He leant his head to one side, dark eyes silently appraising. ‘You remind me of someone.’
Her stomach lurched, even as she told herself there was no reason to worry. There was no reason to think this man knew who she was. It was the fear she’d been living with for these last six weeks rearing its ugly head once again. The constant fear of being discovered. She pushed loose tendrils of her hair behind her ears, forced a smile to her lips, aiming for casual interest, when she felt a bundle of nerves. ‘Do I?’
He shook his head, as if shaking the idea away. ‘But no. Her name was something quite different.’
Relief. She smiled and felt herself relax. ‘I’m sure we all have a double or two out there somewhere in the world.’
‘Yes,’ he said, his eyes back on hers, smile back in place. ‘That must be it. Very nice to meet you though, Izzy from a little place in Europe I wouldn’t have heard of.’
Izzy headed to another table to clear their plates, feeling a little sideswiped by the encounter. Something didn’t sit quite right. Something that had turned an exciting stomach-fluttering encounter into something entirely more unnerving. Because the smile that had accompanied his words was empty—words that had included both her name and her home continent, when he’d offered nothing. And even if not specific—if he’d been looking for Princess Isabella it might be enough…
She dropped off the dirty dishes in the kitchen and stole a glance between the bar and the glassware that hung suspended upside down from the rails above it.
He was eating his meal, she noticed, but not like a diner thoroughly taken with the experience, content to concentrate on the food on his plate, or scrolling through his phone as if searching for a whisper of internet, but as if going through the motions when he had another, far more important duty to perform. Like scanning the restaurant and taking notice of every movement. As if searching. Always searching. He turned his head towards the bar and she ducked behind it. Before he saw her? Who could tell? All she knew was that this unsettled feeling in her stomach wasn’t going to go away until she could get away.
And she hadn’t got this far without taking heed of her gut feelings.
If he didn’t know who she was, then her absence wouldn’t matter. And if he did—at least it might afford her a head start.
Millie obviously took her interest in her table-for-one for something other than what it was. ‘How are you getting on with Mr Dreamboat? Has he asked you about dessert yet?’ She followed it with a wicked wink that suggested she hadn’t been talking about any sweet on the menu.
Izzy scanned the restaurant. The tables were emptying, the rush over. ‘Do you think it would be all right, if I finished my shift now?’
Millie’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, her lips curled. ‘Are you sure you’re not just wanting to sneak off early with Mr Table Number Thirty?’
‘No! It’s just—’ She scrambled for an excuse. ‘I’m feeling a little weird.’
‘Hey, it’s okay, I was kidding. And you do look a bit peaky. Go on, you’ve already worked longer than rostered.’ She leaned closer to whisper in her ear. ‘And don’t tell anyone I told you this, but Chef is really happy with how quickly you’ve picked the job up. Any chance you could come back and do another evening shift tomorrow?’
The praise should have bolstered her spirits more than it did. Instead, it was only relief she felt. ‘I’ll be here,’ Izzy promised, crossing fingers behind her back. Because with luck, she would, and this man would be nowhere to be seen. She swiped off her apron and collected her bag, slipping out the back door with a wave and a quiet goodbye to the kitchen staff.
She was probably overreacting, dashing away like this. No doubt she’d feel foolish about it later, but it was better to be cautious. Better to be sure. The interaction with the stranger today had felt both exciting and unsettling. Already she felt relieved to be away from his presence, and out in the clear island air where she could think straight. Her bike was propped up against the building where she’d left it. The wind was gusting, whipping at her hair even as she struggled to pull on her helmet. She’d heard mention of a storm cell possibly tracking close to the island. That might make things interesting for the next few days.
She cycled off, proud of herself for cornering around the side without having to put her feet down. Then she was at the road and the restaurant was behind her, and with every pedal of her feet, she felt the tension leach out of her. The wind rattled through the palm trees lining either side of the road, the fronds dancing on the wind, almost as if chattering to each other, while the ocean waves boomed as they crashed into the lagoon’s coral reef. She breathed deeply of the fertile air, laced with salt. She loved this island. It was friendly and so easy to live in and, best of all, she was free, with nobody to tell her what she could and couldn’t do and—she shuddered—who she would marry.
Two cyclists going the other way waved to her, a van ambled slowly past delivering a load of diners back to their accommodation, but other than that, the road was empty and dark. Anywhere else in the world, that might feel threatening, or even feel scary. But here she felt safe.
Already, her sudden departure seemed ridiculous. She’d imagined the threat. Blown it up in her mind like the wind gusting off the sea. Soon she’d be back in her cabin and a mysterious dark-eyed man and his unsettling gaze would be nothing more than a distant memory.
The headlights of a car appeared behind, slowly catching up to her, and giving her a wide berth as it passed. She waved but it was too dark to see if anyone waved back—but no matter, as this was her turn. Just up the hill a bit was the driveway to her simple cabin.
She turned into her driveway as another car cruised by—or was it the same one doubling back? There weren’t that many cars on the island. She stepped behind a hibiscus tree and waited until it disappeared over the hill. Okay, so she was officially paranoid. They’d probably just missed their turn-off.
With relief she let herself into her accommodation and snapped on the kettle. She really needed a calming cup of chamomile tea. Ten minutes later, she was sitting on her sofa, Andrea Bocelli playing on her speakers, with shoes off and aching feet up and a mug of tea in hands, feeling that all was once again right in Izzy’s world.
The knock on the door changed that, a knock on the door that came with no accompanying call from Inga or Sven or anyone who would know to do that. She jumped to her feet, for the first time having cause to question the island’s lack of door locks; something that had seemed quaint and old world-y when she’d first been told, something that now felt a whole lot more threatening. All was silent outside, but she could feel a dark presence, malevolent and waiting.
‘Who is it?’ she called, even though she knew by the chill in her spine and the smothering weight of silence that answered her call. Isabella looked around, needing to think fast. Whoever it was could turn the handle and walk right in. But there was a window in the bedroom behind her. She had no idea where she was going to run—there was no time to formulate a plan. All she knew was that she had to get away. ‘Hold on,’ she said, infusing a degree of brightness into her voice that she didn’t feel, already halfway there. ‘I’ll be right there.’
She had the window up and the screen off with one leg over the sill and the other close behind, momentum propelling her forward, when she heard a deep voice say, ‘Going somewhere, Princess?’
CHAPTER FOUR
IT WAS DARKbehind the cabin, all shifting shadows and slapping leaves, but she knew instantly from his voice that it was him—the man from table thirty—and she knew she’d been right and that she had to get away. But she had too much momentum to back up. She tumbled headfirst out the window and collided with a wall that shouldn’t be there, a wall that encircled her with bands of steel, arresting her fall. ‘Oof,’ she said, as the air was forced from her lungs. Flight no longer an option, her fight reflex kicked in. ‘Let me go!’ she said, her heart beating frantically in her chest, her legs kicking, her hands beating at her captor’s chest.
‘I have to hand it to you, Princess,’ he said, totally unmoved by her efforts to free herself. ‘You’ve been very clever. But your little game is over, and now it’s time to take you home.’
‘You’re mad,’ she said, still writhing against the wall of his body. The all too hot and hard wall of his body. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
