They were both world-renowned explorers, perfectly matched. Their maps and nautical charts were always mingled in a messy pile on the library table. Sometimes, he’d call her over to look at archaeological projects, or she’d show him some new discovery in the ocean. They could go for months without a ripple of discontent.
It was only when they were apart that the relationship frayed. Neither of them was any good at communication, and small things would become stumbling blocks. Misunderstandings would mushroom into arguments.
She could always tell when Sinclair was going off on expedition again. He would become non-communicative. Insomnia would follow. And she’d wake up to find his side of the bed empty, the light burning on the floor below.
Finally, after weeks of restlessness, he would pack his battered Gladstone bag and declare a need to “get his hands dirty.” His main dig was in Ephesus, Turkey, although he worked in many other sites in Greece and the Middle East, even as far away as Ethiopia.
So off he would go, with a kiss and a promise. Weeks would pass before he’d reappear, sunburned and exuberant.
She always tried to be sympathetic about his need to go away. Sinclair had a full excavation schedule. And there was no reason for him to give that up now they were together. There was no use complaining. She knew from the start they would have to spend long periods apart.
Of course her oceanographic work was equally important. So being alone should not have been so difficult.
But the fear of abandonment was an old emotional scar. Her parents had been killed when she was twelve. Ever since that tragedy, any departures of loved ones evoked irrational anxiety. It took decades of therapy to even come this far.
His footsteps approached. She wouldn’t mention any of her worries to him now. Nothing should interfere with their time together in Capri. All distractions would be ignored—especially those created by royal houseguests.
Sinclair stood next to Cordelia, collecting his thoughts. The stone parapet was cool to his hands as he looked out over the Bay of Naples. It was a beautiful night. Several sailboats were anchored, and the white lights on the masts were pinpricks against the indigo sky.
Dinner had been difficult. Clearly the two women didn’t get along. Cordelia’s razor-sharp intellect outstripped the fuzzy-thinking princess. And Cordelia didn’t suffer fools. She always wanted to voice her opinion.
But that didn’t work with Victoria. The princess was used to approval. Most of the time her comments, no matter how outlandish, were met with sycophantic agreement.
For the rest of the week, he and Charles would have to keep the two women apart. Leaving Cordelia and Victoria alone together would be about as dangerous as combining two incompatible elements.
Besides, he had bigger plans. He brought Cordelia to Villa San Angelo to ask her to marry him. He’d been thinking about proposing for months. It was obvious that Capri would be the place to do it. Nowhere on earth was more romantic.
If he asked her tonight, that would solve everything. They’d have the perfect excuse to go off on their own, without Charles and Victoria. Who would dream of interfering with a newly engaged couple?
And there was another reason to propose sooner rather than later. It seemed that the volcanic ash from Iceland was starting to disrupt air flights. In another day or so they might have to leave and cut the trip short.
He took a deep breath and assessed the situation. The setting was perfect. A beam of moonlight led straight across the water to where they were standing. The actual proposal speech had been on the tip of his tongue all day, and the engagement ring was in his pocket, ready to go. He reached in and ran his finger ran over the sharp angles of the five-carat, emerald-cut diamond.
“Aren’t you glad we came?” he asked.
She stood looking at the sky, the corner of her mouth tilted up in a smile. “Yes, it really is wonderful.”
“I’ve always wanted to share Capri with you.”
She turned to him. Her eyes were pools of darkness, unreadable.
“I love you, Delia,” he said.
There was a quick intake of breath. She clearly wasn’t expecting such a declaration.
“Oh, John. I love you, too,” she replied.
He reached out to take her in his arms, and she tilted her lips up for a kiss. Her perfect mouth was delineated by the glow of the moon. He took his time, memorizing the curve of her face.
“I want to ask you something …” he said, his mouth inches from hers.
“Later,” she instructed. “Kiss me.”
He smiled and pressed his lips to hers. She melted into him, winding her arms tighter around his neck. As they embraced, his brain formed the simplest way to say it. Marry me. But when their mouths parted, she spoke first.
“Come to bed,” she said.
“Yes, but first—”
There was a noise from the kitchen.
“Oh damn, they’re coming out …” she said, breaking out of his embrace.
Charles’s voice was louder, and a tinkle of laughter escaped from Princess Victoria. The two lovebirds had gone off to fetch another bottle of wine and were now tipsily trying to open it.
Cordelia cast the princess a critical glance.
“Charles must be crazy in love. I don’t know what he sees in her.”
Sinclair put his hand in his pocket and fingered the ring. Maybe now wasn’t the right time after all.
“She is very naive,” he agreed. “But you were a bit rough on her at dinner, don’t you think?”
Cordelia nodded. “I know. I’m sorry. The whole thing was so ludicrous. I just couldn’t take it anymore.”
“She can’t help it. She’s young,” he explained.
“Too young,” Cordelia amended.
Charles and Victoria were standing in the doorway, kissing passionately. It was torrid. Charles was holding a wine bottle in one hand and stroking Victoria’s neck with the other.
“Does he always carry on like that?” Cordelia asked.
“Not at all. Charles may look like a playboy, but he is basically a simple family guy.”
“Family? He wants children?” she asked.
“No. I mean that he takes care of his mother and his sister. He’s very devoted to them.”
“Well, Victoria can’t exactly move to Paris.”
“You’re right about that. She’s supposed to ascend the throne in Norway next year.”
“So soon?”
“Victoria is turning twenty-one. Old enough for the succession.”
“But what about her parents?”
“Her father has to step down for health reasons.”
“Well, I don’t care if she becomes queen. They’re not a good match at all. Charles is still much older than she is,” Cordelia pointed out.
“Don’t worry. There’s probably some Norwegian prince lined up for her. I’m sure she’ll be married within the year.”
“So you think her affair with Charles is a fling?”
Sinclair nodded.
“Still, it’s dangerous,” Cordelia fretted. “If the media get wind of it …”
“I agree,” Sinclair sighed.
“You should say something to him,” she whispered.
“Yes, but how? He’s never alone.”
“Invite him for a midnight swim,” Cordelia suggested.
“What about you?” he asked.
“I’ll go to bed.”
“Without me?” he objected, half-joking.
Cordelia smiled.
“You can come later.”
His spirits sank. The proposal would have to wait until another time; the moment was gone.
Charles and Victoria stood silhouetted in the light from the house, arms around each other. Sinclair reached down and laced his fingers through Cordelia’s in solidarity.
“Hey, you two,” he called over. “Come on out and join us.”
VILLA SAN ANGELO, ANACAPRI
It was well after midnight on the terrace of the Vi
lla San Angelo when Charles and Sinclair opened the last bottle of wine. Both men were wrapped in large beach towels, their hair wet. At this time of night, the underwater lights of the pool shimmered, but there were deep shadows everywhere on the patio.
Sinclair poured a glass of 2004 Chateau Lynch-Bages and passed the bottle over. Charles helped himself, drank deeply, and put the glass down on the flagstones.
“I’ve been miserable all day,” he said.
Sinclair laughed. “Miserable? There’s a beautiful woman in your bed, waiting for you.”
“I know,” Charles said. “But what if we get caught? There will be hell to pay.”
Sinclair looked out at the view. “That’s something you should have thought of before this.”
“I’ve been thinking about it all day. I can’t stop.”
“So why did you invite her?”
Charles ran a hand through his wet hair, combing it back from his forehead.
“That’s just it. I didn’t.”
“She just came here on her own?” Sinclair scoffed.
“Basically, yes. Victoria and her brother Prince Karl were visiting in Capri. She just showed up at the house two days ago.”
Sinclair leaned forward, suddenly realizing what Charles was saying. That meant that someone else knew that Victoria was here.
“Who helped her get into your house?” he asked.
Charles shot him a tentative glance.
“Brindy.”
Sinclair groaned. The Contessa Georgiana Brindisi—or “Brindy”—was his ex-girlfriend. She summered on the island every year. Her roof was visible from the terrace.
“Why would you give Brindy a key?” he asked.
Charles shrugged. “In case of an emergency.”
“Are you insane?”
“Come on. She’s not totally evil.”
“You’re aware that Machiavelli was her direct ancestor,” Sinclair pointed out.
Charles sniggered. “Now you’re just being dramatic.”
“I assure you, it’s true,” Sinclair said, walking over to pick up the wine bottle.
Sinclair had been in love with Brindy, until she revealed an almost pathological talent for lying.
Charles stood up and stretched. “So what do I do about Victoria?”
“Are you asking me?” Sinclair ascertained.
“Yes.”
“Tell her to go home to Oslo,” Sinclair said. “And don’t see her again.”
“You make it sound so easy. But tell me, how does one break up with a princess?”
“Pretend she’s any other girl,” Sinclair suggested.
Charles pinched the skin between his eyebrows and sighed. “But that’s just it. She isn’t.”
Sinclair raised his eyebrows. “Is that the reason you like her?”
Charles nodded. “At first, yes. I was flattered she approached me. I think I was trying to prove something.”
“Because of the circumstances of your birth, you mean?”
“Yes.”
Now they had waded into Freudian muck. Charles was more or less illegitimate. His mother discovered an unwanted pregnancy and had quickly married a French aristocrat. Charles had never met his real father.
Sinclair took a sip of wine and spoke. “Listen, why complicate things? There are plenty of other women.”
“Not like Victoria. I honestly think I might be in love with her.”
“She’s so young.”
“Not really. In some ways she has a lot more responsibility than most women her age. And she’s old enough to make up her own mind about who she wants to be with.”
“Well, if that’s the case, you should stop sneaking around and ask her father’s permission to get engaged.”
“Engaged? Don’t you think we should date first?”
“No,” Sinclair shook his head. “Princesses don’t date. They marry.”
Charles looked morose. “That’s the problem. Even if I asked her, she couldn’t accept. Just imagine the complications with my family history.”
“I realize that,” Sinclair agreed.
Charles finished his wine and put the glass down on the terrace.
“I’m going to bed,” he said.
“Listen, my friend. You’re going to make a mess of Victoria’s life and yours. You have to either cut it off or go to Oslo and talk to her father.”
“I know, I know …”
“So do something. Before it’s too late.”
Charles turned, his shoulders slumping. “Her family would never accept me. I have to cut it off.”
“Then the decision is made,” Sinclair advised briskly. “Now do it.”
“You’re right. All this has to stop.”
“When will you tell her?”
Charles shrugged. “Soon. She has to leave tomorrow.”
“I thought she was staying the whole week?”
“No. It’s the volcano,” Charles said. “They’re saying the debris is going to shift toward Norway, and the Oslo airport might shut down. She can’t afford to get stuck in Capri. She has a few public appearances next week.”
Sinclair stood up and started toward the house. “I’d better tell Cordelia, if she’s still awake. We might have to head home early as well.”
He stopped halfway to the door.
“By the way, how is Victoria getting back to the Villa Brindisi tomorrow?”
Charles caught up to him, carrying his towel.
“Funny you should bring that up. I was going to ask for your help.”
EYJAFJALLAJÖKULL VOLCANO, ICELAND
Jude Blackwell unzipped his parka as he entered the Café Grai Kotturinn on Hverfisgata. He’d been in Reykjavik for two weeks now, waiting for the volcano to erupt. This little restaurant had become his nightly haunt, a cozy place where people came to talk, have a meal, and play chess. Plus, there was a cute little waitress who always gave him a nod when he came in the door.
Jude found a place in his usual spot. The girl came over and served him a Skjalfti with a flirty smile. She was a sweet minx, with dark, cropped hair and three silver studs in her left ear.
“Hello again,” she said, elongating the vowels.
They always spoke English. He had no comprehension of Icelandic. It was a series of throat-clearing glottal stops. And the written language looked like a smashup of vowels with accent marks that flew around like shards of broken glass.
“What’s the special tonight?” he asked. “Anything interesting?”
His intonation made the question sound like a flirtatious overture. She blushed, her ears glowing pink against the jumble of silver.
“Lamb stew.”
“I’ll have to settle for that, then, won’t I?”
She went off to fetch it for him. He took a pull of Skjalfti, enjoying the light, bitter taste. Beer was one of his chief pleasures, and he could identify a hundred different kinds, even blindfolded.
Within minutes, the waitress returned with his meal.
“Sorry I can’t talk this time,” she said. “So many people tonight.”
“What time are you off from work?”
“Eleven.”
“Eleven’s not too late for a drink is it?”
She blushed.
“No, eleven is not too late.”
“Good, I’ll see you later.”
She went off, and he got down to business with the lamb, using a piece of bread to mop up the gravy. Just as he was swallowing his last bite, his cell phone started bleating … alert … alert … alert.
He took out a dented four-generation-old Blackberry. It was patched with duct tape to keep the battery in, and the plastic had been singed from various volcanic encounters over the years. He’d resisted upgrading it, because the buttons were better for his bulky fingers. He couldn’t see himself poking at a touch screen—ping, ping, ping—like a teenage girl.
The alert messages were alarming.
Volcano warning … Reykjanes Zone eruption … Seek shelter immediate
ly.
He grubbed some krona out of his jeans, then forced his way through the bodies to go outside to the rental car.
On the twenty-minute ride to the airport, Jude calculated a plan of action. He needed to get video of the eruption as it happened. The volcano had been off-gassing for days. Seismic readings had been predicting a huge eruption. The moment had arrived.
Suddenly, he spotted the green sign for Keflavik airport and the bright, cold lights of the terminal. Five minutes later, he pulled up to the tarmac. The rotors of the chartered helicopter were already whirling, stirring up a cloud of dust. Struggling under the weight of his camera equipment, he yanked the helicopter door open and scrambled up the metal steps.
“Let’s go!” he shouted, buckling in.
The rotors speeded up, and the pilot manipulated the controls. They were airborne—the Bell 206L4 LongRanger swaying as if it were a children’s swing. They reached altitude and powered over the pockmarked landscape. Two pairs of eyes searched the glacier with its jagged rocks, ice, and snow.
Thirty active volcanoes had formed the entire landmass of Iceland. The country lay smack in the center of the mid-Atlantic ridge. The area around Eyjafjallajökull had been sending out earthquake-swarm tremors for a week, and tonight the seismic readings were off the charts.
Iceland was the location of some of the largest and most disruptive volcanoes in history. From all the indicators, it seemed that tonight, this eruption might make the record books.
Jude looked down at the digital camera and set the ISO, f-stop, and shutter speed. It was 10:00 p.m., but the “white night” of summer would last until well after midnight. In these conditions, the volcanic ash would shimmer like diamond dust. Suddenly, there was a glimpse of a vertical shadow—a slender plume undulating out of the earth like smoke from the end of a cigarette.
He tapped the pilot’s arm and gestured toward the ground. At a mile away, this would be a safe place to record the action. The helicopter skids kissed the snow and settled. Jude stumbled out the door and onto the glacier.
Frigid air smacked him in the face, and his eyes watered as he ran forward. At fifty yards, he dropped to one knee. Grit was flying around in the helicopter rotor wash, stinging his skin. Adjusting for the light levels, his hands shook with impatience. As he set the dial, a dark funnel cloud shot up several hundred feet into the air.
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