Chapter 8
I woke up the next morning feeling as if I’d slept on a cloud.
Enveloped by the most impossibly soft linen, not to mention pillows you wanted to crawl into and live inside.
The bed was ridiculous. I’d probably just had the best night’s sleep of my life, and frankly I didn’t really want it to end.
But I had a job to do. I yawned and reluctantly dragged myself from my linen utopia, cheering myself up with thoughts of the buffet I’d seen advertised in the hotel brochure last night.
And when I walked into the dining room, it did not disappoint.
I was immediately assaulted by the aroma of sizzling bacon, fresh pastries and strong coffee calling to me.
I practically floated towards the food as if hypnotised by the towers of golden waffles.
I wasted no time in piling my plate to Leaning Tower of Pisa proportions.
Scrambled eggs, sausages, heaps of hash browns, a croissant or two, or three, and a stack of pancakes for good measure.
I considered adding some fruit. One should get one’s fruit in.
Vitamins and all that. But I was very, very distracted by what looked like a custard pastry.
And when I weighed up custard pastry versus strawberries, there was a clear winner. Spoiler: it wasn’t the strawberries.
Once I’d gorged myself and practically had to roll out of the restaurant, it was time to get on with my day.
And the day’s focus was definitely Victor.
I was determined to catch him in an act, the act, whichever came first. I hoped today he’d have a female companion and I’d be able to snap a few shots.
But after a few minutes of strolling around, I found him in exactly the same spot as yesterday.
It almost looked like he’d spent the night there.
I climbed onto a lounger on the opposite side of the pool and settled in to watch him.
But there was nothing to watch. In fact, the man was so still he actually looked dead.
And when he hadn’t moved in a while, I legitimately thought of walking over there to check if he still had a pulse.
But when an insect landed on his toe and he tried to flick it off, I figured his heart was still beating.
The movement was very short-lived, though, because it was only a second until he went fully rigor mortis again.
His arm was draped over his stomach, which was considerable in size.
One of his legs was dangling off the lounger, and unfortunately he was wearing a Speedo.
A gold chain glistened around his neck, a large pendant nestled in his mane of chest hair, and he wore an enormous watch around his wrist and a signet ring on his pinky finger.
All in all, he gave off the smug contentedness of a man who’d never heard the word ‘no’, and a sense of entitlement that radiated off him like a cloud of expensive cologne.
I lifted my camera and took a few snaps.
An hour passed, and then another, and all he did was lie there frying in the sun and sometimes stirring to sip his drink or order another one. When another hour passed, zero action, I decided to walk down to the beach.
Just as I got there, something very exciting happened.
Victor sat up, and then, to my surprise, actually started shuffling towards the beach.
I watched him as he waded into the water, wincing every now and then when the water lapped against his burnt skin.
I waded in too. The water was cool and crystal clear.
It was probably the nicest seawater I’d ever been in.
I kept a safe distance from him, but stayed just close enough that if he muttered to himself, or did something strange, I would notice.
Mostly I wanted to observe his baseline body language.
The one he used when relaxed. That way it would be easier to tell when he was lying.
But watching Victor was like watching paint dry.
I’d never been so bored in my life and decided to return to my lounger.
As I sat back down, I noticed the man with the blue eyes again.
He wasn’t looking in my direction, so I took the opportunity to really study him.
He was hot, no doubt about it. Striking blue eyes, pitch-black hair, angular face, strong jawline.
Just as I was about to start admiring his body, he turned and caught me watching.
I tried to play it cool, but wasn’t sure I’d achieved that, because now he was walking towards me.
I suddenly became acutely aware of the silly string bikini I was wearing, and the fact that I was now desperately trying not to show how self-conscious I felt.
‘Nice camera,’ Blue Eyes said.
‘You too,’ I replied, gesturing to the one around his neck.
‘I’m a bit of an amateur photographer . . . hobby really.’
‘Me too.’
He leaned in and took a closer look at my camera. ‘Telephoto. Excellent choice.’ He gave me an awkward little smile; it was almost coy.
‘I like to make sure I get all the details. Helps when you’re photographing birds.’
‘Birds?’ He beamed at me. ‘I’m a bit of a birdwatcher myself.’ His smile widened, which made his blue eyes twinkle with something almost playful, possibly even flirtatious. ‘I think I saw you taking some photos earlier?’
‘Yup, got some great ones. Also spotted a tree frog. Did you know they make a whistling sound?’
‘Tree frogs? I’ll be sure to keep an eye open for them.’
‘Well, good luck,’ I said, giving him a little wave as he started walking away.
I settled back into the lounger. The sun was climbing higher as the day passed, and soon I would need to find shade.
Since Victor was still splashing about in the water and I needed a break from all this boredom, I decided to check in with Philly.
I snapped a stereotypical beach photo, with my knees in the foreground and the ocean stretching out in front of them.
I made sure to get Victor in as well. Then I opened the photo in my editor, drew a small circle around Victor bobbing up and down in the water and sent it to Philly with a quick message:
Lizzy: Can you believe that’s what all this fuss is about?
A minute later, my phone buzzed.
Philly: What? That little red thing in the water?
Lizzy: Yep.
Lizzy: He hasn’t heard of SPF.
Philly: Any sign of the mistress?
Lizzy: Not yet.
Philly: Do you think Sharaz got it wrong?
Philly: Maybe he just needed a holiday away from her?
Lizzy: Not sure yet, but looking at him, my gut tells me he’s the cheating type.
Philly: Well, I always trust your gut when it comes to these things.
Over the years, I’d become quite adept at recognising the telltale traits of cheaters.
The main one? An air of smugness that hung around them like a bad stench, whether they were skinny and lanky with low muscle tone or larger and more rounded like Victor, they all gave it off like an aura.
An aura that they shouldn’t really give off, but only did because they walked around feeling untouchable.
And I could practically see him glowing with it.
There was no way he was here alone, and as soon as the mistress appeared, when she appeared, I was going to get him.