British Bachelors: Gorgeous and Impossible: My Greek Island Fling / Back in the Lion's Den / We'll Always Have Paris

The girl he was looking at—okay, ogling—seemed to have no off button. No dial he could turn to slow her down and make her start conforming a little to other people’s expectations.

She had surprised him by telling him who her father was before they’d started work.

A shrewder person might have kept quiet about that little bombshell until the cheque had cleared.

Honesty and integrity. He admired that. Even if she was the daughter of a man he despised. And, unless he had lost his knack of judging people, she was telling the truth about not knowing she’d be working with Mark.

Overall, a fascinating, intriguing and very unsettling package. Who probably didn’t realise that as she bent over the back of her hipster slim-fit trousers, which were probably extremely fashionable in the city, had slid way down past her hips, exposing the top of what passed for her underwear. And providing him with a splendid and tantalising view of a smooth expanse of skin divided by a tiny band of what appeared to be red lace.

Considering the hot weather, and the tightness of her trousers, it was just about as uncomfortable and unsuitable a combination as he could imagine.

But if her intention was to make a man’s heart pound rather too fast, she had succeeded brilliantly.

She was skipping across the patio now, perilously close to the swimming pool where he had held her so close against his body—and had enjoyed every second of it. Enjoyed it rather too much for comfort.

That was it. She made him feel … uncomfortable.

Of course that had been until he’d looked into those remarkable violet-grey eyes and instantly been transported back to the horror of that morning in a London clinic when his world had collapsed around him. And that was not uncomfortable. It was damning.

Mark released the blind and took off his glasses.

Perhaps it was just as well that he knew who her family were. She was way too attractive to ignore, but that was as far as it went—as far as it could ever go.

There was no way around it. Lexi Sloane was part of his past. The question was, would she be able to help him get through this project so he could move on to his future?

Because if he had made the wrong choice, then bringing Lexi into his life could be the worst decision he’d ever made.

Lexi sang along under her breath to the lively trance track blasting her eardrums while she flicked through her cell-phone messages, sending off fast replies to the most urgent and deleting what she could.

She was just about to switch to emails when Adam sent her yet another text. That had to be the fourth in the last twenty-four hours.

Please. Call me. We need to talk.

‘Oh, I don’t think so, loser. You don’t tell me what to do. Not any more,’ Lexi hissed, moving on to the next message. But the damage was done: her eyes and brain refused to connect and she put down the phone in disgust.

The last time they had spoken face to face had been in the hall of Adam’s apartment. Both of them had said things which could not be unsaid. And then she had embarrassed herself by slapping him harder than she’d ever hit anything in her life.

Girls did that when they found out their boyfriends had been cheating on them.

What a fool she’d been to pin all her hopes of happiness on the one man she’d thought was a friend. She should have learned from her mother’s experience not to let personal feelings interfere with her judgement. And that was exactly what she’d done. Stupid girl.

She wasn’t going to live in Gullible Girl City again. Oh, no. At least not until her home office was ready and her children’s books were in the shops.

Then she might think about dating again. If …

She held the thought as she caught a blur of movement in the corner of her eye and turned her head just as Mark strolled into the room. He was wearing loose navy trousers and a very expensive-looking navy polo shirt. His hair was dark and slick, as though he had just stepped out of the shower.

Mark Belmont looked like heaven on legs.

And with one single glance she was instantly hit with a sudden attack of the killer tingles.

The kind of tingles that left a girl feeling hot, bothered, brainless and desperate enough to do something really stupid. Like forgetting that Mark was her client. Like wanting to find out what it felt like to run her fingers through his hair and feel his breath on her neck.

Bad tingles. Very bad tingles.

Not ideal qualities for a professional writer.

This was the man who’d accused her of being her father’s accomplice and almost thrown her out yesterday. As far as Mark Belmont was concerned she was here to work. And that was all. She had to keep her head together!

It was time to turn on a cheery nonsense gossipy voice and the fixed smile that had become her standard mask to the world. Busy, busy, busy. Chatter, chatter, chatter. That was the role she played. He wouldn’t be able to get a word in edgeways, and she could keep her distance.

Deep breath. Cue, Lexi. Action!

‘Good morning, Mr Belmont.’ She smiled, nervously rearranging the cutlery to hide her complete mental disarray. ‘I hope you’re ready for breakfast, since I’ve been on a mission of mercy and made the village baker and shopkeeper very happy. But please don’t be worried about your reputation as a ladies’ man. I told them I was only here for a few days to help with a business project and I’d be heading back to the office ASAP.’

Oh, and now she was babbling about his love life. Great. Could she be more pathetic?

‘My reputation?’ Mark repeated, staring at her through those incredibly cute spectacles as he leant against the worktop, his hands in his trouser pockets. Casual, handsome, devastating. ‘How very thoughtful of you. But why did you think it necessary to go on a mission of mercy?’

‘I was brave enough to rummage around inside your freezer looking for breakfast. Behind the bags of ice cubes were a few ancient, dry bread rolls, which crumbled to pieces in my hands and were only fit for the birds, and an assortment of unlabelled mystery items which, judging by their greyish-green colour, were originally of biological origin. But they did have one thing in common. They were all inedible.’

She stopped cutting bread and looked up into Mark’s face. ‘It’s amazing what they have in small village shops on this island.’

‘Food shopping,’ he replied, running the fingers of one hand through his damp hair. ‘Ah. Yes. My housekeeper stocked up the refrigerator last week, but of course I wasn’t expecting visitors.’

‘No need to apologise,’ she said as brightly as she could. ‘But it has been my experience that we can get a lot more work done if we have food available in the house and don’t have to run out and stock up at the last minute. And, since the room service around here seems to be a little deficient, some creative thinking was required.’

He peered over her shoulder and the smell of citrus shower gel and coconut shampoo wafted past. She inhaled the delicious combination, which was far more enticing than the food and did absolutely nothing to cure her attack of the tingles.

But as he stepped forward Lexi heard his stomach growl noisily and raised her eyebrows at him.

‘It seems that I could use some breakfast. Um … What did you manage to scavenge?’

‘Since I don’t know if you prefer a sweet chocolatey cereal breakfast or a savoury eggs, bacon and tomatoes type breakfast, I bought both. I’ve already had scrambled eggs and toast, washed down with a gallon of tea.’

‘Tea is disgusting. But eggs and toast sound perfect if I can persuade you to go back to the frying pan. I’ll take care of my coffee. It’s one of my few weaknesses. I’m very particular about what coffee I drink, where it came from and how it was made.’

‘Of course, Mr Belmont,’ Lexi replied, with no hint of sarcasm in her voice, and turned back towards the cooker.

‘It’s Mark.’

‘Oh,’ she replied, whizzing round towards him and making a point of taking out her earphones. ‘Did you say something?’

Mark crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes, well aware that she had heard what he said but was making a play of it since she had just scored a point. ‘I said, since we will be working together, I would prefer it if you called me Mark.’

‘If that is your instruction, Mr Belmont.’ She smiled and relaxed a little. ‘I’d be very happy to call you Mark. But only if you call me Lexi in return. Not Alexis, or Ali, or Lex, but Lexi.’

Then she turned back to the hob and added a knob of butter to the hot pan before breaking more eggs into a bowl.

‘Breakfast will be with you in about five minutes, Mark. I do hope you like orange juice. That was the only—’

The sound of a rock band belted out from her cell phone, and Lexi quickly wiped her hands on a kitchen towel before pressing a few buttons.

‘Anything interesting?’ Mark asked casually as he reached for the coffee.

‘I always receive interesting messages.’ Lexi twisted to one side and peered at the display. ‘But in this case they were two new messages from my ex-boyfriend, which are now deleted. Unread, of course. Which I find deeply satisfying.’

‘I see. I thought you might be a heartbreaking sort of girl.’

‘It cannot be denied. But in this particular situation it transpired he was cheating on me with a girl who took great satisfaction in enticing him away from me.’

Mark’s eyebrows went skywards and his lips did a strange quivery dance as his hands stilled on the cafetière. ‘He cheated on you?’ he repeated in an incredulous voice, then shook his head once before going back to his coffee. ‘Do you always share details of your fascinating-but-tragic love life with people you’ve only just met?’ he asked with a quick glance in her direction.

Lexi shrugged, and was about to make some dismissive quip when it struck her that he was actually trying to have a conversation this morning.

That was different.

He’d barely said a word over their light dinner of crackers, cheese and sweet tomatoes apart from commenting on the local red wine. The meal had been so awkward that she’d felt she was walking on eggshells every time she tried to break the silence.

She wasn’t complaining, and it helped that she now wasn’t the only one talking, but she wasn’t used to having one-to-one, intelligent, hangover-free conversations with her clients at this time in the morning. Perhaps Mark Belmont had a few more surprises for her?

‘Oh, yes,’ Lexi replied with a shrug as she added lightly beaten eggs to the sizzling butter in the pan and immediately started working the mix. ‘But, if you think about it, my job is to help you share details of your fascinating-but-tragic love life with strangers whom you are never going to meet. This way we are both in the same business. I think it works.’

‘Ah.’ Mark pressed his lips together and gave Lexi a small nod as he carried the coffee over to the table. ‘Good point. I should probably tell you that I am not totally thrilled by that prospect.’

‘I understand that. Not everyone is a natural extrovert.’ She shrugged just as the bread popped up from the toaster. ‘But that’s why you called me in.’

‘I prefer keeping my private life just that. Private. I would much rather stick to the facts.’

‘Are you speaking from past experience?’ Lexi asked quietly, flashing him a lightning-quick glance as she quickly tipped hot scrambled egg onto a thick slice of golden toast.

‘Perhaps it is,’ Mark replied between sips of juice. ‘And perhaps it isn’t.’

‘I see.’ Lexi slid the plate onto the table. ‘Well, I can tell you one thing. If you want this biography to work you’re going to have to trust me and get that private life out for the world to see, Mark.’

His response was a close-mouthed frown which spoke volumes.

Oh, this was turning out so well.

Lexi nodded towards the food. ‘Enjoy your breakfast. Then I really do need to find out how much work you’ve done so far on the manuscript. Perhaps you could show me your mother’s study? That’d be a good place to start. In the meantime I’m off to feed the cats. Bye.’

And Lexi waltzed out of the kitchen diner on her wedge sandals, safe in the knowledge that Mark’s stunned blue eyes were burning holes in her spectacular back.

CHAPTER FIVE

LEXI followed Mark through a door to a large room on the first floor, looking around in delight and awe.

Crystal Leighton had not had a study. Crystal Leighton had created a private library.

‘How did you know my mother even had a study? I don’t recall mentioning it.’

Lexi touched two fingers to her forehead in reply to Mark’s question. ‘Intuition. Combined with the number of rooms in this huge house and the fact that Crystal Leighton was an undisputed artist. Any creative person coming to this island would bring a fine collection of writing materials and reading matter with them. And when it’s your own house … She would have a study. Elementary, my dear Watson.’ She tapped her nose and winked in his direction. ‘But this …’ she continued, whistling softly and waving her arm around the room, turning from side to side in delight. ‘This is … wonderful.’

‘You like it?’

‘Like it?’ She blinked at him several times. ‘This is heaven. I could stay here all day and night and never come up for air. Total bliss! I love books. Always have. In fact I cannot remember a time when I haven’t had a book to hand.’

She almost jogged across the room and started poring through the contents of the bookcases. ‘Poetry, classics, philosophy, history, languages. Blockbuster fiction?’ She flashed him a glance and he shrugged.

‘I have a sister.’

‘Ah, fair enough. We all need some relaxing holiday reading. But look at this collection of screenplays and books on the theatre. My mother would be so envious. Did I mention that she works as a wardrobe mistress? She loves reading about the theatre.’

‘Every school holiday my mother used to stuff a spare suitcase with plays, books, scripts her agent had sent—anything that caught her eye.’ Mark gave a faint smile and plunged his hands into his trouser pockets, nodding towards the shelves. ‘I spent many wet and windy afternoons in this room.’

‘I envy you that. And it’s just what I need.’ Lexi turned to face Mark, resting her fingertips lightly on the paper-strewn table in the centre of the room. ‘Have you ever heard the expression that you can tell a lot about someone from the books they have in their home? It’s true. You can.’

‘I’m not so sure about that,’ Mark replied with a dismissive grunt. ‘What about the car magazines, polo-pony manuals and the school textbooks on biochemistry?’

She shook her head and waved with one hand at three particular shelves. ‘Theatre history and set design. Fashion photography. Biographies of the Hollywood greats. Don’t you see? That combination screams out the same message. Crystal Leighton was an intelligent professional actress who understood the importance of image and design. And that’s the message we should be aiming for. Professional excellence. What do you think?’

‘Think? I haven’t had time to think,’ Mark replied, and inhaled deeply, straightening his back so that Lexi felt as though he was towering over her. ‘My publisher may have arranged your contract, but I’m still struggling with the idea of sharing personal family papers and records with someone I don’t know. This is very personal to me.’

‘You’re a private person who doesn’t like being railroaded. I get that. And I can understand that you’re still not sure about my reason for being here in the first place.’ She glanced up at his startled face and gave a small snort. ‘It’s okay, Mark. I’m not a spy for the paps. Never have been. No plans to be one any time soon. And if I was stalking you I would have told you.’

Lexi turned sideways away from the table and ran her fingers across the spines of the wonderful books on the shelves. ‘Here’s an idea. You’re worried about sharing your family secrets with a stranger. Let’s change that. What do you want to know about me? Ask me anything. Anything at all. And I’ll tell you the truth.’

‘Anything? Okay, let’s start with the obvious. Why biographies? Why not write fiction or business books?’

She paused and licked her lips, but kept her eyes focused on the books in front of her. To explain properly she would have to reveal a great deal of herself and her history. That could be difficult. But she’d made a pact with herself. No lies, no deception. Just go with it. Even if her life seemed like a sad joke compared to Mark’s perfect little family.

‘Just after my tenth birthday I was diagnosed with a serious illness and spent several months in hospital.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered after a few seconds of total silence.

She sensed him move gently forward and lean against the doorframe so that he was looking at her.

‘That must have been awful for you and your parents.’

She nodded. ‘Pretty bad. My parents were going through a rough time as it was, and I knew my father had a pathological hatred of hospitals. Ironic, huh?’ She smiled at him briefly, still half-lost in the recollection. ‘Plus, he was working in America at the time. The problem was, he didn’t come home for a couple of months, and when he did he brought his new girlfriend with him.’

‘Oh, no.’ Mark’s eyebrows went north but his tense shoulders went south.

‘Oh, yes. I spent the first year recovering at my grandmother’s house on the outskirts of London, with a very miserable mother and even more miserable grandmother. It was not the happiest of times, but there was one consolation that kept me going. My grandmother was a wonderful storyteller, and she made sure that I was supplied with books of every shape and form. I loved the children’s stories, of course, but the books I looked for in the public library told of how other people had survived the most horrific of early lives and still came through smiling.’

‘Biographies. You liked reading other people’s life stories.’

‘Could not get enough.’ She nodded once. ‘Biographies were my favourite. It didn’t take long for me to realise that autobiographies are tricky things. How can you be objective about your own life and what you achieved at each stage? The biography, on the other hand, is something completely different: it’s someone else telling you about a mysterious and fabulous person. They can be incredibly personal, or indifferent and cold. Guess what kind I like?’

‘So you decided to become a writer?’ Mark asked. ‘That was a brave decision.’

‘Perhaps. I had the chance to go to university but I couldn’t afford it. So I went to work for a huge publishing house in London who released more personal life stories every year than all of the other publishers put together.’ She grinned up at Mark. ‘It was amazing. Two years later I was an assistant editor, and the rest, as they say, is history.’

She reached her right hand high into the air and gave him a proper, over-the-top, twirling bow. ‘Ta-da. And that’s it. That’s how I got into this crazy, outrageous business.’ Lexi looked up at him coquettishly through her eyelashes as she stood up. ‘Now. Anything else you’d like to know before we get started?’

‘Only one thing. Why are you wearing so much make-up at nine o’clock in the morning? On a small Greek island? In fact, make that any island?

Lexi chuckled, straightening up to her full height, her head tilted slightly to one side.

‘I take it as a compliment that you even noticed, Mark. This is my job, and this is my work uniform. Office, movie studio, pressroom or small Greek island. It doesn’t make any difference. Putting on the uniform takes me straight into my working head—which is what you’re paying me for. So, with that in mind, let’s make a start.’

Lexi pulled down several books from the shelves and stacked them in front of Mark.

‘There are as many different types of biography as there are authors. By their nature each one is unique and special, and should be matched to the personality of the person they are celebrating. Light or serious, respectful or challenging. It depends on what you want to say and how you want to say it. Which one of these do you like best?’

Mark exhaled loudly. ‘I had no idea this would be so difficult. Or so complex.’

Lexi picked up a large hardback book with a photograph of a distinguished theatre actor on the cover and passed it to Mark.

She sighed as Mark flicked through the pages of small, tightly written type with very little white space. ‘They can also be terribly dry, because the person writing is trying their hardest to be respectful while being as comprehensive as possible. There are only so many times an actor can play Hamlet and make each performance different. Lists of who did what, when and where are brilliant for an appendix to the book—but they don’t tell you about the person, about their soul.’

‘Do you know I actually met this actor a couple of times at my mother’s New Year parties?’ Mark waved the book at Lexi before dropping it back to the table with a loud thump. ‘For a man who had spent fifty years in the theatre he was actually very shy. He much preferred one-to-one conversations to holding centre stage like some of his fellow actors did.’

‘Exactly!’ Lexi leant forward, animated. ‘That’s what a biographer should be telling us about. How did this shy man become an international award-winning actor who got stage fright every single night in his dressing room but still went out there and gave the performance of his life for the audience? That’s what we want to know. That’s how you do justice to the memory of the remarkable person you are writing about. By sharing real and very personal memories that might have nothing to do with the public persona at all but can tell the reader everything about who that person truly was and what it meant to have them in your life. That’s the gold dust.’

Mark frowned. ‘So it all has to be private revelations?’

‘Not all revelations. But there has to be an intimacy, a connection between reader and subject—not just lists of dry facts and dates.’ Lexi shrugged. ‘It’s the only way to be true to the person you’re writing about. And that’s why you should be excited that you have this opportunity to make your mother come alive to a reader through your book. Plus, your publisher will love you for it.’

‘Excited? That’s not quite the word I was thinking of.’

She rubbed her hands together and narrowed her eyes. ‘I think it’s time for you to show me what you’ve done so far. Then we can talk about your memories and personal stories which will make this book better than you ever thought possible.’

Lexi sat down at the table, her eyes totally focused on the photographs and yellowing newspaper clippings spilling out of an old leather suitcase.

Mark strolled towards her, cradling his coffee cup, but as she looked up towards him her top slipped down a fraction and he was so entranced by the tiny tattoo of a blue butterfly on her shoulder that he forgot what he was about to say.

‘Now, I’m going to take a leap here, but would it be fair to say that you haven’t actually made much progress on the biography itself? Actual words on paper? Am I right?’

‘Not quite,’ Mark replied, stepping away to escape the tantalisingly smooth creaminess of Lexi’s bare shoulder and elegant neck. ‘My mother started working on a book last summer when she was staying here, and she wrote several chapters about her earlier life as well as pulling together those bundles of papers over there. But that’s about it. And her handwriting was always pretty difficult to decipher.’

‘Oh, that’s fine.’

‘Fine?’ he replied, lifting his chin. ‘How can it possibly be fine? I have two weeks to get this biography into shape, or I miss the deadline and leave it to some hack to spill the usual tired old lies and make more money out of my mother’s death.’ Mark picked up a photograph of Crystal Leighton, the movie star, at the height of her career. ‘Have you any idea how angry that makes me? They think they know her because of the movies she worked on. They haven’t got a clue.’