Immortal Billionaire. Jane Godman

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      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.

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