some of the island while we’re here?’
‘Perhaps. If time allows. We have work to do first.’
She turned her head to look at him. ‘What kind of work?’
‘Questions and answers.’
Her brows knitted. ‘I don’t understand...’
‘We are going to dissect your life, Marietta. Day by day. Hour by hour. Minute by minute. You are going to break down every routine for me—everything you do, everywhere you go, everyone you meet—until we have ruled out the possibility that your stalker is someone you know or have met.’
A groan rose in her throat. ‘But I’ve answered all of Bruno’s questions. And yours.’
‘And you will answer them again,’ he said. ‘As many times as I need you to. Until I am satisfied.’
His tone was uncompromising and a shiver rippled through her. How ironic. Yesterday she’d spared a thought for anyone unfortunate enough to find themselves interrogated by Nicolas César—soon she would experience for herself that very ordeal.
Her mood well and truly dampened, she stayed silent for the rest of the flight, even stifling her exclamation of wow when she spotted the house perched on a high plateau above a steep limestone cliff.
Sleek, white, and über-modern, the expansive single-level dwelling might have dominated its surroundings. Instead, its simple understated design complemented the landscape, with acres of glass reflecting the sky and the rich, fertile land all around it. On the ocean side a flat terrace featured a large swimming pool, which sparkled like a sheet of cobalt glass in the sunshine. On the inland flank, a circular courtyard sat at the head of a long winding driveway which descended into a thick forest of towering pines.
Marietta surveyed the property as Nico set them down on a dedicated helipad a short distance from the courtyard.
It was, she decided after a moment, just like its owner.
Stark. Remote. And beautiful.