CHAPTER NINE

I would imagine it’s the same kind of joy you get from winning the lotto while simultaneously having the best sex of your life. That’s what walking into the hotel room felt like anyway. Everything was carved entirely into the rock face and whitewashed. It looked more like a cave than an actual hotel room. All the other décor was blue, and everything looked so crisp and clean and sanitary. I put my handbag down and rubbed my shoulder, which was no doubt dented. This place was perfect. I could see why it cost at least five times more than the other place. But it was worth every single cent!

Two big blue shutter doors dominated the other end of the room, and I felt compelled to open them. And I was so glad I had, because when I did, I stepped into my own private paradise. A small, secluded balcony was covered in a riot of colors. Bright-pink bougainvillea wrapped itself around the pillars and dangled from the overhang above my head. A small rim-flow pool stretched out in front of me, and from where I was standing I could barely see where the pool ended and the sea began.

From my private terrace I could gaze out across the water. It looked like it stretched in front of me forever. I breathed in deeply, it was all so… and then I sneezed. I looked up and found a cat sitting on the wall staring at me. It made a hissing noise and then disappeared. Just when I thought this place was starting to grow on me, I was reminded of how allergic I actually was to Greece. I hated cats almost as much as I hated hummus. Cats were from the devil. Their eyes glowed at night, for heaven’s sake. My phone rang and I went back into the room. I saw the word flashing on the screen from a few yards away and sighed.

MOM. MOM. MOM.

I hadn’t responded to her millions of messages yet. I was actually impressed it had taken her this long to call me. Technology was just another weapon my mother had added to her armory for meddling in my life.

One of the worst days of my life was the day she got a smartphone. She’d mastered the art of texting, and that was still okay. But when she moved on to WhatsApp and emojis, and got herself a Facebook profile, my life came to an abrupt end. The last straw had been when she’d started sharing pictures of grumpy baby animals with me and sent me one of those “1 Like = 1 Prayer” things. She wasn’t even religious… and she didn’t even like animals!

“Mom,” I said into the phone.

“God, Jane, where have you been? I’ve been sick with worry wondering whether you’d been kidnapped.”

“That’s a bit dramatic, Mother.”

“Well, you never know. I mean look what happened to Lilly, basically assaulted in Thailand and rustled away to some debaucherous party.”

“Mom, she wasn’t assaulted, and she and Damien are engaged.”

“Fine. Fine.” She gave a resigned sigh, as if she was giving up, but I knew better. “So what’s it like there? Are the men as gorgeous as they say?”

“Um…” I started to stammer just thinking about him.

“Because I’ve read so many romance books where some gorgeous billionaire Greek oil tycoon sweeps the heroine off her feet…”

“Mom!” I chided her. “Stop.”

“Fine, fine.” She was very fond of saying fine. “But promise me that just in case you meet a gorgeous Greek billionaire you will have a wax. You know how you can get. And a pedicure. You don’t want him thinking you have hobbit feet.”

“Mom, stop it!” I was very glad when my phone started beeping with another call coming in.

“Mom, hang on, I have another call.”

“If it’s your father please tell him that I put the roast on an hour ago and I expect him home on time.”

I glanced down at the screen. It was Dimitri.

“It’s not Dad.”

“Who is it?”

“It’s just… it’s the tour guide. I’m sure he’s just calling to check if the hotel’s okay or something.”

“He? Darling, please be careful of tour guides. Greek gigolos, all of them. Remember what happened to your biological mother. But a shipping tycoon…”

“Mom, I’m not looking to bed—or whatever else you think I’m going to do with the tour guide. And I doubt Greek shipping magnates would want to go out with me anyway.”

“Maybe if you just put on one of those lipsticks you’re so fond of collecting.” She said it in that pseudo-sweet voice she used when she was trying to disguise the fact she was actually insulting me.

“Maybe I don’t want a boyfriend,” I snapped back. Thirty seconds into a phone call with her and we were already there. That place where she was complaining about some part of me and I was defending my right not to have a boyfriend. Why did we always have to go round and round in these circles?

“Everyone wants to be loved, Jane, even busy career girls like you.”

Something about her statement ground me to a stop.

“I’ll take it under advisement. I’ve got to go. Okay, bye.”

“Wait!” she yelled. “I just wanted to say one more thing.”

I sighed down the phone. “What, Mom?”

“Good luck finding him. I hope when you do, you’ll finally find what you’ve been looking for for so long.” Her tone was soft and, dare I say it, empathetic.

“Oh!” I was stunned by her statement. That was the last thing I’d expected to hear from her. I knew she and my dad had nothing against me seeking out my biological parents—it’s what almost all adoptive kids do—but was she actually showing some insight there? Some actual I understand what you’re going through insight? She’d never understood me. Or tried to, for that matter. The fact that I was adopted, never fit in, and stood out like a sore thumb was something that had never been spoken about while I was growing up. It was as if—to them, anyway—I’d never been adopted at all. The issue was totally under the rug.

“Okay, Mom. Bye.” I hung up quickly, feeling awkward from the conversation we’d just had. At least I’d missed Dimitri’s call now, probably a good thing.

All I wanted to do was have a bath. I peeled my clothes off, freed my mop of rebel hair, and stood in front of the mirror. There was nothing I liked about my body at all. I’d long since given up on the expectation that I might have a dormant gene lying in wait, ready to spring to life making everything a little smaller (especially my thighs) and blonder and blue eyed. Sometimes I looked in the mirror and was overwhelmed by this feeling that I was wearing some kind of disguise that I could take off to reveal my true self, only I wasn’t.

I had no idea what my biological parents looked like, but clearly I hadn’t inherited very favorable genes. I had the waist of a walrus and the tangled, matted, curly hair of a black poodle. My boobs were a large, good size, though. My mother was fond of pointing this out—they were my best assets, “it’s just such a pity you don’t dress to accentuate them.” And I hated to admit it, but my mother was right: I could do with a little bikini wax. Another beep on my phone made me turn around. I reached for it.

Check the side pocket of ur bag. Just in case you change your mind. Mom

I rolled my eyes and reached in. I pulled out a package labeled CARE PACKAGE. Although I doubted very much that this care package contained tins of canned beef and dehydrated food rations for war-torn starving millions. How the hell did she even manage to slip this in my bag?

I opened it.

1 x pink bikini (Way, way too push-uppy in the bust area for my liking—and were those sequins?)

1 x romance book (Stranded on Santorini: The Greek Billionaire’s Virgin Bride. Tamed by the Hot Greek Tycoon Series: Book 8)

I turned the book over in my hands. I wasn’t sure what was more disturbing, the fact that my mother had packed this for me, or that there were eight books in the series. The man on the cover was hot, I grant you. But he didn’t hold a candle, nay not even a tiny flickering matchstick flame, to Dimitri. My temperature rose at the sudden thought of him. I could really do with a swim, but I hadn’t packed a bathing suit, since I’d had no intention of swimming, so I guess my mother’s little gift would come in handy after all. And thankfully the plunge pool on the terrace was completely private, so no one would ever need to see me in this horrendous pink thing. I took my underwear off and maneuvered myself into the bikini; it took a lot of “lifting” and “separating” to get the girls to even fit into the cups. My stomach was still growling, though, so I quickly rang room service for a salad, which would be delivered in twenty minutes. Just enough time for a dip.

I caught sight of myself as I walked past the mirror. My boobs were practically sitting underneath my chin; it was a good thing that no one, ever, would see me in this bikini. Or so I thought.