manipulation.
‘Well, Michael didn’t specifically say he was coming,’ said Serena, looking her sister confidently in the eye. ‘But it’s hardly barging in. It is his place, after all, and he’s entitled to pop by whenever he likes.’ She bit a crisp crescent out of the coconut and smirked like the cat who’d got the cream.
‘Two thousand miles for supper is hardly popping by.’ Venetia stopped and eyed her sister suspiciously. ‘You fancy him, don’t you? I feel so stupid for not thinking of it sooner.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Serena dismissively, lying back in the hammock and closing her eyes. ‘This isn’t school, you know! And in case you’ve forgotten, I am in the middle of a desperately painful break-up. Getting involved with someone else, even someone with a villa like Michael’s, is really not on my agenda.’
Venetia looked at her sister lying half naked in the Caribbean sun and doubted that was the case.
The runway at Mustique Airport was too short for Michael’s Gulfstream to land so, like all the other thousands of visitors that arrived on the island, he came by tiny charter jet, being picked up by one of the villa’s staff in a Mercedes. By the time he found the girls, standing on the terrace sipping early evening cocktails, he was relaxed and playful.
‘Hello girls,’ he beamed, scooping them both up in a huge hug and kissing them both on the cheek. ‘How are you enjoying yourselves?’
Venetia moved back, her good breeding a little overwhelmed by this stocky man. He was certainly more attractive than she was expecting, and he was definitely the sort of man whose presence took up more space than his body. Michael’s gaze was intense, his clothes – a pair of linen slacks, navy polo shirt and tan Tods loafers – oozed a casual power and, despite her reserve and the gun-running rumours, Venetia found herself gushing. ‘Oh, it’s wonderful here,’ she said, enthusing about the interiors, the space and the beautiful peachy light on this soft, early spring evening.
‘This is a nice surprise,’ said Serena, turning on her bare foot to walk back to the thatched casita by the infinity pool. Michael smiled and looked her up and down, his eyes pausing at her firm round breasts that were barely restrained by a tiny white bikini top.
‘Well, I was in Barbados on business and it’s not so far – a hop down to the Grenadines. I thought you might appreciate some more company – it’s quiet out in Mustique before Easter.’
‘Quiet?’ smiled Serena flirtatiously. ‘Exclusive. Just how I like it.’
Michael stepped closer to her, his fingertips brushing hers, and she felt her nipples tighten in an instant.
‘I’ll just change and then we’ll meet for dinner in, say, half an hour? We’ll set the table in the pagoda.’ He pointed in the direction of a hexagonal-shaped outbuilding on the headland. ‘It’s beautiful up there. Why don’t you ladies go to your villas to freshen up for the evening and I’ll meet you there?’
Serena’s villa was beautiful and her wardrobe even better. She clicked on some lazy Latin jazz with the CD remote and fingered through the vast collection of couture she had brought for the week’s stay, all neatly stored away by her personal butler. Her long fingers danced across a sheer kaftan shot through with metallic thread, silk headscarves in a rainbow of colours, tailored cream trousers, fine chiffon shirts and tiny printed sundresses with handfuls of copper and turquoise necklaces hanging from the rattan handles of the wardrobes. After some deliberation, she slipped on a tiny pair of cream Valentino hot pants, cut so short that the curve of her bronzed lower buttocks peeped out on parade. Not wanting to look too sexy – it was only dinner and she knew Venetia would disapprove of anything too revealing, she teamed it with a thin vest in the finest navy cashmere. She pouted in the full-length mirror, wondering whether it was too Maine rather than Mustique, and quickly made it less preppy with a turquoise bangle, hoop earrings and a long gold Garrard chain. She slipped on some flip-flops, applied a slick of translucent coral gloss to her lips and turned off the stereo. With a final squirt of perfume, a signature scent that she had made especially for her at great expense by Jean Patou, she was ready. She fastened a huge magnolia bloom behind her ear and, realizing she had been over an hour getting ready, made her way to the pagoda.
Michael and Venetia were already at the table drinking a fruit punch and chatting. It was a small and intimate space, the rough-hewn table seeming to float in a sea of blackness with only two small oil lamps and the vast smudge of stars for light. She watched Michael laughing as he poured wine into a ruby-coloured tumbler for Venetia and felt a sudden stab of jealousy. The second her back was turned and Venetia goes muscling in on the host, as if she had something to prove just because she had failing bloody ovaries.
She caught herself and realized that somewhere between the Nile and this moment on the terrace in Mustique, Michael had become incredibly attractive. Especially for a billionaire.
‘Now this is what I call a restaurant,’ said Serena, placing herself at the head of the table directly opposite Michael and letting the thin strap of her top slide off her shoulder.
‘Ah, Serena! Late, but great,’ said Michael, smiling wolfishly.
Serena smiled coquettishly as Michael beckoned over two stewards carrying huge silver platters. ‘I was just saying to Venetia that she has exquisite taste. I could use it in some of my hotels. We must set up a meeting next time I am in London.’
Serena smiled weakly. ‘But of course,’ she purred, flashing her sister a secret warning. ‘Anyway, what are we eating?’
‘I asked the chef for something simple tonight,’ smiled Michael. ‘I hope you ladies don’t mind.’ He clicked his fingers and the stewards pulled off the silver cloches to reveal plates of red snapper, thick wedges of sweet potatoes dipped in a spicy sauce and a huge bowl of green beans. The three sat eating quietly, each enjoying the food against the sound of waves and the gentle wind. Venetia looked up and noticed Michael looking up at them both, smiling broadly.
‘Hey, why the grin?’ she asked.
‘I’m laughing at the purity of the English genes,’ he said. ‘I look at you two and I see one thousand years of Anglo-Saxon pureness.’
‘Actually we have some Spanish blood sneaking in there somewhere back in the sixteenth century,’ said Serena. ‘Persecuted Catholics infiltrated the family. So we’re not that pure.’
‘Well, I would hope not.’ Michael’s remark was playful and loaded.
They all smiled and turned back to the food, the snapper crumbling into tender shards, the beans squeaky fresh.
‘So. How’s business?’ said Venetia to Michael, wiping her lips with a napkin.
‘Very good. The travel industry has been hit badly in the last few years, but at the luxury end where the Sarkis Group operates we have been largely unaffected,’ said Michael coolly.
‘Actually, I must talk to your other sister, the editor,’ he added. ‘I want to publish a travel magazine to send to all our customers and put in all our hotel rooms. I want it to be the best – stylish, sophisticated.’
‘It’s funny you should say that,’ said Venetia. ‘Cate’s in the process of launching her own magazine. Maybe the two of you should meet.’
‘That sounds interesting. And I’ll certainly enjoy meeting another Balcon girl.’
He threw Serena another long, lingering look. She held it this time, spurred on by Michael’s interest in Cate and Venetia. Venetia did not miss the look and, feeling jet-lagged and a bit drunk after a bottle of good Merlot, decided it was time to withdraw to her villa. She knew where leaving Serena alone and half dressed with a renowned playboy could lead but, with her eyelids drooping, she wasn’t in the mood to care.
‘I must get to bed. Goodnight both of you,’ Venetia said.
Michael got up to kiss her on the cheek, while Serena sat quietly in her chair, glad to be rid of her.
When