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‘Oh, yes,’ Lexi replied with a shrug as she added lightly beaten eggs to the sizzling butter in the pan and immediately started working the mix. ‘But, if you think about it, my job is to help you share details of your fascinating-but-tragic love life with strangers whom you are never going to meet. This way we are both in the same business. I think it works.’

‘Ah.’ Mark pressed his lips together and gave Lexi a small nod as he carried the coffee over to the table. ‘Good point. I should probably tell you that I am not totally thrilled by that prospect.’

‘I understand that. Not everyone is a natural extrovert.’ She shrugged just as the bread popped up from the toaster. ‘But that’s why you called me in.’

‘I prefer keeping my private life just that. Private. I would much rather stick to the facts.’

‘Are you speaking from past experience?’ Lexi asked quietly, flashing him a lightning-quick glance as she quickly tipped hot scrambled egg onto a thick slice of golden toast.

‘Perhaps it is,’ Mark replied between sips of juice. ‘And perhaps it isn’t.’

‘I see.’ Lexi slid the plate onto the table. ‘Well, I can tell you one thing. If you want this biography to work you’re going to have to trust me and get that private life out for the world to see, Mark.’

His response was a close-mouthed frown which spoke volumes.

Oh, this was turning out so well.

Lexi nodded towards the food. ‘Enjoy your breakfast. Then I really do need to find out how much work you’ve done so far on the manuscript. Perhaps you could show me your mother’s study? That’d be a good place to start. In the meantime I’m off to feed the cats. Bye.’

And Lexi waltzed out of the kitchen diner on her wedge sandals, safe in the knowledge that Mark’s stunned blue eyes were burning holes in her spectacular back.

CHAPTER FIVE

LEXI followed Mark through a door to a large room on the first floor, looking around in delight and awe.

Crystal Leighton had not had a study. Crystal Leighton had created a private library.

‘How did you know my mother even had a study? I don’t recall mentioning it.’

Lexi touched two fingers to her forehead in reply to Mark’s question. ‘Intuition. Combined with the number of rooms in this huge house and the fact that Crystal Leighton was an undisputed artist. Any creative person coming to this island would bring a fine collection of writing materials and reading matter with them. And when it’s your own house … She would have a study. Elementary, my dear Watson.’ She tapped her nose and winked in his direction. ‘But this …’ she continued, whistling softly and waving her arm around the room, turning from side to side in delight. ‘This is … wonderful.’

‘You like it?’

‘Like it?’ She blinked at him several times. ‘This is heaven. I could stay here all day and night and never come up for air. Total bliss! I love books. Always have. In fact I cannot remember a time when I haven’t had a book to hand.’

She almost jogged across the room and started poring through the contents of the bookcases. ‘Poetry, classics, philosophy, history, languages. Blockbuster fiction?’ She flashed him a glance and he shrugged.

‘I have a sister.’

‘Ah, fair enough. We all need some relaxing holiday reading. But look at this collection of screenplays and books on the theatre. My mother would be so envious. Did I mention that she works as a wardrobe mistress? She loves reading about the theatre.’

‘Every school holiday my mother used to stuff a spare suitcase with plays, books, scripts her agent had sent—anything that caught her eye.’ Mark gave a faint smile and plunged his hands into his trouser pockets, nodding towards the shelves. ‘I spent many wet and windy afternoons in this room.’

‘I envy you that. And it’s just what I need.’ Lexi turned to face Mark, resting her fingertips lightly on the paper-strewn table in the centre of the room. ‘Have you ever heard the expression that you can tell a lot about someone from the books they have in their home? It’s true. You can.’

‘I’m not so sure about that,’ Mark replied with a dismissive grunt. ‘What about the car magazines, polo-pony manuals and the school textbooks on biochemistry?’

She shook her head and waved with one hand at three particular shelves. ‘Theatre history and set design. Fashion photography. Biographies of the Hollywood greats. Don’t you see? That combination screams out the same message. Crystal Leighton was an intelligent professional actress who understood the importance of image and design. And that’s the message we should be aiming for. Professional excellence. What do you think?’

‘Think? I haven’t had time to think,’ Mark replied, and inhaled deeply, straightening his back so that Lexi felt as though he was towering over her. ‘My publisher may have arranged your contract, but I’m still struggling with the idea of sharing personal family papers and records with someone I don’t know. This is very personal to me.’

‘You’re a private person who doesn’t like being railroaded. I get that. And I can understand that you’re still not sure about my reason for being here in the first place.’ She glanced up at his startled face and gave a small snort. ‘It’s okay, Mark. I’m not a spy for the paps. Never have been. No plans to be one any time soon. And if I was stalking you I would have told you.’

Lexi turned sideways away from the table and ran her fingers across the spines of the wonderful books on the shelves. ‘Here’s an idea. You’re worried about sharing your family secrets with a stranger. Let’s change that. What do you want to know about me? Ask me anything. Anything at all. And I’ll tell you the truth.’

‘Anything? Okay, let’s start with the obvious. Why biographies? Why not write fiction or business books?’

She paused and licked her lips, but kept her eyes focused on the books in front of her. To explain properly she would have to reveal a great deal of herself and her history. That could be difficult. But she’d made a pact with herself. No lies, no deception. Just go with it. Even if her life seemed like a sad joke compared to Mark’s perfect little family.

‘Just after my tenth birthday I was diagnosed with a serious illness and spent several months in hospital.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered after a few seconds of total silence.

She sensed him move gently forward and lean against the doorframe so that he was looking at her.

‘That must have been awful for you and your parents.’

She nodded. ‘Pretty bad. My parents were going through a rough time as it was, and I knew my father had a pathological hatred of hospitals. Ironic, huh?’ She smiled at him briefly, still half-lost in the recollection. ‘Plus, he was working in America at the time. The problem was, he didn’t come home for a couple of months, and when he did he brought his new girlfriend with him.’

‘Oh, no.’ Mark’s eyebrows went north but his tense shoulders went south.

‘Oh, yes. I spent the first year recovering at my grandmother’s house on the outskirts of London, with a very miserable mother and even more miserable grandmother. It was not the happiest of times, but there was one consolation that kept me going. My grandmother was a wonderful storyteller, and she made sure that I was supplied with books of every shape and form. I loved the children’s stories, of course, but the books I looked for in the public library told of how other people had survived the most horrific of early lives and still came through smiling.’

‘Biographies. You liked reading other people’s life stories.’

‘Could not get enough.’ She nodded once. ‘Biographies were my favourite. It didn’t take long for me to realise that autobiographies are tricky things. How can you be objective about your own life and what you achieved at each stage? The biography, on the other hand, is something completely different: it’s someone else telling you about a mysterious and fabulous person. They can be incredibly personal, or indifferent and cold. Guess what kind I like?’

‘So you decided to become a writer?’ Mark asked. ‘That was a brave decision.’

‘Perhaps. I had the chance to go to university but I couldn’t afford it. So I went to work for a huge publishing house in London who released more personal life stories every year than all of the other publishers put together.’ She grinned up at Mark. ‘It was amazing. Two years later I was an assistant editor, and the rest, as they say, is history.’

She reached her right hand high into the air and gave him a proper, over-the-top, twirling bow. ‘Ta-da. And that’s it. That’s how I got into this crazy, outrageous business.’ Lexi looked up at him coquettishly through her eyelashes as she stood up. ‘Now. Anything else you’d like to know before we get started?’

‘Only one thing. Why are you wearing so much make-up at nine o’clock in the morning? On a small Greek island? In fact, make that any island?

Lexi chuckled, straightening up to her full height, her head tilted slightly to one side.

‘I take it as a compliment that you even noticed, Mark. This is my job, and this is my work uniform. Office, movie studio, pressroom or small Greek island. It doesn’t make any difference. Putting on the uniform takes me straight into my working head—which is what you’re paying me for. So, with that in mind, let’s make a start.’