Immortal Billionaire. Jane Godman

finality by her usually unsuperstitious mother. Connie had been forced, therefore, to glean what she could about her famous relatives by scouring the gossip columns. Luckily, since Sylvester was a close friend of celebrities and princes, it had not been too difficult to follow his progress. Not a week went by without a photograph of him appearing in the press. Inevitably, he would have a drink in one hand and a woman on his arm. It was a different woman in each photograph, the common theme the adoring gaze up into his eyes. No matter who he was with, it was Sylvester on whom the paparazzi focused. He had that sort of charisma. His eyes indulged the world with a charming, if slightly cynical, smile. He was one of the elite, a member of that absurdly famous group of people known throughout the world only by their first names.

      In addition to his wealth and celebrity lifestyle, Sylvester attracted attention for his determined daredevilry. He seemed to have an ongoing desire to kill himself in the most outrageous way imaginable. Now in his late twenties, he had climbed Everest, trekked to the North Pole, broken trans-Atlantic sailing records, flown around the world single-handed and had recently climbed one of the most perilous rock faces in the world. Those blue eyes scorned danger, their mesmerizing stare challenging death to try to take him if it dared.

      Because of her mother’s prohibition, Connie had been cut to the core that she couldn’t boast to the other girls at college that she was related to Sylvester. Yes, that Sylvester. I mean, what was the point of having a ridiculously famous relative when I was strictly forbidden to talk about him?

      When this strange invitation had come along, she couldn’t help wondering what her mother would have made of her acceptance. Principles, Connie decided, were all very well. Surely even her mother would have put superstition aside and obeyed a summons from Sylvester if the alternative was more fear and running and hiding? But Sylvester’s odd behavior when he greeted them on their arrival had brought her mother’s words back to her all over again.

      “Is this Sylvester’s idea of a joke?” Lucinda’s voice had broken the stunned silence that descended as they watched the rear view of their host when he stalked away from them into the house. “Because if it’s not, he is quite insufferably rude.”

      Connie remained perfectly still, feeling the slow-burning color creep up from her neck to her cheeks. She gazed after Sylvester in the grip of the same sort of trance that had held him as he had looked down at her. What on earth had just happened?

      “Are you okay, Connie?”

      The concern in Matt’s voice made it all so much worse. Because it confirms that Sylvester’s reaction was about me. And they all know it. Pride made her tilt her chin a fraction higher. “I’m fine.”

      “Right...” Matt hesitated, glancing around. He was clearly striving for a more decisive tone. “Well, it’s obvious it was the unfortunate accident with his glass that caused Sylvester to walk away the way he did. I expect he’ll join us again as soon as he has tended to the injury to his hand. In the meantime, why don’t we make our way inside?”

      “Do you think we should?” Guthrie’s expression was doubtful. “Perhaps we ought to wait until he comes back?”

      “Nonsense.” Lucinda had already started walking across the beach toward the house. “Even if he’s severed an artery, Sylvester can’t seriously expect us to stand here waiting for him.”

      Those blunt, and rather brutal, words had been the deciding factor. Since Matt was the only one among them who already knew his way around, he led the way up the beach and into the house.

      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