Love Islands…The Collection. Jane Porter

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      It wasn’t until an hour later that he realised why the island paradise sounded familiar.

      ‘So I’ll cancel everything for the next, what...three days?’ Another person might have sounded stressed, but his PA was her usual serenely unflappable self. Considering he’d contacted her on his way to the airport and told her to free up his calendar.

      ‘Better make it four.’

      ‘All right, four. Will you be staying at the house or shall I book you in somewhere?’

      ‘House?’ The question produced a frowning response.

      ‘Have you changed your mind about putting it on the market?’

      It finally clicked. She was talking about the property he’d inherited last year from his great-uncle.

      ‘For now. I’ll check it out, see if it’s worth staying there.’

      The flight took for ever. When they finally landed at the private airstrip he arranged for his bag to be dropped at the house, while he headed straight for the hotel that Elizabeth Gray had described as a paradise.

      And a prerequisite of paradise was temptation.

      Ben lifted a hand to shade his eyes from the sun. He was jet-lagged. No, actually, he’d been jet-lagged when he arrived at Warren Court twelve hours ago. Now walking in totally inappropriate handmade leather shoes along the deserted white sand beach still wearing the same suit, he had gone way beyond mere jet lag.

      He was operating on a combination of adrenaline and anger. The hours that had passed since his discovery had not reduced the latter, but the delay had worn his patience to a single-cell thickness.

      With his eyes still on the horizon, he dropped down into a crouch and balanced on his heels, examining the sand for the light indents he had followed from her beach bungalow. A redhead was not so difficult to track down, especially when generous tips were involved. A muscle tightened in his chiselled jaw as his efforts were rewarded. The footprints were still there, but they were now heading out to the water.

      Straightening up, he altered course, heading towards the towel that lay in a crumpled heap a few feet away. As he picked it up his nostrils flared at the faint but distinctive scent of rose impregnating the soft fabric. He gave a snort of self-disgust as his libido gave a hefty kick.

      He still remembered that scent; he remembered everything.

      Ignoring the sizzling slither of heat that licked along his nerve endings, Ben muttered under his breath and clenched the fabric in his hands. He levelled his steely gaze at the head of the figure far out in the water. Too far given the luridly painted warning signs along the beach that informed of currents behind the reef.

      If this day had carried a convenient warning sign he might have stayed in bed. Ben’s entire body clenched in anticipation as the figure in the water began to swim towards the shore.