“Attention, passengers. We’ll be docking in Cyprus in fifteen minutes. Local time is seven fifty-two 7:52 a.m. Please be ready to disembark promptly.”

The disembodied voice sounded oddly mechanical through the loudspeaker, but Rosemary Lillywhite caught the gist of the statement. With barely contained excitement, she exchanged grins with her best friend—one of her three traveling companions—who stood alongside her on the deck, waiting for their destination to come into view.

That Vera Blackburn had joined her on this tropical adventure wasn’t surprising; the beautiful, spunky actress could always be counted on to come through, especially when a healthy dose of fun in any form was involved.

Rosemary’s brother, Frederick, on the other hand, had finally learned to save his shenanigans for the weekends after having put in a full week’s worth of work at their father’s company, Woolridge & Sons.

With the death of their older brother—also Vera’s first and, to her mind, one true love—Frederick had become the only male Woolridge heir, and their father impressed upon him the duty to learn every nuance of the family business. In a shocking turn of events, Frederick took his job seriously. In fact, it had taken the lingering stain of a murder investigation—with Frederick as the prime suspect—to convince him a sabbatical was in order. –

Rounding out the foursome was Desmond Cooper, Frederick’s longtime mate and Rosemary’s childhood crush. She’d given up on the fantasy of Desmond a split second after she’d laid eyes on Andrew Lillywhite, but her husband’s untimely death the year before had put Rosemary back on the market. At least, according to anyone who felt the need to comment on the situation—such as her mother and, of course, Vera. While Rosemary still got butterflies in her stomach when she was around Desmond, the thought of becoming romantically involved with a man other than her late husband turned their flight into a swarm that made her stomach ache.

Sunny days, sandy beaches, and exotic cocktails near sparkling waters had sounded far too tempting after the ordeal of clearing Frederick’s name, and Rosemary had, for once, thrown caution to the wind and decided to treat herself to a much-needed holiday.

As if her life wasn’t complicated enough, there was Detective Inspector Maximilian Whittington back in London to consider. Max, a handsome fellow and a stalwart friend, had worked closely with Andrew in his private investigating enterprise and then, during Frederick’s untimely brush with murder, had stepped in to help clear her brother’s name.

While Rosemary had been glad of the help, she was not, as Vera continued to insist, in love with Max. Nor was she, as Vera also continued to insist, the lady who doth protest too much. Max was merely a friend, and even if the idea of a romance with him intrigued her, she considered it best to push those feelings aside. That she could do so was, in Rosemary’s estimation, a sign that she wasn’t ready.

Falling in love should overwhelm all of a woman’s senses, not trigger her common sense. That was how it had happened with Andrew and was now the measure by which she would gauge all such experiences. Not that Rosemary intended to have a great many of them.

“We’re finally here, Rosie,” Vera squealed at a pitch that could have cut glass. “The Isle of Love, that’s what they call Cyprus, you know,” she said, her emerald eyes sparkling from beneath a sheaf of inky lashes.

Rosemary cocked an eyebrow at her friend. “Yes, I’m aware of the island’s nickname, as you’ve mentioned it approximately eighty-seven times since we left London.”

“It’s just so beautiful, I can’t stand it,” Vera continued as if Rosemary hadn’t said a word. “You can almost feel the romance, and we haven’t even docked yet.”

“There are other things in life besides men, you know.”

When Vera smiled, even the sun seemed to dim a little in comparison. “Well, of course, there are, dear one, but none so devilishly interesting.”

“Where are Fred and Des, anyway?” Rosemary changed the subject while her eyes roamed the deck in search of her brother’s head of golden curls. “What am I saying? Obviously, we’ll find them—”

“Guzzling down cocktails,” Vera finished for her. “And I imagine poor Anna is still in the loo, sicking up.” Rosemary’s maid had battled motion sickness ever since they’d boarded the train in London and had turned an ugly shade of green before the ship had even pulled completely away from the dock.

“Poor girl. She might have mentioned she didn’t travel well,” Rosemary said, a note of worry in her voice.

“I expect she was overcome by the excitement of a holiday. She’ll come right once her feet are back on solid ground, though I do wonder if she’ll spend the entire holiday dreading the return trip.”

Rosemary sighed. “Or trying to talk the fair Cecily into hiring her on to avoid it.”

“Speaking of, how well do you know this Cecily DeVant person?” Vera asked.

“Not at all, really. She hasn’t visited England since I was quite young, and I hardly remember the occasion. Still, as many times as I have listened to Mother wax on about her oldest and dearest friend, I feel as if I know her.”

Gripping the rail, Vera raised her face and leaned into the wind. “What’s her story?” she said as the breeze ruffled her hair. “How did she come to be running a hotel in Cyprus, of all places?”

Those details hadn’t been as important to Rosemary’s mother as passing along what she perceived as pertinent facts about the hotel.

“No idea, really. All I know is that whoever built the hotel went to great expense to make it as lavish as possible.”

Rosemary watched with a hand at the ready to catch her friend should Vera lean too far.

“I’d have been happy to stay in any sort of place. Travel is meant to broaden one’s experience, after all.”

Rosemary grinned. “Oh, I daresay you’ll appreciate the finer amenities on offer at the Aphrodite Sands. Mother positively gushed over the lift of all things. According to Cecily, it was a task of great endurance and expense to have it shipped over and installed. I’m certain it couldn’t have taken as long as it did for Mother to tell the story.”

“So long as there’s sand, sun, and good gin, I can’t imagine we’ll lack for anything.” Taking Rosemary by the arm, Vera turned away from the rail and the view.

“Now,” she continued, “I estimate we have another ten minutes, which leaves just enough time for one last mimosa, don’t you think?”

“Lead on, but for heaven’s sake, Vera, don’t go that way.” Having spied three elderly women arguing over deck chairs to her left, Rosemary dragged Vera on a circuitous route to the bar. Halfway through the first day of their voyage, Mrs. Edina Haversham had discovered Vera sunning herself on the forward deck and attached herself like a leech to her favorite actress.

At every turn, she and two other fluffy dowagers sprang out of nowhere, demanding Vera recite lines from one play or another.

“Your flock of admirers will see us and ask you to perform again. We’ll never get our mimosa, and I don’t think I could take another dramatic death scene reenactment.”

“Why, Rosemary darling, I’m positively gutted. Did you not say my Desdemona was a revelation?” Vera’s eyes twinkled with great humor.

“And so it was,” Rosemary said with a grin. “The first time. Alas, with numerous repetitions, I find Desdemona pales.”

Having avoided the old biddies, the pair strolled over to where Frederick and Desmond held court at the bar. Vera ordered and handed a frothy yellow drink to her friend and took a satisfying sip of her own. “These are going to be dangerous,” she mused, elbowing Frederick sharply for no real reason other than to interrupt the boastful story he’d been telling the two attractive women who were hanging on his every word.

“…and then, I punched him square in the jaw—ouch!” he said, turning to Vera in surprise. “What was that for?” he asked, his voice at a slightly higher pitch than normal.

“Oh, you know. Nothing in particular.” Vera’s eyes sparkled prettily but with razor-sharpness. She linked arms with Rosemary and walked back towards a pair of deck chairs. “He’s going to get what’s coming to him, that I can promise.”

“When he least expects it, I’m certain,” Rosemary said with a wry smile. She was used to playing referee between her brother and her best friend, whose relationship was forever fraught with conflict. Desmond had nearly got his head bitten off on the train when he posited the opinion that the constant bickering smelled of romantic interest. Now, as Rosemary met his eyes across the deck, she knew his amused expression meant he was even more convinced of the notion than ever before. “At least this time, you have a good reason for knocking him down a peg or two.”

“Darned right I do,” Vera agreed, recalling the moment when she and Frederick had been called upon to distract the attention of a group of corrupt gamblers. Given no further order than to create a diversion, Frederick had chosen to run his hand over her backside. His ploy, though ill-advised, had done the trick. Outraged, Vera had kicked up a fuss, but even now, she flushed at the memory of how his hand had felt on her.

“I know it was part of the covert affair and that we took down a notorious criminal as a result, but did he really have to manhandle me to successfully create a distraction? That’s right, he did not.” She answered her own question before Rosemary could take a breath. “Oh look, we’re docking!” All thoughts of revenge seemed to evaporate as the boat came to a stop.

A flurry of activity on the dock from several men in crisp white shirts reminded Rosemary of a glass-encased ant farm she’d seen at a museum when she was a child. In the short time it took to disembark, each one had amassed a pile of luggage from belowdecks and loaded it into the small bus that would take travelers to the hotel.

“Mrs. Woolridge,” the driver, a snazzily dressed young man, stuttered in a British accent as Rosemary approached.

“Mrs. Woolridge is my mother,” Rosemary replied with a half smile. “I’m Rosemary Lillywhite, and this lot is with me.” She gestured towards her friends.

The boy—for he was barely more than sixteen years old by Rosemary’s estimation—turned a deep shade of red and apologized profusely. “I’m so sorry, madam. So sorry. Please accept my deepest apologies.”

“It’s quite all right, Eustis,” she said, peering at the gold-trimmed name badge pinned somewhat awkwardly onto his shirt. “No harm done. You’ll find we’re an easygoing lot, save my brother, the troublemaker, but I’ll tip you handsomely at the end of the trip if you ignore him completely.” She winked, and young Eustis sighed with relief.

The bus ride to the hotel was long, dusty, and more than a little jarring, given the condition of the road, which went unnoticed as the scenery commanded the attention of the group.

Groves of citrus and ripening olive trees, their trunks a fascination of twisting shapes, flanked parts of the road from the village, the scent of oranges and lemons riding the warm air like a blessing. There were, Rosemary noted, far more trees than buildings, yet she wouldn’t describe the landscape as primitive or untamed.

Eustis kept up a running commentary that Rosemary let flow past her without listening too closely. Her artist’s eye was too busy making impressions and memorizing shapes and colors to be turned into sketches later. Locals in traditional garb blended with Brits wearing current fashions to create a wealth of pattern and movement.

Vera, of course, concentrated on the male population, while Frederick kept his eye on the female. Desmond, as was his way, said very little.

Over the crest of a low hill, the Aphrodite Sands Hotel finally came into view, its whitewashed facade and modern architecture standing out in stark contrast to everything they’d seen along the way. With bated breath, the foursome emerged from the bus and approached the front entrance. Stone steps cut into perfect rectangles and buffed to a gleaming shine spanned the width of the hotel, potted ferns and colorful plants dotting the expanse.

Rosemary fingered a rubbery leaf and bent her head to sniff the single flower blossoming from one of its tendrils. Yes, she was going to have a nice, relaxing holiday surrounded by the type of exotic beauty London simply couldn’t boast. She only wished she’d packed some canvas and her paints but settled instead to committing the scene to memory.

She trailed behind her companions, who hadn’t taken the time to stop and soak in the atmosphere, and approached the front counter at the rear of the group. Vera shot her a look from beneath furrowed brows as the receptionist, a petite, pinch-faced Greek woman with curly black hair, leafed through a leather-bound register.

“I’m sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all, “but I can only seem to find two rooms listed under the name Woolridge.”

“Try Lillywhite,” Rosemary said, pushing between Frederick and Vera.

Rosemary’s jovial mood plummeted while the receptionist scanned through the names listed on the page again. “I am sorry. If you would wait one moment,” she said, and without any explanation, turned and strode away. After a few minutes, she returned with another woman in tow.

“Well, I’ll be—” The second woman stopped to gaze at Rosemary.

This, Rosemary decided, could be none other than Cecily DeVant. It wasn’t the English accent or the familiarity with which the woman spoke that created such certainty; it was the description that her mother had given Rosemary before she left London. When Evelyn Woolridge had said her friend was the ‘oddest looking woman’ she’d ever met, Rosemary had taken the statement with a grain of salt.

Evelyn still couldn’t wrap her mind around why not all women focused on their looks or aspired to greater heights than marrying well, so her perspective tended to be somewhat one-dimensional.

However, in this instance, it seemed her mother had not missed the mark at all. Cecily’s face was a contradiction of angles. Impossibly high cheekbones created a triangular effect between her eyes and mouth, the features as symmetrical as those of an Egyptian princess. That was if you could look beyond the prominent, arrow-straight nose that angled towards the left side of her face so abruptly it gave Rosemary a start.

“You must be Rosemary,” she trilled, stepping forward with her arms outstretched. “You’re the spitting image of your mother when she was a girl. It’s striking, as a matter of fact,” Cecily said, cocking her head to one side as she made her appraisal.

“Yes,” Rosemary smiled. She couldn’t help but take an instant liking to the woman, though her mother had mentioned getting on Cecily’s bad side was inadvisable, and Rosemary had no doubt the statement was true. Formidable, be she friend or foe, was a fitting word for Cecily DeVant. “You must be Cecily. It’s a pleasure to meet you again.” Rosemary held out a hand but was instead enveloped in a lavender-scented embrace.

“We’ll have to take lunch together sometime during your stay. I have many stories about your mother I think you’ll find amusing,” Cecily said, her gaze having come upon Frederick during the conversation. “And you look too much like your father not to be Cecil’s son.” He was treated to an enthusiastic hug, which he returned in kind.

“Cecil and Cecily,” he said, grinning and shaking his head. “I can only imagine how confusing that was for Mother.”

Cecily laughed. “Perhaps, though the only thing I ever heard her call your father was ‘darling’ or ‘dear’ or some other such term of endearment. Are they still as besotted with each other as they once were?”

Rosemary detected a hint of jealousy in Cecily’s tone, not that she could blame her. It wasn’t easy being a third wheel, as Rosemary had learned since becoming a single woman for the second time in her life.

Frederick assured her that their parents were still happily married and then introduced Cecily to Vera and Desmond. Once pleasantries had been exchanged to her satisfaction, she retreated to the other side of the counter and took a look at the ledger.

“Gloria, honestly!” Cecily admonished the receptionist, whose face went a deep shade of scarlet. “Could I have made it any easier for you to reserve the proper number of rooms? I distinctly remember writing you a note explaining that the Woolridge-Lillywhite party would need two suites plus a room for their staff. That’s three rooms, and you only reserved two,” she continued, even though the public shaming of an employee made everyone feel somewhat uncomfortable. Anna hung back, a look of pure mortification on her round little face.

“I’m sorry.” Gloria dropped her eyes, but not before Rosemary detected mutiny in her expression. “Margaret saw the note and passed the information along to me, but one of us must have made a mistake. All the suites are filled. Should I ask one of the other guests to change rooms?”

Desmond stepped forward and cleared his throat loudly. “No need to trouble yourself, really. Frederick and I will do just as well in the smaller room.” He received a nod from Rosemary and a small, grateful smile from the receptionist, who peered at him with interest.

“Yes,” Rosemary said, “and Anna will stay in our suite, right, Vera?” Vera nodded her agreement.

“Very well, but your graciousness doesn’t let Gloria off the hook.” Cecily continued to berate the woman, whose face had gone stony. Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears.

“You’re lucky I don’t let you go, Gloria.” Cecily’s tone insinuated this wasn’t the first such mistake that the girl had made. “We’ll discuss this further later.” She took her leave, citing urgent hotel business, and Gloria breathed a sigh of relief at her departure.

Rosemary thought once more how her mother had been right—one certainly didn’t want to get on Cecily DeVant’s bad side.