and yacht until several rocky islands appeared below. The islands were almost barren with just a few gnarled trees above jagged cliffs. There were stone ruins on one island, and a simple stone house on another. That’s the island they were landing on.
The pilot slowly touched down in a clearing before the house and Zale opened the door, climbed out and helped Hannah out. The pilot handed Zale a leather duffel and they spoke together for a moment before taking off.
Hannah watched the helicopter lift off, blades whirring, leaving them alone on a deserted island in the middle of the Adriatic Sea. “He’s coming back for us, right?”
Zale’s lips curved in a trace of a smile. “Don’t worry. He’ll be back before it’s dark. But even if he isn’t, my security detail has been in the water since midmorning. They’ve secured the island and they can be here in minutes.”
“Do you come here often?” she asked, shouldering her beach tote bag and looking around. The simple farm-style house had thick stone walls, single-pane glass windows and a pale terracotta tiled roof.
He shook his head. “Haven’t been here in years.”
“Why?”
“Haven’t had the desire, nor the time.”
The sun was now directly overhead and it was hot in the sunlight. Hannah peeled her navy jacket off. “I should have brought shorts or worn a skirt.”
“You’ll be in your swimsuit soon. We’re about to head down to the beach for lunch.”
“Is that our picnic lunch?” she asked, gesturing to the small leather duffel.
“Nope. My suit, towels and sunscreen.”
“Where’s lunch?”
“Hungry?”
“Thirsty.”
“Come. Let’s go to the beach. Everything’s already there.”
They walked across the clearing toward the cypress trees and a steep staircase chiseled into the stone cliff.
Hannah followed Zale down the stairs slowly, careful not to trip in her heels. The sun beat down on the top of her head and she grew hotter by the moment. Her elegant sandals were totally impractical for the steep descent and her white trousers grew dusty at the hem. And yet the ocean sparkled far below, the sapphire and turquoise water lapping against ivory sand.
The deep blue water looked impossibly inviting. Hannah couldn’t wait to get her feet wet. She loved to swim and looked forward to stretching out in the sun.
Zale waited for her at the bottom of the stairs. He’d taken off his shoes and rolled up his sleeves revealing strong tan forearms. “No more stairs till later.”
She slipped off her high-heel sandals, flexing her toes. “Good. That was a little scary.”
She’d thought they’d already reached the beach but Zale walked around the corner to another private beach. A large colorful blanket was spread out on the sand with a large basket anchoring one corner, and an ice chest on another.
Zale crouched next to the ice chest and opened the top. “Chef took care of us. Beer, wine, water, juice. What would you like to drink?”
“Beer, please,” she said, kneeling down on the blanket, feet blistered and totally parched.
“Beer?”
“I love a cold beer on a hot summer day. Don’t you?”
“Yes, but not many women do.” He withdrew two chilled bottles and a chilled glass.
“I don’t need a glass,” she said, waving off the glass and taking one of the opened bottles from him. “How did this all get here?” she asked, gesturing to the basket and ice chest.
“My security detail brought it earlier when they secured the island.”
“Is this a family island?”
He unbuttoned his shirt, giving her a tantalizing view of tan, taut skin over sinewy muscle. “No, I bought it back when I played football for a living. I wanted a place far from crowds, paparazzi and overly friendly fans.”
Hannah almost licked her lips. He looked incredible. The dense curved muscles of his chest gave way to lean hard abs. “Did you bring your girlfriends here?”
“Just one, and only once. She found it too isolated for her liking.”
“So what do you do when you’re here?”
“Sleep. Read. Relax.”
She sipped her beer. “What do you read?” “Everything. Novels. Biographies. Histories. Whatever I can get my hands on.”
Her lips curved and she settled onto the blanket. “Do you have a favorite author?”
“I do, but I don’t think he’s writing anymore. Most of his books were published nearly twenty years ago. James Clavell is his name. He wrote Shogun, Tai-Pan, Noble House—”
“King Rat,” she supplied, smiling. “I loved his books. My father introduced me to him. For years I wanted to learn Japanese.”
“Did you?”
“No. You couldn’t find Japanese language classes in B—” Hannah broke off, realizing she came dangerously close to