That struck deep. Fi was right. She was single now. She wasn't a fiancee, which had been her decision, and now, she wasn't even a girlfriend.

"Even if I am single, I'm not looking. It's only been a few weeks since Nick. It's still too..." She struggled for the word. "Too soon."

"Ah, but that's just where you're going wrong. What you need is a no-strings one-night stand with a hot guy. Someone uncomplicated who's only interested in your body, not your mind."

"I'm not sure Josh is as uncomplicated as he looks and I'm not in the market for a guy right now. I need more time..."

Fiona snorted in derision. "You need a shag."

Lucy shook her head firmly. "OK. I admit I like sex, but it's sex with Nick specifically I miss, and even if I was looking, I wouldn't go for a guy like Josh."

"Come on! You have to be joking. The man is hotter than a hundred suns."

Lucy couldn't help peeping out of the window again. Josh was still kneeling on the flagstones beside the gate. Where the setting sun's rays slid over the curve of his spine, his bare skin glistened with perspiration.

"He's too... blond for a start. From what I can see of his hair, that is, it's so short."

Fiona rolled her eyes. "Hmm. The Wentworth Miller buzz cut. A pity, in my opinion. Last summer, he had hair to die for, thick toffee-blond and almost down to his shoulders. God knows why he cut it short like that, unless he's making some sort of statement."

"He's just not my type," said Lucy, yet unable to banish the image of a bronzed Josh with golden hair.

"He has beautiful eyes," teased Fiona.

Lucy couldn't help thinking back to their conversation in the farmyard. Josh did have stunning eyes and not just because of their color, which reminded her of the sea off Tresco Cove on a calm day. They were eyes that didn't seem to belong with the hard jaw, the cheekbones, the "come and have a go if you think you're hard enough" buzz cut. Then she thought of Nick, with his sculptor's hands, his caramel-latte skin, his dark espresso eyes.

"Nick was beautiful."

"Why didn't you marry him, then?"

Lucy caught her breath.

"If he's so wonderful, why didn't you say yes?" repeated Fiona.

"That's not fair, Fi, and you know it."

"I think it's fair, hon. You've had a couple of weeks to think about it now. If you want to change your mind, you still could. All you have to do is pick up the phone and ask him to take you back."

"And this is the woman who reckons the word marriage should be deleted from the dictionary," she laughed.

"I'm talking about you not me. I've tasted marriage and I didn't like the taste but you're a romantic. You need that fairy-tale ending."

"You're wrong. I don't want a fairy tale; I want a real-life story. Just straightforward honesty."

Fiona raised her eyebrows and Lucy remembered Josh's uncompromising views.

"Well, honesty on his part, anyway. And actually, I have phoned Nick," she said.

"And?"

"His PA answered and I chickened out."

Fiona gave a knowing look. "So he's got an entourage already?"

"I expect he's got a complete army of staff and advisers by now. Sir Denby and the TV people would have taken care of all that."

"So why did you phone if you didn't really want to talk to him?"

"I just wanted to make sure that he's OK. I can't bear to think of him being in the same world as me and hating me."

"You mean you want him to let you off the hook?"

"He didn't do anything wrong. Not technically. But I did wonder why he asked me then. Right at that moment, in front of everyone, almost as if he wanted the maximum impact, almost as if he was playing to the crowd. It's that part of the whole thing that stung me the most: the fact that I might have just been part of one huge drama." Lucy halted, expecting a smart comment from Fiona but instead, her friend just waited patiently. "Oh God, Fi, I just wish we could have carried on as we did before! You know, getting to know each other, having a normal life. Or something."

"Maybe that's too much to ask. Too easy."

Lucy nodded. "Yes. Probably." Because she had to admit, life had never been simple with Nick. There had always been doubt in her mind, even when things had been going well between them: his flashes of temper, his unreliability, his need to control every situation, a nagging feeling that she was being used. The suspicion that he was a player had always been hovering at the edge of her mind. After all, she hadn't known him very long and certainly didn't know him well enough to make a lifelong commitment to him. In fact, she had to admit, a large part of their time together had been spent in bed. They'd both seemed content to just enjoy the drama and the sex as far as she'd been concerned. Even the bust-ups had led to some spectacular making-up sessions, but nothing that had happened between them had ever seemed to be leading to forever. Even if, in a moment of madness, she had said yes to his proposal, she doubted very much if they would have lasted beyond a year's subscription to Cosmopolitan.

Glancing out of the window again, she saw Josh had straightened up and had a bottle to his lips. She imagined rather than saw his Adam's apple bobbing as he drained the water. She strained her eyes, trying to make out the tattoo on his neck. Just as she moved her nose perilously closer toward the pane, he looked directly up at her. She scooted back into the room, breathing hard.

"Oh God, I think he saw me. He must think I'm a total pervert!"

"He already thinks you're a sad nutter, so why worry?" said Fiona, laughing.

"I can't see a way of wriggling out of this barbecue unless I can think of a very good reason," said Lucy, rapidly changing the subject.

"Well, I can come with you-I presume I'm invited too."

"Of course."

"Or maybe you can have an executive relapse."

Lucy shook her head. "No way. It would play into Sara Pentire's hands. I'll have to bite the bullet and go."

"So you're not worried about someone recognizing you?"

"Do you think they might?"

Fiona chewed her lip thoughtfully. "Not really. From what I know of the sailing-club crowd, they're mostly locals who live and breathe sand and salt. I shouldn't think many of them spend their time flopped in front of the TV."

"Isn't there a yachty set? They might read the gossip mags."

"Not the low-life papers and you didn't make the quality mags."

"Well, I can't stay in here forever. Hengist will be worn down to a chihuahua, he's getting so many walks. I have to face people sometime so maybe this can be a trial run for when I go back to the real world."

Fiona smiled in a knowing way. "The real world? Are you sure you want to go back to that?"

Lucy smiled back, but her stomach flipped at the thought of going back to London. "I'm not sure about anything right now."

As she carried a book and a glass of wine into the garden later that afternoon Lucy found she couldn't relax.

She was disturbed more than she cared to admit by the warm, tingling sensation that had flooded her limbs as she'd watched Josh in the garden. She tried to tell herself that her response was merely a natural reaction to the sight of a very good-looking and half-dressed guy. She'd need to be made of granite not to heat up with so much naked provocation.

Chapter 17.

The rest of the week passed by uneventfully, which Lucy ought to have been grateful for. However, all that time to herself also made her think way too much. After three weeks in Tresco, she was beginning to wonder if she was getting too fond of hiding away.

She hated pretending to be someone else, but spending her days walking on the beach and the cliffs was deliciously addictive. Too addictive, and that's why one Friday morning, she found herself wedging the Land Rover into a space in one of Porthstow's few parking lots. Fiona was at the cottage, having a phone conference with her editor, and Lucy had decided that a trial run at the "real world" was necessary. Besides, she needed some sunglasses.

Once a humble fishing village, Porthstow had outgrown its gray harbor a few centuries before, its stone houses, shops, and pubs now crawling inland from the sea wall. On one side of the harbor, a small beach of buttery sand stretched along the coast to the headland. It was a warm day, almost exactly midsummer, and plenty of people had been tempted to shed their clothes and grab a spot on the beach.

In the harbor, fishing boats rode at anchor on the full tide and the smell of fish and diesel mingled in her nose. Gulls squabbled outside the fish and chip shop on the quay. Lucy spotted a booth by the harbor wall and couldn't resist buying an ice cream cone. It was like being eight again, wandering along with her mum and dad before he'd started having affairs with half the girls in the Southeast-or at least, before she knew about it. The memories back then were still cloudless and sunny, just like the sky today, and Lucy was going to enjoy her first taste of freedom in four weeks.

Her ice cream finished, she stopped at the first likely shop she came to: a quaint little pharmacy with a bow window bearing faded samples of sunscreen, perfume, and support stockings. Inside the shadowy interior, she managed to find a large and very dark pair of shades and went up to the counter, the exact cash ready in order to minimize any delay.

The girl at the counter was ringing up a purchase from a red-faced teenage boy.

"Miss Wycliffe? How much are these bumper packs of Ribbed Ticklers?" she called as the boy flushed scarlet. After what seemed an age, a woman of about eighty shuffled out from a small door behind the counter. Almost bent double, she hooked her specs from a chain onto her nose and squinted at the packet.

"Nine pounds forty, if I remember right," said Miss Wycliffe.

The red-faced teenager looked as if he was going to self-combust as Miss Wycliffe peered at him disapprovingly over her specs.

"You do know, dear, that the Ribbed Super Sensitive are BOGO? Much better value. Shall I get Calendula to fetch you two of those instead?"

The boy made a strangled sound, threw a tenner on the counter, snatched up the box, and fled.

"Oh dear," said Miss Wycliffe as Calendula giggled. "I've frightened him away. Now, what can I do for you, dear? Any Ribbed Ticklers?"

Lucy handed over the glasses and the cash. "No, thanks. Just these, please."

Miss Wycliffe took the glasses and tutted. "Young people these days. They don't know how to appreciate a bargain." She squinted at the bar code on the label. "On vacation, are you, my lover?"

"Yes," said Lucy, gritting her teeth.

"On your own?"

No one in London made small talk at the checkout which suddenly seemed like a cast iron reason for going back there. "With a friend," she said.

Miss Wycliffe turned to her assistant. "Calendula, can you come and read this bar code for me? I need a new prescription for my spectacles."

"Boyfriend?" said Miss Wycliffe as Calendula punched the bar code into the till.

"No, a girlfriend," said Lucy politely, almost hopping from one foot to the other in her haste to get out of the shop.

"Oh, so you're a lesbian, then? Well, you'll love Porthstow. We've got a hot gay scene here, you know. Calendula, get me one of those little pink gay networking cards from the drawer for this lady. My arthritis is playing me up something terrible."

Lucy almost choked. "It's OK, really. Fiona is just my friend, not a partner."

Calendula handed Lucy a paper bag and a sympathetic look.

"No need to hide it here, dear. Porthstow's a very liberal place. No one has any secrets," said Miss Wycliffe, patting Lucy's arm.

"I've put the card in the bag," smirked Calendula.

"Thanks," muttered Lucy, realizing resistance was futile. And besides, she thought as she hurried out of the shop and down the cobbled street to the harbor, she had the last laugh. It was obvious, to her enormous relief, that neither Miss Wycliffe, nor even Calendula, had the faintest clue who she was.

A few days later, Lucy decided to venture further afield. Hengist had been dragged to the vet's by Fiona, who'd found him limping with a thorn in his paw and Lucy had a bizarre feeling of nakedness without his lead in her hand. Walking the dog gave you an excuse to wander about all over the place without anyone thinking you were a pervert or a burglar.

Her route took her down the green lane and along the creek as usual, but this time she turned in the opposite direction, farther along the shore toward the mouth of the estuary. It was farther than she'd ever ventured before. The sun was a white ball in a powder-blue sky; almost bikini weather, she thought, as she wandered along the estuary, the sea glittering in the distance. Lucy felt more at peace than she had done for days. Out here, a speck against a huge ocean, she felt insignificant, unnoticed, and that was comforting. As she rounded a spit of land, masts came into view, pointing upward toward the sky. Then she saw a stone building, a line of flags fluttering in the breeze from its roof.

Tresco Sailing Club was situated on a low bluff, slightly elevated from the beach, a broad expanse of sand and shingle. Catamarans, dinghies, and sailboards lay in rows on the shingle. The clubhouse surprised her; it was larger than she'd expected, a two-story building with a terrace overlooking the beach. In front of it, a couple of girls were dragging windsurf boards down to the water. A gaggle of small sailboats were bobbing about at the edge of the shore, manned by kids who couldn't have been more than ten or eleven. Lucy heard the chugging of a tractor as it towed a trailer down the slipway into the estuary.

She found a spot on the wall in front of the clubhouse and sat down, reveling in the sensation of warm stone beneath her and hot sun on her face. A sudden gust whipped her hair across her eyes and she tucked it behind her ear. She licked her lips and tasted salt.

On the water, a lone windsurfer was bouncing across the whitecaps, leaning back in what looked like a harness, his arms straining.

"Fucking awesome, eh?"

Interesting way of opening a conversation, thought Lucy. She twisted her head to find a stocky, dark-haired guy in a wetsuit standing next to her.

"Damn nuisance I have to get back to work, but what can you do? Companies don't run themselves. Are you going out today?"

Lucy laughed politely. "No. I don't sail."

The man's expression was even more horrified than Sara's when Fiona had claimed she couldn't swim. "You don't sail? Are you out of your mind? With all this on your doorstep?"

"I don't live here. I'm from London."

"So? That's no excuse. I'm from Wimbledon and it doesn't stop me spending every spare weekend and vacation down here. Just tank down the M4 to my apartment, whip off the kit, pull on the neoprene, and I'm in ecstasy."

"I get sick on a cross-Channel ferry," said Lucy, which wasn't strictly true. Or even slightly true. She had crewed once on a small catamaran. She'd been on vacation in Formentera and some local boys had invited her on a trip to an uninhabited island. However, sailing instruction had not been the main aim of the trip and she certainly didn't want to let this guy know the details.

He snorted. "You won't feel sick, believe me. In the right hands, sailing can be positively orgasmic. I'm Gideon Southall, by the way."

He held out a hairy hand and Lucy took it limply. "Lucy um... Hyde," she said, and then winced. Gideon had one of those "phallic substitute" handshakes. He obviously thought that by crushing her fingers to a pulp, he was telling her he had a big dick. Lucy managed to wriggle her hand free before she got permanent tendon damage.

"It does look exhilarating," she said, imagining the salt water on her face, skipping over the waves.