Immortal Billionaire

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Of course Connie had known that Corazón was an island. And of course she’d known it was remote, part of a far-flung, jeweled string on Florida’s westernmost edge. Through media coverage of his lifestyle and daring exploits, didn’t the whole world know that Sylvester—one of the wealthiest and most well-known men on the planet—protected his privacy by disappearing off to his privately owned little heart-shaped paradise whenever it suited him? She just hadn’t added the anxiety induced by a boat journey into this already stressful venture.

Connie had never been fond of boats and, after the fuss of ensuring Lucinda’s luggage was safely stowed had died down, she stepped nervously onto the elegant launch. This was unlike any other boat she had ever been on. It was piloted by a man in an impeccable uniform—also bearing the de León logo—who introduced himself as Roberto. In his capable hands, the vessel skimmed the water with barely a sound from its powerful engines and only the faintest suggestion of movement. You’re in de León territory now. You sold out. Connie could almost feel her mother’s disapproving gaze. As always, the bright shard of pain triggered by the memory of her drove itself deep into her chest.

Once clear of the marina, the waters were as smooth as a sheet of shimmering blue silk spread before them. Overhead the sky was an unrelenting, uninterrupted shade of azure and they passed tiny green islands ringed with sea grasses and golden sands.

“You look like you’re on a white-knuckle ride rather than a leisurely boat journey.” Matt lounged against the rail at her side.

“I’m not great with boats.” Connie adjusted her floppy straw hat so her face was shaded. It would be just her luck to turn up at her first encounter with Sylvester looking like an overheated beet.

“Bad experience?”

“No.” It was true and yet... His question touched a chord, something deep and unexplored within her. Her thoughts were interrupted when Matt leaned excitedly over the side, making her panic that he might fall in.

“We’ve got company.”

Connie forced herself to shift slightly to one side so she could follow the direction of his gaze. A group of playful dolphins had joined them and was swimming alongside the launch. In the pleasure of the moment, she forgot to be afraid. Laughing at their antics, the breeze on her face, the salty tang in the air, all of those things combined to lend poignancy to the atmosphere. She was reminded of childhood beach holidays spent playing among sand dunes. A brief pang of wistfulness for those days, for her big, laughing father and quiet, kindly mother, tried to tug at her, but she brushed it aside. Not now. This was not the time for sadness and nostalgia.

Sometime later Matt drew her attention to Corazón as it came into view. Although most of the island sat low in the sparkling waters, the northernmost edge reared high and craggy above green-tipped cliffs. Connie could just make out what appeared to be a tall building perched on the highest point of them all. By keeping her eyes focused on it, she gained a clearer image of the unusual outline as the launch drew closer.

“Is it a lighthouse?” She turned questioning eyes to Matt.

“It is. That is also the site of an original property, a fortress built by Sylvester’s ancestors.” He pointed to where the headland trailed long, rocky fingers into the water. “See those openings in the rocks, almost like windows?”

Connie shielded her eyes with her hand, following the direction of his finger. There were four crude, almost square shapes high up near the top of the cliff.

“When the de León family first made their home here and built that fortress, they had to fight hard to keep their island safe. Sylvester’s ancestors were forced to take drastic measures. Those windows are part of the dungeons they built beneath the fortress. Any prisoners who managed to escape from their cells were likely to blunder around in the darkness and fall out of one of those openings.”

Now they were closer to them, Connie studied the apertures. “Couldn’t they climb up from there and reach the top of the cliff?” Even as she asked the question, she decided it seemed unlikely. Although the openings were close to the top of the cliffs, it would still entail a long climb up a sheer rock face with no rope or other safety equipment.

“I suppose if the climber possessed superhuman powers, they might. We’ll have to ask Sylvester if anyone ever achieved it.” He turned his head to look back at the lighthouse. “These cliffs have always been a danger to boats coming into this stretch of water, and several ships ran aground in close succession in the nineteenth century, with the loss of all lives on board. This tower was built in response, but it was never entirely successful in its job as a beacon for sailors. There is some debate about the motives of Emilio de León, the man who chose to build it.”

“How on earth do you know so much about it?” Connie was fascinated by the story but couldn’t help wondering at the source of his in-depth knowledge.

“The de León account is one of my father’s most lucrative. As a junior partner, I took over part of the workload and started coming to Corazón regularly. I drank in the stories of its history, particularly because of my own family connection.

“Why were Emilio de León’s motives questioned?” Matt was a born storyteller and Connie found her fear of the water relegated to second place in her fascination to hear the rest of the story.

“Wrecking,” he replied bluntly. “It has been rumored that the de León fortune is founded on the lives of the hundreds of men who died when their boats were deliberately lured onto these rocks. In fact, some went further than that and called Emilio a murdering bastard.” He must have seen the change in Connie’s expression, because he switched to a lighter note. “The lighthouse was decommissioned not long after it was built. The island has always belonged to the family, and the de León home, site of the modern-day mansion, was built on the other side of the island.”

The boat skipped over the waves and around the tip of the island. They were looking up now at the lighthouse. Or rather, it was looming over them. The distinction seemed important. Despite the bright sunlight, Connie shivered slightly. It would be foolish to suppose those lost souls lingered here still in some guise or another. Or that they wished for vengeance. Yet there was something about this lonely place that invited fanciful thoughts. Some of the stories she had heard about Corazón resurfaced in her memory. She had always dismissed them as just that. Stories. Fiction. Perhaps initiated by the de León family to make themselves appear even more interesting to the outside world. Although why that would be the case when they were known to have had more than their fair share of mystery, heartache and misery, she couldn’t fathom.

All she knew was that the island’s name always carried with it a sinister undercurrent. A darker side to its status as the paradise escape of a billionaire that it had never quite shaken off. As if a cloud passed over the sun each time the word Corazón was spoken. Connie almost laughed at the foolishness of her thoughts. A combination of her fear of boats and Matt’s story was probably not the best way to start her visit to this island.

“I don’t know what possessed Sylvester to invite such a crowd.” Although Lucinda had determinedly kept her distance throughout the journey, her voice reached Connie now above the sounds of the seabirds and the waves buffeting against the side of the boat. “I thought this was going to be a select family party.”

“It might be fun.” Guthrie gave an apologetic grimace as he met Connie’s eyes. “Like a school outing.”

Lucinda looked at him as though he had just slapped her before turning away in stony silence.

Connie’s attention was drawn back to the island. The scenery was changing now from the drama of the cliffs to lush, tropical splendor. This was an island with a split personality. Theater and danger were replaced by peace and serenity as the boat slowed on its approach to a private dock. The main house was before them in all its traditional grandeur. Even Lucinda descended from her sulks for long enough to look impressed.

Bordered by white sands and protected by palm trees and majestic pines, the stunning Spanish-style mansion was perfectly matched to its surroundings. A riot of flowers in shades from royal purple to palest mauve hung from every balcony and overflowed from giant terra-cotta pots onto the patios.

Even before the boat had docked, the scent of citrus, pine and blossom—the scent of Corazón—was fresh in Connie’s nostrils. It was new and yet hauntingly familiar. At some point in the past, she must have smelled this delicious combination and stored it away in the recesses of her memory. Time and distance had caused her to forget when it was, but it tugged at her now like a nostalgic melody, making her think of sultry nights and lazy days, of drama, passion, laughter and warmth. For some reason, it held within it an enticing whiff of promise and welcome.

Her thoughts about the elusive scent were quickly relegated to second place, because there, descending the steps of the house, was the man himself. Even at a distance, he was unmistakable. The thought that Sylvester must have been looking out for them was ever so slightly breathtaking.

Get a grip, Connie. He probably greets all his guests in person. It’s called courtesy. Or did you expect him to prove his conquistador heritage by charging across the beach, sword held aloft?

Dismissing her strange imaginings as relief at having arrived safely, Connie stepped onto the wooden boards of the dock. Soon she felt the sand crunch beneath her feet and her nerves stopped jangling for nautical reasons. Instead her tension found itself a whole new focus.

In person Sylvester was even more stunning than in the newspaper photographs and internet searches Connie had devoured over the years. There was something about him that harkened back to another era.

Sylvester de León’s looks were wasted on the casual linen pants and lightweight sweater he wore. He was as tall as Matt but broader across the shoulders and slimmer through the hips. His light brown hair, which had a reddish gold tinge, was swept back from a heroically broad brow and his features were masterfully carved. A charming, easy smile curved his near-perfect lips. He looked relaxed and completely in tune with his surroundings as, wineglass in hand, he trod barefoot onto the sands.

Lucinda, with a burst of speed worthy of an Olympic sprinter, dashed ahead of the others. “Sylvester, how delightful.” She lifted her face to his so he was obliged to kiss her cheek. “You remember my brother Guthrie, of course.”

Obedient to her imperious summons, Guthrie bustled forward and thrust out his hand. Sylvester was forced to switch his wineglass to his left hand so he could shake Guthrie’s with his right.

With a skill Connie suspected had been born out of years of dealing with similar situations, Sylvester sidestepped Lucinda. His smile of welcome encompassed the rest of the group. Up close, his eyes were the bluest Connie had ever seen.

“I hope you all had a pleasant journey? I am so sorry—” His gaze had been scanning the group, then, as it reached Connie’s face, he broke off abruptly. She spared a second to wonder what Sylvester had felt the need to apologize for. Then her thoughts were distracted. His smile froze and then vanished. After he stared down at Connie in silence for a full minute, there was a loud crack as the glass in his hand shattered. Blood and alcohol mingled in a stream and dripped onto the sand.

Without another word, Sylvester turned on his heel and walked back into the house, leaving his visitors staring after him.

Chapter 2 (#ua57f949a-2487-573a-96b1-8e6c15eb1c1c)

Why? It was the wrong question. Yet it persisted, only to be followed by another, equally senseless and unrelenting, demand. Why now? These were the thoughts tormenting him as he made his way blindly into the house and up the stairs to his room. Once inside the sanctuary of his suite, Sylvester turned the faucet in his bathroom on full, wincing as he held his lacerated hand under the cold water. He bent his head, battling to get his breathing under control. What the hell is going on?

This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not when he had spent so long planning. Not when he was so close to seeing this scheme through to its conclusion.

Turning the water off, he went to the medicine closet and managed—with one-handed clumsiness—to tend his wounds, covering the deepest cuts with waterproof dressings. Conscious he had been guilty of monumental rudeness, he went through to his bedroom, picked up the house phone and dialed his housekeeper’s number.

“Vega, I had a slight accident and had to leave my guests on the beach. Can you go down and escort them into the house?”

“Mr. Matthew has already brought them inside.” There was a trace of disapproval in Vega’s voice. That was the problem with servants who had worked for you for years. What you gained in loyalty, you lost in distance. “I organized drinks. They are waiting for you in the salon.”

He couldn’t do this now. He needed time—and plenty of it—to collect his thoughts before he could even think about being sociable. “Make my apologies. Explain that I have something urgent to attend to and I’ll see them at dinner. When they’ve finished their drinks, show them to their rooms, please.”

“I hope everything is well, sir?”

He hung up without replying, knowing she would be worried at his unaccustomed abruptness but not having the mental energy to deal with it. I need to find the strength to cope with what’s going on in my own head. The rest of the world will have to wait. That decision seemed to restore some of his equilibrium. One thing at a time. Losing the bloodstained clothing seemed to be a good starting point.

Standing under fierce jets of water in the shower, he replayed that heart-stopping, brain-numbing moment on the beach. Could he have dealt with the shock any differently? Hidden his feelings? He choked back a laugh. Not a hope in hell. Living his life in the public eye, Sylvester had developed plenty of coping strategies. The easy, unruffled persona he showed the world had become second nature. Up until half an hour ago he thought he was prepared for any eventuality. But a pair of wide, golden-brown eyes peeping shyly at him from beneath the brim of a straw hat had just shaken him out of that certainty forever.

Impatient now to find out more about her, he turned off the shower. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he returned to the bedroom. Opening a drawer in his dresser, he extracted the six identically bound files Arthur Reynolds had sent him. Each had a name written on the front in Arthur’s meticulous, sloping handwriting. The carefully made-up blonde had introduced herself as Lucinda. He discarded her file. So she must be either Ellie Carter or Constance Lacey.