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She traced her finger over the words tattooed around the emblem on his left arm. Honneur et Fidélité. It was the motto of the French Foreign Legion and somehow those words—honour and fidelity—fitted him perfectly. Because he was loyal and honourable. Her brother had said so many times, and Leo trusted him implicitly—as did she.
Her heart squeezed every time she thought about what he’d revealed of his childhood. She ached inside for the lonely boy he must have been, and she ached for the man he was now—a man who held himself aloof from the world. A man who seemed very much alone.
He was like a multi-layered gift-wrapped parcel, she decided. The kind that was passed around a circle of children at a party and when the music stopped another layer was unceremoniously ripped off. The excitement—and the frustration—was in not knowing how many layers there would be. Not knowing exactly when you were going to peel off the final layer and reach the heart of the parcel—the true gift beneath.
Nico had many layers—most of them deeply buried. His difficult childhood, the loss of his mother, his time as a soldier and the horrors he must have seen... But she sensed his greatest trauma—and thus the key to understanding him—had been the loss of his wife, and unfortunately that subject had been declared off-limits.
‘Ready for a swim, ma petite sirène?’
She jumped, her hand jerking away from his arm.
Of course he hadn’t been asleep.
She smiled at the endearment. My little mermaid. When she swam with him she felt like a mermaid, too. Graceful and elegant. Playful and sultry. For a while she’d forget all about her useless legs and simply revel in the freedom of the water. The exquisite pleasure of being skin to skin with him.
‘In a bit,’ she said, tracing her finger through the dark, crisp hair on his forearm.
Her mind toyed with the question.
Did she dare?
She looked at him, then took a deep breath and plunged in. ‘Will you tell me about your wife?’
He tensed, and she held her breath.
He sat up, the lines of his shoulders and back rigid.
‘I asked you never to speak about that.’
‘I know, but—’
‘Leave it, Marietta.’
She swallowed. ‘I only—’
‘I said leave it.’
And he lunged to his feet, stalked across the sand and dived into the water.
* * *
When Nico emerged from the sea he had no idea how long he’d been swimming. Fifteen minutes, if he hazarded a guess. Twenty at the most. Long enough for regret to outweigh his anger.
He had been too harsh with Marietta. These last few days they had been totally absorbed in one another, as physically intimate as two people could be. Her curiosity had felt intrusive, uncomfortable—more than uncomfortable—but it wasn’t entirely unreasonable.
He padded across the sand. She lay on her back now, the awning shading her from the afternoon sun, her enormous dark sunglasses keeping her eyes hidden. A bright blue sarong draped her legs and she
wore the yellow bikini top he’d enjoyed removing on numerous occasions. She must have heard his approach and yet she didn’t move a muscle.
He dropped to his knees on the rug and shook his head, spraying droplets of seawater over her.
‘Hey!’ She whipped her sunglasses off and glared up at him.
He stared back, meeting that fiery little temper of hers head-on. ‘You’re upset,’ he observed.
‘You got up and walked away from me, Nico. How do you think that makes me feel? Knowing that I can’t stand up and follow you?’
Shame pierced him, and he didn’t like it. ‘You pushed me, Marietta,’ he said, taking a defensive tack.
