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‘I’ll arrange to have my suitcase sent over from my hotel suite on the mainland,’ I add.

  He nods. ‘If you like, but I have everything you need here.’ He starts to walk away, leaving me staring after him. ‘Food will be ready in an hour. We’ll eat on the terrace,’ he shouts over his shoulder as he saunters to the top of the stairs.

  As soon as he reaches them I stride to the room he pointed me towards and shut the door firmly behind me, leaning against the reassuringly solid wood and letting out a long, low breath of frustration.

  I hate him, hate him, for putting me through this. It’s revenge, I know it is, for the way I finished our relationship all those years ago. Not that he hasn’t already punished me for it after the way he acted afterwards, sleeping with as many women as he could possibly fit into his bed, knowing it would get back to me.

  And the vicious rumour about me that went around afterwards had his fingerprints all over it. Not that I demeaned myself to ask him about it. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. I had more important things to worry about at that point in my life, such as preventing my family from falling apart.

  And now he’s doing this to me—making me feel all sorts of things I thought I’d escaped from. Forcing me to confront what I gave up in order to do the right thing.

  I haven’t felt this turned on in years. I’d forgotten how much I could ache for my body to be touched, stroked and played with. Explored and dominated.

  But he’s going to make me wait.

  He’s such a bastard.

  I walk over to a mirror positioned above a large oak dressing table and study my flushed face, seeing the strain of the situation reflected in my eyes.

  I don’t look good. I look wired and out of control.

  Ah, hell. I think I’m in serious trouble here.

  Jamie

  I’m aware of my fingers twitching by my sides as I descend the stairs and stroll towards the kitchen to begin cooking the evening meal.

  Fuck, that was hard.

  It had taken all my willpower to ignore the insane eroticism of the moment, as well as the lingering sense of loss I was still feeling, and bring our focus back to practicalities. She was so temptingly there, with her wide, defiant eyes and her damp, kissable mouth. I wanted so fucking much to avenge my younger self’s misery by taking her the way I’ve been dreaming about since that aborted fuck a few weeks ago. But I know it wouldn’t have worked like that. She’s not ready to give me what I’m looking for yet. I want her to want it—need it—to happen so badly she begs me for it. Only then will I feel that I’ve redressed the balance between us.

  So more pleasure-delaying it is. For now.

  I made the deliberate decision to give my housekeeper and chef the next couple of days off so April and I can be alone together. I want to gain her trust by cooking for her myself, reminding her there’s more to me than she’s come to believe. I actually really enjoy cooking for people. I taught myself how to do it a few years ago and I find it a soothing activity. I think I’m pretty good at it too. My meals are something else about which I never get complaints from the women I entertain.

  My blood spikes with adrenaline as I remember her disdainful expression when she’d thrown that barb at me about not being capable of making her come. I’m glad I’m getting the opportunity to put that fallacy to bed, even though I consider it an added extra compared to my real reason for getting her to stay here with me.

  I can tell she’s still very much on her guard, which isn’t surprising, considering my rather unusual demand. Not that it seems to have fazed her at all. As I suspected, she’s willing to do anything in order to get what she wants for her family’s business. To further her career. She’s that mercenary. Though I guess I’ve no room to talk at the moment, considering the way I’m acting.

  But it’s a means to an end. An opportunity to put everything right and move on. To get a major source of hurt and stress out of my life.

  This thing between us has followed me around for too many years now, like an abused but loyal dog, and I’m coming to recognise how unhealthy it is. It’s coloured every single relationship with a woman I’ve had, in one way or another. I think subconsciously I’ve compared them to her and they’ve all come up wanting. Not that I can put my finger on why, exactly. She’s not that special. But, despite my continued attempts to forget what happened between us, I’ve never been able to put it to rest and move on.

  But now it’s time to do exactly that.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  April

  THE CLOTHES HE’S picked out for me are surprisingly demure.

  When I pull back the wardrobe door I expect to see a selection of clingy, provocative outfits to pull me further out of my comfort zone, so fingering through the beautifully cut, classy designer garments gives me both a thrill of pleasure and relief.

  While I hate the idea of him dressing me, I can’t help but feel grudging approval at his good taste.

  Not that I should allow that to affect my opinion of him. I’ve always known he’s one step above most men I’ve ever met, but he’s also self-obsessed and wily, and I need to keep my guard up around him at all times. Even though I know he’s taking great pleasure in ‘teaching me a lesson’, I can’t help but wonder whether there’s more to his demand that I stay on his island, cut off from outside communication. I’ll need to stay vigilant, just in case he’s trying to sneak something past me while I’m here. I wouldn’t put it past him.

  I’ve experienced too much betrayal and disappointment in my life not to be paranoid at every turn.

  After taking a refreshing shower in the aquamarine-tiled en suite bathroom, I use the powerful showerhead between my legs to try and relieve some of the sexual tension that’s been plaguing me for the last hour, but to my frustration I can’t quite get there. Something’s stopping me from reaching that peak and I get out of the water with the craving for release still clawing through me.

  Once I’ve dried my sensitised skin I select a simple but elegant silky-feeling slip dress in royal purple. As promised, it’s in my size, and when I slip it over my head and do up the zip at the back it fits perfectly. Like a second skin.

  I dry my shoulder-length hair, which takes longer than usual in the humid heat of the Greek evening, then twist it into a neat bun and pin it up, leaving my neck exposed. It feels good to have the cool air from the open window breeze across it.

  Okay, I’m ready.

  Body humming with nervous energy for the battle of wills I’m sure I’m about to face this evening, I make my way down the stairs to find Jamie.

  My taste buds tingle as I make my way deeper into the house to where I imagine the kitchen to be. There’s a delicious smell wafting from that direction and it lures me towards it like human catnip.

  But when I step inside the large, lived-in-looking room, with its terracotta-tiled floor and whitewashed walls, it’s free of human presence. The oven is on, with a couple of dishes on the shelves inside, and there are plates laid out ready to be filled. Cooking is still in progress, it seems.

  So I go in search of Jamie, not wanting him to find me dithering about in there, looking out of place and uncomfortable.

  There’s a warm glow coming from a room opposite the library and I stroll towards it, hyper-aware of the kitten heels of my shoes clicking on the polished tile floor. I walk into a large, simply decorated sitting room and look around. Nothing in this house is for show, it all has a useful purpose, though I’m sure it’s all top-quality merchandise. On the other side of the room there are bi-fold doors pushed wide open, giving a stunning view out across the sea. A warm breeze plays over my skin as I make my way towards them and I see there’s a terrace out there with a large dining table and chairs set out on it. The sun is beginning to set in the distance and there are lanterns hanging from two posts that are holding up a canopy of sweet-smelling grapevines heavy with their purpl
e fruit. The flames from the lanterns flicker gently in the breeze as I move towards them and I experience a sudden uplift in my mood. It feels good to be out of the city, I realise, breathing the fresh sea air deep into my lungs.

  ‘Come and join me,’ Jamie says as I walk further onto the terrace. He’s lounging in one of the cedar-wood dining chairs with a glass of what looks like gin and tonic in his hand, watching the sun setting in the distance.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say stiffly. I take a seat opposite him, then turn to look out to sea too.

  ‘Here, I fixed you a drink. G and T,’ he says, pushing a cut-glass tumbler towards me. The liquid fizzes and glints in the early-evening sun, a slice of vibrant green lime jostling against ice cubes on the surface.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, picking up the glass and taking a tentative sip.

  ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t poisoned it,’ he jokes, his eyes alive with wry mirth.

  ‘I should hope not. You’ll never get to soothe that poor ego of yours if you do away with me first,’ I retort, not quite able to match his relaxed tone. Again I wonder what sort of game is afoot here. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t out-and-out friendliness from Jamie.

  ‘That dress suits you. I knew it would,’ he says.

  I clear my throat, disconcerted by the compliment.

  ‘I have to say, I’m impressed. You did a pretty good job of picking out the sorts of clothes I’d choose for myself,’ I say, forcing myself to join in with the friendly banter. To be honest, it’ll probably make this evening so much less stressful if we’re not sniping at each other the whole time.

  And I can do civilised. No problem. I’ll just follow his lead. But I’m not going to allow myself to get too comfortable, because that’s when he’ll go in for the kill. I’ve experienced it before, so I know what I’m talking about.

  He nods, his gaze fixed on mine, his firm lips drawn into a playful smile. ‘Well, I figured I owed you a dress,’ he murmurs, his voice warm with flirtation. He’s referencing tearing off the last one he saw me in, of course, and the memory of it has my body right back on high alert, craving a repeat performance.

  ‘What’s for dinner?’ I ask, in an attempt to distract my thoughts from wandering that way. But all I can think about now is the naked desire on his face as he thrust into me, pinning me against that wall...

  Oh, God, I know I’m going to have real trouble eating tonight when he’s sitting so close. His musky scent is in my nostrils and I’m so very aware of those long, skilful fingers of his wrapped around the glass. I know exactly what he can do with those hands. How much pleasure he can give me.

  Stop thinking about it!

  ‘It’s baked white fish with roasted Mediterranean vegetables,’ he says.

  Despite my nerves my stomach still growls as I remember the delicious smell in the kitchen.

  ‘Sounds great.’

  He stands up. ‘Speaking of which, it should be just about ready.’

  I go to stand up too.

  ‘No, you stay there and enjoy the sunset. I’ll bring it out to the table.’

  So he’s cooking and serving the meal himself. As I’d started to suspect, his staff aren’t just discreet, they’re not actually here. It seems we’re totally alone on the island.

  An electric prickle rushes over my skin and I sit back heavily in my chair again.

  I watch him walk away, hyper-conscious of his athletic grace. It looks as though he’s taken a shower since I last saw him because he’s changed his clothes and his hair is shiny and swept back from his closely shaved face. He’s still casual, in a short-sleeved linen shirt and navy combats, but seriously the man can make anything look a million dollars when it’s on that incredible body of his. He’s so bloody virile it’s sickening.

  It appears he can cook, now, too. Something he’d never done when we were together. We’d always gone out for meals, choosing to spend our time together in bed at each other’s houses.

  I have a suspicion he’s deliberately trying to impress me, but I have no idea why. He’s the one holding all the cards here.

  The idea of spending the next few days in his company is frankly unsettling, so I take a big swig of my drink to calm my nerves before he comes back, then another. The alcohol warms my chest then hits my empty stomach, immediately filling me with a false sense of well-being.

  I should be careful how much I drink, though. I don’t want to compromise my control over this situation.

  I wonder if he’s thinking the same way. Is this his first drink, or one of many?

  He used to drink a fair amount when we were together at university, though not to extremes, but after we split up there were some stories in the tabloids about him being drunk and lary in a few London nightclubs. Not that I allowed myself to pay much attention to them because there had always been a beautiful party girl involved and it had been too painful to think about him being with other women. But, come to think of it, I’ve not heard about any bad behaviour on his part since then so I guess he must have pulled his drinking back.

  On a whim, I lean forward, pull his tumbler towards me and take a tentative sniff. It doesn’t smell alcoholic. I frown, then pick up the glass and take a small sip. Nope. There’s no gin in here. It’s just tonic.

  Interesting.

  Footsteps sound behind me and I hurriedly push his drink back across the table top to where he was sitting and turn around just as he walks out of the living area and onto the terrace with plates loaded with food in each hand.

  He puts one in front of me and one at his place, then reaches into a side pocket in the leg of his trousers to produce cutlery.

  ‘Voila,’ he says, waving his hand with a proud flourish towards the meal.

  ‘It smells delicious,’ I say, because it does. Despite the fact my stomach’s jumping with tension, my mouth still waters with anticipation.

  ‘Would you like some wine to go with it?’ Jamie asks, gesturing towards a silver bucket at the other end of the table with the neck of a bottle of white wine peeking out of it.

  ‘No, thank you,’ I say, ‘But don’t let me stop you if you want some.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I don’t drink any more.’

  I blink at him. ‘You don’t drink wine, or any alcohol?’ I ask, wanting clarification on that point.

  ‘Alcohol. Not since my early twenties.’

  ‘Why did you give it up?’ I’m intrigued about the reason for this.

  He looks away and I get the sense he’s uncomfortable talking about it.

  ‘Mostly because it interfered too much with my tennis training. There’s nothing worse than running round a court with a hangover being bellowed at by your coach,’ he replies, picking up his knife and fork and cutting into his fish. He’s still not looking at me and I could swear his shoulders and jaw have tensed.

  Then it hits me. Of course. His mother died from liver failure. Although he never explicitly said so, I got the impression she was an alcoholic and that’s what had caused it. Which actually makes a lot of sense to me after what shook out after my mother’s death.

  Jamie had very rarely talked about his mother, who he’d lost when he was only fifteen, and whenever he did mention her I’d got the feeling he’d struggled to come to terms with it—he’d certainly become very morose whenever the subject had come up—so I’d never pursued it.

  And I wasn’t about to delve into that sticky topic now. Too personal.

  I pick up my knife and fork and begin to eat, savouring the soft, creamy texture of the fresh fish in my mouth.

  Thinking about it, perhaps something happened to make him think he was heading towards alcoholism too. Perhaps it was after what happened with us.

  A hot rush of distress hits me.

  But I can’t let myself think like that. I’d done what I’d done to protect him. To save him from losing e
verything that had meant something to him.

  Anyway, it was probably just the training, like he said.

  ‘I heard you’ve given up playing professionally,’ I say to distract myself from the sinking feeling in my gut. ‘What happened?’

  He looks up at me, his brows pinched together. ‘I had a bad fall on the court during a training session a couple of years ago, which my shoulder never fully recovered from, and it put paid to my winning streak.’ He rolls the shoulder in question as if the mere thought of it had sent a throb of pain through him. ‘Even after a year of physiotherapy the mobility in my shoulder hasn’t entirely returned so I can’t put as much power behind my strokes any more.’

  He shrugs. ‘I still play a bit, though, when I get a chance. I sometimes do stints of coaching for kids from underprivileged backgrounds through a couple of sports-focussed charities, to give them opportunities they might not ordinarily have. And I run scholarship programmes to help with club and coaching fees if they show talent and interest.’ He flashes me a self-depreciating smile. ‘At first I thought it would drive me insane, watching all those bright young things priming themselves to take my crown, but actually it’s been incredibly rewarding.’

  I realise I’m staring at him, a forkful of food en route to my mouth. ‘I didn’t know all that,’ is all I can think to say, caught off-guard. I didn’t realise he had philanthropic leanings, but then I’ve avoided him—and even conversations about him—as much as possible over the last ten years.

  He laughs at my surprise, his whole face lighting up.

  My breath catches in the back of my throat and warmth pools in my belly at the sight of it. He looks so different when he’s not being angry with me. I’d forgotten how much his smile affects me. How my whole being responds to it, as if I’m being shot through with pure pleasure.

  Another thing to watch out for.

  ‘There’s no need to look so shocked. I know you think I’m just some self-obsessed playboy, but that couldn’t be further from the truth,’ he scolds me, dipping one eyebrow in mock consternation.