Her new friend chose the master with its massive bed, one Riley had bounced on gleefully before bulleting into the en suite and crowing in triumph over the freestanding stone tub—big enough for a party—and the equally generous shower.

For herself, Sasha had studied several options, all lovely, but had fallen for the four-poster with its domed and pleated canopy of sea-blue linen. Like the other bedrooms, it opened to a terrace, and she imagined herself painting there.

Even when she realized her view would include the promontory, she couldn’t persuade herself to select a room facing away.

She closed her suitcases, checked the room twice to be sure she’d left nothing behind, and was about to call for a bellman when someone knocked at the door.

She opened it to Bran.

“Are you set then?” he asked.

“Yes, just now. I was going to call for a bellman.”

He glanced in at her suitcases, pack, tote.

“We should be able to handle it.” He hooked her tote around the handle of one suitcase, slung her pack over his shoulder. “Can you manage the other?”

“Sure, but can we handle your bags, too?”

“I’ve already taken them down, loaded them. Of course, I’ve about half of what you’ve got here.”

“Of course you do. You’re a man.” Sasha walked out behind him without giving her room a backward glance.

“I am that. I’ll just check on Riley, and we’ll— Well, no need,” he added as Riley stepped out, rolling a single wheeled duffle behind her.

“That’s it? Your backpack and a duffle?” Sasha demanded.

“Got everything I need and room for more.”

Sasha looked at her own luggage, actually felt Riley’s smirk. “I have my art supplies,” she began.

“Uh-huh.” With the smirk still in place, Riley headed for the elevator.

“I do! And my travel easel, several small canvases, a spare sketchbook, not to mention paints, brushes.”

“Your brushes aren’t going to make it in this elevator on this trip.”

“You two go,” Bran suggested. “I’ll take the stairs.”

“That case is heavy,” Sasha began.

“It’s the spare sketch pad.”

Sasha gave Riley a scowl, then laughed. “Oh, shut up.”

She maneuvered her case into the elevator, turned to thank Bran. But he was already gone.

By the time she’d checked out, they had her luggage loaded, and everything strapped in with bungee cords out of Riley’s duffle.

Sasha eyed them doubtfully, thought of her painting supplies. “Will those really hold?”

“Haven’t let me down yet. Kick-ass villa, here we come.”

Riley roared off just as she had that morning. This time, Bran shared the backseat with luggage.

“You should have the front.” Sasha swiveled around. “I didn’t think of it. I’m smaller than you, and wouldn’t be as crowded.”

“Oh, we’re fine here, me and your paintbrushes. And the way Riley drives, we’ll be there long before my legs have time to cramp.”

The speed—outrageous—seemed slightly more exhilarating than frightening this time. Sasha took in the blur of sea and flowers, cars, sun-washed buildings while she half listened to Riley and Bran debate whether to stop somewhere for lunch or just get where they were going.

She didn’t care either way. It was all so surreal, and reckless. Prior, the most reckless thing she could remember doing had been hacking off her hair when she’d been twelve. An act of anger and defiance she’d regretted before the last snip of the scissors.

Clearly, this reckless act carried more risk and weight—and yet, just at the moment, it felt absolutely right.

She’d unpack first, she decided. She wouldn’t feel settled until she did. And then she’d set up her easel . . . maybe outside, try a chalk study of the gardens. Or try a watercolor. She rarely used that medium, but—

“What’s your vote?” Riley demanded.

“Sorry, what?”

“Food or destination? You’re the tie breaker.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter.”

“Tie breaker,” Riley insisted. “It has to matter. Bran’s for getting there. I’m for food.”

“I don’t want to be the tie breaker.”

“You’re stuck with it. He’s all ‘there’s food in the villa’—the caretakers had it stocked and we’ve got the green light to use what we want, but we have to get there, then throw something together. Can anybody cook?”

“Of course I can cook,” Sasha began, and immediately saw her mistake. “I’m absolutely not going to be in charge of the kitchen.”

A big, beautiful kitchen, she remembered, and she wouldn’t mind making a meal or two, but—

“Somebody has to be. If you want something fried up on a Coleman stove, I’m your girl, otherwise, I’m sandwiches and stirring. I can stir. And chop,” she added. “I’m hell on chopping.”

“I don’t know how to cook for people.”

“What do you cook for?” Bran wondered. “Bears?”

“Myself. But—”

“I’m not bad at breakfast.” Bran rolled right over her objections. “But I doubt anyone’s up for a full fry every meal. Sidari’s not far, for going out to eat, but if we’re wanting more privacy to discuss our business, a home-cooked seems the thing.”