It felt like a victory, given how badly she wanted his touch. But she couldn’t allow herself to be swept along thoughtlessly.
Control. That was what she’d worked hard to achieve and it had kept her safe for years.
He closed the chopper door behind her. ‘This way.’
He led her around the corner of the building, past a huge, spreading tree. On the far side of the space were other buildings in various stages of disrepair, some with empty windows that allowed her to see right through to the stunning views beyond.
‘It’s not just a monastery is it? It’s a whole town.’
‘It was. It was abandoned when most islanders left for the city or migrated abroad. A century ago all those terraces and fields were cultivated, supporting a larger population.’
‘And there are windmills,’ she murmured. ‘They’re very striking.’
Rosamund was amazed that her voice emerged evenly when there was a riot going on in her body. Tiny detonations of awareness ignited in her blood because he walked so close, shortening his stride to match hers.
Was it any wonder she tried to fill the silence? If they weren’t talking, there’d be nothing to keep her from her circling, needy thoughts.
‘We’ve restored one of them.’
The hint of pride in his voice made her want to survey him but she kept her attention on the large door on the far side of the courtyard.
Control, remember?
‘We?’
‘The residents. We get supplies in from the mainland but it’s sensible to be as self-sufficient as possible, besides, it’s good to maintain some of the place’s heritage.’
She was about to say something about the importance of preserving heritage but they’d reached the door and she’d reached the end of her small talk. It was too much effort.
The door was ornate and imposing but instead of a key, Fotis pressed his palm to a sensor and the door swung wide. ‘Welcome to my home, Rosamund.’
The way he said her name, flawlessly yet with just the tiniest hint of an Aegean accent, made her skin tighten. It always did, ever since he’d stopped calling her Princess in a scathing tone. She’d become addicted to the sound of it in that soft, deep rumble. It was one of the things she’d miss when they eventually went their separate ways.
Rosamund swallowed hard and stepped over the threshold.
She wasn’t sure what she’d expected of his home but it wasn’t this, she realised, as she looked around the spacious foyer and the glimpses into other spaces.
The building was old, its gracious bones clearly visible in the high arched ceilings and thick walls. It might have been tempting to leave the place bare and spartan, or turn it into a showpiece of ultra-modern design.
Instead she was surprised to find it…warm. The proportions were enormous, designed to accommodate large numbers, but the use of soft ochres and cream on the walls softened that. As did the eclectic mix of furniture, reclaimed as well as meticulously craftsman-built.
On one huge wall was a monumental painting. Ochre earth, grey stones, the deep blue of the sea and, bathed in the golden hues of sunset, a row of dilapidated windmills, like battered but still-fierce guardians. The artist had imbued them somehow with a quality that was more human than inanimate.
Drawn, she moved closer, searching for a signature.
As if reading her mind, Fotis said, ‘He doesn’t sign his work.’
‘He doesn’t? That’s…’ She shook her head. ‘Unusual. Why?’
‘You’ll have to ask him that.’
The voice came from right beside her and she made herself focus on the bold brushstrokes rather than the heat dabbling her skin from where he stood so close. Finally his words sank in. ‘The artist lives here? On the island?’
She turned, only to be ensnared by those crystalline eyes. Her ribs squeezed around her lungs and her lips parted, eager for air.
Or eager for something else. Another taste of forbidden fruit? It took everything she had to keep her gaze locked on Fotis’ eyes, rather than drop to his mouth.
‘He does. Tassos is very private about his art. He prefers to keep it to himself. I believe that’s not uncommon with some creative people.’
