Calleigh gathered her hair into a high ponytail, secured it with a wrinkled scrunchie, and sighed with pleasure when the air conditioning cooled the heated skin of her neck. Adjusting the strap of her handbag higher on her shoulder, she approached the reception desk, an easy smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

“Good morning, Gracie. Is Jo around?” She leaned her elbows on the chest-high counter and smiled.

The young receptionist returned Calleigh’s smile. “Calleigh! My goodness, this is a surprise. How was Belgium?”

Calleigh gave another sigh, this time elongated and dramatic. “What can I say? The art, the architecture, the waffles.” She lifted her fingers to her lips and performed a chef’s kiss.

“Jealous,” Gracie said with a laugh. She reached for the phone. “I’ll see if she’s available.”

While she waited, Calleigh looked around her. The offices of The Dearborn Personnel Agency had had something of a facelift since she’d last been there. The formerly beige walls had been painted a soft shade of grey, and the woodwork a crisp white. The seats in the waiting area, which had once been overstuffed brown leather, were now neat tub chairs in varying shades of pink.

“Like the new look?”

Calleigh turned at the question, and saw Jo Dearborn standing in the doorway of her office, just to the right of reception.

“The office or you?” Calleigh asked crossing the room to stand in front of Jo. She tilted her head to the side and admired Jo’s short, pixie-cut hair, and felt a stab of envy. Her own hair was far too long and thick to be comfortable in this heat.

“The office,” Jo clarified, then she tossed her head and spun on her heel. “I know I look fabulous.”

Calleigh followed her into the office, laughing softly. “The office is looking sharp, and you, it kills me to say, always look fabulous.”

“Not looking so bad yourself there,” Jo replied, rounding her glass-topped desk and sinking elegantly into her chair. She motioned with a perfectly manicured hand to the chair on the other side of the desk.

Calleigh looked down at herself before sitting, and shook her head. “I must have put on ten pounds in the last three months. Who knew Belgium had so many great restaurants?”

“You look incredible,” Jo said, leaning forward and resting her forearms on the desk. “You’ve always been a bit too skinny and…angular. The new curves suit you.”

Calleigh searched Jo’s face for any hint of insincerity, but found none. She smiled, her face warming with embarrassment. “So, what have you got for me?” she asked, pointing to the laptop at Jo’s elbow.

“You just got back from three months in Belgium, don’t you at least want to take a week off?” Jo relaxed back in her chair, eyebrows arched in question.

“You know I like to keep busy,” Calleigh responded, glancing down at her hands. It stops me from thinking too much.

Jo sighed. “Well, as always, the client was highly satisfied with your work. He was wondering if you would consider a permanent post as his executive PA. Good money, company car.”

Calleigh was already shaking her head.

“I know,” Jo said, “you don’t do permanent. I’ll let him down gently.”

Jo had never asked her why she preferred only temporary posts, and Calleigh had never volunteered the information. Would she even be able to put into words the tangle of thoughts and emotions that kept her on the move? How could she explain her desire to remain anonymous when she tried so hard not to think about it?

“So, fire up the laptop and find me something to do,” she said with a smile, and even to her own ears the cheery note in her voice sounded forced.

Jo, bless her heart, didn’t push. She never pushed, even though Calleigh would often see the gleam of curiosity in her green eyes.

Something squeezed Calleigh’s heart. If she was the type to make friends, Jo would fill the role perfectly.

“I don’t need the computer for this one,” Jo said, straightening her spine and crossing her long legs. “I know you prefer foreign posts, but I’m afraid I don’t have anything on the books right now. So, how would you like to spend six months in South Devon? I know it’s longer than your usual posting, but it’s quite beautiful down there at this time of year, and you’d be back in London for Christmas.”

Calleigh almost laughed at that. As if that was an incentive to her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually celebrated the holiday.

“What’s the job?” she asked instead.

Jo reached for a file folder, placed it in front of herself and opened it. “A couple working from home need a general assistant. Some light housekeeping, running errands, some admin. It comes with accommodation—a self-contained studio flat—and a very appealing salary.” She glanced over at Calleigh. “Not exactly executive PA to a millionaire businessman, but they seem like a delightful couple, and they passed the background check with flying colours.”

Calleigh had signed on with Jo almost four years before, and had no experience of employment agencies prior to that. But it was her guess that few of those other agencies went to the bother of vetting not just prospective employees but also employers. Jo went the extra mile to ensure the safety of the people she placed, and Calleigh appreciated that. Especially since, like this new couple, a few of her temporary bosses worked from home, and that had the potential to become problematic.

“What kind of work do they do?” Calleigh asked. “You said there would be some admin?”

Jo glanced back at the file, although Calleigh suspected there was nothing on the pages that Jo hadn’t already committed to memory.

“They’re writers. Novelists. Pretty successful too, I gather. They write under the pen name R. T. Hale—they made a point of telling me that part was private,” Jo said. “The admin will probably be household accounts and such. What do you think?”

Calleigh’s eyes widened. “R. T. Hale? Are you kidding?”

“You know their work?” Jo asked. She sighed. “I don’t get time to read anymore.”

“They wrote the Sovereign Stones Trilogy, and the Running in Time series.” She sucked in a deep breath. “I love their books!”

“So you’ll take the job,” Jo said. A statement, not a question.

 Calleigh practically shouted “Yes” but caught herself before speaking. She was used to a business environment—be it high finance in an office suite in a skyscraper or a tech start-up run out of a garage, her job was usually clerically based. She’d run her fair share of errands, of course. The housekeeping part, however, was definitely new. But wasn’t it all just about organising? If she could organise a trip to Bermuda for fourteen—six of them vegans and one raw food enthusiast—without a hitch, surely she could manage the running of a two-person household for a few months?

“Would I be expected to cook?” she asked, a nervous twist in her stomach. “Because that’s just not in my wheelhouse.”

“No cooking,” Jo reassured. “Maybe the odd cup of tea or coffee.”

“Oh, well, I can do that,” Calleigh replied, then under her breath she muttered, “Probably.”

Jo laughed. “So I can tell them you’re in?”

After a brief hesitation Calleigh nodded. “When do I start?”

* * * *

Three days later Calleigh steered her little white Ford Fiesta along the sparsely populated beach road of Hill Harbour, Devon. To her left the waters of the English Channel lapped gently onto sand with a distinct reddish hue. She considered pulling the car over and taking a walk along the prom. It was a beautifully sunny day, and since it was only May the holidaymakers had yet to arrive in any serious numbers.

Calleigh had read much about the small town in the last few days, in between making sure that her storage locker was paid up to date, and contacting the letting agents who looked after her houseboat when she was out of the country to let them know that the boat would be available to rent for another six months.

Hill Harbour, as its name suggested, had been settled in a wide bay, and over time had grown, expanding into the hills that surrounded the bay. The town marketed itself as a family holiday spot, with lots of nightlife and entertainment suitable for both children and adults. Once a fortnight, during the summer months, there was a visiting French market selling authentic food and wine from France, and in September there was a fledgling book fair that had been growing year on year since its inception three years before.

A breeze drifted through the car’s open window, ruffling Calleigh’s ponytail. It carried with it the salt and seaweed fragrance that was the unique and distinctive smell of the seaside. She took a deep breath and smiled at the little tingle of excitement that uncurled in her stomach. It reminded her of the brighter days of her childhood, before her dad died and she’d had to watch her mum fade away before her eyes, grief draining all the life and warmth from her.

The excitement of just a moment before now felt like a stone sitting heavy and uncomfortable in her stomach. There was a hint of annoyance in the breath she released.

“In one hundred metres turn right,” said the overly polite voice of the GPS app on her phone.

Calleigh manoeuvred the car into the correct lane and followed the instructions. She checked the rear-view mirror, then automatically checked it again.

Stop that. You don’t need to do that anymore.

Her jaw tightened and she forced her attention on the road ahead. But she couldn’t fight the urge to check the mirror more often than was necessary. Being back in the UK after time away always had that effect on her.

The GPS directions took her up into the hills where the streets were almost deserted and the houses—when she caught a glimpse of them from behind high fences and thick foliage—and the cars parked in the driveways spoke of significant wealth.

She carried on for another few minutes until the GPS lady announced that she’d reached her destination. She brought her little car to a halt outside a set of black wrought-iron gates and got out.

As she walked towards the intercom fixed to the gatepost under a small black and gold sign reading Gull Cliff House, she caught a glimpse of the house and her steps faltered.

Gull Cliff House was what the estate agents would call a substantial property. The white walls glinted in the sun, and the roof tiles were almost the colour of the sand on the beach. It looked like a Mediterranean villa.

Calleigh glanced down at the black cropped trousers and white T-shirt she was wearing. When she’d dressed that morning her reflection in the mirror had said fresh and smart casual. But now she felt decidedly underdressed. For a moment she entertained the idea of heading back into town, finding a public loo, and changing into something more appropriate. But the thought died half-formed when she heard a buzzing sound and the gates started to swing open.

She gasped in surprise, gaze sweeping between the gates, the intercom and back again. Then she saw the camera perched on top of the other gatepost.

The intercom came to life with a cheery ding-dong sound.

“Miss Harrington?” a male voice asked.

Calleigh pressed the button on the unit. “Yes, uh, yes, that’s me.”

“Well, come on in then,” he replied with a cheery lilt.

She headed back to her car on legs that felt suddenly shaky. R. T. Hale. She was about to meet R. T. Hale. Should she tell him—them—that their books had gotten her through some of the darkest days of her life?

A flush heated her cheeks at the thought. You’re a professional, Calleigh. Get a hold of yourself.

She got into the car, started it and drove through the gates. The driveway was huge and empty so she parked close to the house and got out again just as the front door opened and a man stepped out into the light. Dressed in worn jeans and a black T-shirt with Yoda on the front, he descended the two steps leading to the door with loose-limbed grace. His dark hair was shaggy, with a hint of a curl, and bright blue eyes shone from a face that could only be described as breathtaking.

Calleigh wasn’t even close to catching her breath again when another man came through the door and down the steps.

Eyes widening, she suppressed a gasp. Man Number Two was perhaps six foot tall, with an athletic physique, dressed in a white linen shirt and light-coloured cargo trousers. His hair was almost entirely grey, but his face was youthful and…stunning.

“Miss Harrington,” Man Number One said, extending a hand to her. His voice was low, a little husky. “It’s lovely to meet you. Jo speaks very highly of you.”

“It’s Calleigh, please,” she said, shaking his hand. It was warm, dry and strong.

“Calleigh,” he said with a nod. “I’m Theo, and this guy is my partner, Roman.”

Roman moved to Theo’s side and turned to Calleigh with a smile that was knee-meltingly beautiful. “Glad to meet you, Calleigh. Welcome to our home.”

Roman. Theo. R. T.

This time she did gasp. “You’re R. T. Hale?” Her voice was a high-pitched squeak.

Both men emitted huffs of laughter.

“That’s us,” Roman said. His arm was draped around Theo’s shoulders. “But if you could keep that under your hat, we’d be grateful.”

“Of course,” Calleigh said, her gaze moving back and forth between the men.

She felt a bit dazzled. Her favourite author was standing in front of her, in the form of the two most gorgeous men she’d ever laid eyes on.