Page 14 of One Forbidden Night In Paradise (Hot Winter Escapes)

And what made it doubly baffling and frustrating was that she had made him remember how good sex was.

Obviously he’d had sex. It had been eight years since the accident and he wasn’t a monk. But after Frida, sex had been simply an itch to scratch. It was pleasurable, for both parties, but not personal. And yet somehow this woman, this stranger, had changed that, made him want her.

Probably because she had upped and left like Cinderella running from the ball. Only instead of leaving a shoe, she had left that note. Now he reached into his pocket, and he felt his temper stir again as his fingers brushed against it. He knew that if he had woken to find Jemima still in his bed, he would have been desperate to get rid of her. That was how it worked. In the cold light of day, the magic of the previous night faded abruptly. Everything lost its sparkle.

But when he woke she wasn’t still in his bed. At some point between when he had pulled her against his drowsy body and the sun rousing him from sleep, she had sneaked out on him, which meant there had been no jolt back to reality.

So now she was stuck in his head, her naked body bathed in moonlight, skin gleaming with perspiration, blonde hair spilling over her shoulders.

His phone vibrated in his other pocket and, grateful for the distraction, he retrieved it and pressed his thumb against the sensor. Reading the text, he felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders. Marcus was not the most eloquent of communicators but at least some things were happening the way they were supposed to. All he needed to do was concentrate on those and soon enough Jemima Friday would turn into Jemima Last Week.

Stepping out of the boutique, Jem slid her sunglasses on and glanced cautiously down the street. But there was no sign of any broad-shouldered man in a red cap.

She hadn’t planned to come into Hamilton.

After leaving Chase’s boat, she had made her way to the road and had been on the verge of calling Sam to pick her up when a bus arrived. To her astonishment, the driver had been willing to drop her off some two hundred metres from the Green Door. Perhaps it was his unhesitating and cheerful flexibility or maybe it was the infusion of post-orgasm endorphins in her body but, having collected her moped, instead of returning to the beach house she had found herself heading towards the capital.

She glanced down at the glossy rope-handled bag dangling from her hand. She hadn’t planned on buying the dress either.

Clothes shopping was something she did under duress. Holly was the shopaholic in the family, but then she had been walking past one of the boutiques on Front Street and she had seen it in the window.

It was not something she would buy ordinarily. For starters it was yellow. And it was short, too boho, and definitely too expensive, but the Jem who had woken that morning was looking for something to match her mood. Something casual and confident. And buying a beautiful dress on a whim was exactly what casual, confident Jem would do.

Feeling unshakeable, she’d walked straight into the shop and asked to try it on and everything had been going fine until it was time to pay and she had started chatting to the woman running the store.

‘So how long are you staying in Bermy?’

‘Just another week.’ She’d smiled. ‘Are you a local?’

The woman had nodded. ‘Lived here all my life.’

‘Any tips for a first-time visitor?’

She had many. Don’t buy fruit from the last stall in the marketplace. Church Bay was the best spot for snorkelling. And the best breakfast in town was at Bocado.

‘I mean saltfish and banana, not bacon and egg. But you need to jet down there now before the men get back off the boats.’

She had smiled again and thanked the woman but, at the mention of men getting ‘back off the boats’, casual, confident Jem had melted away like ice cream in direct sunlight.

Feeling nervous and breathless, she walked quickly across the square to where her moped was sitting on its stand. With hands that trembled slightly she packed her shopping into the wicker flower basket. There was no real reason to panic, she told herself. Although Hamilton was not big, the chances of her running into Chase Whatever-His-Name-Was in town had to be slim at best.

But even the possibility of it made her whole body feel taut and achy and restless, as if she had ants under her skin.

By the time she reached the turn-off that led to the beach house some of her panic had subsided and she was calm enough to slow down as she went round the corners. Not that it was necessary. Since arriving she hadn’t seen cars.

Her eyes widened with surprise. There were not one, but two pick-ups parked on the edge of the track, the kind driven by builders. She stared at them uncertainly. There were no other houses on this stretch of beach. Maybe they were working further up the beach. But as she approached the house, she saw the door was open and through it she could hear the sound of vigorous hammering. Stepping inside, she almost dropped her bags.

The kitchen was in disarray. The fridge was standing forlornly on the deck next to the old sink. A new sink, still shrink-wrapped in bluish plastic, sat next to it like the before and after shot in a fashion magazine.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’

The men turned towards her in unison. The surprise and confusion on their faces were not reassuring. Still clutching her bags, she took a step closer. ‘Who are you, and what are you doing in my house?’

The man standing nearest cleared his throat. ‘We work for Mr Farrar, ma’am. We’re here to do the refurbishment.’ He gave her a mollifying smile. ‘It’s all arranged.’

She shook her head. ‘Not with me, it wasn’t.’

Reaching into his back pocket, the same man pulled out his phone and scrolled down the screen. ‘It’s all here. Kitchen and bathroom refurbishment, starting today.’

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