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She fired another look out of the window and then undid her seatbelt and smoothed the creases from her grey linen pants. ‘Okay. I’ll wait here while the luggage and my wheelchair are transferred,’ she said, her voice turning brisk. ‘Take me last.’
‘There’s a lift—’
‘No,’ she cut across him. ‘No fuss. Please.’ Her gaze didn’t quite meet his. ‘It will be quicker and easier if you carry me.’
Easier, Nico reflected ten minutes later as he settled Marietta into the cockpit of the chopper, was a relative term. Because the effort of willing his groin not to harden in response to holding a soft, warm woman in his arms—a woman who smelled enticingly of strawberries and vanilla and something faintly exotic—had not come anywhere close to being easy.
He strapped her into the harness, made a couple of adjustments that brought his fingers dangerously, agonisingly close to her breasts, then hastily withdrew his hands.
‘Comfortable?’ She nodded and he handed her a black helmet. ‘This has a built-in headset so we can communicate. I need to do a final weather check and then we’re set.’
Her gaze turned skyward. ‘The weather looks perfect.’
‘Oui. But we’re flying twenty miles south over open sea. The marine winds can be unpredictable.’
Rather like his body, he thought grimly.
* * *
Marietta’s heart raced and she gripped the edges of her seat. She looked down at the deep, surging swells of the Mediterranean Sea, then up again to the lone mass of land looming in the distance. Silhouetted against a bright blue sky, the island’s long, uneven shape teased her imagination and made her think of a great serpent slumbering on the horizon.
She’d always wanted to fly in a helicopter and now she was hurtling over the ocean in one and struggling to hold back a grin. Which was crazy. What reason did she have to smile or feel breathless and giddy?
Yesterday her life had been turned upside down, her home invaded by a man who at worst was a predator and at best was a disturbed individual in dire need of a shrink. Yet somehow, right at this moment, all of that seemed very distant and she really was fighting an insane urge to grin.
She let her gaze roam the cockpit’s interior, fascinated by the dials and buttons and levers. Beside her, Nico looked at home in the pilot’s seat, his large hands working the controls of the powerful machine with dexterity and ease.
Strong hands, she thought, recalling how he’d carried her from the jet to the helicopter as if she weighed next to nothing. As if carrying a woman was something he did every day and the experience left him unaffected. While she had been hyper-aware of everything. From the hardness of his body and the citrusy scent of his cologne to the tanned triangle of chest in the opening of his shirt and the glimpse of dark hair at the base of that V.
She’d wondered whether the texture of that hair was soft or coarse. If it thickened and spread across his chest or was merely a dusting. If it arrowed into a fine line that bisected his stomach and travelled into the waistband of his pants and lower.
Inappropriate thoughts she should not have had then and should not be having now. Not about the man she was going to spend the next few days cooped up with on an island.
She dragged her attention off his hands and back to the mass of land ahead of them that was appearing more substantial by the second. Running her gaze along the nearest stretch of coastline, she made out three separate white sand beaches and, nestled into the lee of a lush hill range, a large village and a port, where rows of colourful boats were moored to long wooden wharves jutting into clear turquoise waters.
‘You own a whole village?’
A short burst of static came over the headset before the rich timbre of Nico’s voice filled her helmet. It was an odd sensation—as if he was inside her head and all around her at the same time.
‘No. I own sixty percent of the island, including the southern and western coasts. The rest—including the northern beaches, the olive groves to the east and a small commercial vineyard—is now owned by various locals whose families have lived on Île de Lavande for hundreds of years.’
‘Now owned?’ she said. ‘Did they not always own it?’
‘Non. For several centuries the island was owned by a single aristocratic French family. They employed caretakers and servants who settled on the land with their families. It wasn’t until a wealthy American industrialist bought the island in the early nineteen-hundreds and decided to sell off some parcels of land that the locals finally had the opportunity to become landowners instead of leaseholders.’
Fascinated, she took a moment to absorb it all. ‘How do the islanders make their living? Fishing?’
‘Oui. And from olives and wine. Most of which they sell to the mainland. Plus a controlled level of tourism.’
‘Controlled?’
‘Limited numbers of tourists, and only at certain times of the year. During those months a passenger and car ferry visits twice a week—no more. The villagers rely on the revenue, but they also want to protect the environment—and their privacy.’
‘Are most of them descended from the original settlers?’
‘Many of them, oui.’
‘That must be amazing—to know the history of generations of your family.’ Silence crackled in her headset. ‘Do you have any familial links to the island?’ she asked.
