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His gaze went across the water to the lush shoreline. Why had it called to him so much, that derelict building battered into ruin by Nature’s formidable, pitiless forces?
But he didn’t really have to ask why. He knew.
As he gazed across the water another shoreline came into his mind—one that was as familiar to him as the back of his hand. One that he had seen countless times from his boyhood dinghy, tacking back and forth across the bay. Finally tiring, or driven by hunger—or both—he’d head downwind to beach his craft on the sandy shore, where he would haul it out of the water and then lope back to the low-rise century-old building that had been his home. His parents’ home. His grandparents’ before them, and another generation before them, as well.
Villa Xenakis, which had become the Hotel Xenakis, was lovingly transformed by his parents into a small but gracious beachside hotel, filled with carefully garnered antiquities and family heirlooms.
It had been a bijou hotel, just right for the discerning traveller wending his way through the myriad islands of the Aegean, filled with charm, character, and heritage. There had been arched doorways set into thick walls, paved terraces edged with huge ceramic pithoi, tumbling with vibrant flowers—scarlet and white geraniums, crimson and yellow bougainvillea, glossy-leaved miniature olive trees.
Little stone fountains had cooled the air...shady pergolas had been wound all about with honeysuckle and jasmine. There had been the endless chirruping of cicadas and by day it had been hot, but then had come the starlit nights, the soft lapping of the sea by the water’s edge...
He blinked and the view was gone. Reduced to ruins.
His face shadowed. Nature had struck with all its callous fury, just like the hurricane that had destroyed the hotel he had purchased. But it had been no wind that had destroyed his precious sanctuary. No, it had been an earthquake that had shaken his parents’ hotel to its foundations, collapsing half the roof and the ceilings, shattering walls, turning the kitchens to rubble and the graceful archways to a heap of broken stone.
But it had not been the earthquake that had stolen his home from his parents and left them with nothing. That had been done not by the gods, or Nature, but by man. By one man.
He moved away from the rail, turning abruptly. He would not think of that—not now. He refused to think of the man who had stolen from his parents all they’d held most dear. He had got his revenge and that man was gone. Destroyed by his avenging hand.
‘Luke?’
Talia’s voice at his side was hesitant, her hand on his stiffened arm tentative. For a moment he looked down at her, at her upturned face. But it was not her face he beheld.
It was her father’s.
His eyes darkened, but with an effort he cleared his expression.
It’s not her fault—not her fault she’s his daughter. I cannot blame her for being that.
He would not let it trouble him. Not now. Not when he had finally made her his.
He rested his eyes on her with appreciation in his gaze. It was not just her beauty that drew him, incandescent though it was—it was so much else, as well. He tried to analyse it, and failed, and then he didn’t care that he couldn’t analyse it. All he knew was that he could spend time with her and never be bored or restless, that whatever they talked about the conversation flowed between them, easy and spontaneous, just as it had that very first evening they’d met.
He was enjoying this relaxed, easy-going time with her—enjoying the fact that he could put his arm around her shoulder and she would lean in, or take her hand and she would squeeze his and smile at him, a warm and wonderful smile. He took delight in simply watching her move, in listening to her voice, in simply being with her.
Whatever it is she does to me it is something that no other woman can.
It was a truth he accepted now. And all he wanted to do was celebrate that truth.
He had come a long way to reach this point in his life. He had avenged his parents, destroyed his enemy, and he had even—his smile was wry—stepped in to save that devastated hotel, as if in tribute to the lost pride and joy of his parents, the legacy he had never inherited.
And now he was ready for this time with Talia.
He tilted his flute to hers, hearing the crystal ring out softly. His eyes met her upturned gaze, warming as they did.
‘To us,’ he said. ‘To our time together.’
And life felt very, very sweet.
* * *
Talia was working. She was out on the balcony of her bedroom—not that she slept there any longer, for after that first night with Luke she always shared his bed. He was leaving her to work as she wanted, and she was glad.
Her eyes shadowed for a moment. Though he’d never referred to it again, it was clear that he judged her by the work she’d done for her father. But that fact only made her burn to show him that she was capable of better. And she was, she knew, for she was fizzing with unleashed creativity, inspired by the ruined majesty of the hotel, and she was rejoicing in it. She would make that sad, crumbling hotel come alive and show Luke just how beautiful it could be—in harmony with nature, as vivid and vibrant as its setting between the rainforest and the sea.
She worked on, busily and fruitfully, making the most of this time to herself, wanting to be as productive as she could be. Luke was away from the villa, interviewing architects, project managers, structural engineers—all the technical personnel who would be necessary to render the building sound again. Only when the empty shell was ready and waiting for her could her ideas start to take reality.
Once she had the artwork done, though, she wanted to head into the island’s capital, to see what she would be able to source locally. She wanted to discover as much as she could about fabrics and designs that were in harmony with the island’s heritage, its people, their culture. She’d already consulted Fernando and his wife, Julie, who was the housekeeper, and they had given her some good potential leads to follow up. In a small community like this one, there was so much untapped potential in local knowledge.
