Page 22 of One Forbidden Night In Paradise (Hot Winter Escapes)

‘There’s been a lot of research done on the negative impacts,’ she admitted. ‘You know, pollution from leaking fuel and rust particles. But wrecks exist. It’s important to find a way to live with the negative.’

‘Don’t make perfect the enemy of the good,’ he said softly.

Another blush. ‘Exactly. You can’t change the past, you have to improve on it. That’s why I’m interested in the positives.’

‘Which are?’

Watching her forehead crease, he found himself fighting the urge to reach over and smooth her forehead with his thumb.

‘For starters, it protects the natural reefs from divers, particularly where tourism relies on diving trips.’

He nodded, and as he did so he realised something. He had been tense for weeks. It was always like that in the run-up to the anniversary of his wife’s death. His body seemed to clench in on itself. He lost his appetite and his nights were interrupted with tangled, febrile dreams, but, listening to Jemima talk, he felt as if she had laid a cool hand against his forehead.

‘And in the future as ocean temperatures rise, artificial reefs can help certain marine species migrate towards more suitable habitats nearer the poles. Anyway—’ she cleared her throat ‘—that’s enough about me, what about you? What’s your job?’

His eyes held hers. ‘Is that how this works? You show me yours and I’ll show you mine?’

A drop of pink spread slowly across her cheekbones. ‘It seems only fair.’

Fair. Shifting in his chair, he felt his throat tighten. That she still wanted, expected things to be fair made him feel suddenly protective of her. And grateful that she had never experienced the loss and loneliness and grief that he had.

‘I’m in insurance. Reinsurance, mostly.’

‘Is that a joke?’ She stared at him, her grey eyes narrowing in disbelief.

‘No. I set up my own business about ten years ago.’ Holding her gaze, he smiled. ‘Although I do know some pretty good insurance jokes if you’re interested. The one involving an actuary and the magic lamp is my favourite.’

‘Maybe another time.’ She gave him another of those measured stares. ‘So your boat is just for leisure?’

He felt his ego protest at that assessment. ‘Not leisure, sweetheart,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Treasure.’

‘Treasure?’ she echoed softly, and, watching her lips soften around the word, he had a near ungovernable desire to lean forward and taste her surprise.

‘When I want to relax I come down to Bermuda and look for treasure.’ Turning round, he reached for his laptop. ‘I start by looking for shipwrecks. That’s why I have a house here.’

It wasn’t quite as simple as that.

After the accident, he had wanted to stay down in the void that was his pain. It had felt as if there were nothing else. His parents, his friends had all tried to help him with his grief, but he hadn’t wanted their help. He had wanted to be alone. It was what he deserved and so he had hired a boat from Beaufort in North Carolina and taken it out in bad weather that got worse. Got dangerous.

He had grown up on the shores of the biggest lake in North America. Sailing was not just a hobby, it was part of everyday life, like cereal for breakfast, so that he couldn’t remember ever learning how to sail. It was just something he did, like walking. And he was a good sailor, but that day was the closest he ever came to losing control of a boat.

He spent two days wrestling with the sea, barely sleeping, raging at the wind and the waves. On the morning of the third day, the storm blew out. Checking his phone, he read through the increasingly panicky texts from what looked like his entire contacts list. And in that moment of exhaustion and reprieve, he realised that he couldn’t just give up. That he had no choice but to keep moving forward. That if he gave up then he would pass the baton of misery on to them.

As the sun had risen and flooded the sky with a thin golden light he had seen Bermuda for the first time, and he had felt a kind of kinship with the island. Like him, it weathered the storms of life, and like Bermuda he would have to be separate and alone.

It had to be that way. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t do it again. He couldn’t care, feel, need...

Opposite him, Jemima tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and he remembered its glossy weight and how it had suggested all manner of possibilities to him.

Impossibilities, he told himself firmly, flipping open his laptop.

‘Because Bermuda has more shipwrecks per square mile than any other place on the planet,’ she said slowly.

He nodded. ‘That’s what they say.’

‘And you look for them.’

Tapping the keyboard, he nodded. ‘That’s exactly what I do. Whenever I can, I come down to Bermy and go looking for wrecks. Like this one.’

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