Chapter 9
By Wednesday afternoon, Giselle was congratulating herself for keeping out of Rocco’s way.
She’d heard rumours from Avril and Tara that he’d cleared Mhairi’s private suite, and if he wasn’t busy in there, he’d been holed up in her parlour.
His parlour, she corrected, but the phrase didn’t sit right with her.
The word ‘parlour’ conjured up open fires, tasselled table lamps, bone china tea services and chenille cushions, and she imagined him in more of a boardroom-type setting.
Or in a glass and steel box of an office, with a computer slimmer than a Vogue model and a mini fridge filled with sparkling Perrier water.
It was nearing the end of the day and Giselle was putting the finishing touches to the picture she was working on when the door opened.
She didn’t need to look up to know who it was.
The air hummed with an electrical charge that sizzled along her nerve endings, making her skin tingle.
It wasn’t unusual for her to be observed while she worked – that was the beauty of these studios: they were accessible to the public, with only a counter separating the visitors and her workspace – so she carried on doing what she was doing, as calmly as possible.
But she hadn’t expected to be observed by Rocco.
Ignoring him wasn’t easy. Every part of her was acutely aware of him, her body reacting despite her brain’s reluctance to engage. His nearness made her feel like the nineteen-year-old she’d been when they’d first met, and under different circumstances she might have relished it. But not right now.
Her concentration irritatingly scattered, she tried to focus on the simple, yet effective picture coming to life on the canvas in front of her.
She’d painted a bare-branched tree using watercolours and was now choosing tiny fragments of glass for the individual leaves.
Green frosted glass – emerald, lime, olive, chartreuse, sage, teal – was interspersed with the occasional citrine, amber, brown and opal, each granule carefully chosen for its shape and delicately arranged on a branch or twig.
‘You make it look easy, but I’m betting it isn’t,’ he said, as she glued the first piece in place when she was finally happy with the way the picture looked. Arrange first, glue later, was the general rule.
‘I’ve had some practice,’ she replied modestly, still not looking up from her work.
‘Can anyone do it?’
Now she did look up. ‘Why? Do you want to have a go?’
‘Me?’ He barked out an awkward laugh. ‘I’m not in the least bit arty.’
‘Yes, anyone can do it. It’s sticking bits of glass onto paper, basically.’
‘I’m sure there’s more to it than that. What I meant was, you don’t have to have any special equipment?’
‘Just the mermaid tears.’
‘The what?’
‘Legend has it that sea glass is mermaid tears.’ If that was true, she ought to thank those sad mermaids because their tears had brought her joy.
‘Romantic,’ he said. ‘Is there anywhere in particular you find them?’
‘In the sea?’
One side of his lip quirked up. ‘You’ve not lost your sass.’
Surprised, her hand hovered over the next leaf to be stuck down. ‘I didn’t realise I had any to lose.’
‘Mind if I take a closer look?’ He pointed to her newest creation.
‘Be my guest.’
She wasn’t sure she wanted him this side of the counter, but neither did she want to be rude since, technically, he owned it. And neither did she want him to suspect that his nearness might bother her.
He unlatched the half door set in the counter and stepped through it.
When he came to stand by her shoulder and peered over it, she tensed.
Wood, spice, citrus… His scent invaded her, holding her hostage to a more earthy urge than the creation of a pretty picture.
How was it possible to hardly know someone, yet desire them so much?
That she’d been in an identical situation in Venice wasn’t lost on her, but somehow it had been different.
They’d been young, on holiday, ships in the night, just enjoying the experience for what it was.
But this…? This felt heavier, more real.
It didn’t escape her notice that if they wanted, they could recreate Venice here on Skye.
Rocco’s presence was transient. He’d be gone in a matter of days.
They could enjoy a brief fling – wasn’t that the word Jinny had used?
– then they’d be out of each other’s lives a second time.
Giselle bit back a derisive laugh as the thought occurred to her that maybe they could meet up again in another ten years, make a regular thing of it. Although by then, one or both of them might be married or have kids.
‘Is there a Mrs Moore?’ she blurted, without stopping to think.
Rocco took a step back. ‘There is.’
Oh. She might have guessed. He was thirty-one. It was to be expected that he’d be in a relationship. ‘How long have you been married?’ she asked, careful to sound neutral and unconcerned.
He shuffled, then issued a rumbling laugh. ‘We’re not married. Beverly – Mrs Moore – is my mother. I thought you were referring to the business.’
‘You call your mother Beverly?’
‘It sounds more professional at work than Mum. And it’s easier to call her Beverly all the time, rather than just sometimes, because I’ll only forget and slip up.’
Giselle pressed a piece of sea glass down with her little finger, holding it in place for a second. ‘Don’t tell me, you called your teacher Mum once.’ Glancing up at him over her shoulder, she saw him grinning.
‘More than once. I’ve never been able to shake the embarrassment.’
‘And do you slip up at work?’
‘Rarely. She’s more Beverly than Mum now. Occasionally, when we disagree or I’m winding her up, I’ll call her Mother, but never in front of anyone.’
To Giselle it sounded bizarre, but what did she know? She’d never worked with any of her family members.
‘Why do you want to know?’ he asked, and she immediately regretted asking the question.
‘Just curious.’ Her shrug was off-hand, but she didn’t feel off-hand in the slightest. Then she added lamely, ‘If you did have a wife, I was wondering how she’d feel about you owning a castle, that’s all.’ It was the only explanation she was prepared to give him.
‘We’ll never know. Is it done?’ He was looking at the picture.
‘Yes. I’ll leave it to dry, then frame it.’
‘Do you make your own frames?’
‘I buy them ready made. Carpentry isn’t my forte.’
‘Where do you get your ideas?’
‘From nature, mostly.’
‘And your glass comes from the shore around the loch?’
‘Some of it. There’s usually something to be found at every low tide.’
‘What happens if it runs out? Can you use ordinary glass?’
‘Definitely not. There are machines that will grind ordinary glass, but it’s easy to tell real sea glass from fake.
Genuine sea glass has pores and a texture to it that machine-ground glass can’t mimic.
Under a macro lens it’s easy to see the difference – proper sea glass has C-shaped abrasions on its surface and an uneven texture due to being worn down by different sizes of sand and gravel.
Also, real sea glass is frosted, like this—’ she held up a piece for him to see ‘—caused by seawater altering the structure of the glass itself. And no, it doesn’t run out, as such.
There are plenty of places to find sea glass, although some are better than others. ’
‘You promised to show me Skye,’ he reminded her.
Feeling at a disadvantage now that her hands were no longer occupied, Giselle got to her feet. He was close enough to touch, if she felt the urge. Actually, she did, but she wasn’t going to act on it. ‘Are you asking me to show you where to find sea glass? Aside from Duncoorie?’
‘Is that possible?’
It was possible, yes. But did she want him with her?
Searching for sea glass was a solitary occupation, a chance to let her thoughts roam, when she let nature in and kept the rest of the world out.
Which was why early morning was her preferred time, especially a wild and stormy winter morning, when most of the island’s human visitors had flown south like the swallows, or were huddled indoors.
‘I go in the mornings,’ she said. ‘Early.’
‘How early?’
‘Five a.m.’ She knew it sounded like a thrown gauntlet.
‘Sounds good to me.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘How do you get there, if you don’t mind me asking, since you don’t have a car? Do the buses run that early?’
‘Buses don’t run to where we’re going.’
‘And where’s that?’
‘You’ll see. Meet me on the road outside the castle and wear comfortable shoes, ones you can walk in over rough ground.’ Her gaze dropped to his feet. She’d bet her right arm that he had nothing less formal than the leather loafers he was currently wearing.
‘Like trainers? It’s lucky I brought a pair with me. A nice long walk in the fresh air will do me good. See you bright and early in the morning. Oh, and Giselle?’
‘What?’
‘You’ve got paint on your nose.’
Crossly, she blew out her cheeks as she watched him saunter across the car park.
Trainers, my backside. I bet he’ll be off to Portree to buy a pair the second my back is turned, she thought.
And she had a feeling that Mr Moore wouldn’t know what a hiking boot looked like if it kicked him in the bum.
If Giselle thought an early start and a long walk would put him off, she was mistaken.
As a matter of fact, Rocco did have a pair of trainers with him, along with a Lycra vest and a pair of shorts, in the hope that he’d fit in a couple of runs.
So far, he hadn’t managed a single one, and he was beginning to feel the lack of exercise.