Читать книгу Immortal Billionaire - Jane Godman - Страница 13

Chapter 5

Connie slept well in her shell-themed room, although her slumber was plagued by odd snippets of dreams. These were fanciful glimpses into another time when there were shells to be gathered and fish to be speared. She had never before had a dream in which the sense of heat was so real. Connie could taste it in the sand-blasted, flower-scented air. It shimmered around her as she walked, clinging to her bare legs and plastering the strange garment she wore against her body. It seemed to be a short dress made of tanned deerskin decorated with interwoven grasses, moss and shells.

Waking the next day, she felt the oddest sense of loss, as though her dreaming self wanted to cling to something that never was. The feeling persisted as she showered and dressed.

These strange imaginings must have been prompted by Sylvester and his talk of the deeds of long-dead de León ancestors. After all the talk of history and curses, it was probably only natural her subconscious mind should have taken her on a journey away from this beautiful house that gazed out onto calm seas. Behind the luxurious façade, there was drama and legend enough to sweep her back through the centuries to the point in time when Spanish conquistador and fierce Calusa had collided.

She was relieved to find she was the only person at breakfast. Vega informed her that Sylvester, always an early riser, had already eaten and gone for his customary morning run. No one else had emerged from their rooms. Vega imparted the news with a vague air of condemnation.

“Are there any books about the Calusa in the house?” Connie asked when Vega brought her coffee and eggs. “I’d love to learn more about them.”

“You should ask the master. He knows more than anyone alive about the ‘fierce people,’” Vega told her with a trace of pride. “But I think he does have some books in the den.”

The day stretched ahead of Connie, the first one she could remember in which she had no plans. It was a strange feeling. No work. No furtive, over-the-shoulder glances. No raised heart rate. It was too soon to say there was no fear. She had been conditioned to feel fear. Her hand went to her throat. He has brainwashed me to be afraid. The way a master trains his dog. The thought roused a flicker of anger deep within her and she welcomed it as a sign she wasn’t completely under his control.

When she had finished eating, she took a second cup of coffee into the den. As with every room at Corazón, it was both luxurious and comfortable.

Connie found the Spanish style that pervaded the house soothing to her nerves, and that feeling was more apparent in this room than any other. The huge fireplace dominating the room was decorated with a brass plate. When she stepped closer, Connie saw it depicted scenes of the conquistadors’ battles. The den had a high, arched ceiling of light oak paneling with the wood continuing halfway down the walls. This had also been used to build the bookcases that lined one wall.

Vega was right, and Connie discovered several books about the Calusa on the shelves. Taking these down, she placed them on a side table and, kicking off her shoes, curled into one of the huge, cushioned chairs at the side of the fireplace. What heaven! A chance to read without having an eye on the clock and the other on the door. Within minutes she was completely lost in the world of the Shell Indians. Her ears, accustomed to listen for changes, picked up on movements within the house without allowing them to disrupt her concentration. She tuned out Lucinda’s complaints about the noise of the cicadas, Ellie’s inquiry about whether the coffee was decaf and Guthrie’s good-natured banter with Vega about the size of the breakfast and his fears for his waistline.

It was some time later that the door clicked open and she finally glanced up from her book, reluctantly leaving behind a world when shells counted as currency and the word of the king and his high priests were the laws that mattered. The smile faded from her lips as she encountered the blistering blue of Sylvester’s gaze.

“Oh.” Connie snapped the book closed. He looked annoyed. Shouldn’t she be here? Perhaps he didn’t like people helping themselves to his books without asking first. She felt the blush burn her cheeks and her hand stole to her throat. “I’m sorry. I wanted to find out more about the Calusa. I should have asked...” Her voice trailed off and she rose to her feet, gathering up the other books and turning to the shelves, preparing to replace them.

“No.” Sylvester strode into the room, stopping when he was a few inches away from her. His eyes raked her face hungrily and Connie held her breath. Was he going to say something about whatever it was that existed between them? This nameless, aching longing that gripped them both? Was he going to acknowledge it so they could talk about it, even do something about it? Because those inches separating them were alive with a crackling intensity that made her want to reach out a hand just to see what would happen. Would blue sparks leap between them? Would they both be engulfed in flames?

Sylvester looked like a man whose very soul was in torment. He drew in a breath and tore his eyes from hers. “It’s fine—help yourself to any books you want. I’m sorry I interrupted you.”

Turning abruptly away, he walked out of the room, leaving Connie staring after him with her hand half-raised.

* * *

Connie arrived late for lunch, having lost track of time. Murmuring an apology in Sylvester’s general direction, she slid into a seat. It seemed there was a determined effort taking place to get this strange house party fully under way. Connie’s introverted soul withdrew further at the idea. Ellie seemed to have appointed herself group leader and Guthrie was happily assisting her in planning a number of entertainments. Matt caught Connie’s eye a few times, his droll expression causing her to hide a smile.

“We must do all the things Sylvester’s other house guests do,” Ellie decided. The subtext was clear. We must behave the way celebrities do when they visit Corazón. “The weather is perfect, so there is no excuse for staying indoors.” She directed a frown in Connie’s direction. It was clearly a condemnation of the person who had remained buried in her book most of the morning while the others socialized on the terrace. “There are any number of activities to occupy us.” She began to list them on her fingers. “Swimming, sailing, walking, fishing, water sports—”

“Are you trying to wear us all out?” Lucinda asked. “I’m more in favor of lounging by the pool.”

“I think we’ll quickly end up at each other’s throats if anyone feels obliged to do anything he or she has no inclination for.” It was a lengthy speech from the generally quiet Jonathan.

“What do your guests usually do?” Ellie appealed to Sylvester for help.

“Whatever they choose. My home is at your disposal.” He cast a glance around the table. “You should remember that, apart from the brothers and sisters in the group, none of you know each other. In the unusual circumstances that brought you together, enforced exposure to strangers might be difficult. I think you should take care to respect each other’s privacy.”

Did Connie imagine it or did he cast a brief, sympathetic glance in her direction?

“Following that wise advice, I’m going for a swim. Anyone care to join me?” Guthrie rose from the table.

Ellie jumped up enthusiastically. “Swimming is my passion. I do it every day. I’m a competitive long-distance swimmer...” Her voice faded as she left the room and Connie felt a sense of relief at the prospect of being spared any more planned amusement.

Matt caught up with her as she left the house. “Any plans for the afternoon?”

“I want to explore the island.”

“Care for some company?”

She agreed readily, although her conscience troubled her slightly as they followed a path that led them inland. Was she consenting to his company because she liked Matt or because of his closeness to Sylvester? She hoped it was the former.

She didn’t think of herself as a manipulative person, but that raised its own set of problems. She felt safe in Matt’s company and he was the first man close to her own age about whom she had been able to say that in a long time. He alleviated some of her fears over this strange holiday and took away some of her nervousness around the others in the group. But she’d seen the admiration in his eyes when they’d rested on her. That was something she didn’t want to encourage. The idea of a new friend was an unlooked-for pleasure. Anything more, even without the complication of her feelings for Sylvester, was out of the question.

Matt glanced down at her once or twice, but remained silent until they reached the top of a small hill. Looking back, they could see the house and the beach, ahead of them another tiny bay and a cluster of small buildings.

“It looks like a miniature village,” Connie said.

“I suppose it is, in a way,” Matt agreed. “Looking after an island like Corazón takes some work. This is the staff quarters. It was where the landscapers, house maintenance staff, boat keepers, fishermen, dive experts lived. The list used to be a long one.”

“Used to be?”

“As technology has advanced, the number of staff has reduced. Many services are brought in. Now there are just four permanent, live-in staff. Vega and Roberto, whom you’ve met, and two others who do more general roles,” Matt said. “I know so much about it because my father’s firm oversees a lot of Sylvester’s contracts.”

“And the curse doesn’t bother the staff who live here?”

“The curse was aimed at the family, remember? Also, Sylvester pays well, which takes some of the sting out of the old legends.”

They continued on the downward path, reaching the bottom of the hill and finding themselves among a group of small, thatched huts and a larger, wooden building that was open to show kayaks stored inside. Two men at the water’s edge were working on a traditional-looking canoe and, as Matt approached, they greeted him with pleasure.

“Stranger,” one of them said in a teasing voice. He was younger than the other man, but the likeness between them meant they could only be father and son. “We thought you’d lost your directions for how to get here.”

“Connie, this is Juan and his son Nicolás. They are responsible for all things water-sport-related on this island. If you want to try water-skiing or kayaking, you know where to come.” Seeming unaware of her look of horror, he looked over the craft they were working on. “What model is this?”

“Mark four.” Juan eyed the canoe with pleasure. “We think this is the one.”

“You said that about the last three.”

“Care to put your money where your mouth is?” Nicolás challenged.

“No, because when you sink between here and Cuba, how will I collect my winnings?”

Connie looked from one to the other. “You are going to Cuba in this?” Her surprise cut across their banter.

“That’s the plan.” Nicolás laughed at her expression. “How long has it been your ambition to do this, Dad? Thirty years?”

“At least. And it has been done before. We are trying to replicate the voyages undertaken by the Calusa in their hollowed-out cypress logs. There is plenty of evidence to show that they reached Cuba and even possibly Mexico in vessels such as this one.”

“Dad likes to think he’s a Calusa at heart.” Nicolás quirked an affectionate brow at his father.

“Were they your ancestors?” Connie remembered the book she’d been reading that morning and the fascinating stories it contained. Could these two men with their weathered, brown skin be descended from that ancient tribe?

“No.” The voice came from behind them and they swung around. None of them had heard Sylvester’s approach. Not even Connie, who prided herself on having a sixth sense for people approaching her from behind. “There are no living descendants of the Calusa.”

“We’re from Cuba,” Juan explained. “Where some people like to claim they have Calusa blood. They think it makes them sound fierce and interesting. What do you think, boss?” He pointed to the boat.

“I think you’re going to die.”

Juan certainly did look fierce as he turned away with a scowl, Connie decided. That was about the only thought she had to spare, since Sylvester’s presence instantly took up every part of her awareness, her senses, her very being. She remembered a solar eclipse when she was young, and her father telling her solemnly that she mustn’t look directly at the sun because it would burn her eyes. I can’t look directly at Sylvester. He burns my heart. Just as they had done with that long-ago eclipse, her eyes refused to listen to the instruction. They kept finding their way back to the source of the danger.

Sylvester had taken Juan aside and was talking to him about sporting equipment. No doubt warning him there were some very persistent guests who might not necessarily put their own safety first. Matt was still teasing Nicolás about their bet.

Connie wandered a few feet away along the edge of the water. The shells were plentiful here and she stooped to pick a few up, examining them, marveling there was once a society built upon their fragile beauty. There are no living descendants. Sylvester’s words saddened her way beyond anything she should feel for a people to whom she had no connection beyond one book she’d browsed a few hours earlier. It made her feel unbearably sorry to think such a proud people no longer existed. The closest feeling to which she could compare it was one of mourning.

She was turning back when Sylvester fell in step beside her. Okay, I can do this. I can ignore the pounding of my heart and make polite conversation. He is just being a considerate host. She reminded herself Sylvester had no idea of the impact he had on her. Or perhaps he did? Perhaps he knew women became fluttery and tongue-tied whenever he approached them? “It’s sad to think of a whole complex civilization being wiped out. How did it happen?”

“They were mighty warriors, and they fought the Spanish bravely. But they were not equipped to fight the diseases the Europeans brought with them. When the Spanish arrived in South Florida in the 1500s, it is estimated there were twenty thousand Calusa here. By the time the English gained control in 1763, their number had been decimated and only a few hundred of the Shell People remained. It is believed those survivors left Florida for good, following the Spanish to Cuba. So, perhaps Juan is right and there may be a few descendants in his country...your country, too. Wasn’t your father Cuban?”

She blinked slowly at the sudden question. How did he know about her father? “Yes, although he had lived in this country most of his life.” She gave a self-conscious laugh. “He used to call me Constanza, while my mother insisted on Constance. In the end, they compromised and I became Connie. I always felt it lacked the romance of his version and the dependability of hers.

“My father certainly never believed he was descended from the Calusa. Or, if he did, he never mentioned it.” She turned the subject back to her original question. “Was it disease that wiped out the Calusa who lived on this island?”

“The story on Corazón is a different one...because of Máximo de León’s wife.” He paused, turning to face her. His eyes were bright, almost demanding, as they examined her face. It was as if he was gauging her reaction as he said the next words, expecting something from her. “She was a Calusa.”

* * *

Sylvester saw Connie’s eyes widen at the mention of Máximo’s wife and the shells she held slipped from her fingertips back into the water. Nothing more. What did you expect? And what the hell are you trying to do here?

“Theirs must be quite a story.” Her eyes were fixed on the horizon.

“It’s an epic saga that would sound like a work of fiction if it wasn’t well documented. Máximo and his Calusa maiden had to travel across two continents and face some formidable opposition to be together.” He kept his eyes on her profile. What was she thinking and feeling?

“But they did it.”

“Was that why they were cursed? Because they came from different worlds?”

Before Sylvester could answer, Matt approached. “This looks like a deep conversation.”

“We were talking about the Calusa.”

Matt grimaced. “Don’t get Sylvester started on his favorite subject, Connie. He turns into a bore.”

She withdrew her gaze from the water with what appeared to be an effort, a smile dawning in the depths of those amazing eyes. Shyly, she turned to Sylvester and his heart somersaulted. “I find it fascinating. I’d love to know more.”

This was too dangerous. Her nearness was intoxicating. If only he could tell her. Explain why he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of getting closer to her. If only he didn’t have to brutally snuff out that half hopeful, half scared light in her eyes.

Getting a grip on his emotions with difficulty, he injected a note of steel into his response. “Matt’s right. If I’m not careful, I can turn my hobby into something resembling a lecture. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do.” He turned away, but not before he saw the flash of pain in her eyes or the surprise in Matt’s.

You bastard. His lips compressed into a thin line as he marched back to the house. If she had to be here at all, why did Connie have to be so vulnerable, so easy to hurt? Why couldn’t it be brittle Lucinda or robust Ellie? Why shy Connie, who was already so damaged? Someone took a knife to her throat not so long ago, and now you are doing the same thing to her heart.

Because she’d fallen in love with him at first sight. Of course she had. Just as he had with her. It was inevitable when you’d shared all they had before they’d even exchanged that first glance.

Sylvester wanted to turn back, to draw her tenderly into his arms and kiss away the hurt before explaining it all to her. But he didn’t want to see her expression change to one of horror. He didn’t want the ensuing speculation about his mental health, the stares, and the whispered comments behind hands. He didn’t want anyone to try to stop him seeing this final task through to its inevitable conclusion.

Ignoring the sounds of revelry from the pool area, he made his way up to his room. Going to the drawer in his dresser where he kept the files on each of his guests, he reached beneath those and withdrew the portrait of Máximo de León y Soledad. The face that stared back at him was proud and noble. A perfect, precise, mirror image of his own.

“This had better be worth it.” Five hundred years ago, Máximo had set off on a journey into the unknown. Now it was time for modern-day Sylvester to do the same.

He didn’t know how long he sat in his room, gazing at that picture, but it was some considerable time later when he was roused from his thoughts by the sounds of shouting, running footsteps in the hall below and a woman screaming. Frowning, he replaced the portrait and made his way down the stairs. When he reached the foot of the staircase, there was already a crowd in the marble-tiled hall.

“What’s going on?”

The group around an unconscious figure on the floor parted in recognition of Sylvester’s authority. Guthrie, clad in swim shorts, and still wet from the pool, was lying on his back, a puddle of blood forming behind his head. A smashed glass lay beside him and a strong smell of liquor pervaded the scene.

“Somebody find Roberto. He’s a trained paramedic.”

Sylvester knelt beside Guthrie, checking his pulse. It was regular. Clad only in a bikini, Lucinda was still screaming. Sylvester glanced over his shoulder. “Can someone get something to cover her up? Keep her warm. Vega, maybe a cup of tea...” The message behind the words was clear. Get her out of here. Making soothing, clucking noises, Vega led Lucinda away.

“Shall I help you lift him onto one of the sofas?” Jonathan offered.

“Let’s wait for Roberto.”

Roberto arrived a minute later, carrying his medical bag. Sylvester rose so Roberto could get better access.

Turning Guthrie’s head, Roberto discovered a nasty wound on the back of his skull. The movement caused Guthrie to groan and open his eyes.

“What the hell hit me?”

“You fell.” Jonathan told him. “You left the pool to come and fix yourself another drink. When you didn’t come back, Lucinda came looking for you and found you here. You must have knocked your head on the floor when you fell.”

“No, that’s not right.” Guthrie winced as Roberto began to clean the wound. “I’d got my drink and was on my way back to the pool. As I was passing the stairs, something hit me on the back of the head and I went down. That’s what happened. Not the other way around.”

“But that can’t be how it was. Who would hit you?” Jonathan insisted. “It’s much more likely you fell and banged your head. Your feet were wet and—” he gave Guthrie an apologetic glance “—you had been drinking.”

“I know what happened, damn it!”

Sylvester met Roberto’s eye over Guthrie’s head and Roberto shook his head with a frown. “This needs stitches, boss. I can do it, but he should probably get it checked by a doctor, as well.” He beckoned Sylvester to take a look. The cut on Guthrie’s scalp was circular and deep. “He’s right. It looks like he’s been bashed hard with a heavy object. No way was this caused by hitting his head on the floor.”