Immortal Billionaire. Jane Godman

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.”

       Chapter 6

      The dream is so vivid it feels like reality. More than reality. Even the sounds and scents of the beach come to life. Connie can hear the shouts of the Calusa braves as they drag the Spanish prisoners ashore. She can smell the sweat, fear and blood mingling with the everyday aromas of sea, salt and pine. If she reaches out her hand, surely she will be able to trail her fingers in the azure waters and rub the golden sands between them? Instead she watches, along with the whole village. Everyone has come out to see the light-skinned devils who have, it is said, traveled across oceans, to murder the Calusa and rob them of their islands.

      But we fought. And we won.

      In the midst of the mayhem around him, one man catches her attention. She doesn’t know what she expects a devil to look like, but this is not it. The Calusa braves around him are tall but, even slumped in pain, this man is taller than his captors. The red-gold tint to his hair shines through the dirt and blood. They kick his legs from beneath him and he stumbles to his knees on the shell-encrusted sand. Does he know he is about to die? If he does, his gaze remains proud and defiant.

      “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