Impulse (Isola dei Sogni) (2 page)

They were all young, pretty and confident, and judging by their chat on the boat, all successful. There had been a mix of languages, and even without the age difference, that had set Mia apart. She didn't speak half their languages, just a bit of tourist French.
Well, I can say please and thank you, can I have a beer, where's the toilet, and may I please have the bill, in a few more, but don't think that really counts.

Mia decided there and then that no doubt she'd be the party pooper without even trying. Whilst the others all went off and did their thing, she'd decline gracefully to participate in a dream or a fantasy or whatever, and spend the week reading and sunbathing. That thought hit her like a sledgehammer, and she almost dropped her glass. Add in a couple of glasses of good champagne every day, chocolate and rich tea biscuits, and she had it. Her dream and her fantasy.
What about the kidnapped by a hot bod and riding off into the sunset?

With an inward snigger, Mia scrabbled around for the sheet of paper she'd been sent before she'd left home. She'd taken a quick look at it, blanched, giggled, shoved it in her suitcase, and promptly forgotten about it. There was one heading 'Dream Desires', and another 'Fantasy Fulfillment', and then several paragraphs outlining some of the themes that were catered for.
Damn, there is a kidnapping one. I'm not even going to look at that page. Or the shapeshifter one. Good grief, tell people to get a life.

She opened the slim booklet and turned the pages.
Oh sheesh.
Mia blushed as she read some of the other headings.
I have led a sheltered life.
Then she grinned at the thought of some of the things she had got up to in her younger days, before . . . her mind shied away from the after . . . that was well over and done with. Although before, there was that Arabian third son of a sheik, and . . .
Okay, well, not that sheltered, and now I remember where this kidnapping stuff came from. Amal was choice. But really, Maid and Master . . . please.
Mia sniggered and rolled her eyes as she looked at the next heading.

Thank goodness they had all been given their own suites. There was no way on earth she could read this in front of her sister. It was one thing knowing what you had or hadn't done in the past, or would like to do in the future, but another thing for your family, or even friends for that matter, to know. Obviously a good reason to guarantee each guest total privacy from anyone whenever it was wanted.

Though that could prove difficult if everyone wanted to use the gothic castle at the same time
,
or decided they wanted their own personal shapeshifter.
Mia's mind wandered off into the logistical nightmares she imagined could be caused, before returning to the leaflet she held. A thought hit her like a brick in her back. Meryl had muttered something about bloody shifters. At the time, Mia had thought her sister had meant removal men, but now, seeing the brochure, Mia wondered. Not that they existed, of course.
What mushrooms do they give you to make you believe in all that rubbish?

The room shook.
Damn, not an earthquake, please.
She grabbed hold of the bedhead, and decided she was imagining the "wait and see" she fancied she heard. Once she was sure there were no aftershocks, Mia returned to the information sheets.

Ah, this bit looked better, 'Our wish is your command'. Nice
. I command peace and quiet. Champagne and books. And, well, I wouldn't mind a nice hunky waiter to bring me the champagne and kinda—for goodness sake, stop it already
. Mia mentally shook her head, and looked at her watch. Enough of the silliness, it was time to join the rest of the group in the lounge for the last formal get-together of the week.

She put her now empty glass on an ornate table, and wriggled her feet into a pair of flip-flops. No stilettos or wedges for Mia. She was the most un-coordinated person she knew, and even baby heels, as Meryl called them, were a no-no on anything but the most important occasion. Mia had long realized she preferred her mum's hippy ideals to those of present day society.

* * * * *

"Have you checked out the stables?" One of Meryl's friends—she could never remember who was who—spoke to her as she wandered into the lounge. For once it was a room which wasn't over-decorated. Not like her bungalow. The room that shouted fantasy and sex to Mia, which she guessed it was supposed to, but she didn't need the trappings. The lounge was classy and minimal. Mia preferred it.

 
"Shades of Jilly Cooper there . . . the best bits," Jo, or was it Sarah, went on.

Mia smiled and remembered she was not going to be a party pooper, just not a joiner-inner.

"Not yet," she said cheerfully "I've been too busy admiring my villa."
Liar, liar pants on fire.

"Ooh, yes."

Mia was fairly sure it was Jo who spoke.

"And deciding on my choice of dream or fantasy, of course. The props and presents are amazing, don't you think?"

Not prepared to admit that, as far as she was aware, because she hadn't sent in any ideas, she didn't have any props and presents, Mia murmured her agreement. Then she apologized to Jo, and murmured something about looking for Meryl, before she made her way to where the middle-aged man was pouring champagne into elegant flutes. Christophe, she remembered as she smiled at him, grateful to see someone else over the age of thirty.

He smiled back and handed her a glass. "Feeling a bit overwhelmed?"

"Totally. I'm just not the right person for somewhere like this. Meryl might be my sister, but I'm old enough to be her mother. And with all these bright young twenty-somethings, I so feel it." Mia sipped her champagne. "I'm more of a put-my-feet-up-and-read woman than a kidnapped and ravished one." He raised one eyebrow, and Mia blushed. She could all but hear him calling her a liar. "Though I do appreciate the champagne."

He looked at her closely. "Never deny your desires, Mia. Dreams and fantasies come in all manner of guises. I'm sure we can fulfill yours."

Christophe winked briefly, so briefly that Mia wondered if she'd imagined it. However, before she could ask him what he meant, he turned and spoke to an impossibly manicured and buffed blonde. Mia smiled. In that girl's case, she had no reason to be jealous, unless she once had shares in a hairspray firm and sold them. The Barbie look-alike must use at least two cans a day. Mia was glad the resort had a no smoking indoors policy. It was a good bet that a match anywhere in a three-foot radius would start a fire to vie with a bonfire at night. She closed her eyes so no one could see her roll them. How Meryl got on with Felicity, she never knew. They were chalk and cheese. Nevertheless, they'd been friends since nursery, and Mia knew fine well not to judge people by appearances. Felicity headed a law firm in London.

With her glass in hand, Mia turned and wandered over to the open doors, which lead out onto a narrow swath of lush grass and the beach beyond. How on earth they managed to keep everything so abundant, Mia had no idea. The island had its own desalination plant, but it must be a full-time job watering the greenery.

Somewhere a bird called, and was answered by another farther away. The palm trees swayed gently in the soft breeze and waves rolled lazily across the white sand.

Good grief, I'm in the middle of a romantic novel. So where's the tall, dark, and handsome man? Or should that be men? And why can't it be short, craggy, blond, or middle-aged, rugged, red-headed or . . . oh, stop it.

Mia looked to her left where she thought she could see another building in the distance. She sniggered to herself. If half a mile
was
distant. Nothing was far from anything on the island, it seemed. Once again, she wondered how they could guarantee the total privacy bit. Although Meryl had mentioned that this meet-up thing wasn't normal; it was only because they knew each other. So perhaps privacy was easy? She looked at that far away structure again. Perhaps her fantasy was to see what was up there? If anything. Mia groaned as a wave of weariness rolled over her. How soon could she go to bed? Alone.

Oh well, it's only for a week, and I've enough books on my eReader to keep me going.
Mia blessed the day she treated herself to it. Now she could read anything she wanted without getting embarrassed. What was wrong with Peter Rabbit or shapeshifting in Scotland anyway? It was all fantasy.
Argh, there's that bloody word again.
No one blinked an eyelid if she had something hot and raunchy uppermost—and she often did—but see a kid's book and she was treated as if she were weird. Mia had long decided if that was how people perceived her that was up to them. At least it gave her a lot of breathing space, and not many people asking how to borrow said books.

She finished off her glass of champagne and exchanged it for another one that had been left on a tray along with a note saying 'please help yourself' just as Meryl approached her.

"Hi, amazing place, isn't it?"

Mia had the unpleasant thought Meryl's animation sounded forced. She quelled the shot of panic that hit her. Why was Meryl not happy?

"Yes it is, though I'm surprised the idea's to your taste." Mia stared at her sister. Was she paler than usual? Meryl never had a lot of color, but she looked as if a puff of breeze would blow her over.

"It's not, really, but I got sent details through the post, and it's an amazing deal." Meryl fiddled with the belt of her dress. She went pink and then chalky white again. "I showed it to a couple of the others, and hey, they wanted to come, so." She shrugged. "And I thought the break would do you good, sister. Early birthday present or something. Especially as there's no forced socializing. Well, except this and you could've ducked out if you wanted to. Now please, Mia, remember, forget home, forget scales and healthy food shopping and chill. Ignore the world and do what you want for a change."

Mia laughed. How well Meryl knew her. "Too true. Lead me to the chocolate and the library."

Meryl shook her head. "Oh no, if that's your fantasy, you go for it. I'm here for rest and relaxation. I've been dreaming of a stress-free week with no thinking for ages. Reading requires my mind in gear." With a smile that didn't reach her eyes, Meryl wandered over to talk to one of the other girls.

Mia glanced round the room to calculate how soon she could get away. She was surprised to see how few of the group had turned up. Obviously, the fantasies had started flowing.

So, what does Meryl think I'm here for, then? They might have an Arabian stud here and . . . Oh help, that doesn't sound right. I'm thinking stallions and . . . zip those thoughts now. Is it the champagne or is the atmosphere getting to me? What are they pushing through the air-con? Pheromones? Time to go back to my bungalow, open my eReader, and decide on dinner. And I suppose a blasted fantasy.

* * * * *

Mia shut her bungalow door behind her—really, bungalow was a misnomer; palatial suite or villa more like—and took a deep breath. Several deep breaths. Then she had her first proper look around. Her original thoughts were confirmed. If hedonism were your thing then you'd be well suited. 'Suited in a suite!' She was definitely losing it, whatever 'it' was. Dark green and gold drapes over sheer white muslin at the windows. They were perfect to let you see without being seen, and then to retreat behind. Thick cream carpet and upholstery shouted 'ware the wine'.

Mia cringed. As clumsy as she was, could she really go the whole holiday and not spill something on those furnishings? She studied an elegant goblet and the bottle of pink champagne tucked into a wine cooler, and grinned.
Why not?
If she drank it, there was less chance of spilling it. With a well-remembered deftness, she popped the cork and filled the glass with the soft rose-colored liquid, careful not to spill any. Fizz like that was too good to be wasted. Glass in hand, she wandered around the villa.

There was a plethora of tables with books and plants on their surfaces and an unusual looking footstool in front of an imposing armchair. What that could be used for conjured up all sorts of X-rated images. Mia felt a warm glow run through her as she remembered a similar stool and . . .
Argh, stop it. That was then, more than twenty years and twenty pounds ago.
She sniggered. Sometimes a good memory was a hindrance, not a help, and sometimes very definitely the opposite.

Mia wandered through the archway into the bedroom. Luxury again. A super king bed, filmy drapes and heavier curtains, following the previous color scheme. And—