His Forbidden Bride

There seemed no good reason to refuse. And perhaps it would be sensible to be a little conciliatory to someone who might be in a position to help her.

So she gave a constrained smile, and murmured, ‘That would be—nice.’

The cool-box contained cold chicken, a bag of salad leaves, black olives, tomatoes, feta cheese and some fresh bread. There was also, she noted, a plastic box containing dark grapes and peaches, as well as two chilled bottles of beer, two glasses wrapped in napkins, paper plates, and some cutlery.

This had never been planned as a solitary meal, she thought. And her agreement, it seemed, had been taken for granted. But then he probably didn’t get many refusals, she thought, with an inward grimace. And at least he’d brought beer, and not the bottle of good wine he’d mentioned earlier. So attempted seduction did not appear to be on the menu.

It was also clear that she was expected to set out the plates, and divide the food between them. Woman’s work, she supposed with irony. And found herself wondering who had assembled the picnic in the first place.

Yet, in spite of her reservations, she enjoyed the meal. The chicken was succulent and the olives and tomatoes had a superb tangy flavour that made those in the supermarket at home seem pallid by comparison.

‘Would you like a peach?’ He peeled it for her deftly, and she watched his hands, observing the long fingers and well-kept nails. Pretty fastidious for a gardener, she thought. And although his deep voice with its husky timbre was faintly accented, his English seemed faultless.

Andreas, she thought, and wondered…

The fruit was marvellous, too, ripe and sweet, although she was embarrassed to find the juice running down her chin, and into the cleft between her breasts. Something that was not lost on him, she realised with vexation, trying to mop herself discreetly with her napkin.

To deflect his attention, she said, ‘Do you like gardening?’

‘I enjoy seeing the results,’ he said. ‘Why? Are you thinking of hiring my services when you come to live at the house?’

She dried her fingers. ‘I haven’t given it a thought,’ she fibbed.

He shrugged a shoulder. ‘Then think of it now.’

‘Are you so much in demand?’

‘Of course,’ he said promptly. ‘But I could be persuaded to make time for you in my busy schedule.’

He either had the biggest ego in the western world, Zoe told herself seething, or it was a wind-up, and she was sure it was the latter.

But whichever it was, it remained light years away from the taciturn attitude of Mr Harbutt, who wore heavy boots and corduroy trousers summer and winter, and smelled faintly of compost, and who’d done the heavy digging at the cottage for her mother.

She said coolly, ‘I think you could prove too expensive for me.’

‘You devastate me,’ Andreas said lightly. ‘Perhaps we could work out a deal together—some kind of reciprocal arrangement.’ He watched her stiffen, then went on silkily, ‘Much of the island’s economy is conducted on the barter system. If you are to live here you will have to accustom yourself.’ He paused. ‘Tell me, Zoe mou, what do you do for a living?’

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