When the Siren Calls (8 page)

“I put that in as a conversation piece,” said a low and inviting voice behind her.

Isobel turned to see Jay, smiling broadly. He took her hand, “I was so pleased when you accepted the invitation, but then my heart sank as it seemed you were a no-show.”

Isobel beamed back at him, unable to suppress her joy that he was there after all. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here,” she said, “but it’s my pleasure nevertheless.”

“And you are fully dressed for the occasion, no troublesome robe to worry about this time,” he said, grinning, “and most elegantly dressed too if I may say so.”

“Why thank you,” she said, her pulse slowing as her pleasure grew. “And what are you going to rescue me from this time?”

“Why, my silver-tongued Mr. Devlin, of course. You must allow me to show you around.” Isobel nodded and turned to walk beside him. “Have you been keeping well since Marrakech?” he asked, seeming to span the months since they first met and reduce them to nothing with his words.

“Yes, if living one’s everyday life can be called keeping well,” said Isobel, trying to be jovial but feeling immediately embarrassed by her own pomposity.

“You were fascinated by the skiing scenes, I think?” he said, not seeming to notice her mistakes.

“Well, I just don’t think of Tuscany and skiing as going together,” Isobel admitted, “and isn’t Capadelli in the middle of Tuscany, near San Miniato?”

“I’m impressed. It sounds like you know your geography of Tuscany very well.”

“Enough to know there’s no ski resort hidden in the vineyards,” she replied.

He laughed. “A bit of poetic licence by my overly keen marketing people. I did wonder about the wisdom of it myself. But Capadelli is less than ninety minutes from Abetone, and I think their idea was that in the winter people can get there and back in a day and enjoy three or four hours skiing.”

Isobel nodded, unsure of his reasoning but too lost in his easiness to care.

“So what do you like to do when you’re not skiing, or shopping for magic carpets?” he asked, addressing her with the same studied interest that so characterised his speech in Marrakech.

“As far as holidays go, you mean? That depends on where we go. But we both like active holidays. Peter plays a good game of golf; I like the outdoors, as long as there are no greens and fairways involved.” Isobel paused, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear, now fearing she was suggesting that she and Peter liked separate holidays, and attempted a recovery. “So often we try and find places where he can play golf and I can do other things.” She cursed herself again, this time for failing to refer to her husband by name.

“And what would a dream holiday feel like, while Peter’s on the golf course?” he asked. Every word was playful, teasing, a gentle mockery of their roles as guest and host. But Isobel couldn’t bring herself to embrace his self-effacing honesty and avoided the true answer, that Peter’s work schedule meant that she was used to organising for one.

“Horse-riding is something of a passion,” she hedged, “but as long as I can find new and interesting things to do and places to visit then I’m generally happy.”

Jay nodded. “Well, I expect this would be a good time to tell you what we have to offer at Capadelli, though I sense from what you said about skiing that you already know Tuscany quite well?”

Isobel smiled at his continual questions but before she could respond — before she could vocalise her happiness at talking to a man that actually listened — he gently took hold of her forearm.

“It will be quieter in the corner,” he said, “and there’s something I’d like to show you.”

Isobel glanced around for Peter as they threaded their way through the guests. He seemed to be deep in conversation on wines, and they walked to the corner almost unnoticed — only the leggy blonde in the corner watched them, her eyes unblinkingly on Isobel as Jay guided her to the scale model in the corner.

Isobel looked at it in interest, an elegant construction, encased in a protective glass case with a discreet aluminium plate identifying it as a representation of ‘Castello di Capadelli.’

“You were saying that you know Tuscany well?” asked Jay, looking into her eyes.

Did I say that? thought Isobel, feeling her lips a touch dry, and aware of a strange twisting in her stomach. “I’m lucky enough to get across two or three times a year,” she said. “I have a friend that has a place near Lucca.”

“Well, at Capadelli we are a little south of Lucca, maybe forty-five minutes,” offered Jay. “About mid-way between Florence and Pisa.”

Isobel felt more interested in Jay than Capadelli and, as he busied himself gingerly lifting the glass cover, she seized her moment to ask more.

“So the development is your baby?”

“If only,” he said with a rueful smile. “No, I’m just the guy pulling it all together for the main investors. They call me the managing director, but I’m really a glorified project manager.”

Isobel smiled at his modesty, seeing instantly through it with a practised eye; she had already noticed his watch, one of the lesser-known but more expensive Swiss brands and, as he leant forward over the display, Isobel could just see the Saville Row label inside his suit, and the discreet “silk and cashmere” tag beneath.

“So you spend most of your time on the development?” she asked, unwilling to tease him for so rare a virtue.

Jay held still considering the question, holding the glass cover rather than placing it on the table.

“I have for the last year or so. But I’m also involved in a project in London, which looks like it will need more of my time.” He placed the glass lid down. “So when are you next in Tuscany?”

The question was casual, almost as if he read her mind and asked the very question she was holding back.

“I wouldn’t want to miss your visit to Capadelli,” he said, as her imagination jolted into overdrive.

Isobel pursed her lips to hide her happiness and assumed an expression of feigned affront. “Maybe you’d better tell me something about Capadelli first. Or Peter will be wondering what we have been doing in the corner all this time.”

Jay laughed. “I suppose I’d better. But I guess you’ve a fairly good picture of the development from the brochure. So let me just point out a few things on the model.”

He guided her to the far side of the display, pointing out where the new spa would be built as they squeezed into the narrow space between the model and the wall. Isobel asked a few questions about how it would all work, keen to monopolise him for as long as possible.

“I have something that will answer that question better than I can,” he said. “I just need to get through here.”

There was a second when Isobel might have moved from behind the model, the obvious thing to do. But something within her caused her to stay. Jay straightened his body, preparing to slide between her and the wall as she shrunk herself apologetically into the model. This surely was the moment for Isobel to move, the moment when it was clear that there just wasn’t quite enough space for him to comfortably get past. Yet still she stayed fixed to her spot. She felt the closeness of Jay’s body as he eased his way through, his upper body for a moment against her back as he touched his hands lightly onto her hips, as if to ensure their lower bodies did not touch. Isobel felt a strange disappointment that they did not touch, that she had not felt his manhood, or imagined she could feel it, against her backside. As he strode across the room she was overwhelmed with a mixture of selfdisgust and elation.

“Now, where was I?” asked Jay when he returned, clutching a limp, postcard-sized leaflet that hardly seemed worth the effort.

Pressed against my body was the answer that first came into Isobel’s mind, but she held that one back.

“Talking about community. How you are creating a unique blend of Anglo-Saxon and Italian culture,” she said, meaning to be matter of fact but aware of a hint of teasing in her delivery.

“I’m sure I could never have been quite that eloquent, Isobel,” he replied. Isobel smiled at the compliment and let him continue as she bathed in his words. “The truth is the original concept was to create a cosmopolitan community, something very international. But it just hasn’t worked out that way. And actually, I think in the end, it’s for the better.”

Isobel nodded, becoming even more enraptured as he forswore omnipotence and gave luck its due.

“So what went wrong with plan A?”

“I just never expected the level of interest we have had from the local Italian market; they’ve already snaffled over a third of the properties, so I probably won’t be taking the marketing further than the UK.”

“So what you’re saying is that you’ve just done too good a job, is that it?” Isobel raised her eyebrows, teasing him again, craving his response.

“Maybe,” he said, pushing back his hair with feigned arrogance.

Isobel laughed. “So anyone interested needs to get over to Tuscany pretty quick then?”

He laughed. “I think I need someone like you on my marketing team, Isobel. Someone that is an embodiment of the beauty, elegance, and serenity that is Castello di Capadelli.” It was a light-hearted remark, delivered almost mockingly, but it did not match his eyes, which were deep with seriousness.

Isobel almost blushed, enjoying the jousting. “Do you say that to every girl?”

“Only if it’s true.” They were locked together in a moment of silence before he broke the spell. “But I must allow you to mingle. You must think very badly of me for monopolising your whole evening.”

Isobel smiled, excitement running through her. “You have been the perfect host.”

Seconds after Jay left, Peter appeared alongside her. “I thought you’d never stop talking,” he said. “We need to go or I’ll be late for Tokyo.”

Isobel nodded and inched her way towards the door, willing Jay to break off his conversation with the three couples that had cornered him as he crossed the room.

They were making their apologies to David Knight when Jay, ever alert, smoothly disengaged from the group he was otherwise enthralled by.

“David,” he said, “I hope you have been looking after our guests.” He turned directly to Peter and extended his hand. “Jay Brooke. I’m afraid I need to apologise for being something of a poor host, and also for monopolising your charming wife. It’s rare that I meet people on these evenings that know more about Tuscany than my own team.”

“Take no notice, Peter, Mr. Brooke is just being polite,” said Isobel, looking at Jay as she spoke.

“Isobel tells me you are a golfer,” Jay continued. “Maybe we can play a round when you visit us in Tuscany?”

Isobel gripped Peter’s arm as she felt him jolt in surprise, and shot him a threatening look that warned him to hold back any questions.

“Do you mind if we take a couple of brochures?” enquired Isobel, smiling widely over her husband’s surly silence.

“Of course,” said Jay, beckoning over the hovering blonde who sauntered up with a pile of information folders entwined in her slender brown arms. Isobel watched her as she rifled through the cardboard packs. She stood so close to Jay that their bodies were touching, her arm resting slightly on his as she supported the stack of paper. Isobel looked on indignantly; the girl was no wallflower, that was for sure, and she had to be at least ten years his junior. Isobel transferred her furtive gaze to Jay for clarity; she was familiar with the trophy wife syndrome, as there were enough of those around Cobham. But Jay had not struck her as the type who needed to compensate for deficiencies elsewhere by having a status symbol on his arm. Yet as she looked again, their bodies did not seem so close anymore. Jay had shifted his feet and a slither of light now split apart their silhouettes as they stood in the entranceway. Isobel thought she saw anger and disappointment in the girl’s green eyes but quickly pulled herself out of her imaginings. What difference did it make who the girl was and what her relationship was with Jay?

Jay offered his hand again, first to Peter and then to Isobel, taking hold of her tapered fingers as she thanked him again.

“It has been my pleasure,” responded Jay, and after what seemed an eternity to Isobel, he released her hand.

Isobel could have skipped along the pavement as they stepped out into the late spring evening and made their way to Peter’s racing green Aston Martin parked directly across the road.

“You don’t mind if I put the top down, do you darling?” she asked rhetorically as the roof glided away to reveal the beginnings of a starry sky. “It’s such a lovely evening.”

“That was a right royal waste of time,” said Peter, fighting against her happiness as they pulled away.

“Nothing like an open mind, is there?” said Isobel, keeping her eyes firmly and deliberately on the road.

“Surely you aren’t even considering what these guys are selling? You hardly spent any time in Provence last year as it is. How would you find time for Tuscany?”

“Time, time, time. Is that all you can ever think about?” said Isobel, her anger fed by the validity of his comments. “Well, maybe it’s time you started thinking about how you spend your time.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” snapped Peter, irritable from either too much wine or too little.

“We bought Provence for both of us,” she said bitterly. “You cancelled out of the trip in May; you cancelled out of the trip in September. Well, you can’t expect me to rattle around a rambling ruin in the middle of nowhere on my own. Tuscany is different. It’s a resort, with other people, people who are not slaves to the great god of time. I would be perfectly happy there on my own, pampering myself in the spa.”