by Julie Caplin
The Secret Cove in Croatia
JULIE CAPLIN
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk
HarperImpulse
an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Copyright © Julie Caplin 2019
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 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
Copyright
Dedication
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 HarperImpulse
About the Publisher
For Gordana Sikora-Presecki who introduced me to Croatia
… and sharing inspiring pictures when we should have been working!
Chapter 1
Northumberland
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.
Rex rounded up one of the lambs, which skipped into shot baaing furiously, making the model smile winsomely. ‘Oh, isn’t he so cute?’
‘He’d be a damn sight cuter if he stood still,’ grumbled the photographer, peering through his lens.
Following a quick whistle and a few subtle commands, Rex nudged the skittish lamb back into place. Nick, impressed by her patience, watched as Tara tilted her head this way and that, angling her body to show off the garments. To his surprise, she turned her sleepy almond eyes his way, a sultry smile lifting the corners of her mouth as she stared rather blatantly at his.
‘Yes, Tara. Yes, that look. Lovely. Lovely. Just tilt your head to the right, keep looking at Nick. Yeah, that’s it. You want him bad. I’m loving it.’
A wicked glint lit the model’s eyes and Nick felt himself blush to the very roots of his blond hair and a heated flush raced up
his body. With a swallow, he resisted the urge to duck his head. Instead, he met her slightly mocking gaze with a quick lift of one eyebrow and some heat of his own. Country born and bred didn’t mean that he was clueless. Nick Hadley, to his mother’s despair, had yet to find the right woman, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t played the field.
Tara smirked in retaliation and then, in accordance with the photographer’s next slew of commands, put her hands on her hips and threw her head back, once again distant and unattainable. Nick suddenly felt like a third wheel; he had a ton of stuff that he should be doing this morning instead of hanging around like … like a grubby schoolboy.
The photographer called out to Tara, ‘OK, you’re done for the moment.’
As Nick walked forward to chase the lamb back to the rest of the flock, Tara stepped forward to the edge of the rock. ‘Catch me,’ she said and launched herself into the air.
Surprised, Nick took a step forward and caught her easily in his arms. She weighed nothing and she crowed delightedly at his catch, as if he’d done something amazing, making him feel like every superhero rolled into one. Gently, he set her down on the ground, disentangling himself from her poncho and scarf. He gave her a smile. ‘There you go, safe and sound.’
‘You’re all man,’ she breathed and he almost wanted to laugh; it was such a clichéd line, but the knowing, suggestive look in her eyes stalled him.
‘Last time I looked,’ he said with easy confidence. Now it was her turn to blush. ‘You’re staying at The George Inn, in the village, I believe.’
She nodded. ‘Quaint, but I’ve stayed in worse on location.’
‘Dinner?’ asked Nick.
‘Are you asking me, or telling me?’ Tara replied, her eyes coy, with a gentle smirk playing around her mouth.
‘There’s a very good restaurant at the local manor house. I could pick you up at seven-thirty.’
‘Make it eight and you have a date,’ returned Tara, with the air of someone who was used to having her own way.
Damn, it was after six. It had taken longer than he’d planned to finish today. Unfortunately, farming waited for no man and he’d had to catch up with those jobs that going out on the photoshoot had forced him to neglect.
The warm glow of the farmhouse kitchen, filled with the scent of sausages and Yorkshire pudding coming from the Aga, along with the comforting sound of chatter and laughter, embraced him – a hug of familiarity and simple pleasure. The huge pine table in the centre of the room was being laid by Gail, married to his eldest twin brother, Dan, and she looked up to give him a quick warm smile. He liked both of his sisters-in-law, although had yet to fathom how on earth either of the twins, Dan and Jonathon, had persuaded them that they would make suitable husbands. But then he’d grown up with them.
‘Hey, Nick,’ called Dan from where he stood in front of the dresser, rummaging through the assorted phone chargers and cables. ‘Long day.’
He nodded.
At thirty-three, like his twin brothers and their wives, he still ate in his mother’s kitchen, partly through sheer laziness but also because the warm, busy kitchen had been so much part of his life for so long. However, much as he loved them all, he was thankful for his own small cottage on the edge of the farm which afforded the necessary privacy for a bachelor, especially one whose mother was keen for him to settle down.
‘Hey, Mum –’ he turned to her ‘– I’m sorry. I’ve only just finished work but I’m going out tonight.’
‘Excellent,’ said Jonathon, eyeing up the toad-in-the-hole she was in the process of removing from the Aga. ‘More sausages for me.’
‘Are you sure you don’t have time for a quick bite to eat? I’m literally serving up now. You can eat and run.’ She grinned at him. ‘I don’t mind.’
‘Or he could sod off down the pub and leave the sausages for us,’ said Jonathon, dancing past his mother and pinching a piece of crisp Yorkshire pudding.
She gave his knuckles a sharp rap.
‘Yeah, I vote for more sausages,’ agreed Dan, backing up his twin. ‘You can sod off to the pub.’
‘There’s plenty,’ said Lynda Hadley, shaking her head with a tut. ‘Honestly, boys, you’d think you’d been starved all your life. It’ll take me two minutes to serve up and your father should be here any second.’
Bugger. He’d really hoped to make his excuses and make a quick getaway.
‘No, seriously, Mum. I haven’t got time. I haven’t even washed up yet.’
‘But when will you eat? You’ve been up since silly o’clock and I bet you only had sandwiches for lunch.’
‘I’m eating out,’ he said, edging towards the door.
Just then his father came in, tossing his car keys on the dresser on the side, scooping his wife up for a quick kiss. ‘Evening. I’ve just been in the village. I hear you’re eating at Bodenbroke Manor this evening, Nick.’ He raised his eyebrows with a knowing twinkle in his eyes.
Nick held back the groan. Thanks, Dad. Drop me in it, why don’t you?
‘Bodenbroke Manor,’ piped up Jonathon, settling against the back door, his arms folded and a mischievous smile playing on his face. ‘Now that’s fancy. A date, is it? Who’s the lucky girl this week?’ He frowned. ‘I thought you’d finished with that posh, horsey bird.’
‘Her name is Henrietta,’ said Nick with a frown. ‘And I’m not seeing her any more.’
‘Didn’t last long,’ observed Gail with a sly smile.
Nick shrugged, edging ever closer to the door, hoping that Jonathon would move sooner rather than later. ‘It was mutual.’
‘When did you fix this up?’ asked Dan, joining in the conversation, having found a charger to fit his phone and plugged it in. His face creased in sudden interest.
‘Today,’ said Nick. ‘Look, if the inquisition can lay off, I need to shower and change.’
He was so close to the door and he actually had his hand on the doorknob when Dan suddenly crowed, ‘It’s one of those London photo women, isn’t it? You’ve been up on Starbridge Fell all day. You sly devil. You asked one of them out.’
Jonathon laughed and stepped back to block the door. ‘What? And they said yes?’
Nick froze. ‘Why shouldn’t they?’ he asked, regretting the sudden stiffness in his voice.
‘Punching above your weight, aren’t you?’ teased Dan. ‘Which one is it? One of the wardrobe ladies? The blonde one. What’s her name … Georgina?’
Nick shook his head.
‘What, the darker one?’
‘Neither of them,’ he said, trying to keep his expression pleasant.
‘Well, who then?’ asked Jonathon, screwing his face up in perplexed confusion. ‘The stylist woman is married and so is the PA and Creative Director.’
‘Bloody hell, you didn’t pull a model, did you?’ gasped Dan, pretending to reel back, bumping into a chair, which screeched across the tiled floor in protest.
Gail and Cath shook their heads in mutual mock despair at Dan’s theatrics and then Gail said, with a naughty grin, ‘And why not? Let’s face it, he’s the best-looking one out of all of you.’
Dan clutched his chest. ‘I’m hurt, dear wife. I thought I was.’
‘You’re the best-looking of my husbands,’ she teased, winking at Nick, who was grateful for the brief diversion in conversation. Sadly, Jonathon wasn’t about to let it go.
‘Seriously? Which one?’
Nick sighed, knowing if he were going to get out of here in time to wash and change, capitulation was the only solution. ‘I’m going out with Tara. We got chatting. We fancied dinner together. For God’s sake, it’s not as if I’m going to ask her to bloody marry me or anything. She’ll be gone by the end of the week. And I’ll still be here.’ His voice rose. Realising that he’d made a bit of a tit of himself, he grasped the door handle and yanked it open, leaving behind a collective gasp and a telling silence.
‘Gosh, this place is really rather nice,’ said Tara, taking in the expensive wallp
aper, which reputedly cost over two hundred pounds a roll, the stylish furniture and the retro designed lighting. ‘We could almost be in London,’ she added in a conspiratorial whisper behind one hand.
Nick lifted his wine glass and took a sip. ‘We’re not all heathens up here, you know.’
‘I think I can see that,’ said Tara, giving his body a rather blatant once-over.
From the minute he’d picked her up from the George, she’d been flirtatious and forthright, which was a huge relief. If he were honest, as he was driving to collect her he’d had a sudden last-minute panic. What on earth was he going to talk to her about all evening?
He needn’t have worried; as he’d helped hoist her tiny frame into his truck, she’d murmured, ‘Oh, this is very masculine,’ as she’d settled herself into the seat. ‘I don’t think I know anyone who drives a truck,’ she’d said, drifting her hands across the dashboard as he’d started the engine up. Within a few miles one hand had drifted to his thigh and he drove the rest of the way trying not to wriggle like an overexcited teenager.
She wore a floaty chiffon pantsuit thing with tiny straps that dipped so low it made it obvious she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her legs in skyscraper heels, so high you surely needed a health and safety certificate to walk in them, looked endless and made his heart bump uncomfortably in his chest. She was the most gorgeous woman he’d ever laid eyes on. Her glorious hair was bundled in a big messy updo of some sort, with lots of tendrils curling around the white alabaster column of her throat.
For God’s sake, get a grip, man – she’s a flesh and blood woman, not a flaming Greek statue.
‘How long have you been modelling?’ he asked, forcing himself to make sensible conversation instead of staring at her like a lovesick puppy.
‘For ten years.’ She pulled a self-deprecating face. ‘I’m old.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ He laughed. ‘What, you’re twenty-six, twenty-seven?’
‘Twenty-seven,’ she whispered, looking around the room, ‘but don’t tell anyone. That’s quite old in this business. Although I’m ready to move on now. Do something a bit more meaningful, you know? I’d like to be an ambassador for something worthwhile. You know, saving the planet. Eradicating plastic. Something like that.’