The Invitation to Pleasure

The first thing Charlotte Bennett lost on the French Riviera was her dignity. The second was a perfectly good cup of coffee. The third, she suspected, might be her common sense. The coffee went down the front of her cream linen dress as the airport shuttle lurched. A man in a linen suit offered her a tissue with the solemnity of a priest administering last rites. Charlotte accepted it, dabbed at the spreading brown stain and told herself that at least the dress now matched the emotional condition of her business account.

Her phone vibrated. LUCY: Have you met the millionaire yet? Is he handsome? If he is, remember you are there to work. Unless he has a brother. Charlotte typed: I have met a coffee stain and a French taxi queue. Both are making strong first impressions. She had accepted the Villa Aurelia commission because it was precisely the sort of work she wanted her name attached to: a historic Mediterranean property with impossible proportions, ambitious owners and enough money to restore rather than merely disguise its problems.

She had negotiated the fee herself, insisted on creative control, and declined the client's suggestion that she could “simply stay until everything was finished”. An initial twelve-day visit, with follow-up coordination from Britain and later inspections as needed. Her business would survive without her being physically in London. Her pride might not survive the coffee. Outside arrivals, the heat struck like the opening of an oven.

Beyond a line of impatient drivers stood a silver vintage Aston Martin and a man holding a small card that read BENNETT. He was tall, dark-haired and dressed in an open-collared white shirt. His sleeves were rolled back, revealing strong forearms. His face had the deeply irritating symmetry of somebody who had never needed to practise a passport photograph. He looked from the card to her dress. “Miss Bennett?” “Depends,”

Charlotte said. “Are you here to apologise for the stain?” “I'm Max Reed. And I wasn't, but I can see the negotiations are already going badly.” “Maximilian Reed?” She glanced at the car. “You drive your own airport collections?” “Only when I'm curious about the person who called my entrance hall a mausoleum with excellent lighting.” “It was a private assessment.” “You sent it to me in a PDF titled Initial Assessment.”

Charlotte closed her eyes briefly. “A regrettable filing decision.” He laughed, and something inconvenient happened in the vicinity of her stomach. She blamed the flight. Max took her suitcase only after asking. The Aston Martin's interior smelled of leather and warm wood, and Charlotte spent the first ten minutes of the drive pretending she wasn't enjoying either. The coast unfurled below them: sea like hammered blue glass, pale houses balanced on hillsides, bougainvillea pouring over stone walls.

It was indecently beautiful. “Your brief says timeless, surprising and effortless,” she said, pulling her notebook from her bag. “Those words have started actual fights in my office.” “I want guests to feel welcome rather than impressed.” “In a villa the size of a small embassy? Ambitious.” “It's a personal failing.” He glanced at her. “I buy difficult buildings and convince myself they can be loved into behaving.” “Buildings don't respond to love.

They respond to competent contractors and realistic budgets.” “I'm beginning to understand why I hired you.” She turned a page. “I need access to the original drawings, a clear decision-maker, and permission to tell you when an idea is dreadful.” “Granted. Granted. And I suspect you'll do the third whether I grant it or not.” “Correct.” A message flashed across the car's dashboard. ALESSIA: Do not let her see the west terrace before I've hidden the chairs.

And stop flirting with the architect. Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “I'm an interior designer.” “My partner knows that. She just enjoys making me uncomfortable.” “And are you flirting with the interior designer?” Max kept his eyes on the road. “I'm trying to survive the initial assessment.” That answer was considerably more dangerous than a yes. Villa Aurelia rose from a hill above the sea, white stone and shuttered windows gleaming in the afternoon sun.

It was magnificent. It was also, Charlotte could see immediately, suffering from several expensive mistakes. A fountain sat where it interrupted the main view. The entrance planting obscured a beautiful arched doorway. Somebody had chosen a chandelier large enough to signal aircraft. She stepped out of the car, stared up at the building, and forgot the stain. “Well?” Max asked. “It's beautiful,” she said. “And somebody has been very rude to it.”

“You can tell me who later.” “I suspect there are several suspects.” A woman emerged from the terrace doors carrying two glasses of water. She had blonde hair swept into a loose knot, piercing blue eyes and the kind of effortless glamour Charlotte…