Free When the Siren Calls by Tom Barry

holidays. Peter plays a good game of golf; I like the outdoors, as long as there are no greens and fairways involved.” Isobel paused, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear, now fearing she was suggesting that she and Peter liked separate holidays, and attempted a recovery. “So often we try and find places where he can play golf and I can do other things.” She cursed herself again, this time for failing to refer to her husband by name.
    “And what would a dream holiday feel like, while Peter’s on the golf course?” he asked. Every word was playful, teasing, a gentle mockery of their roles as guest and host. But Isobel couldn’t bring herself to embrace his self-effacing honesty and avoided the true answer, that Peter’s work schedule meant that she was used to organising for one.
    “Horse-riding is something of a passion,” she hedged, “but as long as I can find new and interesting things to do and places to visit then I’m generally happy.”
    Jay nodded. “Well, I expect this would be a good time to tell you what we have to offer at Capadelli, though I sense from what you said about skiing that you already know Tuscany quite well?”
    Isobel smiled at his continual questions but before she could respond — before she could vocalise her happiness at talking to a man that actually listened — he gently took hold of her forearm.
    “It will be quieter in the corner,” he said, “and there’s something I’d like to show you.”
    Isobel glanced around for Peter as they threaded their way through the guests. He seemed to be deep in conversation on wines, and they walked to the corner almost unnoticed — only the leggy blonde in the corner watched them, her eyes unblinkingly on Isobel as Jay guided her to the scale model in the corner.
    Isobel looked at it in interest, an elegant construction, encased in a protective glass case with a discreet aluminium plate identifying it as a representation of ‘Castello di Capadelli.’
    “You were saying that you know Tuscany well?” asked Jay, looking into her eyes.
    Did I say that? thought Isobel, feeling her lips a touch dry, and aware of a strange twisting in her stomach. “I’m lucky enough to get across two or three times a year,” she said. “I have a friend that has a place near Lucca.”
    “Well, at Capadelli we are a little south of Lucca, maybe forty-five minutes,” offered Jay. “About mid-way between Florence and Pisa.”
    Isobel felt more interested in Jay than Capadelli and, as he busied himself gingerly lifting the glass cover, she seized her moment to ask more.
    “So the development is your baby?”
    “If only,” he said with a rueful smile. “No, I’m just the guy pulling it all together for the main investors. They call me the managing director, but I’m really a glorified project manager.”
    Isobel smiled at his modesty, seeing instantly through it with a practised eye; she had already noticed his watch, one of the lesser-known but more expensive Swiss brands and, as he leant forward over the display, Isobel could just see the Saville Row label inside his suit, and the discreet “silk and cashmere” tag beneath.
    “So you spend most of your time on the development?” she asked, unwilling to tease him for so rare a virtue.
    Jay held still considering the question, holding the glass cover rather than placing it on the table.
    “I have for the last year or so. But I’m also involved in a project in London, which looks like it will need more of my time.” He placed the glass lid down. “So when are you next in Tuscany?”
    The question was casual, almost as if he read her mind and asked the very question she was holding back.
    “I wouldn’t want to miss your visit to Capadelli,” he said, as her imagination jolted into overdrive.
    Isobel pursed her lips to hide her happiness and assumed an expression of feigned affront. “Maybe you’d better tell me something about Capadelli first. Or Peter will be wondering what we