Free The Return of Mrs. Jones by Jessica Gilmore

his voice serious. His eyes, however, had warmed up and were sparkling with amusement at her expression. ‘Oh, come on—you’re a city girl. Isn’t this how the London middle classes enjoy the great outdoors?’
    She found her voice. ‘You’ve put tents into the woods? Do your parents know? Your dad will have a third heart attack if he sees this.’
    ‘Ah, but these are luxurious, fully catered tents,’ he assured her. ‘Perfectly respectable. People can enjoy all the hotel facilities, including their own bathrooms and food in the hotel—although there are barbecues if they want to be pioneer types. They arrive to fully made-up camp beds, there’s space to hang clothes, armchairs, rugs, heating. Not what I call camping, but it’s hugely popular. The traditional bring-your-own-tent-type campers are on what used to be the golf course, and there are lots of shower and toilet blocks for their use there. According to one review site they are the best camping loos in Cornwall.’
    ‘Well, there’s an accolade.’
    ‘I’m hoping for a certificate.’
    ‘Anything else?’ she asked. ‘Tree houses? Yurts? A cave with hot and cold water laid on?’
    He chuckled softly, and the sound went straight to the pit of her stomach.
    ‘Just a few stationary camper vans dotted around here and there.’
    ‘Of course there are.’ She nodded.
    He looked at her, his blue eyes darkening, suddenly intense. ‘They’re very popular with honeymooners—complete privacy.’
    She felt her breath catch as she looked at him, and a shiver goosed its way down her spine. ‘A bit cramped,’ she said, hearing the husky tone in her voice and hating herself for it.
    ‘They’re customised cosy getaways for two—big beds, good sheets and baskets of food delivered.’
    ‘You’ve thought of everything.’
    So different from the two of them, with a sleeping bag and a couple of blankets, a bottle of champagne, the moon, the stars, the sound of the surf. And each other—always each other. Bodies coiled together, lips, hands, caresses... She swallowed. How did these memories, buried so deep, resurface every time this man spoke?
    ‘I had long enough to plan it, watching my parents cater for rich idiots who didn’t give a damn where they were,’ he said, his mood changing instantly from dangerously reminiscent to businesslike again. ‘This place is so beautiful, and yet only a handful of people ever had the opportunity to enjoy it—and once they were here they had no idea what was outside the estate walls. Opening it up to campers and glampers means anyone can come here, whatever their budget. We make sure they have all the information they need to go out and explore, hire them bikes, provide transport. All our food is sourced locally, and we recruit and promote locally whenever possible.’
    Lawrie laughed, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘It’s inspired,’ she said honestly. ‘Utterly inspired, Jonas.’
    Without thinking, without even realising what she was doing, she put a hand on his arm, squeezed softly.
    ‘Amazing.’
    The feel of his arm was warm and firm under her hand, and the fine cotton of his shirt bunched up under her fingers. How many times had she slid her hand up this arm, admired the strength inherent in the toned muscles as he emerged, sleek and shiny, from the sea? Felt their gentleness as he pulled her in close, encircling her in the safety of his embrace?
    ‘I’m glad you like it.’
    Jonas stepped back. Stepped away from her hand, her touch.
    ‘The hotel isn’t just the base for the festival—it sets the tone. It’s important you understand that. Shall we?’
    He gestured back towards the hotel. She shivered, suddenly cold despite the balmy warmth of the day and the wool of her suit jacket. If only she was still with Hugo. If only she were secure in her job. Then seeing Jonas, speaking to him, would have meant nothing apart from a certain nostalgic curiosity. She was feeling vulnerable, that was