Page 2 of One Forbidden Night In Paradise (Hot Winter Escapes)

‘Then be someone else. It’s just ten days, Jem. You can be anyone you want.’

And that was the difference between them. The twins were like their father. She was like hers. When life gave them lemons, they made lemonade. She never got that far because she was too busy worrying about the ratio of sugar and water. Or whether the lemons were ripe enough.

You can be anyone you want.

She glanced over at the luggage carousel, Holly’s words replaying inside her head. Right now she’d settle for being that lucky person whose bag was the first to appear.

Incredibly, her suitcase was the first to appear. So far, so smooth, but she still had to find her way to Joan’s beach house and she headed towards the exit, her nerves popping as she stepped into the sunlight again.

It was still strange to think that she would be living in someone else’s house. Almost as strange as the idea of Joan living at Snowdrop Cottage. She bit into her lip. She’d only had one, snatched conversation with Joan Santos and she seemed fun and friendly, and Holly said she would drop round and say ‘hi’. So stop worrying, she told herself. But that was easy to say, almost impossible to do. Worrying came as naturally to her as breathing. And taking an impromptu holiday on her own was well out of her comfort zone.

Only it was too late to think about that now.

There was a line of taxis waiting outside the airport and she approached the first in the queue trying to channel her younger sister’s charm and her brother’s unflappable calm.

‘Where to?’ the driver asked as he slid her bags into the boot of the car.

‘Farrar’s Cove, please. Do you know it?’

He nodded. ‘Oh, I know it.’ Slamming the boot, he grinned. ‘Don’t look so worried. It’s beautiful. Very private and quiet. You pretty much got a whole beach to yourself. But if you get tired of quiet, just walk right on up the beach to the Green Door and you can dance until the sunrise.’

She leaned forward. ‘The Green Door.’

‘It’s a bar.’ His grin widened. ‘It’s raw Bermuda; you won’t find many tourists but it’s the best bar on the island. Best rum. Best music. And not just because my sister owns it.’ She saw the driver grin in the rear-view mirror. ‘Just ask for Aliana. She’ll look after you. Tell her Sam sent you. That’s me.’

‘Nice to meet you, Sam, I’m Jemima, but most people call me Jem.’ She smiled. It was kind of Sam to look out for her but bars weren’t her thing. She didn’t drink, and as for dancing. Reaching up, she touched her bun. Letting her hair down was not something she did naturally.

Settling back against the warm leather upholstery, Jem stared through the window at the passing streets. Aside from the legendary triangle, and the namesake shorts, all she knew about Bermuda was that it was supposed to be the inspiration for the island in Shakespeare’sThe Tempest. But as they drove through the main town of Hamilton, she was more than a little surprised.

It was a pastel paradise. Everything was painted in soft pinks and yellows and blues. But mostly pink. It couldn’t be any more different from England’s grey cities and yet strangely there were old-fashioned British telephone boxes.

Just like the one Nick had pulled her into that first night they met when it was raining so hard. She had thought it was so romantic. A week later he’d told he was in love with her and moved into the cottage.

There had been no signs, nothing amiss when she let herself back into the cottage early. Music, some indie band that Nick loved and she tolerated, was playing loudly. And the cottage was swelteringly hot; she could remember feeling that familiar tic of irritation that Nick, who paid no bills, had no qualms about turning up the heating while she wore a coat and fingerless gloves and sat with a hot-water bottle to stop her body from cramping as she hunched over her laptop.

She hadn’t called out his name. She had wanted to surprise him.

And she had.

A shiver of misery and humiliation pulsed across her skin as she remembered the moment when she stepped into the bedroom. At first, she hadn’t quite taken it in, almost as if her brain was trying to protect her from what her eyes were seeing, only she couldn’t not see it. See them. Nick, his handsome features blunted with desire; the woman’s mouth an O of shock, their bodies shining with sweat in the pale afternoon light.

The woman had fled. Nick stayed. At first he was sulky and defensive, then accusatory, listing her faults, then finally he told her he was leaving. And that was that. Another failed relationship, another reminder of how she had failed to save her father from his demons.

For a moment, the shadows of the past seemed to creep into the taxi, and with an effort she pushed them away. While she was here in the sunshine, she was going to take a holiday from all the memories and regrets that crouched in the shadows.

Away from the town, the countryside was gentle but she kept getting tiny, teasing glimpses of pink sand and a sea that looked like blue glass. As he drove, Sam chatted about Bermy, as he called Bermuda, and by the time she felt the car slow, most of her nerves had faded away.

They had left the main road some five minutes earlier and now the road surface was getting rougher, and then the dunes parted and she felt her breath catch in her throat and before the car had even come to a stop she was opening the door and running towards a tiny pale green painted cottage.

When Joan had said it was ‘compact’ she hadn’t been joking. But the sand touched the steps leading up to the veranda, and it was pink.

She blinked. There were palm trees too.

It could have come straight from the pages ofRobinson Crusoe. It was perfect and she took a photo and sent it to Holly and Ed.

Inside was as tiny as it looked. Tinier even than her cottage at home. Just a bedroom, a miniature bathroom and living room with a kitchen at one end. There was a bowl of exotic-looking fruit on a doll’s-house-sized table and tucked underneath was a piece of paper with her name on it.

Hi Jem,

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