Reuben meant to restore the three-story Victorian jewel on his own, with whatever money he could earn from his struggling citrus grove. How could he not? Yes, the hotel was ramshackle and the guest bungalows outdated, but the grounds looked out on an ocean panorama that was unparalleled, and the rest of the island was a nature preserve, which ensured its wild beauty would remain unspoiled. Accessible only by boat, the island curved gently, embracing—it seemed to Reuben—the mangrove islands and lagoon in its sandy arms. With its old-world charm, Isla was the perfect getaway, and he knew it was the reason his mother had clung so desperately to this one asset left to her by her father. It was, quite simply, breathtaking.
Something bumped against his leg, and he bent to give the aged tabby a scratch. “Hey, Charley. Didn’t go fishing today, so I don’t have a treat for you. Weather’s not good, buddy.”
Charley pushed against Reuben’s hand, poking at him with a sandpapery nose. The cat ought to understand about bad weather. His mother found the half-drowned kitten shivering under an overturned boat in the wake of Hurricane Charley that blasted down on the island. Reuben cast an uneasy glance at the sky.
“Going to blow into a hurricane,” a gravelly voice said.
Reuben wasn’t surprised he hadn’t heard Silvio approach. The grizzled old man seemed sometimes to be part of the sand and surf and wind—always there, always had been. Behind him trailed a black man with an affable grin.
“Is that your vote or from the National Hurricane Center?” Reuben said.
“Don’t need anyone to tell me. Know it.”
Reuben nodded to the younger man. “You think so, too, Gav?”
Gavin scooped up the cat, which purred in delight. “Dunno. I’m from San Diego, remember? This hurricane stuff is your department. I’m just here to collect the meager pittance you provide me. Once I earn my master’s, I’m settling permanently in the Golden State. It’s safe there.”
“Yeah, those earthquakes are a piece of cake,” Reuben said.
Gavin waved a hand. “They’ll clean up from that last one eventually. It’ll cost a chunk of change, though, and speaking of change…”
Reuben laughed. “Yeah, I remember.” He fished a crumpled check from his pocket. “It’s payday.”
“Muchas gracias, Señor Sandoval,” Gavin said.
“De nada, Señor Campbell, and your Spanish is horrendous, by the way.”
With a smile, Gavin turned to go. Reuben wanted to let him. There was so much to do on the island, and there would be significant damage to repair after the storm receded, his mind added grimly, but he could not risk any lives. “Gav, take the extra boat and get back to the mainland. I’ll contact you after the storm passes.”
Gavin squinted. “I’m okay. I can hunker down in a bungalow until it’s over.”
Reuben shook his head. “This isn’t a run-of-the-mill storm. I’ll send Silvio and Paula with you.”
“Ain’t going,” Silvio said. “Haven’t secured all the windows. We’ve got a day or two yet anyway.”
Reuben doubted Paula, Silvio’s wife, would be interested in leaving any more than her husband.
Gavin crossed his arms. “What if I say I ain’t going either?”
“I’d say I’m your boss and you’re fired.”
Gavin broke into a wide smile. “When you put it that way… I’ll go get my pack. Call you after the storm passes.”
Reuben cast an eye along the surf again, surprised to see someone on a Jet Ski plowing through the choppy water.
“I’ll take care of the windows,” Silvio said.
“There’s no way I can crowbar you off this island, is there, old man?” he said, a mixture of love and exasperation blowing through him.
Silvio scratched his chin. “’Course not. You should go. I’m tougher than you, boy.”
Reuben laughed. After losing two fingers and sight in his left eye in Korea, Silvio just might be right. “But your wife is tougher than both of us put together, and if she’s staying, I guess we all are.”
Silvio sighed, the clouds painting odd shadows on his wrinkled face.
They both turned to follow the progress of the Jet Ski, which seemed to be puttering in aimless loops.
“Always one with no sense,” Silvio said. “Some tourist gonna get himself drowned for sure and wash up here for me to deal with.”
Reuben had to agree. If it was idiotic to stay on the island with an approaching tropical storm that was likely to morph into a hurricane, it was lunacy to be out prancing around on a Jet Ski at such a time.
The guy continued to travel in circles, stopping every so often to peer down into the water.
“Engine trouble maybe?” Reuben hazarded.
Silvio answered with a snort. “More likely doesn’t know how to run the thing. Rented it thinking he was going to be some sort of expert.” He plucked at a hair in his sparse beard.
Reuben was already moving toward his boat. The little nineteen-foot Bowrider was not much to look at and certainly not enough to enchant resort guests, but it was plenty able to get this nut back to land before he drowned himself.
“Leave him be,” Silvio muttered.
Reuben eyed the sun, which was beginning to sink into a clouded horizon. “Only another half hour before sunset.”
“Too bad. He can learn to respect the ocean the hard way.”
Gruff words from the guy who was following Reuben on board and helping him cast off. As they motored out, Reuben fought the wheel to keep the boat steady against waves determined to drive them off course.
The man seemed oblivious to their approach. He wore no life jacket over his massive, bare shoulders, water lashing his face, which was still too far away to see clearly. Stupid, but sturdy.
Reuben was amazed at how quickly the storm had worsened even in the past half hour. The Jet Ski driver had no doubt been taken by surprise as well, though he continued to meander rather than making for shore. “Hey,” Reuben called over the sound of the engine.
The man didn’t hear him.
Reuben edged the boat closer, ten feet away, until the guy looked up, face slack with surprise. “We can take you back,” Reuben shouted. “Climb aboard and we’ll tow the ski.”
The man didn’t react. Reuben assumed he hadn’t heard and was about to repeat the message when the craft abruptly turned around and sped off toward the Florida coast, heaving on the angry waves.
Reuben shot a look at Silvio, who was shaking his head. “Told you. Thickheaded. He’s got to learn the hard way.”
Reuben’s stomach tightened for some reason he could not fathom. He did not think the man had been circling in the midst of a storm for pleasure. There was something intense about the hostile stare, the tight mouth—something cold and hard. Contrary to Reuben’s assessment, the guy was obviously quite competent on his Jet Ski.
Silvio patted his shoulder. “Come on, boy. Enough good deeds. Back now. Got to batten down.”
Reuben snapped out of his reverie after one more look at the departing jet skier, who was nearly out of sight. He was ready to push back toward Isla when something caught his eye, a glimmer of color that did not match the angry gray of the sea. He looked again and saw only the roiling surf.
“Let’s go,” Silvio repeated.
“Hang on,” Reuben said, wiping the spray from his face. “I saw something.” Seconds ticked into a full minute. Another glimmer—yellow. Something yellow. His heart contracted. A swimmer?
“Hold her steady,” he shouted to Silvio as he climbed to the edge of the boat and over the metal railing, which was heaving so violently he could not hope to fish the woman, or whatever it was, out of the water.
“Ya crazy, boy?”
Reuben ignored him as he pinpointed the location of the yellow flash and dove in. The violence of the water disoriented him, and he closed his mouth to keep from swallowing. Now he could see nothing but a wall of ocean, pitching and heaving around him. He did a slow circle, salt stinging his eyes.
> Silvio’s right. You are crazy. It had probably been a plastic bag or a towel lost by a careless beachgoer, certainly not a woman. He turned to swim back to the boat when he saw it again, only this time he was not imagining it.
Out of the gray surge he saw a woman’s raised hand, silhouetted for a moment against the waning sun. Then the waves rose up between them and she disappeared.
TWO
Antonia realized the error in her plan. Though the water was in the seventy-degree range, her teeth had begun to chatter and the inactivity left her chilled and numb. She couldn’t see the man on the watercraft at the moment, but she knew he could stay on that Jet Ski much longer than she could tread water. It was too far to shore, and even Isla Marsopa was impossible for her to reach without being seen.
Panic began to edge up in her gut as the waves slapped harder at her face and shoulders. She was beginning to lose her sense of direction as the cold gripped her. At one point she thought she heard a motor, but the roaring sea confused her ears. The sky was dimming. Soon it would be too dark for him to spot her, but it would also be impossible for her to find her way back to shore.
She would be adrift, gradually sucked under into a dark void until her lungs filled with water.
Antonia knew there were many more lives hanging in the balance than her own. If she died, who would help support Mia and Gracie? Who would send the small payments to their mother, who had moved into a trailer home in Jacksonville when she could no longer manage the house? Antonia tried to quell the panic and kicked harder to keep her chin above water. Soon she would have no choice but to make for Isla Marsopa and hope she could avoid detection. She did not allow herself to imagine what Reuben would say if she managed to make it to his shore.
What seemed like an endless amount of time went by before she realized she could not even hear the Jet Ski anymore, nor could she spot the driver’s bulky form over the cresting waves. Had he really gone? A wall of water obscured everything else from view. She did not dare believe it, but gone or not, she had to make for Isla before she drowned. She remembered her father’s voice, patient and soft, teaching her to swim when she was a child. Let the water hold you up, Antonia. Don’t fight it.
She tried to relax, but her fear had risen high enough to override good sense. Forcing her arms into action, she pushed in what she hoped was the right direction. Waves sucked and pulled at her and every stroke was a fight. Chin down, she fought as hard as she could against the ocean, but, like her father also reminded her many times before he passed, The ocean always wins.
She would not let it win now. Teeth gritted, she kicked hard and cut through the waves, making what she thought was good progress until she stopped to rest and felt herself being sucked back toward the mainland, in spite of her efforts to tread water.
Father God, help me.
It was dark now, and a spatter of rain had begun to fall. Her ears rang with the sound of the ocean. Ahead she imagined she saw a light. Had she gone farther than she thought? Was it the light from the old hotel? A boat? With a final burst of energy she fought her way toward it until her arm came into contact unexpectedly with something soft and pliable. She grabbed at it, but her fingers slipped loose.
Then a hand took hold of her wrist, and she felt herself being towed along. Poor light and the spray of surf and rain made it impossible to see who was dragging her along, but she knew it did not matter anyway. Staying in the ocean meant death. She tried to kick her feet and help her rescuer, but her legs had become so cold and numb she was a helpless weight.
Then there was a boat. Cold metal. Calloused hands reaching down. Strong arms holding her up. Wind teasing goose bumps onto her skin. A familiar old man plucked her from the ocean, leading her to a seat and wrapping a musty blanket that smelled faintly of trout around her shoulders.
She was shaking so badly that her vision blurred. Blinking hard and clamping her jaw shut to keep her teeth from rattling, she shook the hair from her face and looked into the broad cheekbones, the full lips, the chin with a scar and those eyes that held so many secrets. Reuben Sandoval stood on the heaving deck, water dripping from his cropped hair, molding the T-shirt and shorts around his lithe body.
She was too cold to feel surprise, shock, dismay or any other emotion. It was as if she had landed in a strange dream and the only functioning part of her body was the part that said, Thank You, God, that I am alive.
Reuben knelt on the deck and looked intently at her, as if he were trying to convince himself what he saw was real. He said something in a voice so low she could not hear it over her chattering teeth. He reached toward her, and for a brief moment she felt a combined terror and longing. Instead of embracing her, he pulled the blanket more firmly around her shoulders.
Then he took the captain’s chair next to her and asked Silvio, the old man whom she recognized, to take them back.
Back where?
To the mainland where her small battered house waited?
To the dock where she remembered suddenly she’d left her art supplies?
To Isla Marsopa, she realized through her confusion.
To the island where her heart had been torn apart by a storm fiercer than any hurricane.
*
Reuben should have felt deep shock at finding it was Antonia Verde he’d just fished out of the Atlantic Ocean, but for some reason, he felt more confusion than anything else. Antonia was never far from his thoughts or his memories in the year they’d been apart. Reminders of her lingered in the warm sand where they’d hunted for shells. They survived in the crisp air that made her hair dance across her laughing face and the Florida sun that bronzed her perfect skin. He’d known she’d returned; he’d heard as much from his brother.
Hector kept it simple. The little traitor is back, Reuben. Look out.
Mia had energetically sought to destroy his brother and excuse her own mistakes by accusing Hector of attacking her, forcing her to defend herself. Upon Mia’s release from jail, she’d taken Gracie and run, leaving his brother desperately missing his little girl. Reuben suspected that Antonia knew perfectly well where her sister was holing up and was probably even helping her. Still, the sight of her shivering, clutching the blanket around herself as if it were some sort of armor, twisted his stomach. The traitor, the lush-lipped, silk-skinned traitor who killed him on the inside, still charged his body with a rush of feeling.
“I need to go back to the mainland,” she said, after a few stuttering attempts to speak.
“Too dark,” Reuben said.
She looked as though she wanted to respond, but the shivering turned into full-on trembling and she hunched deeper into the blanket.
Fine by him. Silence was probably the better of many options that would lead to angry words. Again. Curiosity burned inside him and he longed to question her, but instead he helped Silvio tie up to the dock after they fought the waves back to Isla Marsopa. Silvio helped Antonia out, and Reuben followed them into the main house, where a light shone in the lower level.
Paula met them in the lobby. Her red hair had long ago faded, overcome by gray, but her eyes sparked in her tan face. “Antonia Verde?” She blinked with recognition. “What happened out there?”
“Let’s get her something warm to drink,” Reuben said, temporarily staunching the explanation that he, too, was eager to hear.
Reuben gestured toward a wooden chair and fetched another blanket as Paula heated some water for tea. He was relieved that they hadn’t lost power yet. The generator had been fussy and he hadn’t had time to tinker with it.
Paula wrapped a nubby wool blanket around Reuben’s shoulders and handed them each a cup of hot tea. Antonia clutched hers with both hands, delicate fingers cupping the mug and holding it close to her chest.
“Gotten yourself into more trouble, I see,” Paula said. “And dragged Reuben along.”
Antonia looked up, and a tiny flash of spirit returned to her features. Reuben felt a swell of relief and something else deep in his c
ore.
“I didn’t ask for anyone’s help,” Antonia said.
Paula sniffed. “Reuben isn’t the kind to let a person drown, even if that person is an enemy.”
Antonia stiffened. “I’m sorry to cause trouble.”
Gavin came in, a pack on his shoulder. “I was ready to head back to the mainland, but I couldn’t find you….” He broke off when he saw Antonia. “Who are you?”
“Antonia Verde,” she said through chattering teeth.
Gavin’s eyebrows shot up. “Here I thought you were trying to get people off this island, Mr. Sandoval.”
Reuben would have laughed in different circumstances. “Storm’s worse. You’ll have to bunk here for the night, Gav. I’ll take you back at first light.”
Gavin shrugged. “Sure thing. One more of Paula’s meals will make it worthwhile.”
Paula’s face broke into a rare smile. “You’re a flatterer, Mr. Campbell.”
“My grammy says flattery will get you nowhere, but I find it usually scores me a second piece of pie.”
Reuben worked out a plan. “Paula, can you get the Seabreeze ready? It’s the only bungalow that’s relatively decent.”
“If that’s what you want,” Paula said. “Mr. Campbell, set the table for dinner, please.”
Gavin sighed. “If I could only convince her to call me Gav.” He set about plopping silverware haphazardly on the oval dining table.
Paula gave Antonia a final glare and went out, Silvio following.
“Thanks, but there’s just no way I can spend the night here,” Antonia said.
“Unless you’re going to swim back, I don’t see much of a choice for you.” Reuben kept his tone level. “What happened?”
She avoided looking at him. “I swam out too far.”
“I got that. Who was on the Jet Ski, and what did he want with you?”
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