answered him with mock sweetness, looking at his profile silhouetted by the light streaming from the palazzo. Hmmm…. I’ve got to admit… he looks good…. One of these guys who doesn’t realise how good looking he is.
“The very same person,” he answered, yawning. “But if I can’t entice you to come upstairs and admire the frescos in the chapel next to my bedroom, I’ll turn in and see you tomorrow.”
“I think they can wait until daylight,” she smiled, and followed him into the house.
****
Tamara basked in the late afternoon sun, enjoying the heat as a warm breeze rustled through the olive trees and prevented her getting too hot. She was being careful not to burn, rubbing herself liberally with sun tan cream, and turning over on the dark red lounger mattress regularly . One of the staff brought her a light lunch and a large glass of chilled Prosecco, which she sipped as she lazily read her book.
They had been at the palazzo for two days and, to her relief, it was not turning out so difficult as she feared. Simon’s routine was straightforward - an early morning jog before it got hot, then they met for a breakfast of delicious rolls and coffee, and afterwards his PA came with her laptop and they huddled together going through overnight emails.
This morning had been different, however. Tamara looked out from her balcony window to see Simon’s rangy frame returning from his run, except this time he was accompanied by the blonde girl with a ponytail she had seen at the airport. They were laughing together, and Tamara suddenly felt a frisson of jealousy.
Who the hell is she?
Simon had surprised her by having business meetings in the villa, and requested - if she didn’t mind - that she kept in the background.
“I don’t need eye-candy for these meetings, Tamara,,” he teased. “It’s men only!”
Which was fine by her, and it meant that she could find secluded parts of the garden, take her bikini top off, and sunbathe.
She emptied her wine glass, and had a guilty pang that she might have drunk too much. Luxuriating on the cushiony recliner, Tamara dropped her book alongside her, and tilted her wide-brimmed straw hat back so that she could watch the swallows weaving and curving against the bluest of skies.
This is heaven. Pure heaven.
Tamara always found wine and sun arousing, and she found her thoughts turning towards Simon. He was more complicated than she realised, and rather shy.
At mealtimes he was unfailingly courteous and polite, but he was reluctant to discuss anything more personal than cities he visited (most of the developed world’s capitals, she discovered) or the merits of the meal they were eating. His conversation about his parents, she decided, was as much about his personal life as she was going to discover.
It was getting cooler, so she decided to return to the palazzo, and tied her bikini top. Wrapping a sarong around her, she stepped into her flip flops and walked back towards the palazzo. As she approached the building, she noticed the chirp of the cicada being supplanted by another faint sound carried towards her by the breeze. For a moment she couldn’t make out what it was, until she recognised that she was listening to someone playing the guitar. And whoever it was, they were playing extremely competently.
She imagined that one of Simon’s business acquaintances was entertaining the group now that their meeting had finished, or Simon was listening to the radio, so she walked across the patio whose flagstones were still warm from the day’s heat towards the French windows which opened out from the ground floor rooms.
It was Simon who was playing.
His back was towards her, and she stood spellbound as the romantic guitar music filled the wood panelled room. As far as she could see there were no music sheets, so he must be playing from memory, but the rhythm and mastery was spellbinding. It was a slow, melodious
“The very same person,” he answered, yawning. “But if I can’t entice you to come upstairs and admire the frescos in the chapel next to my bedroom, I’ll turn in and see you tomorrow.”
“I think they can wait until daylight,” she smiled, and followed him into the house.
****
Tamara basked in the late afternoon sun, enjoying the heat as a warm breeze rustled through the olive trees and prevented her getting too hot. She was being careful not to burn, rubbing herself liberally with sun tan cream, and turning over on the dark red lounger mattress regularly . One of the staff brought her a light lunch and a large glass of chilled Prosecco, which she sipped as she lazily read her book.
They had been at the palazzo for two days and, to her relief, it was not turning out so difficult as she feared. Simon’s routine was straightforward - an early morning jog before it got hot, then they met for a breakfast of delicious rolls and coffee, and afterwards his PA came with her laptop and they huddled together going through overnight emails.
This morning had been different, however. Tamara looked out from her balcony window to see Simon’s rangy frame returning from his run, except this time he was accompanied by the blonde girl with a ponytail she had seen at the airport. They were laughing together, and Tamara suddenly felt a frisson of jealousy.
Who the hell is she?
Simon had surprised her by having business meetings in the villa, and requested - if she didn’t mind - that she kept in the background.
“I don’t need eye-candy for these meetings, Tamara,,” he teased. “It’s men only!”
Which was fine by her, and it meant that she could find secluded parts of the garden, take her bikini top off, and sunbathe.
She emptied her wine glass, and had a guilty pang that she might have drunk too much. Luxuriating on the cushiony recliner, Tamara dropped her book alongside her, and tilted her wide-brimmed straw hat back so that she could watch the swallows weaving and curving against the bluest of skies.
This is heaven. Pure heaven.
Tamara always found wine and sun arousing, and she found her thoughts turning towards Simon. He was more complicated than she realised, and rather shy.
At mealtimes he was unfailingly courteous and polite, but he was reluctant to discuss anything more personal than cities he visited (most of the developed world’s capitals, she discovered) or the merits of the meal they were eating. His conversation about his parents, she decided, was as much about his personal life as she was going to discover.
It was getting cooler, so she decided to return to the palazzo, and tied her bikini top. Wrapping a sarong around her, she stepped into her flip flops and walked back towards the palazzo. As she approached the building, she noticed the chirp of the cicada being supplanted by another faint sound carried towards her by the breeze. For a moment she couldn’t make out what it was, until she recognised that she was listening to someone playing the guitar. And whoever it was, they were playing extremely competently.
She imagined that one of Simon’s business acquaintances was entertaining the group now that their meeting had finished, or Simon was listening to the radio, so she walked across the patio whose flagstones were still warm from the day’s heat towards the French windows which opened out from the ground floor rooms.
It was Simon who was playing.
His back was towards her, and she stood spellbound as the romantic guitar music filled the wood panelled room. As far as she could see there were no music sheets, so he must be playing from memory, but the rhythm and mastery was spellbinding. It was a slow, melodious
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