Immortal Billionaire, page 7
“We must help him,” Connie says to the old woman at her side, in a language she doesn’t know.
Her grandmother stares back at her in horror and tugs on her arm to draw her away, but Connie resists her.
His eyes are blue. As endlessly, perfectly blue as the sky above their heads. Connie has never seen such eyes. They fascinate her. She takes a step closer and he looks up at her.
“I will help you.”
He doesn’t know her language, but those beautiful blue eyes tell her that he understands.
* * *
Connie woke abruptly at that point, feeling restless and unfulfilled. That was the problem with falling asleep in the afternoon. Not that she would usually know. It was a luxury she generally couldn’t afford.
On returning from her walk with Matt, the house had seemed oddly quiet. She had expected to find a group around the pool and dreaded the prospect of an invitation to join them; instead she’d caught a glimpse of Jonathan and no one else. Glad of a chance to escape any company and to reflect on her humiliating encounter with Sylvester, she had made her way up to her room. Within minutes of lying on her bed, she had fallen into a deep sleep.
It was one of those rare dreams in which, upon waking, she could remember every detail. One that made perfect sense and to which she wanted to return so she could find out the ending. Did the handsome Spanish prisoner—who, let’s face it, Connie, looks a hell of a lot like your host. I wonder what his starring role as the hero of your dream tells you about your feelings toward him?—die? Did Connie, as the heroine of the dream, save him the same way legend suggests a Calusa maiden did with Máximo? Or did the story degenerate as dreams tended to? Something bizarre happening to derail the whole story?
Glancing at the clock on her bedside table, she decided it was time to dress for dinner. Just the phrase made her feel like she was in some strange parallel universe. Never in a million years would she have imagined herself at any point in her life “dressing for dinner.” As she stepped into the bathroom and turned on the shower, she gave her reflection a grim smile. Never in a million years did I imagine that, this afternoon, I would be snubbed by one of the richest men in the world. She stepped into the shower, allowing the powerful jets of water to wash away the last remnants of sleep.
Sylvester had hurt her with his abrupt words down at the beach, and she couldn’t shake the feeling he’d done it deliberately. Shyly, she’d extended a tentative offer of...what, exactly? Friendship? She almost snorted with laughter. As if Sylvester was in need of new friends. A way of getting to know each other? Of exploring these wild emotions between them? It didn’t matter. He’d curtly let her know he wasn’t interested.
Yet she sensed he had known how hard it was for her to open up to him. She even got the feeling he hadn’t wanted to reject her.
She shook her head. If that was the case, why did he do it? He was as aware as she was of the atmosphere between them. He wanted her as fiercely as she did him. What they felt for each other transcended anything either of them had ever felt before. She knew that was the case for him as strongly as she did for herself. She didn’t have to question it. It just was. It wasn’t physical; although the attraction was fairly spectacular, it went deeper than that. It was love, and much more than love. You love me, Sylvester, but you don’t want to love me. I get it. I don’t understand it, but I get it. I’m scared, too, but I was prepared to give it a chance. I wanted to explore it. She’d gotten the message today. Sylvester didn’t want to go there. It had cost Connie a lot to make that first move. She would never do it again.
Emerging from the shower wrapped in a huge, fluffy towel, she surveyed her dresses and selected a plain black gown with a high neckline and a low-cut back. Once her hair was dry, she piled it on top of her head in a loose updo.
When she reached the salon, Guthrie was entertaining everyone with the story of how he had come by an injury to his head. He was wasted in retail, Connie decided. Guthrie really should consider a career in stand-up comedy. It was strange the way his extroverted tendencies and skill at storytelling seemed to have developed in the short time he had been on the island.
Connie was shocked to learn she had slept through so much drama, particularly since everyone else seemed to have been roused from the four corners of the house by the noise. The fact that it must have happened very soon after she’d returned from her walk made it even more surprising she had heard nothing. Yet Connie had fallen into that instant and uncharacteristically deep slumber, as soon as she’d reached her room.
The conversation at dinner continued to be mostly about Guthrie’s injury. Guthrie remained adamant he had been hit over the head by an unknown assailant. Although there were some skeptical remarks, notably from Jonathan, Sylvester surprised everyone by supporting Guthrie.
“Roberto informs me the most likely cause of Guthrie’s head wound was a blow to the back of the head with a hard, heavy object. Something like the poker from the fireplace in the den.”
Guthrie muttered an expletive under his breath. “If someone hit me with that, they could have killed me.”
“Has anyone checked to see if the poker is still there and, if so, if there is any blood on it?” Matt, as always, went straight for the practical aspect of the matter.
“Good God.” Ellie lifted a hand to cover her mouth. “We are not in a 1930s detective novel.”
“The poker is in its usual place and there is no blood on it.” Sylvester ignored her interruption.
“So either something else was used, or whoever hit Guthrie cleaned the poker after they hit him and then replaced it.”
“Oh, I see. We are in a 1930s detective novel.” Ellie took a long slug of her drink.
Connie took a deep breath. “Can I ask what may sound like a silly question?” Sylvester nodded, those endless eyes probing her face, tilting the world off its usual axis. “Why would anyone want to hit Guthrie over the head?”
Lucinda, who had been uncharacteristically silent throughout the meal, gave a bitter, little laugh. “Don’t you see? It’s the curse of Corazón.”
“What do you mean?” Ellie turned on her sharply. “Surely you can’t be implying one of us attacked Guthrie?”
Sylvester answered for her. “I think what Lucinda means is exactly that.” He waited for a moment until Lucinda nodded. “If that’s the case, someone either intended to genuinely harm Guthrie or to force him into being the first to leave Corazón. Whether that was because he was injured or too frightened to stay...well, I don’t suppose it matters. The end result would have been the same.”
Guthrie raised a tentative hand to the back of his head. “I’m a tougher nut to crack than that.”
Jonathan offered an alternative suggestion. “Or there was an intruder on the prowl and Guthrie disturbed him.”
Sylvester’s expression was not quite a smile. Connie thought the weight of experience of the Corazón curse—real or legend—glittered in the blue of his eyes. “We can tell ourselves that. By all means.”
“But none of us would have done such a dreadful thing.” Ellie shivered slightly as she looked around the table.
And now we are all covertly studying each other and wondering who did it. Connie glanced down at the half-eaten meal on her plate. Paradise had suddenly turned nasty. “This is the point in the book where the detective would question us about where we were and who we were with.” Ellie laughed at her own feeble attempt at a joke. It was a hollow sound.
“I’ll go first. I was lying on the floor with a hole in my head,” Guthrie said brightly.
“No one could suspect me. I’m Guthrie’s sister.”
“But where were you at the time?” Jonathan’s eyes probed Lucinda’s face. “You weren’t out at the pool. You went into the house a minute or two after Guthrie did.”
Lucinda flushed. “I went to the bathroom.”
“What about you, Ellie?” Jonathan turned to his sister. “You’d left the pool about five minutes before Guthrie.”
“I went to my room to get a book.”
Jonathan held his hands palm upward in a helpless gesture. “I was still out by the pool. So any of the three of us could be guilty. We were all alone at the time and we can’t provide each other with an alibi.” He turned to Matt and Connie. “What about you two?”
Matt shook his head. “We walked down to the beach and met Sylvester. After he left us, Connie headed back here and I kept walking. We can’t vouch for each other, either.”
“I came back and went to my room.” Since the provision of an alibi seemed to be expected, Connie felt obliged to offer her own at this point.
“I was also alone in my room. So it seems any one of us had the opportunity to attack Guthrie.” Sylvester’s calm tone lowered the mood even further.
“And all of us, with the exception of Sylvester, have a damn good motive.” Matt sounded almost cheerful as he took a sip of his wine. “Maybe we should make sure we stay together in groups or pairs in future?”
“My God.” Ellie lifted a hand to her throat. “Do you seriously think someone at this table is capable of harming the rest of us? To get us to leave the island so he or she inherits a greater share of Sylvester’s fortune?”
“I’ll show you the stitches in my head if you have any doubts,” Guthrie offered.
“This seems like a good opportunity to remind you the launch is at your disposal, should any of you decide you wish to leave,” Sylvester said.
Six pairs of eyes turned to regard him. Then silence reigned as everyone, with the exception of Connie, continued with their meal.
* * *
“How strange there are no animals here. I’d have expected a house like Corazón to have a few cats and dogs around.” Connie thought back to her childhood. They’d had a big, friendly dog that had been her father’s favorite, while her mother’s elegant cat had ruled the household. A morning walk after breakfast had become her routine. A dog would have been good company and a distraction from her thoughts.
“Sylvester doesn’t like animals,” Lucinda had informed her. She’d seemed to feel she had somehow triumphed over Connie with this little piece of information. As if, by knowing something about Sylvester that Connie did not, she had gained a sort of superiority over her. Connie had wanted to tell her she needn’t have worried. There was no danger of Connie finding out any information about him. She had been on his island for almost a week and, since that day at the beach, he had been carefully avoiding her.
Connie walked farther inland this time, along a rough path through pine woods she hadn’t taken before. The trail was easy and she walked much farther toward the center of the island than she had planned. Her other explorations had taken her into the tiny beaches and rocky bays around the perimeter.
After walking for what she judged to be about half a mile, the route became steeper and she heard the sound of running water. Before long, its source became clear. The trees opened and Connie caught a glimpse of a lake into which a stream, tumbling over rocks, splashed. As she drew closer, she saw that, where the path ended, the only way forward was to cross a wooden bridge to the other side of the lake. On the opposite bank, there was a wooden building. Too small to be a house, too large to be a summerhouse.
Connie hesitated, looking around at her surroundings. It felt like she was intruding on someone’s private property, yet there was no fence, no warning signs. And didn’t the whole island belong to Sylvester, anyway? There was a surreal feeling about this place. Because of the way the trees grew around the lake, sunlight shone down in almost a perfect circle, as though an artistic film director had carefully planned the lighting for a dramatic scene. The background music should be tranquil, Connie decided, with just a hint of unease.
What is this place? And why is it here? And why do I really, really, want to cross that bridge and go through the door of that miniature house?
A house built for one.
She supposed she should turn back. Ask someone about it. Get Sylvester’s permission to explore another day. But like the girl in the horror film or the child in the fairy tale, her head refused to listen to the warnings. Her foot felt the wooden slats of the bridge beneath the sole of her sneaker before she even knew what she was doing.
It wasn’t so much an electric shock. More a subdued feeling of static tingling through her nerve endings as soon as she placed her hand on the rail of the bridge. The wood was old. Centuries’ worth of other hands had imprinted themselves upon its grain, and something in that knowledge shimmied through Connie as she gazed over to the other bank. She cast a quick look back over her shoulder.
There can be no turning back. I must go to him.
Although she didn’t understand it, the thought spurred her on and, with a renewed determination in her stride, she crossed the bridge. The building was a curiosity. It looked like someone had built it from oddments of wood scavenged from the surrounding forest. As though it shouldn’t have lasted. But there were signs it had been carefully preserved. Recent repairs had been carried out on the roof and the exterior had been freshly varnished. This funny little house meant a lot to someone.
The door was open—just as it always was—and Connie stepped inside. Her heart was beating wildly but she couldn’t name the emotions that caused the wild hammering. The only item of furniture inside the room was a narrow bed, long since stripped of any bedding. The bed itself looked to have been made from pieces of wood bound tightly together with narrow strips of hide. Closing the door behind her, Connie breathed in the stale, pine-scented air. Some compulsion took her to that bed.
She ran a hand over the planks of wood. Wood that should have rotted centuries ago. As her hand connected with the grain, sorrow so profound it felt a lot like fear swept over her in a sudden swoop. Connie gave in to the utter hopelessness of the emotion. Lying on the uneven slats, she pressed her face to the rough wood. Without knowing why, she began to cry as though her heart would break.
The feelings that racked her body were a tidal wave of grief so intense she doubled up in pain. She was consumed by a restless, burning longing—almost a memory—for something beyond her reach. She couldn’t name it but, like a winter storm brewing below the horizon, it rumbled and raged just beyond her vision. It was a void, a desperate aching need inside her that, now she was aware of it, seemed to have always been there. Weighing her down with its intensity, it took all her emotions and drew them out until she couldn’t think; all she could do was hurt and feel.
Connie didn’t know how long she lay there with her tears soaking into the ancient wood. Eventually she managed to get a grip on her emotions and sat up, propping her back against the wall and drawing her knees up to her chin. She’d read about places where past events leached into the present atmosphere. Battlefields where flowers didn’t grow. Murder houses that, no matter how beautifully renovated or reasonably priced they might be, no one would buy. Tragic, haunted places where birds didn’t sing.
What had happened in this tiny space, no more than eight feet across, that it could have such a profound effect on her?
Or was it her surroundings, at all? Was it simply that, having finally stopped running, the horror of the last four years had caught up with her now that she had relaxed? No, she shook her head. Connie knew for sure this wasn’t about anything other than where she was right now. Her feelings ran the whole range from deep sorrow to wild elation. A tremor of excitement ran through her as she touched the wooden bedpost. Excitement and more. For the first time since before she had been attacked, she felt the first stirrings of arousal. She almost laughed aloud at the bizarre thought. Am I remembering a sexual encounter in another narrow bed? I think maybe the last time I felt like this might have been when I was a student, so, yes, that would have been in a tiny room and a cramped bed. Oh, dear God, do I have a fetish?
With humor replacing her sadness, she wiped away the last traces of tears.
Determinedly, she stopped trying to dismiss or to make light of the intensity of what she was feeling. Just let it happen. She closed her eyes. When she unwound, the sensations rushing through her grew stronger. It was all about this place. This bed. And it was about Connie. That was as far as she got before she heard the unmistakable sound of a footstep.
When she opened her eyes, Sylvester was glaring at her from the open doorway.
* * *
Restlessness surged through him and there was only one place he could feel at peace. The place where it all began. His guests were planning a tennis tournament for the afternoon and seemed content to spend the morning pursuing their own activities. Slipping out of the house—the good thing about having a reputation for being solitary and enigmatic was that people assumed you wanted to be alone and didn’t offer you their company—Sylvester made his way toward the cottage in the wood.
As always, just the sight of the wooden bridge and the tiny dwelling soothed him. It was incredible how this place had the ability to take the sting out of any situation.
Crossing the bridge with quick strides, he entered the place he had come to think of as his personal haven and stopped short in shock to find Connie sitting on the bed.
“What the hell are you doing here?” The words had left his lips before he’d known what he was going to say.
She visibly gulped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was private.”
