by Alison Kent
“Why did you buy the island?” she asked as they reached open water.
He folded his arms behind his head, sunglasses shielding his eyes. “I wanted it.”
“Why?” she persisted, turning to face him, the warm wind lifting her hair.
“Memories.”
She couldn’t imagine how he could have such good memories of a place that had nearly broken her. Emily looked away and bit the inside of her cheek, feeling far more alone than she liked. She’d only felt able to make this trip this year because Annelise had offered to accompany her. Otherwise there was no way she’d have been able to return, much less for Christmas. She hadn’t been back since Father’s death, and yet she knew it was time.
Father wasn’t coming back.
He was gone. His name wiped first from the famous Italian leather design company, Ferre & Pelosi, and now his memory wiped away by pain.
She couldn’t bear to think of him. Couldn’t bear to think what had been done to him. Couldn’t bear to think what he’d done to himself.
Emily swallowed the raw grief, her sorrow rising like a strong tide, threatening to engulf her.
“It was your choice to sell,” Tristano said, and she steeled herself, resisting him, his voice, his reasonable tone. “We never came to you,” he continued. “Never asked, encouraged or pushed. You chose to sell.”
“To the Flemmings.” She turned her head, eyes hot, furious, and shook her head. “You knew I’d never sell to you. You knew you’d be the last person I’d want to own it.”
“I did.” And he smiled, white teeth bared. With his strong jaw shadowed with the hint of a day’s beard and the warm wind blowing through his hair he looked as if he could have been a privateer. “I kept wondering when you’d discover that we’d actually bought the island, that the Flemmings were just a cover, but it seems you were too busy…” he hesitated, considering his next words “…trying to stay one step ahead of the law.”
“The law?” She spat the words back at him. “Just because you hold a law degree doesn’t mean you know anything about justice.”
“Someday you’ll know the truth and you’ll apologize.”
“Assolutamente no! No way. Never.”
He studied her a long moment, his dark blue eyes creasing at the corners and deep grooves forming next to his mouth. “You’ve always been welcome to return. I know Mr. Flemming always let you know the main house was available to you anytime you wanted to visit.”
She shook her head, still stunned. “All those talks I had with him…all those things I shared…?”
“You didn’t share that much, but, yes, whatever you told him, he told me.”
Emily couldn’t believe it. She’d liked John Flemming—had found him so open, so friendly, so…American. And all this time he’d been just a front, a cover for Tristano.
Wearily, Emily rubbed her temples, her head pounding. The sleepless night was catching her up, as well as the realization that all these years her house, her beloved plantation, had been Tristano’s. It was laughable. Horrible. Tristano just kept on winning, didn’t he?
The rocking motion of the yacht should have lulled her, relaxed her. Instead the surging sea rocked her, maddened her, each crashing wave seeming to chant Tristano Ferre, Tristano Ferre as it broke against the ship’s hull.
A half-hour into their voyage the steward appeared with lightly toasted Club sandwiches and wedges of fresh fruit. Emily was too hungry to refuse food. She was proud, but not completely stupid. Hunger was hunger. She needed to eat. But that didn’t mean she had to share a table with Tristano.
When Tristano sat down at the table she moved to the padded lounge chairs and balanced her plate on her lap. When Tristano silently rose, leaving his place at the table to sit next to her on a lounger, she tried to rise to return to the table. But Tristano put an arm out, clasped her wrist and pulled her back down on the chair next to him.
“Stay put, cara, or I’ll pull you onto my lap and hand-feed you.”
Color flared in her cheeks. “I’d bite your fingers.”
“What about your tongue?”
Her cheeks darkened to a crimson red. “What about it?”
He shrugged. “Just asking.”
She ducked her head, her toasted sandwich clasped tightly in her fingers. Suddenly her appetite was gone. How could he do this to her? How could he make her feel so…unhinged? Like a derailed train?
She heard the soft pop of a cork and moments later Tristano was placing a glass of wine at her feet. “Drink it,” he said dryly. “You need it. You’re so uptight you’re about to explode.”
That was it. She’d had enough. More than enough. Flinging back her head, she opened her mouth to give him hell—and discovered Tristano’s mocking smile. He was just waiting for it. He wanted her upset.
What was happening to her? Her famous calm was deserting her right when she needed it most. Emily drew a slow, deep breath and lifted her sandwich to her mouth, forced herself to eat. One bite, and then another. He wanted a fight? Fine. She’d give it to him.
She’d fight him to the end.
Fight him until she had no air left to breathe.
Swallowing the sandwich with difficulty, Emily reached for her wine glass and downed half the wine in one gulp. Courage, she reminded herself. Courage and control.
She was glad now she’d decided to go with him to St. Matt’s. In jail on San Juan she could have accomplished nothing, but alone with Tristano she could make him feel, make him aware, make him know what it was like to be obsessed. Possessed. Alive with pain, and anger, and the burning need for revenge.
Revenge. She savored the word, watched Tristano refill her wine glass. She’d get even. She’d make him pay if it was the last thing she did.
Halfway through lunch St. Matt’s appeared on the horizon, just a speck of green.
Riveted, Emily’s gaze clung to the distant island. Slowly she set her wine glass down, her heart leaping to her throat as her right hand clenched and unclenched the linen napkin spread across her lap. St. Matt’s. St. Matthew’s. Her home away from home.
After a few minutes she was aware of Tristano’s gaze resting on her, his expression closed but watchful. He said nothing, but she was certain he knew what she was thinking. She might hate him, but it wouldn’t change the shared history between them.
Emily forced herself to turn her head and look at Tristano, who still sat far too close to her. “Exactly how does house arrest work, Tristano?”
“Like this. I stay close. I keep you under constant watch.”
“No guards?”
“Just myself.”
They were speeding along the water, growing ever closer to the island. Little by little the steep green sloping hillsides took color and shape, rugged with buttonwood, coconut and sea grape. The island had been landscaped years ago, a mutual project between a prominent English landscaper and her father—her father who’d loved the island terrain nearly as much as he’d loved the Tuscan landscape.
“And that will be enough?”
“You want more?”
“No. I’m just surprised you don’t feel the need for stronger measures.”
“Like handcuffs?” he asked, his dark blue eyes the color of the deepest part of the ocean. “Because I’m sure I could get some. If you prefer.”
“I don’t prefer.”
“Well, if you change your mind…” He let his voice drift off, and his speculative gaze slowly, leisurely swept over her, from the top of her head to the tips of her high leather heels.
Emily made a rude sound in the back of her throat. “You probably prefer your women locked up.”
“Just how many women do I have?”
“Hundreds.”
He smiled lazily and slipped his sunglasses back on, hiding his eyes. The sun glinted off the dark sunglasses. “That’s right. I’d hate to forget.”
“You are a playboy.”
“Whatever you want to believe, cara.” He stood up, pushed his
chair back and left her to finish her lunch on her own.
The yacht was able to pull directly up to a long pier built from an island cove. No car was necessary to transport them to the house, as it was just a short walk up from the beach.
From the water the plantation house had looked the same, but as Emily climbed the old stone stairs she heard the grunt and whine of big machinery. As she rounded the side of the house, its façade came into view, the entry hidden behind new lumber and extensive scaffolding.
Her house was being destroyed.
She stood frozen, her horrified gaze fixed to what had once been elegant weathered stone. “What…what’s happening?”
A massive concrete mixer pulled out just then, lumbering over what was left of the green lawn and the neatly bordered hibiscus beds.
Hot tears spiked her eyes and she turned her head, briefly closing her lids.
This couldn’t be.
It was cruel—bringing her to this, confronting her with this. She and her father had both loved the house, the gardens, the island history. How could Tristano destroy so much so thoughtlessly?
As staff dealt with their luggage Tristano headed up the front steps, the stone arch above the front door now invisible beneath the scaffolding.
“Hurricane Francis,” Tristano said, gesturing for her to follow. But she couldn’t move. “Once we’d started renovations, one thing led to another.”
Literally, she thought, and discovered that the former sugar plantation had been enlarged, with new guest wings built on either end of the main house. From the front porch she glimpsed a new terrace fronting the ocean.
Emily felt a catch in her chest. “It’s not the same house.”
“It’ll be beautiful when it’s done.”
“It won’t be the same,” she repeated.
“More people will visit now.”
Who? His mother? His father? His incredibly stylish sisters? Impossible. They’d never leave their ritzy Mediterranean resorts, preferring their chic condos in Monte Carlo or larger, posher villas on the Italian Riviera.
“How many bedrooms did you add?” she asked, fighting to keep the bitterness from her voice.
She’d loved the house the way it was—loved the old hardwood floors with their scratches and nicks, loved the weathered floor-to-ceiling wooden shutters that had framed the five French doors facing the ocean. The house had felt so permanent to her in a sea of impermanence.
Now it was all new paint, new trim, new gloss.
“Seven. Three bedroom suites in the new right wing; four on the left.”
She moved through the hall to the great room, and even here the ceiling was different, its beams refinished to the line of French doors overlooking the small protected cove.
At least the beach was the same. The water still the same dazzling azure blue, the strip of sand soft, powdery, an inviting white.
“I thought it’d be good for the family,” Tristano said, and she laughed—because he had to know he’d never get his sisters here.
The house was lovely—new fixtures, new furniture, new everything—but it wasn’t Cannes or St. Tropez. There were no beautiful people here, no parties, no glamour, no excitement. Just the warm sun, the dazzling sea, and the fragile coral reef just beyond the mouth of the cove.
She turned, looked back at Tristano, anger building inside of her. “Has the new house wooed them?”
“Not yet.”
“So they’re not spending Christmas here?”
“No. They’re remaining in Italy.”
“Of course.”
He shot her a narrowed glance before setting off, leaving the great room with its cathedral ceiling to head to one of the new guest wings. Emily followed, hating that the house was so different, that it wasn’t her house anymore but his.
Tristano stopped outside a bedroom near the end of the long hall. “You’ll sleep here,” he said, indicating a lavish bedroom. “I’m here—across the hall.”
“So how are you going to watch me from across the hall?” Her hands were on her hips. “Or do you have hidden cameras recording me?”
“Sorry, Em. I’ve nothing hidden here. No cameras, no listening devices. Just you. Just me.”
“And your staff of…?”
“Six.” He entered her room and pushed open one of the massive plantation shutters, flooding the limestone tiled room with warm light. The walls were glazed the palest blue, the silk bed coverlet a darker blue, with plump pillows covered in fine white linen, edged with white lace. “Before I forget—I’m expecting visitors later. I’m not sure how many will be coming. Pay them no attention.”
“Are you having a party?”
“No. It’s business. An estate agent is coming with clients. They’ve been pre-qualified. Apparently they’re serious buyers, or I wouldn’t have them visiting now, so close to Christmas.”
His words were like a hammer in her head, and she flinched as she realized what he was saying. “You’re selling the island?”
“I’ve been approached by a British hotelier with visions of turning St. Matt’s into the next St. Bart’s.” Tristano paused, rubbed the back of his neck. “I thought that before I made a decision I should find out what the island’s value would be in today’s market—who else might be interested in buying.”
Emily heard him talking, heard the words, but she couldn’t move past the word “hotel”. She couldn’t believe he’d just said that he was thinking of selling St. Matt’s—and to a hotelier. A hotelier. Her heart constricted. Did he really mean it? Would he really do it? Turn the island into a tourist spot? A place for pampered, self-indulged playboys and It Girls?
“And the house?” she whispered, dry-mouthed.
“Mr. Viders has promised to contain the traffic. Try to preserve the island’s character.”
Viders. Tony Viders. She knew the name well. Tony Viders was Mr. London himself. He owned numerous chic hotels all over the world—places that catered exclusively to the rich and beautiful—and even if he promised to preserve the island’s character, the plantation house would quickly become nothing but a pit-stop for those with more money than common sense.
“Sell to me,” she said desperately, unable to contemplate the lovely old house littered with sandy high heels, half-empty bottles of suntan lotion and dirty cocktail glasses.
“You couldn’t afford it.”
“I could get a loan.”
“Not for that much money.”
“How much, Tristano?”
He walked out, heading for his room, but paused in the corridor. “I’ve poured cash—a couple million—into the renovations alone. I’ve been told the island would sell for twenty, maybe thirty million today.”
“Tristano.” Her voice came out strangled. “Please.”
“No.”
“But—”
“You can’t afford it, so forget it. And why would I sell to you, Emily,” he persisted coolly, unkindly, “when you’ve declared me the enemy?”
He waited, silent, knowing full well that he’d made a salient point and she had no defense—nothing she could say.
He was right.
She’d declared war on him for the past five years—had challenged him, mocked him, virtually humiliated him with her flood of knock-offs. Why would he give her what she wanted? Why should he care?
In her room, Emily opened her gorgeous luggage—a matched set of her own Pelosi design, of course—locating her shampoo and bath gel. She showered and changed into a long black chiffon skirt and a sheer black top over her white bikini.
Her head was pounding—jet lag—but she’d learned early on in her travels to shift time zones immediately, to fight fatigue and to push through. And that was what she’d do now. Dressed, she gathered her business papers, left her room and wandered through the house, eventually bumping into a housemaid who told her that Signor Ferre had gone down to the sea for a swim, and did the Signorina know her way to the beach?
It was all Emily could do t
o smile politely. Yes, she knew. It had once been her beach. And, no, she didn’t wish to join him.
Instead Emily carried her briefcase outside to the terrace, where she sat beneath an umbrella reading charts and graphs until she thought her eyes would fall out.
Business was good. Profits were high. The forecast for the next year was brilliant. But even making good money—big money—didn’t answer the horrendous anger burning inside her.
Mum was still sick. Father was still gone. And Tristano was still CEO at Ferre Design.
Ferre Design. Just thinking of the name “Ferre” without “Pelosi” made her see red. It wasn’t ever supposed to be just Ferre. The Ferres had never designed anything—much less come up with an original idea. Her father had been the creative genius, and it was her father’s brilliant leather goods—handbags, suitcases, belts, shoes—that she faithfully reproduced today, manufacturing and selling them for a fraction of what the Ferre Design charged.
Call it counterfeit if you want. She called it fair.
Emily heard car doors slam and the distant murmur of voices—female voices. Tristano’s visitors had arrived.
Disgusted, she slouched deeper in her chair, drew her papers higher, and forced herself to focus on the numbers in front of her. But the voices were loud, and they carried.
“The view is worth thirty million alone.”
“I’m not that crazy about the house, though.”
The voices soon reached Emily where she sat.
“Darling, you can always replace the house.”
“Bulldoze it down?”
“Of course. Everybody does it these days.”
There was a pause, and Emily squeezed her eyes shut. It was torture being here, torture hearing this. She wished now she had gone down to the beach. Sitting next to Tristano would be painful, but it would be better than this.
“How much do you think it’d cost to knock it down?” The women were still discussing demolishing the plantation house—a house that had stood on St. Matt’s for hundreds of years, a house that had history…mystery…secrets.
“Fifty thousand? A hundred? No more than a hundred thousand, not even with all these stone walls. Bulldozers are amazing. One day here, the next gone. Whoosh. And think what you’d gain—all-new construction, the best of everything, top-line technology. You could even put in your media room here.”
