Carole Mortimer - Mediterranean Seduction

Who is he? Charlotte wondered as she thought about the fisherman. And, more importantly, how do I get to meet him? She was still mulling it over when sleep finally claimed her.

CHAPTER TWO

THE sound of turtledoves cooing in the split trunk of the olive tree outside her window woke Charlotte at daybreak. Easing herself down from the snug sleeping platform, she padded barefoot across the cool tiled floor and stared out of the open shutters. It took her a few moments to adjust to the low, slanting light, and then she sighed with disappointment.

What had she been expecting? She had seen the fisherman turn for shore in the middle of the night. But somehow that hadn’t been enough to prevent her imagination conjuring up an image of him waiting for her somewhere.

Directing her gaze upwards, she saw the sky was a pale, watery lemon, and smiled in anticipation. The new day held the exciting possibility that she might see the mystery man again.

These last few days on the island might well be worth all the others put together, Charlotte thought, suddenly feeling the crazy urge to lean out of the window and embrace the translucent light. She wanted to stamp the view on her memory for ever: the sand stretching away in an ivory crescent, looking as though it had been washed, cleaned and ironed just for her pleasure, and beyond that the fingers of mist lingering over smudgy green olive groves. The sea was translucent aquamarine, and mirror-flat between her side of the shore and the jetty where the fisherman must have tied up his boat. She stared intently, but there was no sign of either him or his boat.

Time to swim, she decided, pulling back decisively. And after that she would settle down to the business of writing.

Coming down the stone steps in just her pyjamas, Charlotte paused only to slip on her sandals. During her short time in Greece the sunshine and warmth had stripped away her inhibitions—that and the fact that so far no one had trespassed on the stretch of beach below the villa. She would swim naked today, as she had every day since her arrival.

By the time she reached the edge of the cliff her pulse was racing with more than her usual anticipation, and the first thing she saw out at sea were two red floats. His floats? Surely they must be. Her heart leapt, and, turning towards the steep donkey trail that led down to the beach, she tried not to run. But the markers were like magnets, drawing her to the shore.

They are just markers in the sea, Charlotte warned herself as she walked across the sand. Nothing to make a fuss about. She took her time removing her sandals, and made a point of ignoring them. But by the time she reached the water’s edge she could hardly breathe with excitement. He would come back—he had to come back at some point to claim them, she realised, ripping off her nightclothes and tossing them onto the ground.

Get a grip! she told herself, pausing a moment to enjoy the soft brush of the breeze on her naked body. If this was the way she was going to react, she would have done better staying up at the villa, where she was safe. How much safer to flesh out the fisherman in her imagination than to risk an encounter…

But as the cool water lapped over Charlotte’s feet her brain clicked into gear and a line of poetry swam into her head that seemed to fit the fisherman perfectly. More than that, it provided the perfect theme for her article.

She replayed the words in her head just to be sure: Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure . It was perfect—as the hook for her article, as the theme she had been searching for.

She only had to think about the fisherman to know the direction her article would take now. It was a theme that was sure to resonate with her readers, make them pause over their lattes: a man fulfilled, a man who had found his destiny working close to nature in the sleepy environs of a small Greek island.

Good as far as it went, Charlotte mused, shivering a little as she waded deeper into the water. But what had happened to her determination to reinvent herself? Was the fisherman going to be confined to the printed page? Living in the imagination was great—it had always provided her with an escape—but was it enough? And should the thought of the mysterious fisherman be sending her heart-rate off the scale? She put that thought on hold as she embraced the chilly waves with a shriek of excitement.

Plunging deep, Charlotte began to swim out strongly towards the red floats. She swam well, with her head underwater much of the time to streamline her position and minimise drag. The sea was as clear as if it had been filtered, and the sandy floor was littered with rocks giving shelter to the shoals of colourful fish streaking past her legs. She saw the fisherman’s lobster pots first, nestling between two rocks, even before she realised she had reached his markers.

Treading water, Charlotte grabbed hold of one of the fat red globes and clutched it to her chest. Her nipples tightened as she traced the curved lines with her fingertips and let her thoughts fly. Closing her eyes, she careered off on an erotic adventure where the fisherman’s tight buttocks moved with the same insistent thrust as the waves beneath his float. She allowed her legs to rise behind her, and used the float to keep herself above the waves. It felt cool and smooth against her cheek, with just enough scratchy damage to make her think of how a stubble-roughened jaw might feel against her skin. Her thoughts lingered on his strong hands, touching it, controlling it, much as she was doing now—

‘ Oy! Min to kanis afto! ’

Charlotte’s heart leapt into her throat as she thrust the float away. The barked order carried clearly across the water and came from the shore. Back-pedalling furiously, she sent a curtain of spray high into the air as she whirled around to try and see who was shouting at her.

So much for romantic ideals! It was her fisherman, and even the shock of reality and fantasy colliding was overtaken by a new fear when she saw him take a few fast steps forward. He thought she was in danger and was coming to her rescue, she realised. Quickly thrusting her arm into the air, she gave him a confident ‘thumbs-up’ signal. She relaxed a little when he halted abruptly, but he still exuded a sense of purpose she sensed might be triggered at the slightest provocation. She didn’t flatter herself it was out of concern. He was just plain furious.

But then she began to resent his arrogant occupation of her beach. What did he think she was doing? Did he think she was hoping to steal her supper? Did he own the sea? Charlotte had a good mind to stay exactly where she was until the man gave up and went away. But then she heard an engine put-putting towards her. Swinging round in the water, she saw that a small fishing vessel was closing in on her fast.

Back on the beach, the fisherman had planted himself in front of her pyjamas, whilst in the fishing boat she saw the stocky figure of a much older man sporting a swirling moustache. He had spotted her too. The boat was close enough for Charlotte to see the blue stripes painted down its sides.

She couldn’t stay treading water for ever. Was it fate lines colliding, or a disaster unfolding? Charlotte knew there was only one way to find out. She began to swim back to shore, and only slowed when she was close enough to see the water frothing around the fisherman’s naked feet. As their gazes clashed he brandished her clothes in his hand like a flag.

Was he showing them to her or taunting her with them? she wondered. But, noting the cynical slant of his eyes, Charlotte pulled away towards the shelter of the rocks clustering at the shoreline.

Nothing like a little real-life experience to spice up your writing, she mused, turning in time to see him make a second imperative gesture—past her this time, out to sea.