Master of the Island (Invitation to Eden FREE prequel!)
Lauren Hawkeye
The Master of the Island
Invitation to Eden Series
Lauren Hawkeye
The Master of the Island
Copyright 2014 Lauren Hawkeye
Cover Design by Croco Designs
Formatted by IRONHORSE Formatting
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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ISBN: 978-1-928068-10-5
For R.G. Alexander, for being pretty damn awesome.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
A Bride For A Billionaire Excerpt
Other books by Lauren Hawkeye
We are very pleased to issue your Invitation to Eden, an exciting series coming to you in 2014 from 27 of the biggest names in romance. Join us as we take you on an exciting adventure to Eden, where anything… and everything goes!
This story is meant as an introduction to the Invitation to Eden series.
It is not meant to be read as a standalone.
Prologue
“I’ll take it.”
I study the castle standing alone at the top of a lush green hill. An Irish castle. It is built of dove grey stone and rocks that have crumbled with age, but it caught my attention—my imagination—as soon as I saw the photographs. In truth it’s not much to look at right now…but then, neither am I.
Originally home to the wealthy and privileged, the once proud structure shows nothing but decay and disrepair on the surface. But the tallest tower still stands, spearing the dull, misty sky proudly, as if to say I may not be much to look at anymore, but I’m still here.
It’s a sentiment that resonates with every fiber of my being. In my gut I know that this is the place I’ve been searching for.
The one that I saw in my dreams.
“I’ll take it,” I repeat firmly, nodding at the realtor and giving one last look at the seven hundred year old ruins, fixing them in my mind before turning on my heel and striding back to the hired car. I hear an exclamation of surprise from the man behind me, but it doesn’t slow my steps.
“Mr.Vardalos.” He is panting when he catches up to me, though the distance between the car and where we were standing just moments before is miniscule. “Don’t you want to look inside, at least?”
I turn to face him, and though I know I appear outwardly calm, inside I still feel the burn of pain when I see him flinch. It isn’t a reaction I’ve been able to get used to. In fact, each time I get that look, the ache inside me intensifies. But he doesn’t need to know that.
He won’t meet my eyes as I regard him calmly. “I’ve seen all I need to see. Draw up the paperwork. You’ll be contacted next week regarding transport of the structure.”
My fingers, clutching the car door, tighten when the man dares to look at me, and can’t quite hide his wince. “Mr. Vardalos. You understand that I can’t be held responsible for the condition of the interior if you don’t care for it after you’ve seen it.”
I focus on him for a moment. He is overweight, and his bald head shines both with sweat and the drizzle of moisture in the air. A man whose opinion would mean nothing to me…before.
His gaze flicks to mine briefly and clings to the only feature he saw before we arrived at the castle, before I’d removed the silk hood that I normally wear over my face. I wonder, briefly, if I should reach into my pocket and put it back on.
As if he can’t bear to look at me, he pulls off his glasses for something to do, polishes them with the hem of his shirt. He’s a bit like a cartoon character to me, out of place in the mystical beauty of Ireland.
But that’s not his fault. I know that to his eyes—to anyone’s—I look like nothing so much as the beast from one of the many fairy tales that haunt this land.
“What do you mean, transport, sir?” He frowns as my words catch up to him. “To where?”
I sigh a bit, inwardly. The billions that pad my bank accounts let me get away with a lot—like wearing a balaclava with my designer suit—but I suppose I was hoping for too much, thinking that I could make a request like this and not be asked any questions. I slip my hand inside my pocket and retrieve the hood, casually concealing myself once again.
The realtor’s shoulders instantly relax and he takes a relieved breath.
“This castle will be reconstructed, stone by stone, on an island off the coast of Florida.” I don’t elaborate, don’t tell him of my plans for it, though the curiosity—and sheer disbelief—is plain on his face.
“Mr. Vardalos. May I call you Theo?”
“No.”
He is clearly startled by my refusal, but I don’t much care. A man who would be sick at the sight of my face isn’t my friend. And if he were, he would know that I much prefer the full form of my name—Theodosius—to the abbreviated version that Americans always want to use.
After a moment’s pause, he presses on, undeterred. “Mr. Vardalos. I would be remiss if I did not tell you…”
He lowers his voice, as though we are sharing a secret. “…I am shooting myself in the foot here. But to buy this castle and move it overseas… it’s worth nothing away from Ireland. Why not just build something new?”
I refrain from rolling my eyes. He won’t actually be losing much if he fails to earn a commission on this building. Though this castle has been such an obsession that I knew I would pay any sum once I found it, in actuality it is not listed for very much at all—likely due to the state of decay.
No one else sees what I do. The beauty underneath.
“If we’re quite finished?” The expression on his face amuses me as he sputters and I close the car door. Once sealed inside the cool, dim interior, I sigh and turn to take one final look at the castle, adjusting the hood as I do.
I run my fingers beneath the silk and over my scars as I study the tower of crumbling stone. How does one explain to someone who hasn’t experienced it that it has to be this castle and none other? That the island demands it?
The island—a small, deserted outcropping of rock in the middle of the soothing waters of the Bermuda Triangle…
It showed me this place. And there isn’t a single cell in my body, not even the ones that have been horribly altered and maimed, that does not believe that the course of action I have set out upon is not meant to be.
This calms me as I lean back against the smooth leather of the seat, as I order the driver to take me to the airport and le
ave the sweating, flinching realtor behind. Ireland is beautiful, to be sure, and I now understand why I felt pulled to come here.
But I’ve had enough of travelling. I’m dreaming of palm trees, of the smell of salt on the breeze, and air so thick with heat and magic that its touch feels like a lover’s hand upon my skin.
I’m tired.
I want to go home.
