oddly as though she had been unfaithful by letting another man touch her. She leapt up from the table.
“Really,” she said, “I must go.”
“But I was just going to ask Wilhelm to tell you about his yacht. That’s how he arrived here at La Torchere. He’s moored—”
Cynthia scrambled away, not even glancing back when her mother called after her indignantly.
She knew exactly where she was going and she didn’t stop until she arrived back at the beach that had enticed her last night.
It looked different in the day. A scene off a postcard of a perfect vacation—white sands reaching out to turquoise waters, palm trees swaying in a light breeze—but something essential was missing. The magic. The mystery.
Cynthia settled on a lovely wrought-iron bench that had been placed strategically at the sand’s edge overlooking the beach. She looked out over the tranquil waters, jade-shaded in the early morning light, trying to recapture something of what she had felt last night. Was it possible she had dreamed it?
Her gaze stopped on a large rock protruding from the tranquil waters of the cove and her breath caught in her throat. Something of what she was looking for—the essence of her experience—was in that rock.
Had it been there last night?
Had it been there before?
Of course it had to have been there! Huge rocks didn’t just appear in the water off the shore. The rock had the shape and size of a bear, massive and restless, the power unmistakable.
“Hello, my dear.”
Cynthia glanced up, startled to find she was no longer alone. A woman she recognized vaguely from the resort’s front office was standing beside the bench, one hand resting on it, her eyes fastened on the rock.
Despite her stylish dress, the woman bore an unfortunate resemblance to the wicked witch in Snow White, but when she turned her eyes to Cynthia, Cynthia saw a startling beauty in them. They were an astonishing shade of violet.
“Has that rock always been there?” she asked, even though it seemed a foolish question. “I can’t believe I never noticed it before.”
“Oh.” The woman waved her hand dismissively. “You know. The tides.”
Of course. The tides would come and go, revealing things and hiding things with the water’s changing depths.
“Could I join you for a moment?”
Considering how eager she had been to divest herself of her mother’s and the baron’s company, Cynthia felt strangely open to sharing her bench with the old woman.
“Merry Montrose,” the woman said, extending her hand.
Cynthia was startled by the handshake. There was nothing old about it. In fact she felt a shiver of pure energy run up and down her arm as she accepted the woman’s hand.
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