shop and amusement arcade, both of which he immediately leased out. His pièce de résistance was purchasing the Mariscombe Hotel. By the time he was twenty-eight, he owned more freeholds than anyone else in the village. Not that he ever advertised this fact. Bruno was the soul of discretion, as were his secretly proud parents. He didn’t come down and swank around. He knew he had to keep his trading job until he’d earned enough money to pay off a substantial amount of the loans that were propping up his deck of cards. By the time he was thirty-two, he had got his borrowings down to thirty per cent of his portfolio, a ratio he felt comfortable with.
It was at this point Bruno felt that the time had come to be more hands on in Mariscombe. The original leases on the arcade and the chip shop were coming to an end and he would have to decide whether to renegotiate or find new tenants. The manageress at the Mariscombe Hotel was leaving to have a baby, and despite her protests that she would return as soon as was humanly possible, Bruno suspected it was unlikely. He left his job on the floor, setting up as an independent financial advisor working from home, with a view to an eventual three-day London, four-day Devon week.
That June, he gave himself some time off to put an offer in on one of the much-coveted Art Deco houses perched on the dunes, appoint a new manager for the hotel and decide what to do with his other interests. It was only then, on spending more time than usual with his family, he realized that his younger brother had turned into something of a tearaway. Joe had been born when Bruno was ten – a late and unexpected arrival, but a most welcome one. Bruno was never jealous. By the time the baby arrived he had his own life – he was at school and had his friends – so he never resented him. By the time Joe was eleven, and starting senior school, Bruno had left home for London. Over the years, his mother had occasionally hinted at Joe’s high spirits and lack of responsibility, but Bruno hadn’t realized to what extent. Privately, he felt that Joe had been spoilt and indulged, never made to toe the line. Perhaps their mother feared an empty nest so much that she had clung on to Joe and made his life too comfortable, with the result that she’d spawned a monster.
Joe hadn’t done particularly well at school. The lure of the beach was too great, and there was little discipline at the community college in Tawcombe where he had ended up. And his parents didn’t push him. Besides, he was too useful on the site. He was good with his hands, was Joe, in more ways than one. At sixteen, his father put him in charge of maintenance – painting and decorating, mowing the fields, doing the little repair jobs that were inevitable with the amount of human traffic that passed through. And the work suited him. He got up early, spending the first four hours of the day working before the sun was too high. He had energy. He could do more in that time than most people achieved in a full day. By midday, he was done, ready for the pub or the beach, depending on the condition of the waves.
He became a familiar sight, in his baggy combat shorts and baseball boots, hair covered with a bandana pirate-style, his stepladder over one shoulder and a pot of paint in the other. He was always whistling, as well he might, for he was blessed with looks that casting directors and model scouts sought the world over. Light brown almond-shaped eyes, with dark lashes and brows. Lethal bone structure. A wide, full mouth, with a wicked smile that showed perfect, even white teeth. His hair was long, tousled, bleached by the sea and the sun. He was slight, but his chest and arms were toned from surfing and working. Even when he was in his scruffiest clothes, his hands smothered in paint, eyes followed him hungrily.
He should have come with a health warning. Girls who knew no better were warned not to fall under his spell, for it would only end in
It was at this point Bruno felt that the time had come to be more hands on in Mariscombe. The original leases on the arcade and the chip shop were coming to an end and he would have to decide whether to renegotiate or find new tenants. The manageress at the Mariscombe Hotel was leaving to have a baby, and despite her protests that she would return as soon as was humanly possible, Bruno suspected it was unlikely. He left his job on the floor, setting up as an independent financial advisor working from home, with a view to an eventual three-day London, four-day Devon week.
That June, he gave himself some time off to put an offer in on one of the much-coveted Art Deco houses perched on the dunes, appoint a new manager for the hotel and decide what to do with his other interests. It was only then, on spending more time than usual with his family, he realized that his younger brother had turned into something of a tearaway. Joe had been born when Bruno was ten – a late and unexpected arrival, but a most welcome one. Bruno was never jealous. By the time the baby arrived he had his own life – he was at school and had his friends – so he never resented him. By the time Joe was eleven, and starting senior school, Bruno had left home for London. Over the years, his mother had occasionally hinted at Joe’s high spirits and lack of responsibility, but Bruno hadn’t realized to what extent. Privately, he felt that Joe had been spoilt and indulged, never made to toe the line. Perhaps their mother feared an empty nest so much that she had clung on to Joe and made his life too comfortable, with the result that she’d spawned a monster.
Joe hadn’t done particularly well at school. The lure of the beach was too great, and there was little discipline at the community college in Tawcombe where he had ended up. And his parents didn’t push him. Besides, he was too useful on the site. He was good with his hands, was Joe, in more ways than one. At sixteen, his father put him in charge of maintenance – painting and decorating, mowing the fields, doing the little repair jobs that were inevitable with the amount of human traffic that passed through. And the work suited him. He got up early, spending the first four hours of the day working before the sun was too high. He had energy. He could do more in that time than most people achieved in a full day. By midday, he was done, ready for the pub or the beach, depending on the condition of the waves.
He became a familiar sight, in his baggy combat shorts and baseball boots, hair covered with a bandana pirate-style, his stepladder over one shoulder and a pot of paint in the other. He was always whistling, as well he might, for he was blessed with looks that casting directors and model scouts sought the world over. Light brown almond-shaped eyes, with dark lashes and brows. Lethal bone structure. A wide, full mouth, with a wicked smile that showed perfect, even white teeth. His hair was long, tousled, bleached by the sea and the sun. He was slight, but his chest and arms were toned from surfing and working. Even when he was in his scruffiest clothes, his hands smothered in paint, eyes followed him hungrily.
He should have come with a health warning. Girls who knew no better were warned not to fall under his spell, for it would only end in
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