Escape to Paradise. Pamela Yaye

the number of hours he’d spent waiting at Dulles International Airport and strangled a groan of frustration. He was stranded, but at least he was comfortable. The spacious first-class lounge had all the comforts of home—semireclining chairs, plush oversize couches, and a restaurant that carried everything from crab salad to Peking duck.

       He picked up the Newsweek magazine lying on the glass table and started to read. Two sentences in, his gaze strayed back across the room. He guessed that she was in her midtwenties, but from ten feet away it was hard to know for sure. She looked wounded, broken, but she walked into the lounge with unparalleled grace. She moved with poise, confidence, the elegance of an Oscar-winning actress. And when she sat down in his line of vision, only a few rows away from him, he caught a whiff of her fragrant perfume.

       Santiago watched her on the sly. Filled with compassion, he wondered why she looked so sad, why she had such a heavy heart. Was she flying home to care for an ailing relative? Or to attend the funeral of a close, dear friend?

       Santiago saw a slim man slide up to her. The woman frowned, said a few words he couldn’t make out, and resumed staring out the window. Shoulders hunched in defeat, the stranger slunk off alone toward the bar. A second later another guy showed up. He was a dead ringer for 50 Cent, and his jeans were so low he was waddling like a pregnant woman in her last trimester. This time, the woman didn’t even turn around. Off the guy went with his tail between his legs. On and on it went until Santiago lost count of her suitors.

       Amused, he watched as the woman dissed and dismissed every man who approached her. What was the matter with these guys? Couldn’t they see that she was upset? She needed a friend, someone to tell her that God was bigger than her problems. And he was just the man to do it.

       Tossing down the magazine, he straightened his shoulders and adjusted his clothes. Opening his carry-on bag, he fished out his favorite cologne and sprayed some on his shirt collar. Just because I can’t take a shower doesn’t mean I can’t smell nice. He started his workday as early as six o’clock, sometimes earlier. Before most people got out of bed he had already showered, changed and reviewed the morning’s agenda. Being a freelance business consultant was a taxing job, filled with enormous stress and long hours, but he derived great pleasure from fixing companies on the brink of financial ruin. And his six-figure fee wasn’t chump change.

       Santiago stood, but didn’t make any moves toward her. Second thoughts set in, pelting him in the back like rocks. You saw what she did to those other guys, his conscience jeered. What makes you think she won’t humiliate you, too? He shrugged off his doubts. There was nothing to fear. After all, he wasn’t trying to make a love connection. His motives were pure; his desire was to help, to reach out. Two years ago he’d been entrenched in the depths of grief, so consumed with pain he was convinced he’d die of a broken heart. But then he’d had the good fortune of meeting Father Francis, and the Catholic priest had helped restore his faith. That was why he had to reach out to her. It’s my Christian duty, he told himself, forcing his eyes away from her sinful curves.

       Wallet in hand, he strode purposely through the private seating area and joined the line for the snack bar. As Santiago placed his order and then collected the food, he was attacked by a severe case of self-doubt. His limbs felt weak, like they were coated in papier-mâché. He couldn’t remember ever being this nervous. Not even when— Santiago steeled himself against those painful memories. He wasn’t going there. Not today. He had to move forward, had to keep living. He planned to tell this to the beautiful young woman staring aimlessly out the window. He’d lived through a devastating tragedy, but he was still here. He was still standing.

       His confidence came roaring back. I can do this, he told himself. It’s no big deal. But when she glanced his way and their eyes met, Santiago knew his mission was in jeopardy before it had even begun.

       Half-dead with exhaustion, Claudia dropped into her seat hungry, tired and shivering with cold. The turbulence on the United flight was so severe, she could hardly think, let alone sleep, and although the Boeing 747 had landed safely at Dulles International Airport, she’d stumbled off the plane feeling more stressed out than ever.

       Her stomach grumbled, rumbled like the thunder wreaking havoc outside, but Claudia didn’t even consider getting up from her plush chair. Sleep first, food second. Crossing her legs, she nestled her chin inside her sweater and closed her eyes. The darkness provided a reprieve, a much-needed break from her thoughts.

       Her mind cleared.

       Her breathing slowed.

       Her limbs relaxed.

       Imagining herself on a white sandy beach, stretched out on a comfy lounge chair, brought an indulgent smile to Claudia’s lips. Sunshine rained down from the sky, the wind carried the scent of calla lilies and she could hear the waves lapping softly against—

       “It’s over. The company’s finished.”

       “You think so?”

       “Hell yeah! And the CEO and his bandits are to blame. Damn crooks.”

       Claudia’s eyes flapped open. Her daydream came to a screeching halt, and fear shot through her veins. It was hard to breathe. No, impossible. The men sitting behind her in the first-class lounge were discussing the collapse of Qwest Capital Investments. The news of William’s arrest had reached Washington? Of course it had! her inner voice screamed. The Dow plunged the day her ex was indicted and, according to published reports, the company had lost millions.

       “The wife’s definitely in cahoots with him.”

       “Not necessarily. Sometimes the spouse is the last to know.”

       “If you believe that,” the man with the gruff voice said, “then you’re even dumber than that greasy-haired kid on Jersey Shore!”

       A blast of laughter, and then he resumed speaking. “Claudia Prescott is a scheming liar just like her husband, and I hope they both get a lengthy prison sentence. I say lock ’em up and throw away the key!”

       Claudia’s eyes burned and her nose itched. She coughed, ran a hand over her chest to alleviate the burning. It felt like someone had poured Russian vodka down her throat, and the more she swallowed the stronger it burned. Their words cut with the precision of a blade, sliced so deep she’d never be whole again. Stealing went against everything she’d been taught, and although Claudia didn’t know the two men, for some crazy reason she cared what they thought.

       “The Prescotts used investors’ money to fund their extravagant lifestyle. They have luxury cars, residential properties and even a three-hundred-foot yacht. Can you believe that? Their victims are penniless, left with nothing but crippling debt, and they’re living the good life.”

       Claudia dug her fingernails into her armrest. She didn’t dare turn around, didn’t dare open her mouth to defend herself. Let them talk. They didn’t know about her charity work, or the community projects she’d donated her time to. She was innocent, and that was all that mattered. Then why do I feel like curling into a ball and sobbing into my travel pillow?

       Overcome by a strong, distinct scent, Claudia shot up straight in her chair. Terror struck, causing fear to ricochet off the walls of her chest. It couldn’t be… He couldn’t be here in the first-class lounge, could he? Circa 1840 wasn’t just any cologne. The scarcity of the ingredients and the six-month fermentation process made it the most unique fragrance in the world. And, at a thousand dollars a bottle, the most expensive. Her ex-husband wore it because he liked flaunting his wealth. And obviously someone else in the first-class lounge did, too.

       “How are you today?”

       Claudia blinked and turned toward the man with the rich, deep voice. His tone was soft, as smooth as honey. She narrowed her eyes and hit him with a leave-me-the-hell-alone look. He didn’t budge. Instead of making himself scarce, he extended his hand, offering a white cup brimming with whipped cream.

       “You look like you could use a warm drink. How about a cup of hot chocolate?”

       “No, thanks.”

       “Please,