And her apartment building was in an area that her mother approved of. The historic district, of course, one block from her mother’s own home, a sprawling eighteenth-century mansion that had been in Emma’s family since it had been built.
But the delight Cynthia felt in her space at La Torchere made her suddenly aware of her own apartment’s deficiencies. The windows there were small, and the ceilings were too high. There was too much dark oak throughout. The furnishings were not her, for all that they were expensive and exquisite.
Here at La Torchere, she didn’t know why anyone ever had to go beyond the serenity of their own suite. Cynthia just wished she could have the vacation of her dreams—which was to have three good books to read and the time to read all of them—instead of having to contend with her mother’s agenda everyday.
And her mother’s agenda was matchmaking. Only the wealthy and successful need apply.
But rather than waste one moment of her hard-fought freedom thinking of that, Cynthia waltzed over to her suitcase and unearthed a well-hidden book that her mother would definitely call trashy. Moments later she had on a pair of comfy pajamas—a long-sleeved top and trouser bottoms. She made herself a cup of cocoa, plumped the pillows on the sofa and settled back with a sigh.
“This is the life,” she told herself. Through the doors that opened onto the patio outside her room she could hear the whisper of the sea and the chatter of night birds. A warm, fragrant breeze played across her body. She opened the book and settled into the guilty pleasure of reading all about Jasmine and her sheik.
But rather than soothing her, transporting her to another world, the book seemed to unleash a terrible restlessness in her, a yearning for a life that was not her own. It didn’t help that her mother had unearthed the fact that Jerome’s granddaughter had met a real live sheik right here at La Torchere, and they had fallen madly in love with each other!
After a few hours of trying desperately to enjoy her fantasy of a perfect evening, Cynthia tossed the book aside. Why was she reading when there was a real world outside her door, exotic and compelling, waiting to be explored?
Not her mother’s world of fancy nightclubs and five-star restaurants.
No, Cynthia felt drawn to a world of waves washing sand and flowers releasing their fragrance into the darkness.
She glanced at the clock and snorted.
“At midnight? Cynthia, really.” This was happening to her more and more. Even when her mother was not there, it was as if Emma’s words issued out of Cynthia’s own mouth!
Cynthia got up from the sofa, stepped over the discarded book, and went into the bathroom. She shut the door and studied herself in the mirror. The pajamas—a Christmas gift from her mother—hid whatever shape she had. Her shoulder-length honey-brown hair was pulled back carelessly with an elastic band, her hazel eyes stared back at her unblinkingly through her reading glasses.
“My God, Cyn,” she muttered to herself. “When did you become so pathetic? You are twenty-six years old and frumpy.”
Of course, with a little makeup she could highlight the sweep of her cheekbones and the generosity of her mouth. She could make her eyes look green or gold or brown. But why bother?
“Your idea of fun,” she reminded herself, “is an evening with a good book. You look exactly like what you are—a research assistant who has never had a real live adventure in her whole life.”
Only that wasn’t quite true. A long time ago, shrieking with laughter, her arms wrapped around the solid, muscled body of the most beautiful boy in the world, she had ridden behind him on a speeding motorcycle.
His eyes had been the most stunning color of midnight blue, and he’d had the most amazing smile. She’d met him at high school, the high schools in those old districts having an eclectic mix of rich and poor. And he’d been poor. From the wrong side of the tracks, though his humble home had been only a block or two from where she now lived.
It had been years since she’d allowed herself to think of him, and she did not know why she had thought of him now. She brushed away the memory, a tormenting mix of delight and pain.
Still, something lingered and increased her sense of restlessness.
What did a restless person do on this secluded island resort? She had not heard her mother come back yet. Should she go and join them? They would be dancing by now, her mother whirling and twirling like a woman twenty years her junior.
But Cynthia knew that kind of entertainment would not take away the restlessness she was feeling. It might make it worse, make her feel even emptier, as if she was an actress playing a role she could not quite get into.
She left the bathroom and went to the French doors that led outside. She intended to close them, suppress these out-of-character thoughts, cream her face and go to bed.
But with her hand resting on the door handle, she felt the pull of the night. It was incredibly dark out. She could hear the whisper of a restless ocean. And then, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw thousands of little lights in the sea, bobbing and dancing.
La Torchere had been named for these small phosphorescent sea creatures that lit up the waters around the candelabra-shaped island at night.
But tonight, it seemed those lights dancing playfully in a sea of darkness were calling her name.
“You can’t go swimming by yourself in the middle of the night. Alone. It would be reckless.”
Her mother’s voice, again.
But then Cynthia wondered exactly how reckless it would be. She was a strong swimmer. The only residents of the island were La Torchere’s well-heeled guests. In fact, the only way to arrive here was by private ferry or float plane. The employees lived here, too, but all of them seemed charmingly ancient and imminently harmless. The scary people—the kind her mother had warned her about her entire life—were back on the mainland.
If she was going to have an adventure, even a small one, this seemed like it might be the perfect place to indulge herself.
Quickly, before she could change her mind and come to her senses, Cynthia went into her bedroom and put on her bathing suit, an unexciting one-piece high-necked tank suit.
“At least I do have a figure,” she muttered to herself, and then quickly slipped a cover over her body as if just having one was inviting temptations of the sort her mother did not approve.
She turned off all the lights so that if her mother returned to her suite next door she would think her daughter was sleeping. Locking the door behind her, Cynthia made her cautious way down to the flower-scented walkways that led to the beach.
Though late, the air remained as warm as an embrace. The gentle breeze lifted her hair and caressed her skin. The beach was, as she had known it would be, completely deserted. She went to the water’s edge, put down her towel, kicked off her shoes, and peeled off the swimsuit cover. The air smelled intoxicating, of the sea, of the night, of mystery.
Cynthia stuck her toe in the water and was greeted by more warmth. It was the first night of the new moon, and the night was so dark she could not tell where the water ended and the sky began.
She was utterly alone, and a new thought came
