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couldn’t be
    better.”
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    42
    Santa Montefiore
    “Then why don’t you go and get some from the cupboard. Heather,
    come with me, and the rest of you can get back to work.”
    It was with some optimism that Marina walked into her office. By
    the blushes glowing on the faces of her staff it was obvious that the
    artist was attractive. That didn’t surprise her: Argentine men were no-
    toriously good-looking. However, she was not prepared for the quiet
    magnetism of Rafael Santoro.
    He stood by the window, looking out over the sea, hands in pockets,
    lost in thought. In a pale suede jacket, blue shirt, and faded denim jeans, he was of average height, broad-shouldered, and athletic. She guessed
    he was in his thirties, for his face was weathered, his chin bristly, his light brown hair falling slightly over a forehead that was broad and
    creased with frown lines. When he heard her at the door, he seemed
    to hesitate a moment before turning, as if collecting himself. She took in his patrician nose and the strength of his jawline, and felt her spirits swell with admiration. He was undoubtedly handsome. He turned and
    looked at her, and she was immediately struck by his eyes. They were
    brown like fudge, and deep set, but it was the expression in them that
    made her catch her breath. It was almost familiar, and she stumbled on
    her words.
    “It’s . . . it’s nice to meet you.”
    “It’s very nice to meet you, too,” he said, extending his hand. His ac-
    cent was as soft and warm as caramelized milk. She took his hand and
    felt the warmth of his skin travel all the way up her arm.
    “I think you’re the first Argentine to set foot in the Polzanze,” she
    said for lack of anything better to say.
    “That surprises me. South Americans love to travel.”
    “Well, it’s a pleasure to welcome you,” she said, averting her eyes a
    moment. His gaze was too heavy to carry. “It’s nice to hear a foreign
    accent for a change.”
    “I would imagine a place of great beauty like this would attract peo-
    ple from all over the world.”
    “You flatter me.”
    “I mean to flatter you.” His comment was delivered with such casu-
    alness that she did not take it for flirtation.
    She smiled politely. “Thank you.” She liked him already. He didn’t
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    The Mermaid Garden
    43
    have Jake’s shallow good looks, but the lines and imperfections of a
    man who had experienced life in all its shades and textures.
    “I hope you weren’t hoping for an English artist.”
    “Not at all. I have no preferences so long as the person is right for
    the position.” She noticed the silver buckle on his belt, engraved with his initials: R.D.S.
    He grinned, his skin creasing into deeply carved laughter lines
    around his mouth and eyes. “A present from my father.”
    “It’s lovely. Let’s sit down.”
    He sat on the sofa, and Marina sank dreamily into the armchair. She
    had quite forgotten Heather, who remained in the doorway, transfixed,
    a blush soaked into her skin.
    “Would you like tea or coffee?” Marina asked, remembering herself.
    “I’d love a fruit juice.”
    “I’ll have one, too. Orange juice, freshly squeezed,” said Marina.
    Heather looked surprised. “Shall I bring some nice biscuits?”
    “Good idea, Heather.”
    “A little ice in your juice?”
    “No, thank you,” he replied.
    Her blush deepened. “Anything else?” She made not the slightest
    movement to leave.
    “Just the door, Heather,” said Marina deliberately. “Close it be-
    hind you.
    “So, what’s an Argentine doing in Devon?”
    “You might well ask. I’m a long way from home.”
    “Very.”
    “I work for an advertising agency in Buenos Aires, on the creative
    side. I do all the artwork. My father died, so I decided to take a sabbat-ical.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that.”
    “He was very old. I am the youngest child of five, by twenty