Chapter One #2
She was halfway to the beach, in the shadows of the lush vegetation, when movement caught her eye. A tall figure strode along another path at right angles to hers, his back to her. He had what looked like a laptop bag slung over his shoulder as he followed a staff member, carrying a case.
It had to be Chiara’s groom. There were no other guests here this weekend.
But instead of curiosity, something else battered at Dido’s consciousness. The skin between her shoulder blades tightened and her nape prickled. She drew a deep breath, surprised to find herself trembling.
Frowning, she looked away to the beach, focusing on the dark bronze gleam of the setting sun on the water and the long, lacy curl of an ankle-deep wave, shushing its way up the sand. Exquisite. Beautiful. Peaceful.
Yet Dido’s heart was racing. Slowly she turned back towards the retreating figures, her eyes unerringly snagging on the taller of the two. She had an impression of height, of wide, straight shoulders and dark hair. Thousands, millions of men had those attributes.
But how many walked with that same saunter—loose-hipped, shoulders back, head erect—as if they owned the world?
The rough bark of a palm tree abraded her fingers as she clutched it for support.
How long she stood there, she didn’t know. Long enough for her pulse to begin slowing and reason to assert itself.
It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be.
It was just that being on this sun-kissed island evoked memories she’d determinedly buried for years. That made her imagine things.
She’d been working long hours, preparing for this weekend. She hadn’t had enough sleep and had been stretched too thin, juggling all her responsibilities.
That was why she’d imagined for a split second that the newcomer was someone she knew.
Dido hated the idea that he was back in her head again after she’d worked so hard to push him out of it.
It had been over a year since she’d frozen in the street or a Tube station, convinced the one man in the world she never wanted to see was just a few paces away.
Each time she’d discovered it wasn’t him.
He’d never catch the London underground or frequent the outer suburb where she lived.
Pushing away from the tree, she hurried towards the water. What she needed was to wear herself out. She had time for a vigorous swim before it got dark and she returned to work.
* * *
Panos slid the bag off his shoulder then reefed his shirt over his head, tossing it onto the bed. Despite travelling in air-conditioned comfort, he felt hot and sticky. Uncomfortable in his own skin.
He reminded himself it was to be expected since Tahiti was in the tropics, but the balmy breeze through the open door wasn’t too humid.
His discomfort was internal. He’d spent most of the flight revisiting his decision to marry.
His mouth flattened as he pulled off his shoes and socks. Marriage was the right decision. No question of it. He’d known that for years.
A humourless laugh pulled his facial muscles tight.
If at first you don’t succeed…
He was determined to succeed this time, which was why he’d planned everything in detail, leaving nothing to chance. Everything had to be perfect and he needed to be sure it was. No leaping into the unknown.
Yet, during the long flight, doubts had niggled.
In business he’d developed an instinct for success and for danger. But when it came to personal relationships he didn’t trust himself. He didn’t intend to repeat past mistakes, being driven by feelings. His unique history had handicapped him, making his emotional instincts unreliable.
He’d been an orphaned only child, brought up by a distant relative more interested in his fortune than in a little boy. Then, when his great-uncle’s self-interest became too obvious to ignore, Panos had been raised by court-appointed guardians.
People said designing something by committee was useless. Raising a child that way was utter disaster.
No wonder he found personal relationships challenging. His closest relationships had been with people paid to care for him. His early life had been littered with people interested only in his money.
Some things never changed.
He was tired of it. He longed for something more.
At least Chiara was different. She had money of her own and wasn’t using him as a stepping stone.
Yet now he debated the wisdom of his choice.
It didn’t make sense. He’d done the sensible thing, not trusting emotions, but taking a scientific approach to finding a bride.
He’d enlisted the services of a matchmaker, one with a ninety percent success rate, a reputation for utter confidentiality, and experience dealing with people like himself, whose situation attracted the greedy and the unscrupulous. It had been a long, detailed, time-consuming process.
He hadn’t expected miracles. Yet he’d been impressed with the candidates chosen for him to consider. He’d taken his time vetting them, meeting some and making his choice.