The Secret Cove in Croatia
JULIE CAPLIN
A division of HarperCollins Publishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Harper Impulse
an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2019
Copyright © Julie Caplin 2019
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2019
Julie Caplin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008323691
Ebook Edition © July 2019 ISBN: 9780008323684
Version: 2019-06-20
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page The Secret Cove in Croatia JULIE CAPLIN A division of HarperCollins Publishers www.harpercollins.co.uk
Copyright Harper Impulse an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2019 Copyright © Julie Caplin 2019 Cover images © Shutterstock.com Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2019 Julie Caplin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 9780008323691 Ebook Edition © July 2019 ISBN: 9780008323684 Version: 2019-06-20
Dedication For Gordana Sikora-Presecki who introduced me to Croatia … and sharing inspiring pictures when we should have been working!
Chapter 1: Northumberland
Chapter 2: London
Chapter 3: Croatia
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Publisher
For Gordana Sikora-Presecki who introduced me to Croatia
… and sharing inspiring pictures when we should have been working!
Nick huddled into the collar of his coat, grateful for the thick tweed barrier protecting him from the brisk northerly wind that whipped around the lee of the craggy hillside. A wry smile touched his mouth at the sight of the two models shivering together like highly strung Arabian fillies.
Today the models were dressed in vibrant — Pucci style, he’d been informed, whatever that was — wool ponchos. Although, if anyone had asked his opinion, he’d have said it looked as if someone had run amok in a paint shop, but he was no fashion expert. The outfits were topped with dashing tam-o’-shanter hats, perched jauntily on their heads while striped woollen scarves, wrapped several times around their elegant long necks, flapped in the breeze like Himalayan prayer flags. The poor frozen models were as out of place as a pair of tropical birds as they waited for the photographer to line up the next shot.
Normally, at seven-thirty in the morning, he’d have the bleak moorland to himself, and if it hadn’t been for the quelling looks his sisters-in-law had shot his twin brothers, Dan and Jonathon, over dinner last night, there might have been a few more people up here.
‘Tara, stand on that rock in the shaft of sunshine,’ directed the brusque photographer whose facial expression was well hidden behind dark bushy eyebrows and a fearsome, glossy black beard of biblical proportions, a stark contrast to his bald head.
Nick had to give her credit; the minute Tara moved into the unforgiving eye of the lens, she stopped shivering and threw a cool indifferent pose as if the freezing temperature was nothing. Her thin, haughty face stared out over the view, dispassionate and seemingly oblivious to the valley unfolding before her, the rich green grass softening the contours of the hillside and the sunshine dancing on the distant sea at the mouth of the valley five miles in the distance. Something twisted in his stomach at the sight of her standing on the outcrop of rocks, with one knee bent, a delicate, almost fey figure, with her flawless complexion and mane of golden hair burnished with red and gold threads picked out by the spring sunshine. She looked as if she might slip away into another realm at any moment. Then he told himself off for allowing the little kick of something to affect him and the odd desire to want to protect her from the cold. Compared to her, he was a steady, reliable carthorse hitched to unremitting destiny while she was like a delicate faerie creature, as unattainable and remote as the stars. She came from another world. A world a million miles away from this remote farm and the village community where he knew everyone and everyone knew him and had done since he was born. This was home. Always had been, always would be. His mouth twisted. Besides, if he weren’t here, what else could he do? This was all he’d ever known or was likely to know.
‘Nick, can you get one of the sheep into the foreground?’ called a peremptory voice, waving a finger indicating where the animal was required.
‘Sure,’ he said, whistling to his border collie, Rex, not bothering to correct the photographer’s assistant. He’d tried to explain several times yesterday but no one was interested in the difference between the sheep – actually ewes – and the lambs. They wanted the cute, photo-friendly lambs, which were now six weeks old and more photogenic than the just about to be sheared sheep, which looked scraggy and unkempt with their mud-encrusted, shaggy fleeces.
Since British Wool had approached him to photograph their brochure on Hadley land, offering to pay for his time, this job had proved one of the most … entertaining was probably the best word. Who knew that taking a few photographs was actually a full-scale production? Two vans had arrived two days ago, filled with several rails of clothes and enough photographic kit and caboodle to take pictures of the entire population of Bowden Rigg. These had been followed by three taxis from Carlisle station conveying a full entourage of four models, two stylists, two wardrobe ladies, the photographer, his assistant, a creative director, a PA and two clients from British Wool.
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