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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.
