The Secret Cove in Croatia. Julie Caplin

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      Nick had to give her credit; the minute Tara moved into the unforgiving eye of the lens, she stopped shivering and threw a cool indifferent pose as if the freezing temperature was nothing. Her thin, haughty face stared out over the view, dispassionate and seemingly oblivious to the valley unfolding before her, the rich green grass softening the contours of the hillside and the sunshine dancing on the distant sea at the mouth of the valley five miles in the distance. Something twisted in his stomach at the sight of her standing on the outcrop of rocks, with one knee bent, a delicate, almost fey figure, with her flawless complexion and mane of golden hair burnished with red and gold threads picked out by the spring sunshine. She looked as if she might slip away into another realm at any moment. Then he told himself off for allowing the little kick of something to affect him and the odd desire to want to protect her from the cold. Compared to her, he was a steady, reliable carthorse hitched to unremitting destiny while she was like a delicate faerie creature, as unattainable and remote as the stars. She came from another world. A world a million miles away from this remote farm and the village community where he knew everyone and everyone knew him and had done since he was born. This was home. Always had been, always would be. His mouth twisted. Besides, if he weren’t here, what else could he do? This was all he’d ever known or was likely to know.

      ‘Nick, can you get one of the sheep into the foreground?’ called a peremptory voice, waving a finger indicating where the animal was required.

      ‘Sure,’ he said, whistling to his border collie, Rex, not bothering to correct the photographer’s assistant. He’d tried to explain several times yesterday but no one was interested in the difference between the sheep – actually ewes – and the lambs. They wanted the cute, photo-friendly lambs, which were now six weeks old and more photogenic than the just about to be sheared sheep, which looked scraggy and unkempt with their mud-encrusted, shaggy fleeces.

      Since British Wool had approached him to photograph their brochure on Hadley land, offering to pay for his time, this job had proved one of the most … entertaining was probably the best word. Who knew that taking a few photographs was actually a full-scale production? Two vans had arrived two days ago, filled with several rails of clothes and enough photographic kit and caboodle to take pictures of the entire population of Bowden Rigg. These had been followed by three taxis from Carlisle station conveying a full entourage of four models, two stylists, two wardrobe ladies, the photographer, his assistant, a creative director, a PA and two clients from British Wool.

      Rex rounded up one of the lambs, which skipped into shot baaing furiously, making the model smile winsomely. ‘Oh, isn’t he so cute?’

      ‘He’d be a damn sight cuter if he stood still,’ grumbled the photographer, peering through his lens.

      Following a quick whistle and a few subtle commands, Rex nudged the skittish lamb back into place. Nick, impressed by her patience, watched as Tara tilted her head this way and that, angling her body to show off the garments. To his surprise, she turned her sleepy almond eyes his way, a sultry smile lifting the corners of her mouth as she stared rather blatantly at his.

      ‘Yes, Tara. Yes, that look. Lovely. Lovely. Just tilt your head to the right, keep looking at Nick. Yeah, that’s it. You want him bad. I’m loving it.’

      A wicked glint lit the model’s eyes and Nick felt himself blush to the very roots of his blond hair and a heated flush raced up his body. With a swallow, he resisted the urge to duck his head. Instead, he met her slightly mocking gaze with a quick lift of one eyebrow and some heat of his own. Country born and bred didn’t mean that he was clueless. Nick Hadley, to his mother’s despair, had yet to find the right woman, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t played the field.

      Tara smirked in retaliation and then, in accordance with the photographer’s next slew of commands, put her hands on her hips and threw her head back, once again distant and unattainable. Nick suddenly felt like a third wheel; he had a ton of stuff that he should be doing this morning instead of hanging around like … like a grubby schoolboy.

      The photographer called out to Tara, ‘OK, you’re done for the moment.’

      As Nick walked forward to chase the lamb back to the rest of the flock, Tara stepped forward to the edge of the rock. ‘Catch me,’ she said and launched herself into the air.

      Surprised, Nick took a step forward and caught her easily in his arms. She weighed nothing and she crowed delightedly at his catch, as if he’d done something amazing, making him feel like every superhero rolled into one. Gently, he set her down on the ground, disentangling himself from her poncho and scarf. He gave her a smile. ‘There you go, safe and sound.’

      ‘You’re all man,’ she breathed and he almost wanted to laugh; it was such a clichéd line, but the knowing, suggestive look in her eyes stalled him.

      ‘Last time I looked,’ he said with easy confidence. Now it was her turn to blush. ‘You’re staying at The George Inn, in the village, I believe.’

      She nodded. ‘Quaint, but I’ve stayed in worse on location.’

      ‘Dinner?’ asked Nick.

      ‘Are you asking me, or telling me?’ Tara replied, her eyes coy, with a gentle smirk playing around her mouth.

      ‘There’s a very good restaurant at the local manor house. I could pick you up at seven-thirty.’

      ‘Make it eight and you have a date,’ returned Tara, with the air of someone who was used to having her own way.

      Damn, it was after six. It had taken longer than he’d planned to finish today. Unfortunately, farming waited for no man and he’d had to catch up with those jobs that going out on the photoshoot had forced him to neglect.

      The warm glow of the farmhouse kitchen, filled with the scent of sausages and Yorkshire pudding coming from the Aga, along with the comforting sound of chatter and laughter, embraced him – a hug of familiarity and simple pleasure. The huge pine table in the centre of the room was being laid by Gail, married to his eldest twin brother, Dan, and she looked up to give him a quick warm smile. He liked both of his sisters-in-law, although had yet to fathom how on earth either of the twins, Dan and Jonathon, had persuaded them that they would make suitable husbands. But then he’d grown up with them.

      ‘Hey, Nick,’ called Dan from where he stood in front of the dresser, rummaging through the assorted phone chargers and cables. ‘Long day.’

      He nodded.

      At thirty-three, like his twin brothers and their wives, he still ate in his mother’s kitchen, partly through sheer laziness but also because the warm, busy kitchen had been so much part of his life for so long. However, much as he loved them all, he was thankful for his own small cottage on the edge of the farm which afforded the necessary privacy for a bachelor, especially one whose mother was keen for him to settle down.

      ‘Hey, Mum –’ he turned to her ‘– I’m sorry. I’ve only just finished work but I’m going out tonight.’

      ‘Excellent,’ said Jonathon, eyeing up the toad-in-the-hole she was in the process of removing from the Aga. ‘More sausages for me.’

      ‘Are you sure you don’t have time for a quick bite to eat? I’m literally serving up now. You can eat and run.’ She grinned at him. ‘I don’t mind.’

      ‘Or he could sod off down the pub and leave the sausages for us,’ said Jonathon, dancing past his mother and pinching a piece of crisp Yorkshire pudding.

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