Книга - Immortal Billionaire

Immortal Billionaire
Jane Godman


Dark secrets and unquenchable desire collide in this captivating paranormal thriller …Connie Lacey lives a nomadic existence. Alone. Safe. She can't risk being found by the stalker who haunts her waking nightmares. Until an invitation from billionaire Sylvester de León—to spend thirty days with him on his private island—proves impossibly tempting. But one look at the gorgeous host's deep blue eyes, and Connie knows there is nothing safe about this paradise and the aristocratic man who calls it home.The island is cursed…as is Sylvester himself. Yet something in him calls to Connie, ignites a desire that's filled with raw, timeless need. But Corazón has many secrets, each more dangerous than the last. And in a place where everlasting love, the past, and fate intersect, even death is only a beginning…







Dark secrets and unquenchable desire collide in this captivating paranormal thriller...

Connie Lacey lives a nomadic existence. Alone. Safe. She can’t risk being found by the stalker who haunts her waking nightmares. Until an invitation from billionaire Sylvester de León—to spend thirty days with him on his private island, Corazón—proves impossibly tempting. But one look at the gorgeous host’s deep blue eyes, and Connie knows there is nothing safe about this paradise and the aristocratic man who calls it home.

The island is cursed...as is Sylvester himself. Yet something in him calls to Connie, ignites a desire that’s filled with raw, timeless need. But Corazón has many secrets, each more dangerous than the last. And in a place where everlasting love, the past and fate intersect, even death is only a beginning...


Connie was instantly lost in a whirlpool of sensation.

His hands slid under her blouse and over the flesh of her back. She trembled at the contrast between the roughened pads of his fingertips and the smoothness of her flesh. Sylvester shuddered as she ran her fingertips along the back of his neck and through his hair. It was an endless kiss, and Connie murmured softly into Sylvester’s mouth.

“Don’t tell me that wasn’t meant to happen.” She didn’t want to plead with him, but if that was what it took...

“I think we both know it is meant to happen. It’s going to happen.” His hands moved down to her hips, holding her closer to him so she could feel him throbbing against her. “I don’t want to hurt you, Connie.”

She pressed tighter against him, fitting herself to him blatantly, showing him with her own body exactly what she wanted. “Maybe I want you to.”


JANE GODMAN writes in a variety of romance genres, including paranormal, gothic and romantic suspense. Jane lives in England and loves to travel to European cities, which are steeped in history and romance—Venice, Dubrovnik and Vienna are among her favorites. Jane is married to a lovely man and is mom to two grown-up children.


Immortal Billionaire

Jane Godman






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Dear Reader (#ua57f949a-2487-573a-96b1-8e6c15eb1c1c),

Immortal Billionaire represents a departure from my usual paranormal romances. For one thing, the setting is a luxury, privately owned Floridian island instead of a mystical otherworld inhabited by warring races of faeries, vampires and wolves!

In this book, the paranormal elements are implied rather than overt, with a strong theme of romantic suspense infusing the story.

On the island of Corazón, a curse from the past spills over to haunt the present. Dark secrets still linger from a time when the brave Calusa, the Shell Indians who inhabited Florida’s golden shores, defied the invading conquistadores. It’s a legacy that leaves the heroine, Connie Lacey, caught up in a web of intrigue and danger, not knowing whom she can trust.

In spite of the all-pervading sense of peril, the attraction between Connie and her billionaire host, Sylvester de León, is instant and overwhelming. But the clock is ticking and the curse of Corazón cannot be denied...

I’d love to hear from you. You can contact me at my website, www.janegodmanauthor.com (http://www.janegodmanauthor.com), on Twitter, @JaneGodman, or on Facebook, Jane Godman Author.

Happy reading,

Jane


This book is dedicated to my new grandson, Luke, who arrived while I was writing it and gave me a whole new perspective on life!


Contents

Cover (#u32eb25ae-0fe7-50cb-897e-9e7587c6de43)

Back Cover Text (#uc6fefa4a-61d7-5b4e-aab6-8209ffac1698)

Introduction (#u83a4a541-4245-58f4-9a0c-21fbb5e0f311)

About the Author (#ubbaf0b8d-864e-5914-af7e-d74d002e0756)

Title Page (#u4db4e562-54e5-5475-b4eb-95b50eafadb9)

Dear Reader (#u8f954782-adb7-505f-957f-a6e6ac2deb65)

Dedication (#ufa972d4d-2818-5a6f-aae5-594ad984e4eb)

Chapter 1 (#u9e3776cc-7687-5105-83b3-ac0fc22b89e3)

Chapter 2 (#u1fdfa14c-537a-53dc-b340-fd6ac538d99b)

Chapter 3 (#u98667650-1417-5384-9978-591806138e33)

Chapter 4 (#u9939256b-7514-55d3-a124-b275d8762afb)

Chapter 5 (#u091c0323-a2e3-5f50-9dbc-6758cb365ee2)

Chapter 6 (#ue2ad4c25-043e-59c7-9237-b4c317227705)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter 1 (#ua57f949a-2487-573a-96b1-8e6c15eb1c1c)

It is easy enough to list in advance, and with absolute certainty, those things for which we are prepared to die. Family, country, religion, the one we love, a valued way of life. Until we are faced with a situation that puts our convictions to the test, we can never know for sure which of these will hold true. There were many lessons to be learned during those strange weeks on the island of Corazón, but, for Connie Lacey, this would prove to be the most important.

* * *

Four years of running and hiding. Four years of looking over her shoulder. Of viewing every man she met with suspicion. Of waking every morning, wondering if today was the day he would finally catch up with her.

The relief of being offered somewhere to hide was so huge it drove every other thought out of her head. She had a brief mental image of herself as a disaster survivor and the man opposite as the rescue worker who had just draped an emergency blanket around her shoulders. She resisted the temptation to cling to him, garbling out incoherent thanks until he was forced to gently pry her hands away. They were the wild thoughts spinning through Connie Lacey’s mind as she listened to the clipped tones of the attorney.

With hindsight, she probably should have paid more attention to the strangeness of the offer he was making and the diffident manner with which he made it. Gratitude will do that to you, she decided later. At the time her attention was taken up with grabbing this opportunity. Nod, smile and sign on the dotted line. Don’t ask questions that might make him withdraw this incredible invitation. All she could focus on was the fact that—for thirty days, at least—she would not have to sleep with a knife under her pillow.

“You have one week.” She realized Mr. Reynolds had finished outlining the details of the proposal. “My client will expect you to be in Florida in exactly seven days’ time.”

Connie swallowed hard. She might have known there would be a catch. The logistics of getting to Florida posed a massive problem. Mentally, she reviewed the contents of her wallet. She knew exactly how much cash was in there. It wouldn’t get her across town let alone across the country. Before she could speak, Mr. Reynolds reached into the desk drawer and produced a hefty roll of banknotes. His expression softened slightly as he passed them across the desk.

“Expenses. For the journey and such sundry other items as may be necessary.” He cleared his throat with a hint of something that might have been embarrassment. “My client is a very exacting man. His guests will, for example, be required to dress for dinner during their stay on Corazón.”

Darn! And there I was thinking I had successfully managed to hide the fact that the sole is hanging off one of my sneakers and this sweater has forgotten what color it used to be.

Connie stuffed the wad of cash into her shoulder bag with a muttered word of thanks. If an encounter with Sylvester’s attorney could reduce her to the status of a gibbering wreck, how on earth was she going to cope with the man himself?

As she got to her feet, Mr. Reynolds rose and came around the desk. He held out his hand. Surprised, Connie took it. Instead of the handshake she had expected, he clasped her hand between both of his. It was an oddly tactile gesture for such an aloof man.

“However this venture may turn out...” He paused and Connie sensed he was fighting an internal battle. As if the personal and professional were at war within him. The result felt like his version of a truce. “I wish you well, Miss Lacey.”

It was only later, when she got back to her grim, one-room apartment and counted—then, in disbelief, recounted—the money, that she began to truly appreciate the gulf between her world and that of Corazón. What constituted “sundry other items” to Mr. Reynolds was almost a year’s salary to Connie.

Laughing, she tossed the notes into the air and briefly contemplated just disappearing with them. To hell with “second cousin several convoluted times removed” Sylvester and his mysteriously worded proposition. This money could buy her the freedom from fear she had been dreaming of. Temporarily, it was true, but even that was so much more than she had wished for. No more moving from town to town and job to job? No more looking over her shoulder? Yeah, I’ll take that and deal with the future when it gets here.

A pang of guilt tugged at her. Backing out wasn’t an option. She had just accepted Mr. Reynolds’s wretched invitation and a promise was, after all, a promise. Besides—despite its reputation—she was intrigued enough by Corazón to want to see it and, even if she admitted it only to herself, she wanted to meet the legendary Sylvester.

The ease with which Arthur Reynolds, senior partner in the firm of Reynolds, Prudah and Taylor, had tracked her down was unsettling. Even if she hadn’t been contemplating answering Sylvester’s eccentric summons, it would have been time to move on. Goodbye—she experienced a minor moment of panic as she tried to remember where she was. It had to happen one day—Farmington, Missouri. The last month has been okay, but it was never a long-term thing. We both knew it. No hard feelings.

She had a week to prepare for the journey. With a shrug, she tucked the money away at the back of her closet and curled up on the bed with a book. Connie could have her belongings packed in an hour. She’d done it often enough.

* * *

Mr. Reynolds’s emailed instructions were meticulous. The launch that was to take her to Corazón would meet her at the marina in Charlotte Harbor. He had even included a map showing the exact location.

Charlotte Harbor was a vacationer’s paradise. The hotel where she’d spent the night, although modest, had been way beyond her usual budget. Eating shrimp and drinking beer at a beachside restaurant, she’d watched the sky fade through shades of bright blue and burnt orange to black. It had crossed her mind—how could it not?—that this was all some elaborate trick. That, at some point, he would appear before her and gloat over how easily she had fallen for this whole trick. Then he would pull out the knife... Stop this. Every time you think of him, every time you remember, he wins.

An internet search had revealed nothing irregular about Mr. Reynolds. His was a well-respected, international law firm, with offices all over the country, including one in St. Petersburg, Florida. The company dealt with wealthy clients and celebrities, even those as well known as Sylvester. And the de León family were some sort of relatives of her mother’s, however distant. Connie had always known that. The last few years had taught her to be watchful. With good reason. But perhaps it was time to put caution aside? What did she have to lose by going to Corazón? Unless she was brave enough to seize this chance, she would never know. According to Mr. Reynolds, who had, after all, personally traveled all the way to Missouri to meet with her, she might even stand to gain a great deal.

Connie reached the quayside a few minutes before the time Mr. Reynolds had specified. It was busy without being bustling, mostly with fishing charters and tourists embarking on a day of island hopping. There was no reason for the horrible crawling feeling of nervousness that caused her to keep glancing over her shoulder. She wasn’t being watched. He couldn’t possibly know she was here. It was just habit kicking in. She had gotten used to sensing his presence everywhere. It was called self-preservation.

The email had said there would be other guests traveling to Corazón with her. Sylvester had no close family, but he had invited several distant relatives. None of them knew the reason for the invitation. That was something Sylvester probably intended to reveal once they were on the island. She couldn’t see anyone who looked like they might be waiting for a launch to take them for an extended stay on a luxury island. The thought of enforced proximity to strangers made Connie shudder slightly. Compulsory enjoyment. Was Sylvester some sort of masochist? Look on the bright side. Wherever this adventure might lead, at least it was not into a temporary job in a poky office where she would be chained to yet another dreary desktop computer.

A slightly shrill voice interrupted her thoughts. “Hurry up, Guthrie! I told you we should have left the hotel earlier. And I still don’t understand why we couldn’t have flown first-class. No, don’t put my cosmetics case there! Oh, for heaven’s sake.” The woman exuded restless, perfumed elegance. Connie decided her companion must be her husband. Who else would obey her staccato instructions so meekly? The hapless Guthrie followed in her wake, carrying a quite astonishing array of suitcases from the cab onto the quayside. Then, as his companion found the original arrangement unaccountably displeasing, he obligingly reorganized them.

“But that was how you told me to do it, Lucinda.” His protest was made in tones of mild confusion.

Looking up, Connie encountered the gaze of a tall, fair-haired man who was wheeling a single suitcase as he approached her. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but she couldn’t quite place what it was. From his frowning expression, he appeared to be thinking exactly the same thing as Connie. They both regarded Lucinda and Guthrie in dawning horror. Oh, please, God, no. Surely life could not so be unkind? A paradise island, even one with a sinister reputation like Corazón’s, deserved pleasant—if not perfect—company. Let my instincts be wrong. Just this once.

“The email said nine-thirty and it’s exactly that now. Unpunctuality is abhorrent to me. Don’t stand there, Guthrie. I can’t see the harbor with you blocking my view.”

The man with the suitcase drew level with Connie. She felt her cheeks burn as he gazed down at her. Four years after the attack that had left her scarred, she should be used to people staring at her, but it had never become any easier. Obviously realizing his silence was making her nervous, he made a visible effort to strive for normality.

“Are you waiting for the de León launch?” When she nodded, he held out his hand. “My name’s Reynolds.”

“Oh!” Connie was taken aback. That was the name of Sylvester’s attorney, but this was not the same man she had met with in Missouri. He was younger, fairer, and there was less formality about him. She regarded him a little doubtfully. There was a definite resemblance, however.

“From your expression, I suspect I was right. I take it you are on your way to Corazón, having met with my father a week ago?”

Connie felt the frown clear from her brow. Her nervousness began to disappear like champagne bubbles rising to the top of the glass. “Oh, yes. I can see it now. You look a little like your father, you know.”

“I hope to God that’s not true. He acts like he’s got a baseball bat rammed up his ass most of the time. Although I shouldn’t complain. I’m a junior partner in the firm and, even though it leaves him short-staffed in the Florida office, he’s given me as much time as I need to go on this little jaunt of Sylvester’s.” His voice was cheerful. “Allow me to put my powers of deduction to the test even further by using a process of elimination to decide which of Sylvester’s relatives you might be.” He tilted his head to one side and studied her face.

Connie had the distinct impression the gesture was for show and that he already knew who she was. How could he not? Her hand went to her throat in a protective gesture and she thought she saw a glimmer of something in his eyes. Probably sympathy. She hated that look. It was too depressingly familiar.

“I was going to guess that you must be Constance Lacey. But I’m not sure you’re old enough.”

“If you are on your way to Corazón as your father’s representative, Mr. Reynolds, you will know I’m twenty-seven. Since I look every day of my age, I’m going to accuse you of being the most outrageous tease.”

His eyes twinkled in response and she decided she liked him. He was easy to laugh with.

“Acquit me, Miss Lacey,” he said, adopting the same mock-formal tone. “I was trying to flirt, not tease, and I’m never outrageous. You are wrong about one thing, however. I am on my way to Corazón, but not as my father’s representative. Like yours, my mother was a distant relative of the de León family. I have been summoned as part of this curious proposition of Sylvester’s.”

“Oh.” Connie fiddled nonchalantly with the top button on her shirt. “Have you met him?”

“Sylvester? Oh, yes. Many times.”

Connie succumbed and allowed her curiosity to get the better of her. “What is he like?”

“Exactly as he appears in the press. Handsome. Charming. Witty. Unfathomable. Sylvester has never been anything less than pleasant to me, but, at the same time, I wouldn’t want to cross him. I’ve never been allowed to get close enough to him to know how he’d react.” Lifting one hand, he shielded his eyes against the brilliant sunlight. A sleek, white boat with a rampant lion emblazoned on its bow was approaching the quay. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, this, Miss Lacey, is our lift.”

“My friends call me Connie.” Even as she said it, Connie tried to remember the last time she’d trusted anyone enough to say those words. It was no good. Whenever it had been, it was far enough in the past for her to have forgotten it. Trust and friendship were words that had been missing from her vocabulary for a long time. It was too soon to say if the younger Mr. Reynolds would restore them but she experienced a tiny flare of hope that he might. She didn’t feel anything other than friendship toward him, but even that was much more than she’d experienced for a long time.

“Mine call me lots of things, most of them unrepeatable. I hope you’ll settle for Matt.” It was said with an ironic smile that Connie couldn’t help returning.

* * *

Of course Connie had known that Corazón was an island. And of course she’d known it was remote, part of a far-flung, jeweled string on Florida’s westernmost edge. Through media coverage of his lifestyle and daring exploits, didn’t the whole world know that Sylvester—one of the wealthiest and most well-known men on the planet—protected his privacy by disappearing off to his privately owned little heart-shaped paradise whenever it suited him? She just hadn’t added the anxiety induced by a boat journey into this already stressful venture.

Connie had never been fond of boats and, after the fuss of ensuring Lucinda’s luggage was safely stowed had died down, she stepped nervously onto the elegant launch. This was unlike any other boat she had ever been on. It was piloted by a man in an impeccable uniform—also bearing the de León logo—who introduced himself as Roberto. In his capable hands, the vessel skimmed the water with barely a sound from its powerful engines and only the faintest suggestion of movement. You’re in de León territory now. You sold out. Connie could almost feel her mother’s disapproving gaze. As always, the bright shard of pain triggered by the memory of her drove itself deep into her chest.

Once clear of the marina, the waters were as smooth as a sheet of shimmering blue silk spread before them. Overhead the sky was an unrelenting, uninterrupted shade of azure and they passed tiny green islands ringed with sea grasses and golden sands.

“You look like you’re on a white-knuckle ride rather than a leisurely boat journey.” Matt lounged against the rail at her side.

“I’m not great with boats.” Connie adjusted her floppy straw hat so her face was shaded. It would be just her luck to turn up at her first encounter with Sylvester looking like an overheated beet.

“Bad experience?”

“No.” It was true and yet... His question touched a chord, something deep and unexplored within her. Her thoughts were interrupted when Matt leaned excitedly over the side, making her panic that he might fall in.

“We’ve got company.”

Connie forced herself to shift slightly to one side so she could follow the direction of his gaze. A group of playful dolphins had joined them and was swimming alongside the launch. In the pleasure of the moment, she forgot to be afraid. Laughing at their antics, the breeze on her face, the salty tang in the air, all of those things combined to lend poignancy to the atmosphere. She was reminded of childhood beach holidays spent playing among sand dunes. A brief pang of wistfulness for those days, for her big, laughing father and quiet, kindly mother, tried to tug at her, but she brushed it aside. Not now. This was not the time for sadness and nostalgia.

Sometime later Matt drew her attention to Corazón as it came into view. Although most of the island sat low in the sparkling waters, the northernmost edge reared high and craggy above green-tipped cliffs. Connie could just make out what appeared to be a tall building perched on the highest point of them all. By keeping her eyes focused on it, she gained a clearer image of the unusual outline as the launch drew closer.

“Is it a lighthouse?” She turned questioning eyes to Matt.

“It is. That is also the site of an original property, a fortress built by Sylvester’s ancestors.” He pointed to where the headland trailed long, rocky fingers into the water. “See those openings in the rocks, almost like windows?”

Connie shielded her eyes with her hand, following the direction of his finger. There were four crude, almost square shapes high up near the top of the cliff.

“When the de León family first made their home here and built that fortress, they had to fight hard to keep their island safe. Sylvester’s ancestors were forced to take drastic measures. Those windows are part of the dungeons they built beneath the fortress. Any prisoners who managed to escape from their cells were likely to blunder around in the darkness and fall out of one of those openings.”

Now they were closer to them, Connie studied the apertures. “Couldn’t they climb up from there and reach the top of the cliff?” Even as she asked the question, she decided it seemed unlikely. Although the openings were close to the top of the cliffs, it would still entail a long climb up a sheer rock face with no rope or other safety equipment.

“I suppose if the climber possessed superhuman powers, they might. We’ll have to ask Sylvester if anyone ever achieved it.” He turned his head to look back at the lighthouse. “These cliffs have always been a danger to boats coming into this stretch of water, and several ships ran aground in close succession in the nineteenth century, with the loss of all lives on board. This tower was built in response, but it was never entirely successful in its job as a beacon for sailors. There is some debate about the motives of Emilio de León, the man who chose to build it.”

“How on earth do you know so much about it?” Connie was fascinated by the story but couldn’t help wondering at the source of his in-depth knowledge.

“The de León account is one of my father’s most lucrative. As a junior partner, I took over part of the workload and started coming to Corazón regularly. I drank in the stories of its history, particularly because of my own family connection.

“Why were Emilio de León’s motives questioned?” Matt was a born storyteller and Connie found her fear of the water relegated to second place in her fascination to hear the rest of the story.

“Wrecking,” he replied bluntly. “It has been rumored that the de León fortune is founded on the lives of the hundreds of men who died when their boats were deliberately lured onto these rocks. In fact, some went further than that and called Emilio a murdering bastard.” He must have seen the change in Connie’s expression, because he switched to a lighter note. “The lighthouse was decommissioned not long after it was built. The island has always belonged to the family, and the de León home, site of the modern-day mansion, was built on the other side of the island.”

The boat skipped over the waves and around the tip of the island. They were looking up now at the lighthouse. Or rather, it was looming over them. The distinction seemed important. Despite the bright sunlight, Connie shivered slightly. It would be foolish to suppose those lost souls lingered here still in some guise or another. Or that they wished for vengeance. Yet there was something about this lonely place that invited fanciful thoughts. Some of the stories she had heard about Corazón resurfaced in her memory. She had always dismissed them as just that. Stories. Fiction. Perhaps initiated by the de León family to make themselves appear even more interesting to the outside world. Although why that would be the case when they were known to have had more than their fair share of mystery, heartache and misery, she couldn’t fathom.

All she knew was that the island’s name always carried with it a sinister undercurrent. A darker side to its status as the paradise escape of a billionaire that it had never quite shaken off. As if a cloud passed over the sun each time the word Corazón was spoken. Connie almost laughed at the foolishness of her thoughts. A combination of her fear of boats and Matt’s story was probably not the best way to start her visit to this island.

“I don’t know what possessed Sylvester to invite such a crowd.” Although Lucinda had determinedly kept her distance throughout the journey, her voice reached Connie now above the sounds of the seabirds and the waves buffeting against the side of the boat. “I thought this was going to be a select family party.”

“It might be fun.” Guthrie gave an apologetic grimace as he met Connie’s eyes. “Like a school outing.”

Lucinda looked at him as though he had just slapped her before turning away in stony silence.

Connie’s attention was drawn back to the island. The scenery was changing now from the drama of the cliffs to lush, tropical splendor. This was an island with a split personality. Theater and danger were replaced by peace and serenity as the boat slowed on its approach to a private dock. The main house was before them in all its traditional grandeur. Even Lucinda descended from her sulks for long enough to look impressed.

Bordered by white sands and protected by palm trees and majestic pines, the stunning Spanish-style mansion was perfectly matched to its surroundings. A riot of flowers in shades from royal purple to palest mauve hung from every balcony and overflowed from giant terra-cotta pots onto the patios.

Even before the boat had docked, the scent of citrus, pine and blossom—the scent of Corazón—was fresh in Connie’s nostrils. It was new and yet hauntingly familiar. At some point in the past, she must have smelled this delicious combination and stored it away in the recesses of her memory. Time and distance had caused her to forget when it was, but it tugged at her now like a nostalgic melody, making her think of sultry nights and lazy days, of drama, passion, laughter and warmth. For some reason, it held within it an enticing whiff of promise and welcome.

Her thoughts about the elusive scent were quickly relegated to second place, because there, descending the steps of the house, was the man himself. Even at a distance, he was unmistakable. The thought that Sylvester must have been looking out for them was ever so slightly breathtaking.

Get a grip, Connie. He probably greets all his guests in person. It’s called courtesy. Or did you expect him to prove his conquistador heritage by charging across the beach, sword held aloft?

Dismissing her strange imaginings as relief at having arrived safely, Connie stepped onto the wooden boards of the dock. Soon she felt the sand crunch beneath her feet and her nerves stopped jangling for nautical reasons. Instead her tension found itself a whole new focus.

In person Sylvester was even more stunning than in the newspaper photographs and internet searches Connie had devoured over the years. There was something about him that harkened back to another era.

Sylvester de León’s looks were wasted on the casual linen pants and lightweight sweater he wore. He was as tall as Matt but broader across the shoulders and slimmer through the hips. His light brown hair, which had a reddish gold tinge, was swept back from a heroically broad brow and his features were masterfully carved. A charming, easy smile curved his near-perfect lips. He looked relaxed and completely in tune with his surroundings as, wineglass in hand, he trod barefoot onto the sands.

Lucinda, with a burst of speed worthy of an Olympic sprinter, dashed ahead of the others. “Sylvester, how delightful.” She lifted her face to his so he was obliged to kiss her cheek. “You remember my brother Guthrie, of course.”

Obedient to her imperious summons, Guthrie bustled forward and thrust out his hand. Sylvester was forced to switch his wineglass to his left hand so he could shake Guthrie’s with his right.

With a skill Connie suspected had been born out of years of dealing with similar situations, Sylvester sidestepped Lucinda. His smile of welcome encompassed the rest of the group. Up close, his eyes were the bluest Connie had ever seen.

“I hope you all had a pleasant journey? I am so sorry—” His gaze had been scanning the group, then, as it reached Connie’s face, he broke off abruptly. She spared a second to wonder what Sylvester had felt the need to apologize for. Then her thoughts were distracted. His smile froze and then vanished. After he stared down at Connie in silence for a full minute, there was a loud crack as the glass in his hand shattered. Blood and alcohol mingled in a stream and dripped onto the sand.

Without another word, Sylvester turned on his heel and walked back into the house, leaving his visitors staring after him.


Chapter 2 (#ua57f949a-2487-573a-96b1-8e6c15eb1c1c)

Why? It was the wrong question. Yet it persisted, only to be followed by another, equally senseless and unrelenting, demand. Why now? These were the thoughts tormenting him as he made his way blindly into the house and up the stairs to his room. Once inside the sanctuary of his suite, Sylvester turned the faucet in his bathroom on full, wincing as he held his lacerated hand under the cold water. He bent his head, battling to get his breathing under control. What the hell is going on?

This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not when he had spent so long planning. Not when he was so close to seeing this scheme through to its conclusion.

Turning the water off, he went to the medicine closet and managed—with one-handed clumsiness—to tend his wounds, covering the deepest cuts with waterproof dressings. Conscious he had been guilty of monumental rudeness, he went through to his bedroom, picked up the house phone and dialed his housekeeper’s number.

“Vega, I had a slight accident and had to leave my guests on the beach. Can you go down and escort them into the house?”

“Mr. Matthew has already brought them inside.” There was a trace of disapproval in Vega’s voice. That was the problem with servants who had worked for you for years. What you gained in loyalty, you lost in distance. “I organized drinks. They are waiting for you in the salon.”

He couldn’t do this now. He needed time—and plenty of it—to collect his thoughts before he could even think about being sociable. “Make my apologies. Explain that I have something urgent to attend to and I’ll see them at dinner. When they’ve finished their drinks, show them to their rooms, please.”

“I hope everything is well, sir?”

He hung up without replying, knowing she would be worried at his unaccustomed abruptness but not having the mental energy to deal with it. I need to find the strength to cope with what’s going on in my own head. The rest of the world will have to wait. That decision seemed to restore some of his equilibrium. One thing at a time. Losing the bloodstained clothing seemed to be a good starting point.

Standing under fierce jets of water in the shower, he replayed that heart-stopping, brain-numbing moment on the beach. Could he have dealt with the shock any differently? Hidden his feelings? He choked back a laugh. Not a hope in hell. Living his life in the public eye, Sylvester had developed plenty of coping strategies. The easy, unruffled persona he showed the world had become second nature. Up until half an hour ago he thought he was prepared for any eventuality. But a pair of wide, golden-brown eyes peeping shyly at him from beneath the brim of a straw hat had just shaken him out of that certainty forever.

Impatient now to find out more about her, he turned off the shower. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he returned to the bedroom. Opening a drawer in his dresser, he extracted the six identically bound files Arthur Reynolds had sent him. Each had a name written on the front in Arthur’s meticulous, sloping handwriting. The carefully made-up blonde had introduced herself as Lucinda. He discarded her file. So she must be either Ellie Carter or Constance Lacey.

Arthur had set each file out in the same way. As soon as Sylvester opened Constance Lacey’s file, a head-and-shoulders photograph—obviously taken some years earlier—gazed up at him from inside the buff cover. The same shock waves hit him immediately. Thankfully the sensation was muted, presumably because this was a picture and she wasn’t here in person. Nevertheless, the impact of looking at her face zinged through to his nerve endings once more. Good thing I’m not holding a glass this time.

In the black-and-white picture, it looked as if the photographer had caught her unawares. Like she was in midsentence. Her hand was raised to brush her dark mane of hair back from her face. Her lips were parted, her eyes just crinkling into laughter. She wasn’t beautiful in any conventional sense of the word. She was stunning in every unconventional sense.

Gazing at her for a protracted, aching moment, Sylvester was overcome with lust and longing. Really? The man who can have any woman he wants...so they say. Getting hard and drooling over an old photograph. Nice image, Sylvester. Even as he gave himself the mental lecture, another voice spoke up in his mind. You know that’s not what this is about.

Who was she? He remembered thinking when Arthur had sent him the files that Constance Lacey’s was thinner than any of the others. Of course, he hadn’t actually opened any of them until now. He hadn’t seen any reason to read about their backgrounds until they were actually here on Corazón. Would he come to regret that decision? What would he have done if he had seen this photograph before meeting her in the flesh? Changed his mind? Withdrawn his invitation? It was too late for those questions. She was here. He had to deal with the reality of her on his island.

Sitting in a chair close to the bed, he skimmed the brief paragraph on their family connection. Arthur, as always, had been meticulous in his research. Sylvester recalled their conversation two years ago. “You want me to find anyone who is remotely related to you?” The attorney had clearly been struggling to keep the incredulity out of his voice. “You do know we will be talking hundreds of people?”

“Theoretically, yes. With any other family, that might be the case, but you know how small my family is. You are then going to narrow it down those de León descendants who are between the ages of twenty-five and thirty. Who are of sound mind and body, have no criminal record, no dependents, no marital ties and who are available to come to Corazón on the specified date. Given some of them will think I’m a raving lunatic, I imagine we’ll be talking a mere handful, don’t you?”

Arthur, still regarding him with a measure of disbelief, had agreed. Despite his misgivings, the attorney had done an outstanding job and Sylvester had been proved right. The handful had, of course, included Arthur’s own son. Hardly surprising, since the family connection was the reason Sylvester had entrusted the Reynolds family with his secrets for so many years.

Constance Lacey’s grandmother, Sylvester read now, had been some sort of de León second cousin, back in the mists of time. Could that be considered related at all? We aren’t related. The feeling brought a sense of profound relief, one that he instantly dismissed. The rest of the file contained frustratingly few biographical details. Her father, a Cuban immigrant, had died following a brief, violent illness when she was in her early teens. There was a newspaper cutting included in the file, and Sylvester glanced at. It told him Constance’s mother had been murdered a few years ago.

Constance had studied graphic design at college. Following that, she seemed to have a promising career as a model. Then she had simply...disappeared. Or deliberately made herself invisible. Clearly something traumatic had happened to her. That much was obvious from her appearance. When Arthur had tracked her down and traveled in person to Missouri to interview her, she had been working as a temporary clerk for a back street insurance company. None of this mattered. She might be something of an enigma, but her private life was her own affair. The task ahead of him was too important for Sylvester to be diverted by any imaginary connection he might feel to Constance Lacey. She was here now, in his space, on his island. It was an unexpected complication, but he couldn’t allow it to upset his meticulously laid plans. His lifestyle meant he’d had plenty of practice at keeping people at arm’s length when he chose. Doing the same to Constance Lacey shouldn’t be a problem. Should it?

Even as he asked himself the question, his fingertips strayed with a will of their own to one of the glossy photographs and traced the near-perfect oval outline of her face. But to find her now, after an eternity? He had always thought he was meant to suffer this alone. Determinedly, he put the picture aside. I am meant to suffer this alone.

* * *

They are a star-crossed family. With a name that brings bad luck to anyone who speaks it.

The words had been uttered with absolute finality by her usually unsuperstitious mother. Connie had been forced, therefore, to glean what she could about her famous relatives by scouring the gossip columns. Luckily, since Sylvester was a close friend of celebrities and princes, it had not been too difficult to follow his progress. Not a week went by without a photograph of him appearing in the press. Inevitably, he would have a drink in one hand and a woman on his arm. It was a different woman in each photograph, the common theme the adoring gaze up into his eyes. No matter who he was with, it was Sylvester on whom the paparazzi focused. He had that sort of charisma. His eyes indulged the world with a charming, if slightly cynical, smile. He was one of the elite, a member of that absurdly famous group of people known throughout the world only by their first names.

In addition to his wealth and celebrity lifestyle, Sylvester attracted attention for his determined daredevilry. He seemed to have an ongoing desire to kill himself in the most outrageous way imaginable. Now in his late twenties, he had climbed Everest, trekked to the North Pole, broken trans-Atlantic sailing records, flown around the world single-handed and had recently climbed one of the most perilous rock faces in the world. Those blue eyes scorned danger, their mesmerizing stare challenging death to try to take him if it dared.

Because of her mother’s prohibition, Connie had been cut to the core that she couldn’t boast to the other girls at college that she was related to Sylvester. Yes, that Sylvester. I mean, what was the point of having a ridiculously famous relative when I was strictly forbidden to talk about him?

When this strange invitation had come along, she couldn’t help wondering what her mother would have made of her acceptance. Principles, Connie decided, were all very well. Surely even her mother would have put superstition aside and obeyed a summons from Sylvester if the alternative was more fear and running and hiding? But Sylvester’s odd behavior when he greeted them on their arrival had brought her mother’s words back to her all over again.

“Is this Sylvester’s idea of a joke?” Lucinda’s voice had broken the stunned silence that descended as they watched the rear view of their host when he stalked away from them into the house. “Because if it’s not, he is quite insufferably rude.”

Connie remained perfectly still, feeling the slow-burning color creep up from her neck to her cheeks. She gazed after Sylvester in the grip of the same sort of trance that had held him as he had looked down at her. What on earth had just happened?

“Are you okay, Connie?”

The concern in Matt’s voice made it all so much worse. Because it confirms that Sylvester’s reaction was about me. And they all know it. Pride made her tilt her chin a fraction higher. “I’m fine.”

“Right...” Matt hesitated, glancing around. He was clearly striving for a more decisive tone. “Well, it’s obvious it was the unfortunate accident with his glass that caused Sylvester to walk away the way he did. I expect he’ll join us again as soon as he has tended to the injury to his hand. In the meantime, why don’t we make our way inside?”

“Do you think we should?” Guthrie’s expression was doubtful. “Perhaps we ought to wait until he comes back?”

“Nonsense.” Lucinda had already started walking across the beach toward the house. “Even if he’s severed an artery, Sylvester can’t seriously expect us to stand here waiting for him.”

Those blunt, and rather brutal, words had been the deciding factor. Since Matt was the only one among them who already knew his way around, he led the way up the beach and into the house.

Once there, they entered a staggeringly beautiful reception salon. Six floor-to-ceiling, arched windows lined each side of the tiled room. The furnishings were perfectly matched in shades of beige and gold and were opulently comfortable. Connie experienced an incongruous urge to kick off her shoes and curl up into a corner of one of the huge, squashy sofas. Marble columns, exquisite oil paintings, elegant rugs and ornamental chandeliers provided reminders that this was no ordinary family home and that such blatantly make-yourself-at-home conduct might be frowned upon.

She was experiencing a kaleidoscope of emotions. Could they all be attributed to the shock of Sylvester’s conduct? She wasn’t sure. So many conflicting thoughts were vying for her attention that she felt slightly dizzy. Her reaction to the house itself confused her. She had never in her life stepped foot inside a place so grand, yet it felt comforting and easy to be here. As if the house was wrapping her in a blanket of well-being and contentment. Yet lying in wait beneath that, there was darkness. Raw, greedy and merciless. Connie was used to fear, but this was more. Another layer of watchfulness had been added to her everyday dread. Resolutely she turned her thoughts away from soul-searching. This is because of Sylvester. You are allowing his behavior to color how you feel about Corazón.

Their arrival had attracted attention and a small, stout woman with a face like polished mahogany came to greet them. Her calf-length, black skirt and white blouse—while not precisely a uniform—together with the way she wore her blue-black hair in a neat bun effectively proclaimed her status as an employee. When she saw Matt, a grin almost split her broad face in two.

“Vega!” He held out his hands.

She turned from greeting him to speak more formally to the other guests. “I’m the housekeeper here at Corazón. Anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable, just let me know. For now, you sit down while I fetch a pitcher of my lemon iced tea.”

“Given the circumstances surrounding our arrival, I’d have thought something a bit stronger was in order, wouldn’t you?” Guthrie muttered as Vega departed.

“It’s not even noon.” There was something tired and automatic in the way Lucinda said the words, as though they were overused. Her eyes, bright and curious, turned to Connie. “I thought Sylvester was supposed to be known for his diplomacy. He did a very poor job of hiding his emotions on this occasion. Although you really should consider wearing a scarf. Your appearance can be quite alarming.”

Connie rose from her seat and moved to one of the tall windows, gazing out at the breathtaking vista with unseeing eyes. One hand remained over her neck in a familiar, defensive gesture.

Matt came to join her. “Take no notice. She’s wrong.”

Connie shook her head. “What else could it be? His whole manner changed as soon as he saw me.”

“I know Sylvester well enough to say this with complete confidence. Whatever it was about you that startled him—and I suppose it would be pointless to try and deny it was about you, Connie—it had nothing to do with your scars.”

* * *

Connie’s thoughts were diverted from the drama of their arrival by the view from the balcony outside her bedroom. The sensation that she was soaring out over the bay with nothing anchoring her to the land was breathtaking. Midday sunlight cast its rays over the scene, changing the water’s hue as it became more distant from the westernmost edge of the island. Close by, a satiny trim of color turned the sea a bright turquoise. White-tipped waves of brilliant cobalt played and gurgled against the rocks farther from the house. Beyond them, a midnight-dark band signaled deeper waters. Overhead, the sky was a blaze of blue so bright it hurt. The scene was framed on either side by fronds and feathers of lush plants. It was a perfect noonday paradise, its soundtrack the song of cicadas. In spite of Sylvester’s strange reaction to her, she felt a sense of peace washing over her, as if the island itself was welcoming her.

“It is beautiful.” She turned to look over her shoulder at Vega.

“I have always thought so,” the housekeeper replied in her serene way. “You will be careful, won’t you? It is a sheer drop down onto the terrace from there.”

She was referring to the waist-high, wrought-iron balcony rail on which Connie was leaning. The words made Connie feel suddenly nervous and she turned back into the room itself. It was dominated by a vast bed with a carved head, and legs as thick as tree trunks. A colorful, embroidered quilt in shades of gold and blue covered the mattress. The pictures on the walls and the rugs on the floor reflected the same scenes depicted in the embroidery.

“This is the Sea Shell Room,” Vega explained. “The quilt is a copy of one that was in the de León family many centuries ago.”

Connie ran a hand lightly over the intricately patterned needlework. A faint tremor, reminiscent of a slight static shock, tingled through her fingertips and she withdrew her hand with a frown. That sort of friction was something she associated with man-made fibers, not the cotton of this bedspread. Whatever it was, she really didn’t want that sort of irritation associated with her bedding for the duration of her stay. If I stay here at all. She was still undecided about that. The comfortable atmosphere of the island might have swept over her, but the welcome party hadn’t exactly been encouraging. And she hadn’t forgotten that other, deeper, feeling she had experienced. It had faded now but, like a bad taste, the memory of it lingered. You are so used to sensing evil, you’ve forgotten how to stop, she told herself firmly.

The embroidery showed a series of scenes of people engaged in a variety of activities, all of them featuring beaches, boats, shells or water. “Who are they?”

“The Calusa. They were the original inhabitants of this chain of islands.”

It somehow felt wrong to visit a new place and not have taken the time to learn something about it. But life on the run didn’t exactly allow for research, and Connie had only had seven days to get ready for this unexpected journey. Even so, she felt uncomfortable with the confession she was forced to make. “I know nothing about the Calusa.”

“They were the Shell Indians, the people who lived along the sandy shores of this part of Florida.” Vega, seeming untroubled by the static electricity that had affected Connie, traced the embroidered pictures with one fingertip. “These are scenes that show their daily lives. Fishing, boating, collecting shells. Although the Calusa tribe died out completely in the eighteenth century, they had already been driven out of many of these islands long before then. The arrival of the Spanish brought chaos to their lives.”

The mention of the Spanish prompted Connie to ask another question. One her mother, because of her prohibition about the de León family, had been unable to answer. “Is it true Sylvester is descended from the conquistadors? Or is that just a fairy tale?”

“Ah, the master tells the history of his family so much better than I ever could.” The master? It was like stepping into a black-and-white movie. Or someone else’s privileged lifestyle. One in which Connie didn’t belong. “I’ll leave you to unpack. Dinner is at eight.”

When Vega had gone, Connie returned to the balcony. Her thoughts were in turmoil and even the idyllic view couldn’t soothe them. Could she remain here on Corazón and face Sylvester again after that devastating first encounter? Surely the right thing—the only thing—to do would be to leave? Just turn around now, steel her boat-induced nerves, and ask Roberto to take her back to Charlotte Harbor on the launch? If she did, she would have to return the money Mr. Reynolds had given her, including the amount she had already spent on clothes. She had no savings on which to draw.

No money. No job. Nowhere to go. It wasn’t exactly a new situation. In fact, it pretty much summed up the last four years of her life. But Mr. Reynolds—or, through him, Sylvester—had given her a little glimmer of hope, a brief respite from loneliness and running. Just for once she had the chance to break out of her discarded, unwanted and unloved life. He had offered her safety and he would never know—how could he?—what that had meant to Connie. Then, with one glance and one shattered wineglass, Sylvester had cruelly dragged that vision of security away again.

What if I stay anyway? We have an agreement. It doesn’t say Sylvester has to like, or even tolerate, me.

The thought made her straighten her shoulders. Could she spend the next few weeks on his beautiful island and enjoy the luxury of this house without having to spend time with her host? Accept this sanctuary as a much-needed breathing space from which to plan her next steps? If she could hang on to that remaining money, it might just get her a plane ticket to Europe. A new life could be within her grasp. All she needed to do was to be Sylvester’s invisible guest for the next month. It seemed like a plan. As far as she could see, there was only one problem with her idea...

Dinner was at eight.


Chapter 3 (#ua57f949a-2487-573a-96b1-8e6c15eb1c1c)

Mindful of Mr. Reynolds’s comments, Connie had dutifully purchased some new clothes. She had been reluctant, however, to spend too much of the cash he had given her on expensive outfits. Those crisp notes were her insurance policy, the cushion between her and the harsh reality of a job scrubbing floors. She wasn’t going to part with a single one of those dollar bills for frivolous reasons unless she absolutely had to. So the week between her meeting with Mr. Reynolds and her journey to Corazón had been spent visiting vintage clothing stores and dressmaking outlets.

Connie’s mother had been a talented seamstress, with an eye for color and style. After her husband’s death, she had supplemented her income by doing alterations and making clothes for friends, including one who had won a luxury cruise holiday. Once the excitement about the prize had died down, a panic about purchasing expensive cocktail dresses on a limited budget had followed.

“What you need—” Connie could hear her mother’s calm voice as if it was yesterday “—is a few simple, neutral gowns. Then you change the trimmings on them so people are fooled into thinking you’re wearing a new dress each time.”

She had demonstrated by swiftly pinning a length of cream silk around her friend. One minute it was decorated with a spray of tiny crystal flowers curling lovingly over one shoulder; the next, two rows of diamanté decorated the scooped neckline. “Two different dresses. You see?”

For that first dinner Connie chose a white gown of Grecian simplicity, in a draped style that left one shoulder bare. When it came to hair and makeup, she knew she wouldn’t be able to compete with Lucinda’s expensive sophistication. Shrugging, she decided she would have to rely on the novelty of simplicity instead. Arranging the glossy length of her hair in a single thick plait over her exposed shoulder, she finished the look with a touch of coral lip gloss.

Simplicity seemed to work. When she appeared in the doorway of the salon, every eye turned her way. Guthrie actually did her the honor of choking slightly on his drink. Lucinda looked thunderous but, for once, had nothing to say. Instead she rearranged the folds of her designer gown and patted her immaculately styled hair before whispering behind her hand to the woman who sat beside her.

“You look stunning,” Matt said, coming forward to greet Connie.

“Stunning in a good way?” She winced at how needy the words sounded. Four years ago she had made a vow never to cover up the scars on her neck. They were proof that she was a survivor. But on a night like tonight—wearing a dress that attracted rather than deflected attention—she needed all the reassurance she could get.

“Definitely in a good way.” He guided her into the room. “Let me introduce you to Ellie and Jonathan Carter, who must, like else everyone in the room, be some sort of distant cousins of ours.”

Ellie, Connie was relieved to note, was considerably less threatening to look at than Lucinda. Connie judged her to be a couple years older than herself and she had a chatty manner and bright eyes that missed nothing. Ellie explained she was a New Yorker, born and bred. She was also unmarried.

Jonathan was her older brother. Tall and handsome, with dark hair and penetrating green eyes, he was quiet to the point of taciturnity. Ellie informed Connie that he worked for a firm of accountants, but he was also an aspiring author. Jonathan, who seemed annoyed his sister had shared this personal information with a complete stranger, moved away to look at the view out the window.

“The news of the moment is that Sylvester will be joining us anytime now.” Ellie clearly had no idea of the heart-dropping effect those words had on Connie.

A light step outside was the signal they had all been listening for. A laughing, masculine voice responded to something Vega was saying and then Sylvester stepped into the room. He paused on the doorstep, those brilliant eyes scanning the company.

Connie willed herself to remain outwardly calm, despite the fact her heartbeat was thundering in her ears. Thinking fast, she placed her glass on a nearby side table so no one would notice and comment on the sudden trembling of her hands.

Sylvester’s eyes seemed to linger on each face. Except hers. He didn’t even glance in Connie’s direction. Yet she knew, just knew with a certainty that branded itself into her heart, that he was as intensely aware of her as she was of him. You can’t possibly know that. She tried to force her rational self to take over, to stop this nonsense now. You are trying to make this into something it’s not. It was no good. Whatever this force was that existed between her and Sylvester, the very air between them shimmered with the ferocity of it.

“What sort of dreadful host arrives after his guests have assembled? I do hope you’ll forgive me.” Sylvester’s easy charm was legendary. Up close, it was devastating. In an instant the whole room was his to command. Connie was immediately aware of the strangeness of the phrase. Why would he want the sort of power that allows him to command us? It was a long time since she’d drunk alcohol and a few sips of Guthrie’s potent rum punch were clearly sending her imagination into overdrive. Water for you from now on, my girl. If only she could do something about the equally forceful impact of Sylvester’s presence. “Vega tells me dinner is ready.”

He led them into a long, hacienda-style dining room. The arched, full-length windows were open onto the terrace, allowing them views over the beach. A light breeze wafted the mingled scents of mimosa flowers, citrus and the tang of the sea into the room. Connie couldn’t help contrasting this elegant scene with years of eating takeaway meals, or sometimes nothing at all, alone in a meager room, while planning her next one-step-ahead-of-the-madman journey. Would she take luxury and tension over poverty and terror? She almost laughed aloud at the stupidity of her own question.

Sylvester took his place at the head of the table and immediately started a conversation about sailing with Ellie, who was on his right. Lucinda was quick to claim the seat on his left. Connie moved to a chair as far away from Sylvester as possible. She was glad to look up and receive an encouraging smile from Matt as he slid into the seat opposite her.

Guthrie was next to Connie, and she was surprised to learn he and Lucinda were twins. She wondered why on earth he allowed himself to be bullied by her and supposed it must be a habit that had started in the womb.

Vega’s food was delicious. Made with fresh ingredients, each dish was well cooked and plentiful. For Connie, who had spent plenty of time wondering where her next meal was coming from, it was heavenly. As she ate, Connie found her ears tuning out Guthrie’s comments and listening, almost with a will of their own, to the conversation going on beyond him at the head of the table.

“Whatever have you done to your hand?” Ellie asked as Sylvester struggled to cut his food.

“Didn’t you hear?” Lucinda cut in before Sylvester could speak. “Cousin Sylvester was so shocked by the appearance of some of our little group that he crushed his wineglass in his hand.”

Connie risked a glance at Sylvester’s face. It was impassive, but there was a flash of something in those blue eyes that might have been anger. He turned to Ellie. “Lucinda is joking, of course. I have nothing to blame for my injury other than my own clumsiness.” His voice was dismissive and Connie got the distinct impression he was making an effort not to look in her direction as he spoke. Perhaps he was able to convince himself that what he said was true. She knew better, and so did everyone else who had been present at the time.

Determinedly, Connie turned back to Guthrie. She had made a pact with herself to keep her distance from Sylvester. She should probably include eavesdropping on his conversation as part of the deal. Not an easy task in a group as small as this one.

Once he was free of Lucinda’s tight rein, Guthrie proved to be surprisingly good company. He kept Connie entertained with a steady stream of anecdotes about his job as a junior manager in a convenience store chain.

His life appeared to lurch from one comical episode to another. Although he was at pains to let Connie know how invaluable he was to his company, reading between the lines she speculated about how competent he actually was. An alarming number of unfortunate incidents seemed to occur in his working life. She decided Guthrie was one of those people for whom it was always somebody else’s problem or somebody else’s fault. He consumed a remarkable amount of alcohol during the course of the meal and Connie couldn’t help wondering how much of a contribution drink made to the mishaps that befell him.

It was during the main course of Spanish-style chicken and rice that Connie’s attention, along with that of everyone else at the table, was drawn back to Sylvester as Lucinda began to question him about the history of the island.

“The word Corazón means heart in Spanish, of course.” Lucinda’s penetrating voice carried around the room. “And the island is well known for its heart-shaped coastline. So I assume that is where the name came from?”

“You assume wrong.” Although Sylvester’s tone was softer, his words were equally compelling. Other conversations stopped as they all turned to look at him. “The island’s full name is Corazón de Malicia. It means ‘malevolent heart’ or ‘heart of malice.’”

“But that’s nowhere near as pretty.” Lucinda pouted. “In fact, it makes it sound quite nasty.”

“That’s because the story of how the island came by its name is nasty.” Sylvester paused, taking a sip from his glass.

As though drawn by a force beyond his will, he looked directly at Connie for the first time since he had entered the room. And nothing else mattered. The people around them faded into insignificance. Time stilled. In that instant she could sense his feelings as clearly as she knew her own. There was no doubt in her mind. She knew his reaction on the beach had not been about the scars on her neck. This was something deeper and darker, and it was inside them both. Neither of them wanted it, yet at the same time it was unavoidable. They could be silent and reserved, avoid each other’s gaze and pretend, but when their eyes did meet—as they met now—there was no hiding place for either of them. Connie didn’t try to understand what was going on; all she knew was that when she gazed into Sylvester’s eyes her heart leaped with a combination of joy, fear and something older and unfathomable. And she never wanted to look anywhere else.

“Well, you can’t say that and then not explain!” Lucinda’s indignant exclamation had the effect of rousing Sylvester from his trance.

Connie caught a brief flash of regret in his eyes as he withdrew them from hers. Then a slightly mischievous smile touched his lips as he turned to Lucinda. “Very well, but it’s a strange tale and an old one. I can’t vouch for its truthfulness. It concerns an ancestor of mine, one Máximo Silvestre de León y Soledad.”

“Are you named after him?” Ellie asked.

The smile deepened. “Of course. The name was handed down through the generations...and Americanized in the process, of course. Máximo was the founder of our great family.”

“And is it true? Are you descended from Ponce de León himself?”

“There are no formal records, but it’s a link that has repeatedly been made. Not necessarily within my own family.”

“How amazing!” Lucinda’s eyes sparkled. “To think you can trace your family tree back to the man who discovered Florida.”

Sylvester’s smile had vanished now and his voice held a harsh note that was unlike his usual charming tone. “I prefer to think Florida was here all along and needed no discovery by the Spanish. But, back to the story of Máximo...

“Juan Ponce de León’s intention when he arrived here in 1521 was to set up a Spanish colony in La Florida, or the place of flowers, as he had named it on his earlier visit. When he arrived, he encountered a hostile reception from the native Calusa Indians. In a skirmish, Ponce de León was shot in the thigh with a poisoned arrow and, although he managed to escape to Cuba, he died of the wound. Máximo fared rather better. His life was spared by the Calusa. It was an unusual move. They were not known for their merciful nature. On the contrary, they were known to be quite savage to their enemies.”

“Is it known why they changed their habits for Máximo?” It was Matt who spoke up this time. Although he lounged back in his seat, he, like everyone else around the table, appeared to have picked up on the tense atmosphere generated by the story.

“There has been much speculation. Perhaps it was Máximo’s personal charm—according to records kept at the time, he was accounted a very charismatic man—although the ability to enchant an entire warlike tribe must have been quite an achievement.”

Watching his face as he spoke, listening to that, soft, lyrical voice, Connie could believe the Máximo of all those years ago had possessed that sort of magnetism. His descendant certainly did.

“The most popular theory is a high-ranking Calusa maiden, possibly the daughter of a chief, appealed for mercy on his behalf.”

“So Máximo was a bit of a ladies’ man?” Guthrie gave a smirk around the table.

“What makes you say that?”

Somehow, although she couldn’t say how, Connie sensed an undercurrent of anger in Sylvester’s question.

“Well, you know...”

“On the contrary. We don’t know. So let’s stick to the facts, shall we?”

Guthrie, muttering under his breath in the manner of a sulky schoolboy, subsided into his seat.

“Although we can only speculate about the reasons, Máximo lived among the Calusa for some months. It’s not clear how he parted company with them, or how he came to claim this island. One thing we do know is a curse was placed upon our family by the mother of the Calusa king. It was that curse which gives this island its name.” When Sylvester paused, the only sound was of the waves caressing the sands.

“What was the curse?” Overcoming her nerves, Connie spoke directly to Sylvester for the first time. For some reason she really needed to know the answer to that question. Her mother’s words came back to her. They are a star-crossed family. Yes, there was that. But her yearning for more went deeper. Like the pull she felt to Sylvester himself, there was something drawing her into this story.

Sylvester’s eyes returned to hers and, although she drew in a sharp breath as that electrical current of energy surged through her once more, she managed to maintain the contact. “It was in the dead language of the Calusa, but the translation was that Máximo’s descendants must forever remain pure of heart. If they do not, any drop of impurity contained within them will, from then on, be magnified a thousandfold, damning the house of de León forever. Word of the curse spread and that was how the name Corazón de Malicia came about.”

“It seems a strange curse. Why not simply condemn him to die a horrible death? Surely that would be a more effective way of dealing with him?” Matt’s finely tuned legal mind honed in on the detail.

“Revenge is a sweeter wine when sipped slowly. It seems to me the whole point of curses and hexes is to strike a fear into the soul of the receiver that lasts long after the point of contact with the person delivering it. This one certainly did that.

“Instead of Máximo’s life, the old Calusa woman took from him all he cherished. His proud name, his heritage, his status. For generations she has defiled the de León family name, sapped our strength and eroded our pride. I am branded with an island home named Heart of Malice. Each of you, just like anyone who has heard of us, will be aware of the rumors about this place.” He encompassed his house with a sweep of one hand. “It’s the same old story. I’ve lost count of the number of newspaper and magazine articles that have been written about the family who have everything. Except good fortune. You know what the press say. Don’t marry a de León...unless you want to die young.”

Connie winced. A quick glance around the table told her everyone was thinking the same thing. They were all remembering the shocking reports of car, plane and boat accidents, terminal illness, murder and suicide. How many ways could the members of one family die too soon? Fate seemed to grow ever more creative where the family was concerned. No wonder the world believed Corazón was doomed. And now Sylvester himself seemed to be providing irrefutable confirmation. This island’s beauty was a thin veneer beneath which black poison oozed.

“So the curse became a self-fulfilling prophecy that has lasted almost five hundred years?” Matt’s skeptical voice broke the mood.

“Yes. Far more effective, wouldn’t you say, than simply striking Máximo down on the spot?” Sylvester waited while the words sank in. “And now I suppose you must all be eager to discover why I have invited you—who are all de Leóns, however distant—to spend the next month here on my cursed island?”


Chapter 4 (#ua57f949a-2487-573a-96b1-8e6c15eb1c1c)

Throughout the remainder of the meal, Sylvester did his best to avoid looking in Connie’s direction. It wasn’t good for his heart rate or his self-control. Whenever he did lose the battle with his willpower and glance her way, she immediately made sure she was looking elsewhere. Once or twice she wasn’t fast enough and he caught those glorious dark eyes staring at him with a mixture of curiosity and something more. Something primeval and longing. She feels it, too! The realization sent a surge of triumph through him, like a wildfire singeing his nerve endings. Unlike him, she didn’t know what “it” was. How could she? That thought instantly quenched the fire.

His eyes were drawn to the way her hand repeatedly touched the slender column of her neck, attempting to hide the disfigurement but drawing attention to it instead. The action touched him because it lacked guile yet it told a story. She wasn’t seeking attention. She was avoiding it.

The white scars stood out in stark relief against the olive smoothness of her skin. No accident could have caused those linear marks. One scar went almost all the way across her throat from left to right. Then there were a series of other, smaller marks running parallel above and below it. Someone had taken a knife to Connie’s smooth flesh and dug it in deep. Someone, not something. His hand clenched hard on his thigh. He thought he was ready to face any challenge, but nothing could have prepared him for this. The thought came again, stronger and more despairing. Why now?

Anger flared within him. It was two-pronged, directed at the person who had wielded that weapon, but also at a fate cruel enough to twist another knife. One that was cold steel tearing at his gut because, just as everything was in place, along had come Connie Lacey to turn his orderly plans upside down.

Sylvester knew better than to let his feelings of rage spiral out of control. The de León family could never be cold-blooded. Their emotions ran deep and strong. It would be easy to blame the curse, to pass responsibility for their actions on to the story of the old Calusa woman. In the past, that was what many de Leóns had done. Because he knew what was to come, Sylvester had never allowed himself that luxury. If anything, the curse had made him keep a tighter rein on his emotions.

His awareness that the darker side of his de León personality could easily become magnified had forced him into a heightened awareness of his own faults. Quick to anger, he had learned early how to keep his temper in check. A perfectionist, he had trained himself to relax and let the details go. Impatient of idle chitchat, he had cultivated a manner that hid his intolerance under a guise of genuine interest. No one, Sylvester had determined, would ever be able to say the master of Corazón had a “heart of malice.”

Now he tightened his grip on the anger that wanted to become a frenzy. He wanted to fire questions at Connie about what had happened to cause those scars and that haunted, hunted look he saw in her eyes every now and then when she thought no one was looking at her. He also wanted to storm and rage at a set of circumstances that had brought him this dilemma.

All the pathways in his well-ordered life had been leading him here. Everything he had ever done since that first conscious memory had brought him to this point and now he was confronted with...what? Not a change of plan. That can never happen. So Sylvester kept his anger to himself, finished his meal and maintained his role as the perfect host.

Sylvester was aware his guests were all speculating on his story about the curse of Corazón. Oh, they were too polite to do so openly. The conversation over dessert was all about the weather, the Floridian cuisine, this island chain known as Corona de Perlas and the activities and sightseeing they hoped to engage in during their stay. But the undercurrent was tangible. The atmosphere had changed the moment Sylvester mentioned his reason for inviting them. Behind the polite chat, each one of them was wondering why they were here and what they could gain from their visit.

The temptation to keep them guessing a while longer was almost irresistible, but Sylvester hadn’t brought them here to toy with them. No matter how grasping the light in Lucinda’s eyes or speculative the expression in Ellie’s, they were here for a reason. He might as well get this over with.

“We’ll take coffee on the terrace, Vega,” he said when everyone had finished dessert.

The marble-tiled terrace overlooked the beach. Comfortable furnishings reflected the golds and blues of the seascape and climbing plants trailed colorful fingers over the wrought-iron balustrade. Waves washing onto the shore and the light breeze rustling in the trees provided a backdrop of sound, breaking the silence that fell over the group as they realized the time for the truth had arrived.

Sylvester noticed Connie hung back until she saw where he was sitting before deliberately taking the seat furthest from his. He felt a pang of annoyance at such obvious reticence and then dismissed it. It suited him not to have her close by. Her nearness disrupted his equilibrium, something he needed for the task he was about to undertake.

Vega took her time serving coffee and liqueurs and then, after checking she would not be needed again, left them alone.

“It must have seemed strange that I chose to invite you, a group of complete strangers, to join me in my home.” Looking around him at their faces, Sylvester could see each of them was hanging on his every word.

“We are not all strangers,” Lucinda pointed out with something approaching a pout. “Guthrie and I have met you once before, remember?”

Ignoring her comment, Sylvester continued. “I asked Arthur Reynolds, Matt’s father, who has been my trusted attorney for many years, to trace as many of my relatives as he could who were between the ages of twenty-five and thirty. They had to be of sound mind and body, have no criminal record, no dependents and no marital ties.” Sylvester smiled as he looked around. “You are the people he found who fitted those criteria and who were able to come to Corazón on the dates I had specified.”

“It did seem a little—” Ellie appeared to search for the right word “—unusual. But I thought it was a charming idea.”

You are a liar. Sylvester refrained from saying the words aloud. He wondered what her reason for being here was. Probably money. That’s what it usually came down to.

“And so to my reason for inviting you. I have decided the time has come to make my will.” There was a faint ripple of interest. Yes, I thought that might grab your attention. “I have no heir, no one to inherit Corazón or the fortune that goes with it. My reason for asking all of you here is simple. I intend to leave my estate divided between as many of you as I consider worthy of it.”

There was a brief, stunned silence, broken only by the high-pitched chipping sound of a distant osprey.

“Well!” It was Lucinda who spoke first, her voice cutting through the silence like a razor-edged knife. “I would have thought it was fairly obvious who Corazón should be left to, without any need for this drama. Guthrie and I are your nearest relatives, after all.”

“Yes, but you will note I said I wished to leave my estate to the person, or people, I consider the worthiest.” Sylvester ignored her outraged expression. “Most of you can be said to have some claim of birth, however remote.” He allowed his eyes to skim quickly over Connie. Her link was so tenuous it was almost nonexistent, but there was no need for the others to know that. “Matt is here to oversee the legalities. Being a relative himself, he is also included in my proposition.”

“I’m an employee. There is no need to include me in this,” Matt protested in embarrassment.

“There is every need, if I choose to do so.” Sylvester’s voice was smooth. “There is just one condition. It is simple and not negotiable.” Everyone went very still. Sylvester was reminded of those old black-and-white movies. This was like the scene where the detective gathers everyone together and unmasks the murderer. Cue dramatic music.

Everyone was waiting for him to continue speaking. “In order to be included in this proposal, you must remain here at Corazón, as my guests, until my thirtieth birthday in thirty days’ time. Those of you who are still here to raise a glass on that day will be named in my will as my heirs and will inherit an equal share in my fortune. As for the island itself, I will leave that to the individual I decide is worthiest of it.”

“Seems a decent arrangement,” Guthrie said. “I, for one, am quite happy to live in the lap of luxury at your expense for the next few weeks, Sylvester.”

“I thought you might be.” Sylvester kept his voice perfectly even, although his eyes dropped briefly to the empty liqueur glass in Guthrie’s hand.

“But you’ve said people tell such strange stories about Corazón.” Lucinda cast a theatrical glance over her shoulder at the dark beach. “How do we know we will be safe here?”

“If you have the slightest fear about staying under my roof, you have only to say the word and Roberto will have the launch at your disposal within the next half an hour.” Sylvester’s words cast a hush over the terrace. His meaning was clear. Stay and risk the hidden dangers that are rumored to lurk within these heart-shaped shores. Go and forfeit your share of a fortune.

The atmosphere changed in that instant. It had become a competition.

* * *

After dropping his bombshell, Sylvester went away, leaving his guests on the terrace. His departure provoked a storm of conversation, one from which Connie remained detached. She didn’t feel part of this strange arrangement, so she didn’t feel she had any right to comment. Or maybe her inclination and willpower weren’t strong enough to insert herself into the storm.

“It’s ridiculous,” Lucinda was saying sulkily. “And probably illegal.”

“If my father is advising Sylvester, it’s certainly not illegal,” Matt commented. For some reason, his words didn’t seem to reassure Lucinda.

“We’ve all sustained a shock. I think a drink is in order,” Guthrie said. “I’ll go and fetch us something.” Eagerly, he hurried away.

“What is Sylvester worth, do you think?” Ellie glanced around each of them in turn.

“Billions.” Jonathan’s voice was calmer than the others. “The exact amount would be speculation.”

Ellie’s eyes sparkled. “So all we have to do is sit tight, and we each get a share of that. And one of us will inherit this island, as well.”

“When Sylvester dies,” Matt pointed out. “He’s a young man.”

“But as his heirs, we would be entitled to some sort of privileges during his lifetime, surely?” she insisted.

“That would be entirely up to Sylvester.”

“This is ridiculous!” Lucinda had been pacing the length of the terrace but she paused now, her face suffused with fury. “This should be done properly. Mr. Reynolds should have been given the task of finding Sylvester’s closest relatives. That would be Guthrie and me. We should be his heirs. We could challenge this—”

Matt’s calm tones cut across her heated ones. “I hope you won’t. You’d look very foolish. It is up to Sylvester to decide who he leaves his money to.”

Before Lucinda could reply, Guthrie returned with a tray laden with drinks and proceeded to dispense these. The interruption lightened some of the tension. “It’s like an old-fashioned horror story,” Guthrie commented cheerfully.

“Don’t be absurd.” Lucinda frowned at him.

“No, I mean it.” He lowered his voice dramatically. “Who will be the first to succumb to the curse of Corazón? The first one to go is usually the quietest. My money’s on you, Jonathan.”

“Thank you.” Jonathan raised his glass in a mock salute.

“Connie won’t be first,” Guthrie continued. “The prettiest girl always lasts until close to the end.”

“It’s interesting that no one wants to leave,” Matt said. “Which means none of us are taking the story seriously.”

“Do you think Sylvester believes so strongly in the curse he is convinced he will die young? Is that why he has never married?” Ellie turned to Matt for answers.

Matt shrugged. “I’m not in his confidence. Sylvester doesn’t strike me as an overimaginative person, however.”

“If we chose to stay and don’t remain pure of heart, surely we risk becoming victims of the second part of the curse?” After remaining quiet for so long, Jonathan seemed to have found his voice. It was laden with doom.

“You mean there’s a chance we could die young? Within the next few weeks?” Ellie’s voice became more high-pitched with each word. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“We’ll just have to think pure thoughts and do pure deeds for the next three weeks,” Guthrie said as he drained his glass. “Who’s for another?”

Since Jonathan’s words had cast a gloom over everyone’s spirits, no one took him up on his offer and Guthrie was left alone among the bottles as the others wandered away.

Matt caught up with Connie as she strolled along the edge of the beach. “You were very quiet back there. Everything okay?”

She turned her head to smile up at him. “I’m not sure what to make of it all. Do you believe the curse story?”

“No, but I think those sorts of things can have a powerful influence. Once they take hold of an individual’s imagination, they can do some damage. If anyone back there actually believed their darker traits might be enhanced by this island—that they will develop a heart of malice while they are here—then the power of suggestion could be strong enough to make it happen.”

There was enough light cast by the moon and from the house itself for her to see his expression. A mischievous smile lit up his features. “So we might see Lucinda change from the dear, sweet girl she is now into someone altogether more unpleasant.”

Connie couldn’t help laughing. “When you put it like that, it does sound foolish to think a place can change someone’s personality.” She looked at the house. It was so beautiful; how could it possibly be bad?

“Do you believe the past can influence the present?” His voice was suddenly different. Some of the humor had gone, to be replaced by a sudden urgency.

Connie shivered slightly. Wasn’t she living proof it did? Every day? “It depends. Are you talking about living memory or the distant past?” She’d spent so long worrying about what the next ten minutes might bring, tonight was the first time she’d thought about the past in a true historical sense—beyond the pages of a book—in a very long time.

Matt ran a hand through his hair. “To be honest, I don’t know what I’m talking about, or where the hell that question came from. I’m going to blame Guthrie for mixing an overly powerful drink and go in search of a strong coffee. I’ll leave you to your stroll.”

Slipping off her shoes, Connie stepped up to the water’s edge, feeling the grains of sand crunch and slide between her toes. She wondered if she was the only person who felt safer here, despite the curse. Or did the other five all have equally powerful reasons for staying? I have faced the prospect of dying young every second of every day for the last four years. What does another few weeks matter?

Sylvester’s proposition meant nothing to her, except as a means of escape from fear. If she was still here in three weeks’ time—and she’d become used to thinking of her future in much shorter time scales—she’d deal with the implications then. Perhaps Mr. Reynolds could help her? If she survived and emerged as one of Sylvester’s heirs, surely she’d have more options. She smiled. One of Sylvester de León’s heirs. The thought was too ridiculous for words.

The thought that she was here at all, thinking about Sylvester, imagining that there was something in his eyes when he looked at her, was all too far-fetched to be true. Perhaps that was another reason why this talk of curses hadn’t affected her as much as it had the others. Her heart rate had still not recovered from the intensity of that magnetic blue gaze. Unlike everyone else, her biggest challenge would not be to withstand the effects of the curse; it would be to resist the lure of the island’s owner.

As she turned and walked back, the view of the house, golden and welcoming in the darkness, was stunning. It beckoned to her as nowhere in her life had ever done, stirring emotions she didn’t understand. Sweet wistfulness twined its way around her heart, slowing her limbs and softening her gaze. Decorative arches were lit by lamps and light shone from each of the windows. The walkways through the gardens were also now lit and Connie caught glimpses of pretty fountains shimmering with reflected color. As she walked toward them, she experienced the oddest feeling of déjà vu. The thought amused her. Because my life has been all about spending time in the garden of a billionaire’s island mansion. Moving closer still, the feelings persisted. It was much more than a brief sensation of having been here before. It was an emotional pull accompanied by a strange, proprietorial pride.

There were four identical Spanish-style fountains, each hexagonal in shape with mosaic tiles in green, white and blue decorating their bases. The walkway between them was lined with fragrant blue sage flowers and a stone bench had been set at the end, affording a perfect view over the whole area. Connie surveyed the scene with her head to one side.

Perfect. Just like the old house at Valladolid.

The strange thought, quick and fleeting, was gone as soon as it had entered her mind. Connie shook her head. What did she know of old houses in Valladolid? This strange night was getting to her in more ways than one.

As she drew closer to the fountains, she could hear two men talking. They were walking toward her. Recognizing Sylvester’s voice, she pulled back into the shadows. She wasn’t ready for a conversation with him yet. She might never be ready for that.

The other man was Matt. Clearly he had been sidetracked from his coffee, and he was the one speaking as they drew level with Connie.

“Sylvester, this plan of yours is ridiculous. You’ll marry and have children of your own. There is no need for this—” Connie could hear the frustration in Matt’s tone as he ground out the words, then paused to seek the right one to come next. “Theater.”

“No, you couldn’t be more wrong. I will never marry. No child of mine will inherit Corazón.”

“I don’t wish to pry, but are you ill, Sylvester? Is that what this is all about?” Matt sounded concerned. “Because we can get you the very best doctor money can buy.”

As the two men continued on their way, Connie heard Sylvester’s laughter. It was a bitter, mirthless sound, carried to her clearly on a warm island breeze together with his words. “I wish it was that simple, Matt. Really, I do.”


Chapter 5 (#ua57f949a-2487-573a-96b1-8e6c15eb1c1c)

Connie slept well in her shell-themed room, although her slumber was plagued by odd snippets of dreams. These were fanciful glimpses into another time when there were shells to be gathered and fish to be speared. She had never before had a dream in which the sense of heat was so real. Connie could taste it in the sand-blasted, flower-scented air. It shimmered around her as she walked, clinging to her bare legs and plastering the strange garment she wore against her body. It seemed to be a short dress made of tanned deerskin decorated with interwoven grasses, moss and shells.

Waking the next day, she felt the oddest sense of loss, as though her dreaming self wanted to cling to something that never was. The feeling persisted as she showered and dressed.

These strange imaginings must have been prompted by Sylvester and his talk of the deeds of long-dead de León ancestors. After all the talk of history and curses, it was probably only natural her subconscious mind should have taken her on a journey away from this beautiful house that gazed out onto calm seas. Behind the luxurious façade, there was drama and legend enough to sweep her back through the centuries to the point in time when Spanish conquistador and fierce Calusa had collided.

She was relieved to find she was the only person at breakfast. Vega informed her that Sylvester, always an early riser, had already eaten and gone for his customary morning run. No one else had emerged from their rooms. Vega imparted the news with a vague air of condemnation.

“Are there any books about the Calusa in the house?” Connie asked when Vega brought her coffee and eggs. “I’d love to learn more about them.”

“You should ask the master. He knows more than anyone alive about the ‘fierce people,’” Vega told her with a trace of pride. “But I think he does have some books in the den.”

The day stretched ahead of Connie, the first one she could remember in which she had no plans. It was a strange feeling. No work. No furtive, over-the-shoulder glances. No raised heart rate. It was too soon to say there was no fear. She had been conditioned to feel fear. Her hand went to her throat. He has brainwashed me to be afraid. The way a master trains his dog. The thought roused a flicker of anger deep within her and she welcomed it as a sign she wasn’t completely under his control.

When she had finished eating, she took a second cup of coffee into the den. As with every room at Corazón, it was both luxurious and comfortable.

Connie found the Spanish style that pervaded the house soothing to her nerves, and that feeling was more apparent in this room than any other. The huge fireplace dominating the room was decorated with a brass plate. When she stepped closer, Connie saw it depicted scenes of the conquistadors’ battles. The den had a high, arched ceiling of light oak paneling with the wood continuing halfway down the walls. This had also been used to build the bookcases that lined one wall.

Vega was right, and Connie discovered several books about the Calusa on the shelves. Taking these down, she placed them on a side table and, kicking off her shoes, curled into one of the huge, cushioned chairs at the side of the fireplace. What heaven! A chance to read without having an eye on the clock and the other on the door. Within minutes she was completely lost in the world of the Shell Indians. Her ears, accustomed to listen for changes, picked up on movements within the house without allowing them to disrupt her concentration. She tuned out Lucinda’s complaints about the noise of the cicadas, Ellie’s inquiry about whether the coffee was decaf and Guthrie’s good-natured banter with Vega about the size of the breakfast and his fears for his waistline.

It was some time later that the door clicked open and she finally glanced up from her book, reluctantly leaving behind a world when shells counted as currency and the word of the king and his high priests were the laws that mattered. The smile faded from her lips as she encountered the blistering blue of Sylvester’s gaze.

“Oh.” Connie snapped the book closed. He looked annoyed. Shouldn’t she be here? Perhaps he didn’t like people helping themselves to his books without asking first. She felt the blush burn her cheeks and her hand stole to her throat. “I’m sorry. I wanted to find out more about the Calusa. I should have asked...” Her voice trailed off and she rose to her feet, gathering up the other books and turning to the shelves, preparing to replace them.

“No.” Sylvester strode into the room, stopping when he was a few inches away from her. His eyes raked her face hungrily and Connie held her breath. Was he going to say something about whatever it was that existed between them? This nameless, aching longing that gripped them both? Was he going to acknowledge it so they could talk about it, even do something about it? Because those inches separating them were alive with a crackling intensity that made her want to reach out a hand just to see what would happen. Would blue sparks leap between them? Would they both be engulfed in flames?

Sylvester looked like a man whose very soul was in torment. He drew in a breath and tore his eyes from hers. “It’s fine—help yourself to any books you want. I’m sorry I interrupted you.”

Turning abruptly away, he walked out of the room, leaving Connie staring after him with her hand half-raised.

* * *

Connie arrived late for lunch, having lost track of time. Murmuring an apology in Sylvester’s general direction, she slid into a seat. It seemed there was a determined effort taking place to get this strange house party fully under way. Connie’s introverted soul withdrew further at the idea. Ellie seemed to have appointed herself group leader and Guthrie was happily assisting her in planning a number of entertainments. Matt caught Connie’s eye a few times, his droll expression causing her to hide a smile.

“We must do all the things Sylvester’s other house guests do,” Ellie decided. The subtext was clear. We must behave the way celebrities do when they visit Corazón. “The weather is perfect, so there is no excuse for staying indoors.” She directed a frown in Connie’s direction. It was clearly a condemnation of the person who had remained buried in her book most of the morning while the others socialized on the terrace. “There are any number of activities to occupy us.” She began to list them on her fingers. “Swimming, sailing, walking, fishing, water sports—”

“Are you trying to wear us all out?” Lucinda asked. “I’m more in favor of lounging by the pool.”

“I think we’ll quickly end up at each other’s throats if anyone feels obliged to do anything he or she has no inclination for.” It was a lengthy speech from the generally quiet Jonathan.

“What do your guests usually do?” Ellie appealed to Sylvester for help.

“Whatever they choose. My home is at your disposal.” He cast a glance around the table. “You should remember that, apart from the brothers and sisters in the group, none of you know each other. In the unusual circumstances that brought you together, enforced exposure to strangers might be difficult. I think you should take care to respect each other’s privacy.”

Did Connie imagine it or did he cast a brief, sympathetic glance in her direction?

“Following that wise advice, I’m going for a swim. Anyone care to join me?” Guthrie rose from the table.

Ellie jumped up enthusiastically. “Swimming is my passion. I do it every day. I’m a competitive long-distance swimmer...” Her voice faded as she left the room and Connie felt a sense of relief at the prospect of being spared any more planned amusement.

Matt caught up with her as she left the house. “Any plans for the afternoon?”

“I want to explore the island.”

“Care for some company?”

She agreed readily, although her conscience troubled her slightly as they followed a path that led them inland. Was she consenting to his company because she liked Matt or because of his closeness to Sylvester? She hoped it was the former.

She didn’t think of herself as a manipulative person, but that raised its own set of problems. She felt safe in Matt’s company and he was the first man close to her own age about whom she had been able to say that in a long time. He alleviated some of her fears over this strange holiday and took away some of her nervousness around the others in the group. But she’d seen the admiration in his eyes when they’d rested on her. That was something she didn’t want to encourage. The idea of a new friend was an unlooked-for pleasure. Anything more, even without the complication of her feelings for Sylvester, was out of the question.

Matt glanced down at her once or twice, but remained silent until they reached the top of a small hill. Looking back, they could see the house and the beach, ahead of them another tiny bay and a cluster of small buildings.

“It looks like a miniature village,” Connie said.

“I suppose it is, in a way,” Matt agreed. “Looking after an island like Corazón takes some work. This is the staff quarters. It was where the landscapers, house maintenance staff, boat keepers, fishermen, dive experts lived. The list used to be a long one.”

“Used to be?”

“As technology has advanced, the number of staff has reduced. Many services are brought in. Now there are just four permanent, live-in staff. Vega and Roberto, whom you’ve met, and two others who do more general roles,” Matt said. “I know so much about it because my father’s firm oversees a lot of Sylvester’s contracts.”

“And the curse doesn’t bother the staff who live here?”

“The curse was aimed at the family, remember? Also, Sylvester pays well, which takes some of the sting out of the old legends.”

They continued on the downward path, reaching the bottom of the hill and finding themselves among a group of small, thatched huts and a larger, wooden building that was open to show kayaks stored inside. Two men at the water’s edge were working on a traditional-looking canoe and, as Matt approached, they greeted him with pleasure.

“Stranger,” one of them said in a teasing voice. He was younger than the other man, but the likeness between them meant they could only be father and son. “We thought you’d lost your directions for how to get here.”

“Connie, this is Juan and his son Nicolás. They are responsible for all things water-sport-related on this island. If you want to try water-skiing or kayaking, you know where to come.” Seeming unaware of her look of horror, he looked over the craft they were working on. “What model is this?”

“Mark four.” Juan eyed the canoe with pleasure. “We think this is the one.”

“You said that about the last three.”

“Care to put your money where your mouth is?” Nicolás challenged.

“No, because when you sink between here and Cuba, how will I collect my winnings?”

Connie looked from one to the other. “You are going to Cuba in this?” Her surprise cut across their banter.

“That’s the plan.” Nicolás laughed at her expression. “How long has it been your ambition to do this, Dad? Thirty years?”

“At least. And it has been done before. We are trying to replicate the voyages undertaken by the Calusa in their hollowed-out cypress logs. There is plenty of evidence to show that they reached Cuba and even possibly Mexico in vessels such as this one.”

“Dad likes to think he’s a Calusa at heart.” Nicolás quirked an affectionate brow at his father.

“Were they your ancestors?” Connie remembered the book she’d been reading that morning and the fascinating stories it contained. Could these two men with their weathered, brown skin be descended from that ancient tribe?

“No.” The voice came from behind them and they swung around. None of them had heard Sylvester’s approach. Not even Connie, who prided herself on having a sixth sense for people approaching her from behind. “There are no living descendants of the Calusa.”

“We’re from Cuba,” Juan explained. “Where some people like to claim they have Calusa blood. They think it makes them sound fierce and interesting. What do you think, boss?” He pointed to the boat.

“I think you’re going to die.”

Juan certainly did look fierce as he turned away with a scowl, Connie decided. That was about the only thought she had to spare, since Sylvester’s presence instantly took up every part of her awareness, her senses, her very being. She remembered a solar eclipse when she was young, and her father telling her solemnly that she mustn’t look directly at the sun because it would burn her eyes. I can’t look directly at Sylvester. He burns my heart. Just as they had done with that long-ago eclipse, her eyes refused to listen to the instruction. They kept finding their way back to the source of the danger.

Sylvester had taken Juan aside and was talking to him about sporting equipment. No doubt warning him there were some very persistent guests who might not necessarily put their own safety first. Matt was still teasing Nicolás about their bet.

Connie wandered a few feet away along the edge of the water. The shells were plentiful here and she stooped to pick a few up, examining them, marveling there was once a society built upon their fragile beauty. There are no living descendants. Sylvester’s words saddened her way beyond anything she should feel for a people to whom she had no connection beyond one book she’d browsed a few hours earlier. It made her feel unbearably sorry to think such a proud people no longer existed. The closest feeling to which she could compare it was one of mourning.

She was turning back when Sylvester fell in step beside her. Okay, I can do this. I can ignore the pounding of my heart and make polite conversation. He is just being a considerate host. She reminded herself Sylvester had no idea of the impact he had on her. Or perhaps he did? Perhaps he knew women became fluttery and tongue-tied whenever he approached them? “It’s sad to think of a whole complex civilization being wiped out. How did it happen?”

“They were mighty warriors, and they fought the Spanish bravely. But they were not equipped to fight the diseases the Europeans brought with them. When the Spanish arrived in South Florida in the 1500s, it is estimated there were twenty thousand Calusa here. By the time the English gained control in 1763, their number had been decimated and only a few hundred of the Shell People remained. It is believed those survivors left Florida for good, following the Spanish to Cuba. So, perhaps Juan is right and there may be a few descendants in his country...your country, too. Wasn’t your father Cuban?”

She blinked slowly at the sudden question. How did he know about her father? “Yes, although he had lived in this country most of his life.” She gave a self-conscious laugh. “He used to call me Constanza, while my mother insisted on Constance. In the end, they compromised and I became Connie. I always felt it lacked the romance of his version and the dependability of hers.

“My father certainly never believed he was descended from the Calusa. Or, if he did, he never mentioned it.” She turned the subject back to her original question. “Was it disease that wiped out the Calusa who lived on this island?”

“The story on Corazón is a different one...because of Máximo de León’s wife.” He paused, turning to face her. His eyes were bright, almost demanding, as they examined her face. It was as if he was gauging her reaction as he said the next words, expecting something from her. “She was a Calusa.”

* * *

Sylvester saw Connie’s eyes widen at the mention of Máximo’s wife and the shells she held slipped from her fingertips back into the water. Nothing more. What did you expect? And what the hell are you trying to do here?

“Theirs must be quite a story.” Her eyes were fixed on the horizon.

“It’s an epic saga that would sound like a work of fiction if it wasn’t well documented. Máximo and his Calusa maiden had to travel across two continents and face some formidable opposition to be together.” He kept his eyes on her profile. What was she thinking and feeling?

“But they did it.”

“Was that why they were cursed? Because they came from different worlds?”

Before Sylvester could answer, Matt approached. “This looks like a deep conversation.”

“We were talking about the Calusa.”

Matt grimaced. “Don’t get Sylvester started on his favorite subject, Connie. He turns into a bore.”

She withdrew her gaze from the water with what appeared to be an effort, a smile dawning in the depths of those amazing eyes. Shyly, she turned to Sylvester and his heart somersaulted. “I find it fascinating. I’d love to know more.”

This was too dangerous. Her nearness was intoxicating. If only he could tell her. Explain why he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of getting closer to her. If only he didn’t have to brutally snuff out that half hopeful, half scared light in her eyes.

Getting a grip on his emotions with difficulty, he injected a note of steel into his response. “Matt’s right. If I’m not careful, I can turn my hobby into something resembling a lecture. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do.” He turned away, but not before he saw the flash of pain in her eyes or the surprise in Matt’s.

You bastard. His lips compressed into a thin line as he marched back to the house. If she had to be here at all, why did Connie have to be so vulnerable, so easy to hurt? Why couldn’t it be brittle Lucinda or robust Ellie? Why shy Connie, who was already so damaged? Someone took a knife to her throat not so long ago, and now you are doing the same thing to her heart.

Because she’d fallen in love with him at first sight. Of course she had. Just as he had with her. It was inevitable when you’d shared all they had before they’d even exchanged that first glance.

Sylvester wanted to turn back, to draw her tenderly into his arms and kiss away the hurt before explaining it all to her. But he didn’t want to see her expression change to one of horror. He didn’t want the ensuing speculation about his mental health, the stares, and the whispered comments behind hands. He didn’t want anyone to try to stop him seeing this final task through to its inevitable conclusion.

Ignoring the sounds of revelry from the pool area, he made his way up to his room. Going to the drawer in his dresser where he kept the files on each of his guests, he reached beneath those and withdrew the portrait of Máximo de León y Soledad. The face that stared back at him was proud and noble. A perfect, precise, mirror image of his own.

“This had better be worth it.” Five hundred years ago, Máximo had set off on a journey into the unknown. Now it was time for modern-day Sylvester to do the same.

He didn’t know how long he sat in his room, gazing at that picture, but it was some considerable time later when he was roused from his thoughts by the sounds of shouting, running footsteps in the hall below and a woman screaming. Frowning, he replaced the portrait and made his way down the stairs. When he reached the foot of the staircase, there was already a crowd in the marble-tiled hall.

“What’s going on?”

The group around an unconscious figure on the floor parted in recognition of Sylvester’s authority. Guthrie, clad in swim shorts, and still wet from the pool, was lying on his back, a puddle of blood forming behind his head. A smashed glass lay beside him and a strong smell of liquor pervaded the scene.

“Somebody find Roberto. He’s a trained paramedic.”

Sylvester knelt beside Guthrie, checking his pulse. It was regular. Clad only in a bikini, Lucinda was still screaming. Sylvester glanced over his shoulder. “Can someone get something to cover her up? Keep her warm. Vega, maybe a cup of tea...” The message behind the words was clear. Get her out of here. Making soothing, clucking noises, Vega led Lucinda away.

“Shall I help you lift him onto one of the sofas?” Jonathan offered.

“Let’s wait for Roberto.”

Roberto arrived a minute later, carrying his medical bag. Sylvester rose so Roberto could get better access.

Turning Guthrie’s head, Roberto discovered a nasty wound on the back of his skull. The movement caused Guthrie to groan and open his eyes.

“What the hell hit me?”

“You fell.” Jonathan told him. “You left the pool to come and fix yourself another drink. When you didn’t come back, Lucinda came looking for you and found you here. You must have knocked your head on the floor when you fell.”

“No, that’s not right.” Guthrie winced as Roberto began to clean the wound. “I’d got my drink and was on my way back to the pool. As I was passing the stairs, something hit me on the back of the head and I went down. That’s what happened. Not the other way around.”

“But that can’t be how it was. Who would hit you?” Jonathan insisted. “It’s much more likely you fell and banged your head. Your feet were wet and—” he gave Guthrie an apologetic glance “—you had been drinking.”

“I know what happened, damn it!”

Sylvester met Roberto’s eye over Guthrie’s head and Roberto shook his head with a frown. “This needs stitches, boss. I can do it, but he should probably get it checked by a doctor, as well.” He beckoned Sylvester to take a look. The cut on Guthrie’s scalp was circular and deep. “He’s right. It looks like he’s been bashed hard with a heavy object. No way was this caused by hitting his head on the floor.”


Chapter 6 (#ua57f949a-2487-573a-96b1-8e6c15eb1c1c)

The dream is so vivid it feels like reality. More than reality. Even the sounds and scents of the beach come to life. Connie can hear the shouts of the Calusa braves as they drag the Spanish prisoners ashore. She can smell the sweat, fear and blood mingling with the everyday aromas of sea, salt and pine. If she reaches out her hand, surely she will be able to trail her fingers in the azure waters and rub the golden sands between them? Instead she watches, along with the whole village. Everyone has come out to see the light-skinned devils who have, it is said, traveled across oceans, to murder the Calusa and rob them of their islands.

But we fought. And we won.

In the midst of the mayhem around him, one man catches her attention. She doesn’t know what she expects a devil to look like, but this is not it. The Calusa braves around him are tall but, even slumped in pain, this man is taller than his captors. The red-gold tint to his hair shines through the dirt and blood. They kick his legs from beneath him and he stumbles to his knees on the shell-encrusted sand. Does he know he is about to die? If he does, his gaze remains proud and defiant.

“We must help him,” Connie says to the old woman at her side, in a language she doesn’t know.

Her grandmother stares back at her in horror and tugs on her arm to draw her away, but Connie resists her.

His eyes are blue. As endlessly, perfectly blue as the sky above their heads. Connie has never seen such eyes. They fascinate her. She takes a step closer and he looks up at her.

“I will help you.”

He doesn’t know her language, but those beautiful blue eyes tell her that he understands.

* * *

Connie woke abruptly at that point, feeling restless and unfulfilled. That was the problem with falling asleep in the afternoon. Not that she would usually know. It was a luxury she generally couldn’t afford.

On returning from her walk with Matt, the house had seemed oddly quiet. She had expected to find a group around the pool and dreaded the prospect of an invitation to join them; instead she’d caught a glimpse of Jonathan and no one else. Glad of a chance to escape any company and to reflect on her humiliating encounter with Sylvester, she had made her way up to her room. Within minutes of lying on her bed, she had fallen into a deep sleep.

It was one of those rare dreams in which, upon waking, she could remember every detail. One that made perfect sense and to which she wanted to return so she could find out the ending. Did the handsome Spanish prisoner—who, let’s face it, Connie, looks a hell of a lot like your host. I wonder what his starring role as the hero of your dream tells you about your feelings toward him?—die? Did Connie, as the heroine of the dream, save him the same way legend suggests a Calusa maiden did with Máximo? Or did the story degenerate as dreams tended to? Something bizarre happening to derail the whole story?

Glancing at the clock on her bedside table, she decided it was time to dress for dinner. Just the phrase made her feel like she was in some strange parallel universe. Never in a million years would she have imagined herself at any point in her life “dressing for dinner.” As she stepped into the bathroom and turned on the shower, she gave her reflection a grim smile. Never in a million years did I imagine that, this afternoon, I would be snubbed by one of the richest men in the world. She stepped into the shower, allowing the powerful jets of water to wash away the last remnants of sleep.

Sylvester had hurt her with his abrupt words down at the beach, and she couldn’t shake the feeling he’d done it deliberately. Shyly, she’d extended a tentative offer of...what, exactly? Friendship? She almost snorted with laughter. As if Sylvester was in need of new friends. A way of getting to know each other? Of exploring these wild emotions between them? It didn’t matter. He’d curtly let her know he wasn’t interested.

Yet she sensed he had known how hard it was for her to open up to him. She even got the feeling he hadn’t wanted to reject her.

She shook her head. If that was the case, why did he do it? He was as aware as she was of the atmosphere between them. He wanted her as fiercely as she did him. What they felt for each other transcended anything either of them had ever felt before. She knew that was the case for him as strongly as she did for herself. She didn’t have to question it. It just was. It wasn’t physical; although the attraction was fairly spectacular, it went deeper than that. It was love, and much more than love. You love me, Sylvester, but you don’t want to love me. I get it. I don’t understand it, but I get it. I’m scared, too, but I was prepared to give it a chance. I wanted to explore it. She’d gotten the message today. Sylvester didn’t want to go there. It had cost Connie a lot to make that first move. She would never do it again.

Emerging from the shower wrapped in a huge, fluffy towel, she surveyed her dresses and selected a plain black gown with a high neckline and a low-cut back. Once her hair was dry, she piled it on top of her head in a loose updo.

When she reached the salon, Guthrie was entertaining everyone with the story of how he had come by an injury to his head. He was wasted in retail, Connie decided. Guthrie really should consider a career in stand-up comedy. It was strange the way his extroverted tendencies and skill at storytelling seemed to have developed in the short time he had been on the island.

Connie was shocked to learn she had slept through so much drama, particularly since everyone else seemed to have been roused from the four corners of the house by the noise. The fact that it must have happened very soon after she’d returned from her walk made it even more surprising she had heard nothing. Yet Connie had fallen into that instant and uncharacteristically deep slumber, as soon as she’d reached her room.

The conversation at dinner continued to be mostly about Guthrie’s injury. Guthrie remained adamant he had been hit over the head by an unknown assailant. Although there were some skeptical remarks, notably from Jonathan, Sylvester surprised everyone by supporting Guthrie.





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