Immortal Billionaire

“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.”

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