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.
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.
