of colour in the art on the walls, which looked to be original. Besides the very comfortable and adequate-sized oak platform bed, the furniture was an eclectic mix of old and new. The exposed oak boards looked original and were softened by hand-woven rugs. A massive hand-thrown pot set on a slate washstand was filled with artistically arranged driftwood.
It was all a million miles away from the sleek modernity and uniformity of the professionally staged luxury hotel rooms he usually used as he travelled the world.
But unlike last night, this morning he was able to see the appeal. It was not hard to see why this place was popular, an opinion based not just on the ambience but the financial accounts his grandfather had acquired. It had a lot going for it, but Bruno had made the classic mistake of overextending himself. He’d left very little wriggle room, which meant the moment the unexpected had happened there had been a domino effect.
The unexpected had been a rise in the interest rates and—well—the fatal accident.
The place had closed for several weeks after the accident, which had punched a massive hole in the fragile cash-flow, and the situation had rapidly gone from bad to worse. Customers put off by the idea of new management had started cancelling their bookings.
The reputation could, of course, be rebuilt but not without a healthy cash flow. Without a massive injection of capital the place would go under; it was inevitable. Ivo was not sentimental about such things but he suspected, actually he was relying on the fact, that Flora Henderson was.
It seemed a safe bet.
An image of her expressive face drifted into his head.
More, it was a sure thing, he decided, a hint of disapproval turning down the corners of his mouth as he stretched to relieve the kinks in his spine and curved one hand above his head. It was a comfortable position to go over the events of last night, supported by a very comfortable mattress and safe this morning behind the wall of emotional isolation that had taken him years to build.
And one moment, one tear, one sniff, one trembling lip, to knock down.
He pushed the thought away.
It had been a perfect storm moment, and he wasn’t going to make the mistake of reading too much into it. He left that to people who thought there was more to attraction than chemistry. He was not one of those people, and this morning his mind was functioning with its usual clarity and his objectivity was in place.
Lucky, because if the plan is to work you’ll need to keep an emotional distance from the redhead!
* * *
It took Flora ten indulgent minutes to blur the worst of the ravages left by a sleepless night...only thirty seconds to scrub it all away; after all, she had nothing to prove to anyone, least of all a guest.
She was on her second cup of coffee when the kitchen back door opened. The farmer from the neighbouring farm stood there, a ladder casually balanced on his shoulder.
‘Rough night.’
She started guiltily, the horror in her eyes giving way to embarrassment as she realised what he meant. ‘Oh, the weather, you mean.’
‘You’ve got a few slates loose, lass.’
The comment drew a laugh from Flora. ‘You’re not the first to suggest it.’
He grinned and half turned. ‘Won’t take long. See you’ve got a guest.’ He nodded towards the small car park where a top-of-the-range car splattered with mud and complete with some spectacular scratches to the paintwork was parked beside her own battered four-wheel drive, which had so many dings that a few more weren’t to be noticed.
Flora nodded.
‘Ah, well, it all helps.’
Flora nodded again and wondered if everyone on the island knew about her financial problems. The answer, she knew, was probably. There were advantages and disadvantages to living in such a small community; secrets were a very rare commodity.
But when you needed help you didn’t have to ask, she mused, deciding to delay ringing her mum until later—she might be having a lie-in.
She walked out into the bar area carrying cutlery to lay up a breakfast table, mentally practising the smooth, professional, just a little bit distant attitude she would take with her guest this morning.
She had no idea what she’d been thinking about, spilling everything like that. The memories made her cringe. The only solution to her embarrassment she had come up with was to pretend selective amnesia.
Well, what choice did she have? The option of taking the moral high ground was obviously off the table because if he had crossed any line she had virtually invited him to!
She squeezed her eyes closed in an effort to shut out the mortifying memories of her emotional outpouring and the strange intimacy of those moments.
Like the forced intimacy of two people with nothing in common, who were shipwrecked and...hell, there was no forced about it! Grimacing, she opened her eyes just in time to stop herself colliding with the tall figure from last night.
Standing with his back to her, he didn’t immediately react to her exclamation; when he did turn around she saw what he was holding.
‘That’s my sister and her husband. Jamie was just hours old.’ She held out her hand for the framed photo, resisting the impulse to snatch it from him.
‘They look happy.’ Ivo put the framed photo of the smiling couple holding a newborn in her hand and watched as she stroked the frame before replacing it on the shelf where he had seen it when he’d walked into the room.
Flora swallowed, feeling the anger rise up inside her like a wave. It was unfair—just so unfair. Why them? Her chest heaved with the silent effort of pushing those feelings back down. Newsflash: life wasn’t fair—it sucked, end of story. She didn’t have time to be bitter and twisted; she had a baby to care for and a business to save.
She felt those dark eyes on her and unconsciously straightened her shoulders before turning around. ‘They were,’ she said softly. ‘I think they were the happiest people I know.’ She made a throat-clearing sound before adding formally, ‘So sorry we disturbed you last night, Mr Rocco.’ But not as much as you disturbed me, she thought as an image floated into her head of him standing there in the doorway like a bronzed statue. Tthe memory was enough to create a rippling sensation low in her pelvis.
‘It’s Ivo.’
She acknowledged this with a slightly wary tip of her head, her brow furrowing as she wondered why that name seemed familiar. The answer was right there, then he spoke, and it vanished.
Ivo’s dark brows drew into a critical dark line above his aquiline nose as he took in her pallor, and the dark shadows. ‘Did you get any sleep?’ The flash of concern in his head was filtered into accusation by the time it left his lips.
Her lips tightened under his critical scrutiny. So she looked like a wreck—did he imagine she needed telling? He, of course, looked as though he’d had a full eight hours; you could almost feel the vitality he oozed from every perfect pore. He was probably one of those irritating people who only needed an hour’s sleep, she decided, nursing her resentment.
‘Yes, thank you,’ she lied, experiencing a flash of shame as she recalled the very little sleep she had had. Luckily for her peace of mind, only snatches of the dreams remained. A girl can’t take responsibility for her unconscious mind, she reminded herself.
The excuse didn’t really stand up to scrutiny when a moment later she found herself studying him through the sweep of her lashes. Her conscious mind was definitely in control as she took in the length of his legs in a pair of dark jeans and the lean, whipcord strength of his upper body showcased in a close-fitting steel-grey cashmere sweater. He looked good with clothes on too.
Head bent to hide the shamed flush that burned her smooth cheeks pink, she fiddled with the breakfast