Page 62 of Pretty Mess

“It was originally known asDog Aituntil 1903, and then a high court judge built the first house there and called it Sphinx. He was very interested in Egyptology. Subsequent homeowners followed suit, and now all the properties on the island have Egyptian names. Hence the title, Pharoah’s Island.”

The island is shielded by trees, but I can see a couple of roofs rising above them. “It’s tiny.”

“I think there are only currently twenty-three houses on it.”

“And we’re going there? Is the house you want there?”

He nods.

“You?”

His mouth quirks. “Why that tone of disbelief?”

“Well, I just can’t see you living on an island in the middle of nowhere.”

“It’s Shepperton. Not the middle of the Sahara. The lock is back there.”

The boat putt-putts next to the island, and I look avidly at the houses. They differ in architecture, but they all have gardens leading down to the water with small boats parked neatly at the bottom of these gardens. When I look at Mac again, I frown. His earlier ease—or as close as Mac gets to that state—has gone and he now looks very tense.

“This is lovely,” I say quickly. “What era were these houses built? They look like they fit here.” He looks at me in question, some of his tenseness going, so I elaborate, searching for the right words. “They look comfortable. Not fancy for other people’s admiration. Classy,” I add as an afterthought.

His eyes widen for a fraction of a second and then he turns his gaze to the shore. “A lot of them were built right before World War One. They’re very typical of the architecture of that time.”

“Blimey.” I nudge him. “Bet these all cost a fucking fortune now.”

He winces. “A little less profanity, please. The man who owns the house is old.”

“I can behave,” I say crossly. “I just don’t need to do that with you.”

He looks startled. “Is that true?”

I huff. “I’m not in the habit of lying.”

He pats my arm. “I know,” he says simply.

My annoyance fades as though it was never there. He leans closer, and I shudder at the feeling of his breath on my ear. His voice is low, and I try to focus on his words rather than my stirring cock. “We’re going to meet the owner of the property. He says he only has time for one meeting. Apparently, it is not to his satisfaction to meet my staff, and only my presence could persuade him. I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous.”

“Oh dear. What aterribleperson wanting a chat,” I say in a scandalised voice.

He grunts. “So, we need to get our story straight before we go in.”

I narrow my eyes. “Story?”

“Yes, this is where you can finally become useful to me.”

“Finally?” I say indignantly. “I think my arse has been very helpful so far.”

His eyes twinkle. “You have no idea. Anyway, the man here is fond of his house.” He shakes his head as if in despair at such a human emotion. “He’s obviously looking for a personal connection with a potential buyer.”

“I understand. He wants to speak to a person and not a line on a bank statement. He’s probably got a lot of memories.” I swallow hard. “My brother and I were very—” I correct myself hastily. “When I moved out of my family home, I was sad.”

“It’s interesting that you should say that, because family is where you come in.”

“Oh yes?” I say warily.

“Yes, you’re my husband.”

I raise my eyebrows and scan his features. He wears his usual cool expression. “Wow. This all happened so fast, darling dearest.”