a them-against-us situation. It felt like three guys admiring a cute woman. Three men thinking about how this situation affected the country.
‘You know what the headlines are going to be tomorrow?’ the reporter asked, still not taking his eyes from the departing Lily. ‘They’re going to be: “Don’t Call Me Ma’am. Call Me Lily.” I just figured the angle. A Princess of the People. As a question. Like we need to get to know her before we pass judgement. You want to add anything to that?’
‘I don’t think I do,’ he said, thinking maybe that was where he’d gone wrong in the first place. We need to get to know her before we pass judgement…
‘You want us to say you threatened to throw us off the beach?’
‘I want you to say I’ll do anything in my power to protect my own.’
‘Nice,’ the guy said, grinning and scribbling himself a note. ‘Now, all you need to say is that you fell in love with her the first time you saw her… ’
‘For our women readers,’ the younger guy said apologetically. ‘They want a love story.’
‘I’m not buying into that,’ he snapped.
‘You can’t keep your eyes off her,’ the older guy said.
‘Neither can you.’
‘Yeah, well… ’ They watched as Lily rounded the last curve in the path and disappeared. There was a communal sigh of regret. ‘I expect our readers will add two and two… ’
‘I hope they will.’
‘I’m sure they will,’ the reporter said cheerfully. ‘We’ve got some great shots here. You know, if I were you, I’d show her off. You need the rest of the island to take her to their hearts.’
‘Just like you have,’ the younger reporter said and grinned. ‘Can I quote you as saying that, sir?’
HE’D seen the scar.
No matter, she thought. She’d never consciously hidden her illness from him. If he’d asked, she’d have told him.
But…
But she hated him knowing. That was why she’d consciously played it down, blocking his questions. She hadn’t lied to him about it, but neither had she told the truth. For the truth still hurt. The memory of her illness was still terrifying. Even thinking about it—how helpless she’d been—left her feeling exposed. Vulnerable. More vulnerable even than she’d felt getting married, which was really, really vulnerable.
Think about the house, she told herself. Think about practicalities.
Think about anything but Alex.
The house was fabulous.
Lily had spent only a few minutes here while she’d dumped her bridal gear and donned her swimsuit. The beach, the sea, the need to stop being a bride and have a swim, had made her rush. Now she had time to take it in.
Her apartment—a guest wing?—was beautiful: a long, wide room with three sets of French windows opening to the balcony and the sea beyond. The windows were open, the soft curtains floating in the breeze.
Everywhere she looked there were flowers. The boundaries between house and garden were almost indistinguishable.
Fabulous.
So think fabulous, she told herself.
Don’t think about Alex.
Was he still at the beach?
Maybe he’d only caught a glimpse of the scar. Maybe he wouldn’t ask.
She showered with Michales in her arms. When she emerged, wrapped in one vast fluffy towel, and Michales enclosed in another, birds were doing acrobatics in the vines on the balcony. Finches? Tiny and colourful, they made her feel as if she’d wandered into a fairy tale.
‘But this is real,’ she told Michales a trifle breathlessly. ‘Paradise.’
With Alex?
She thought of his face when he’d seen the scar. He’d looked… numb.
At least she had something she needed to focus on other than Alex’s reaction. Michales was drooping. The little boy had been wide-eyed since their arrival, crowing in delight at the sea, soaking it in with all the delight at his small person’s disposal. Now he was rubbing his eyes, snuggling against her and beginning to whimper.
He needed to be fed and put to bed. She needed to find the kitchen. She should have checked she had what she needed before she’d gone for a swim, she thought ruefully. She needed to dress fast, but if she put him down he was going to wail.
There was a knock on the door. It swung open—and there was Alex.
He’d moved faster than she had. Showered and dressed, he looked slick and handsome and casually in control of his world.
He was carrying one of Michales’s bottles. Filled.
How did he know what was needed?
‘I watched the nursery staff feed him a few times before you took him away,’ he told her before she asked. ‘I know he’s a man who doesn’t like to be kept from his meals. We knew your formula and… ’
‘We?’
‘Me and my hundred or so staff,’ he said and smiled, and she was suddenly far too aware of being dressed in only a towel, which was none too secure.
She was none too secure.
‘Why don’t you dress while I feed him?’ he said and held out his hands to take his son, and that made her feel even more insecure.
‘He’ll need it warmed.’
‘It’s already warmed.’
‘By your hundred or so staff?’
‘Only me here,’ he said apologetically. ‘A housekeeper comes here every morning, and a gardener when I’m away. When I’m here the gardener doesn’t come. That’s it.’
‘So you live here all by yourself?’
‘I do,’ he said gravely, then sat on the bed, settled Michales on his knee and offered him his bottle. Michales took it as if he hadn’t seen food for days.
‘Greedy,’ Alex said and chuckled, and Lily felt her insides do that somersaulting thing again and thought she really had to get a grip.
Her towel slipped a bit and she got a grip. Fast.
‘I’ll get dressed,’ she said and grabbed a bunch of clothes and headed for the bathroom.
But she kept the door open. Just a little. There was so much she wanted to know. And it might buy her time. Maybe it could even deflect questions from the scar.
Asking questions could be seen as a pre-emptive strike. Yeah, right, as if that would succeed. But there was little else she could think of to do.
‘How long have you had this place?’ she called.
‘My father had it built when he married my mother.’
‘He planted the garden?’
‘He and my mother did the basics. My father died when I was five and my mother was forced to leave. My mother and I rebuilt the garden when she came back.’ His voice softened. ‘She was passionate about gardening. Like you are about boats.’
She’d been steering the conversation to him. There was no way she’d let him deflect the conversation straight back.
‘Your mother died when you were… seventeen?’
‘Almost seventeen. She was sick for a long