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The house, though, was cool. There was a beautiful light breeze that fluttered through the villa, and with each tentative breath of air came that same intoxicating blend of sea spray and sunshine and herbs. So many fragrant herbs she felt almost drunk.
Did they grow wild on the island? Or was there a garden attached to the villa? Maybe later, when it got cooler, she might venture out to see, but until then...
Pulse quickening, she hurried to her room and retrieved her olfactive kit. Her fingers trembled against the wooden case. Other people had paintings or jewellery, but this was her most precious possession. It was like a genie in a lamp and a magic carpet rolled into one.
She might never have left England until yesterday, but in her tiny flat at Praed Gardens she could open this vial of cardamom and be transported to Jemaa el-Fnaa, Marrakech’s main square. Un-stopper the petitgrain and she was in Provence.
Only this time would be different. This time, for the first time, she wouldn’t be conjuring up a fantasy but attempting to capture a real-time experience. A moment of hope and possibility.
Fresh citrus, then—to create dynamism—starting with neroli. She leaned forward, forgetting Achileas and her doubts, feeling a rush of excitement pulsing down to her fingertips.
‘What’s the stock trading at?’
Shifting back in his seat, Achileas stared out of the window. Never a good sign. But then, he already knew the answer to the question. He always knew the answer to any question he asked.
All except one.
Who are you?
He’d asked Effie Price that question a week ago and he was still no closer to really knowing the answer, and now it was starting to bug him.
Normally he took pride in his ability to read people.
Take the man on the other end of the phone. Dan Ryan. His newest portfolio manager. In five years’ time Dan would have upgraded his suit to a more expensive design, and as well as his college sweetheart wife he would have a mistress. There would be a couple of children. Then another affair, this time more serious, followed by a divorce and another couple of children.
It was all so predictable, but avoidable if you accepted that biology and love were essentially incompatible.
‘Sixty-five dollars. When we close the deal, we could be looking at a nineteen percent bump. It’s your call, of course, but I’d like to size up.’ Dan’s voice was quivering with testosterone.
Something pale fluttered at the edge of Achileas’s vision and his gaze narrowed. It was stupid, but some part of his brain kept expecting to see Effie in that hat drifting out of view, but it was just a bird—a gull. A flicker of irritation beat a path around his body, and he frowned, his patience and interest at an end.
‘Find out who’s being floated as the new CEO,’ he said tersely. ‘Then come back to me.’
He hung up.
Dan was smart, hungry, and desperate to prove himself. But desperation made you take stupid risks. Made you fly too close to the sun.
He was suddenly gripping the phone so tightly his palms hurt. The ache in his chest felt as if he’d swallowed a boulder. Was that what was happening here? Was he flying too close to the sun? Effie was so young and untested. Could she really pull this off? And what would happen if she couldn’t?
Not wanting to dwell on exactly how that made him feel, he slammed his laptop shut. He was just tense for the very obvious reason that he had put this plan together almost on a whim, and now it was in play it was hard not to look for weaknesses.
Then try harder, he told himself firmly.
Standing up, he twisted his neck from side to side, rolling his shoulders. Maybe he would take that swim now. Or, better still, he could work off his tension on the punchbag.
As he walked through the cool interior of the villa, he remembered Effie asking him how he had ended up buying the island. He had condensed his answer into three short sentences, but it had actually been a long and conflicted process.
His mouth twisted. An internally conflicted process. The same old push-me-pull-you battle that always happened whenever he confronted his Greek heritage.
But there had been something about the location of the island—near the mainland, but not so close that he had to acknowledge his father’s proximity—and he had felt a curious affinity with the incongruously pink neoclassical house with a chequered past.
What the—?
He came to an abrupt halt. He was supposed to be heading towards the gym. But apparently that particular memo hadn’t reached his legs. Why else would he be standing in the doorway to the sitting room, staring as though hypnotised by the sight of Effie Price’s downturned and hatless head?
The waft of her scent made his chest feel suddenly too tight for his ribcage and he gritted his teeth. She was leaning over one of the low coffee tables. Beside her was a hinged wooden box, a bit like a paintbox. It was open. But instead of paints it held rows of glass vials filled with clear liquid.
‘What are you doing?’
