Tropical Getaway

  “Come on, Ava.” He touched her hand. “You’ll love it.”

  She whipped her fingers away from under his and the spark ignited in her eyes. “How do you know what I’ll love?”

  “A cruise through the most beautiful waters on earth. Six nights in a three-thousand-dollar suite with private valet service. The chance to whip up some crème brûlée with your hero Arnot. The opportunity to advance your cause, or at least understand it.” He put his hand right back on hers, teasing her with a grin. “And I’ll be there. Now, what’s not to love?”

  In spite of herself, she laughed. A throaty, honest laugh that was as attractive as her rare smiles. “You could lure Satan out of hell, you know that?”

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  A Pocket Star Book published by POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.,

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 2003 by Roxanne St. Claire

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN:0-7434-7885-1

  POCKET STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Interior design by Davina Mock

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  With special thanks to

  James Clary, for the rich tales of superstitions and the sea that provided color and texture and nautical accuracy.

  Anna Perrin, Sandy Moffett, and Sharon Calvin, for repeated reviews and thoughtful considerations of the manuscript.

  Cecelia Zink for exceptional proofreading and cheerleading.

  Roberta Brown, an excellent literary agent whose determination and enthusiasm keeps me afloat.

  Micki Nuding, the ideal editorial mate in the uncharted seas of publishing.

  This book is dedicated to

  My husband, Rich, who nourishes my spirit and navigates our ship through the adventure of life. He is the wind in my sails and forever my captain.

  and

  The thirty-one men lost at sea on board the S/V Fantome in 1998. They lived and died with amazing grace, and inspired me to tell a happier story.

  Heavenly signs of wind and rain,

  Long the seafarer’s weathervane.

  Into the Sea of Darkness they sailed,

  And with the devil’s compass, prevailed.

  —James Clary

  Superstitions of the Sea

  Prologue

  T he kitchen of Santori’s was as raucous and spirited as the Italian family that owned the landmark restaurant in Boston’s North End. Ava Santori didn’t even hear the shout of her teenage cousin over the din until a hint of panic shuddered in the girl’s voice.

  “Ava! You have a long-distance call on three!”

  Marone! Ava bit back the Italian curse and continued chopping. “Is it urgent, Mia? I’m a little swamped right now.”

  Surely Mia had inherited the good sense to know a packed dining room at twelve-thirty on a Friday meant take pity and take a message.

  “Uh, well, yes, Ava. I’d say this is urgent.”

  She looked up, the knife suspended midchop.

  Mia’s green eyes were wide and insistent. “You need to take this call.”

  With a rueful glance at the remaining shallots, Ava dropped the knife. She dodged a sauté pan being passed by a sous-chef from stove to oven. Over the sizzle of a sudden flambé, she shouted, “Who is it?”

  “It’s”—a stock pot clattered in the prep sink—“Marco.”

  Every drop of blood drained from Ava’s head, down through her body, down to her soul. Marco. Her brother. It had been five years since she’d heard his voice. She steadied herself by gripping the edge of the stainless steel counter.

  “Go back to the front, hon. Get Nicky to cover the last few orders for me.”

  Ava wiped shaking hands on her chef’s apron and left the chaos for the back office.

  Marco. The missing piece of her life. Finally, the moment, the call. The forgiveness she’d fantasized about for so many years.

  She stared at the flashing yellow light on line three with a mix of hope and fear. What could she say to her little brother? Marco, honey, I love you and I miss you and I’m so sorry…

  An intense shudder shook her whole body, and she lifted the receiver, unable to wipe the smile that came from her heart.

  “Marco.” She savored the utter contentment of lingering over both syllables of his name. At last.

  “Uh, no. This is Captain Donald Taylor with the United States Coast Guard.”

  The free fall of disappointment forced her to close her eyes.

  “I’m trying to reach Marco Santori’s closest relative,” the caller continued. “Would that be you, ma’am?”

  Closest relative? Mama wouldn’t be back for hours, and her father was in New York, taping his TV show. She cleared her throat, her eyes still closed. “I’m Marco’s sister, Ava Santori. What do you need?”

  “Miss Santori, I have the unenviable task of calling to deliver some bad news.”

  Nicky barked an order in the kitchen and someone swore. Reaching across the tiny office, she shoved the door closed.

  Please, Mary, Mother of God, not Marco. She fell into a seat, tears threatening, waiting for the words.

  “You may have heard that a category five hurricane destroyed most of the island of Grenada a few days ago.”

  A hurricane. The Coast Guard. Where on earth was this going? She tried to think. “Yes. Yes. A storm that hit Grenada or Trinidad or some such island.” A faint newsreel of destroyed shanties and flattened palm trees flashed in her mind.

  “Your brother’s ship was caught in that hurricane, ma’am.”

  “His ship?” What in God’s name was Marco doing on a ship?

  “The Paradisio, ma’am, one of Utopia Adventures’ passenger sailing ships. Marco Santori was her second mate.”

  Marco, a sailor? It seemed preposterous. It must be a mistake. But then, five long years had gone by since a nineteen-year-old boy slipped out the back door of Santori’s on a winter night amid his mother’s tears and his father’s angry diatribes. He could have done anything with his life.

  “We’ve been conducting an extensive search and rescue operation for the past four days that will go on for three weeks or until we find the ship or debris,” he continued in a somber tone. “But we haven’t recovered any materials or men. As of this morning, we have officially classified your brother and the rest of the crew as presumed dead. I’m sorry, Miss Santori.”

  Presumed dead.

  The sob started from deep inside her gut and swallowed her whole. Marco was gone. She would never, ever see his teasing brown eyes or hear him call her Avel Navel. Her baby brother, the risk taker, the thrill seeker, the bad-to-the-bone boy she adored had ended up on some boat in the Caribbean Sea, and her fear and cowardice had kept her from even knowing that he could sail. She wanted to scream.

  “We’ve got about a hundred men on the search effort, ma’am. And Utopia’s hired a cadre of private divers and aircraft…”

  She didn’t hear what else he said, regret filled her mouth and turned her stomach.

  “How…how did you find us?”

  “Utopia’s personnel records, ma’am.” He sounded surprised at the question. “Your family is listed as next of kin.”

  Could there be any more sickening word
s in the English language? Next of kin. It implied a closeness, a kinship. The right to mourn. Ava swallowed hard.

  “I’m sure you have a lot of questions, ma’am. And you probably need some time with your family. Let me give you my number and I’ll be happy to provide you with a status of the search effort.”

  She reached for a pen with shaking hands.

  “Oh, and ma’am, you might be getting some calls from the media. The announcement of the shipwreck was just formally released and it’s going to be news. Be prepared.”

  She had to tell her mother. Dear God, she had to tell Dominic.

  “And, well, this is not really my area, but it only seems fair to warn you,” he continued. “I understand some attorneys are contacting the victims’ families already. There will be settlements and the inevitable lawsuits. Sorry, ma’am. It seems harsh at a difficult time like this.”

  She barely heard him. She was still imagining what Dominic would say upon learning that his only son, banished by his own edict, was dead. Presumed dead.

  “Excuse me, Mister—Captain. But, are you sure? Is there any chance he’s alive?”

  His hesitation filled Ava with hope. But hope turned to dread as the silence dragged on.

  “Is there?” She heard the imploring, insisting note in her voice.

  “This storm killed about four hundred people on Grenada. At sea, a two-hundred-foot ship wouldn’t stand much of a chance in waves the size of six-story buildings. We’re looking for bodies, Miss Santori, not survivors. I’m so sorry. Really I am. You can call me or anyone in my office with questions and, like I said, we’ll be informing you if we find anything at all.”

  “Wait a second.” Her focus started to return and reason rose to the top. Hurricanes were on the Weather Channel for days before they hit anywhere. “What was a two-hundred-foot sailboat doing in a hurricane? Didn’t they know it was coming? Why would they sail right into a storm?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out, ma’am.”

  1

  D ane Erikson stood on the weather-beaten docks of St. Barts harbor, where mourners had gathered in clusters. With them, he listened to the tributes to twenty-one men delivered from a makeshift podium. Every few minutes, his gaze returned to the ebony-haired beauty in the back, drinking in her uncanny resemblance to Marco. There could only be one reason for Ava Santori to attend the memorial service for the victims of Paradisio.

  Money.

  So, not one reason. One million reasons.

  Why else, after years of estrangement, would she join the mothers, wives, and island children who gathered at the edge of a bloodred sunset to mourn the men who perished in the wreck of his ship?

  In a simple black dress, she stood out among the colorful islanders who honored the dead by donning the brilliant hues of the Caribbean.

  He had no doubt of her identity, although she had apparently spoken to no one. Smaller and paler than her brother, she had the same unruly curls and enormous eyes the color of ripe black olives. The amazing likeness unnerved Dane and remorse rolled through him.

  The mourners closed their eyes in prayer or moaned in grief. A small child called out for his mother, who scooped him up with one hand and slung him into a natural curve on her hip. More than a few glanced his way.

  These island people understood the capriciousness of the sea that fed and nurtured them. But how many, like Ava Santori, would want retribution and vengeance and mountains of money? How many needed a villain to blame for the deaths of the young men who tried to sail the ship to safety? The orange swirl on a map that became known as Hurricane Carlos was too intangible to take the blame for their loss. Someone must pay. Someone must be held accountable. That someone was him.

  Beyond the docks, two of Utopia Adventures’ majestic sailing ships rested in the harbor of St. Barthélemy, a row of matching masts against an indigo sky, listing leeward in the tropical breeze. But no familiar sense of pride filled Dane at the sight. He’d been numb for the last three weeks since his favorite ship—his first ship—had thrashed and sunk under the deadly rogue waves that few sailors live to describe.

  He’d arrived from the search site last night, ill prepared to make a poignant address. Exhausted, frustrated, and as stunned as everyone else, he’d planned to keep a typically low profile among his employees. But Cassie had begged him to speak about Marco, and he couldn’t stand for her heart to break any further.

  So he agreed to give the eulogy for the Paradisio’s second mate. He certainly never expected a Santori in the audience. But, then, there was never such a compelling reason for any of them to show up. Money: the great reconciler.

  He kept his eyes on the ships as he strode across the wide planks of the dock, purposely avoiding eye contact with the unexpected guest from Boston. He placed a set of index cards etched with furious notes on the top of the temporary pulpit created for the event and inhaled the scent of frangipani mixed with salt water.

  “I consider Marco Santori my brother.”

  At the edge of the crowd, he saw her sway at his opening line, closing her eyes for a moment.

  He shifted his focus to the familiar faces that watched him. He knew every employee, spouse, child, and parent in the crowd. Knew their troubles and their family secrets. Knew their children’s ailments, their marital problems and their superstitions. That’s who he needed to worry about right now.

  After his three-week sojourn to the rescue site fifty miles east of Grenada, he’d returned to find suspicion. Doubt. And greed. He smelled it all around him.

  He flipped the cards facedown, abandoning the prepared words of sympathy and grief. He’d better speak from the heart.

  “Many of you know the story of how I met Marco. It’s Utopia folklore by now.” The murmur of a response rolled through the crowd, some chuckled softly.

  “The folklore is true. I saved Marco’s backside in a barroom brawl on St. John. I felt sorry for the kid. No family, in exile from someplace called New England, and he couldn’t fight worth a damn.”

  Her eyes narrowed. Piercing, reproachful.

  “But he wanted to sail.” Dane thought of the hotheaded, emotional kid with boundless energy who came to Utopia and touched everyone with his humor and enthusiasm. “Even though we all just wanted him to cook.” Knowing laughter lifted the crowd as many nodded with their own memory.

  Dane smiled with them. At first, Marco had been such a passionate brat, but despite that and their disparate backgrounds—one with a boiling Mediterranean temper, the other shaped by cool and controlled Scandinavian values—they quickly found common ground. Sailing. Their mentor-student relationship developed into what both expected to be a lifelong friendship, but in Marco’s case, life hadn’t been long enough.

  “He loved the sea as much as I do—as much as you all do—and watching Marco develop into a fine sailor, well on his way to being a captain, was a great pleasure. A very great pleasure.”

  Ava plucked at the silk of her dress, assaulted by the relentless humidity and the canned speech. Then why did you send him to his death, you bastard? A band of sweat formed under her chest, and she could feel the weight of her unrestrained hair threatening to spring into a mass of damp ringlets.

  None of it mattered, she told herself. She was here, years too late, but here nonetheless.

  Dominic would not let go of his stubborn pride. He wanted no part of a memorial service. He would have nothing to do with a lawsuit. He would burn the money from a settlement. He wouldn’t hear of some southern lawyer’s trumped-up claims that his son’s ship was sent directly into the storm by the cruise company’s owner. He wouldn’t even talk about it.

  The fire in Dominic’s black eyes had burned hotter than ever, his own bitter regret consuming him. And Mama had just locked herself upstairs and cried.

  But Grayson Boyd was one persistent lawyer. Every day, he faxed his legal briefs, sent articles from the newspapers, and E-mailed schedules of filings. And, by God, he’d convinced her. Not just t
o come to the island for the service. Ava needed to do that with every fiber of her being.

  No, the lawyer had convinced her that Dane Erikson stood under a black cloud of suspicion. He had so very much to gain. A forty-million-dollar insurance settlement. The payoff from a slight navigational error.

  She studied the man and tried to reconcile what she observed with the little she knew of him. He exuded a powerful self-assuredness that Ava would never, ever possess under any circumstances. She always envied it in people. Marco, for all his charm and exuberance, had it too.

  Dane Erikson’s arresting good looks had startled her at first. The strong lines of his Nordic heritage were obvious in his square jaw and a sculpted mouth. The handsome hollows of his cheeks and the knowledge in his piercing gaze made him look every one of his thirty-seven years, somehow both a prince and a rebel. She stared at him, trying to quell the dizzying effect it had on her. She’d been prepared for someone dark and menacing and evil. She’d expected her stomach to turn at the sight of him. Instead, her heart raced every time a smile broke across the chiseled angles of his face.

  The face of an angel with the heart of a devil, her father would say.

  “Marco Santori commanded respect and encouraged esprit de corps among his fellow crewmen. He touched us with his unexpected sensitivity, his dry sense of humor, and his heartfelt passion for living.”

  The twin sisters of regret and guilt choked Ava as she listened to the man who claimed brotherhood with the brother she had lost.

  “It is impossible to imagine how many lives were touched and changed by these men.” Erikson paused, the epitome of a grieving chief executive officer, displaying an appropriate amount of mourning but completely in control of his emotions. A towering figure with broad shoulders and taut muscles straining his shirt, he looked as though he could easily bear the weight of this disaster. His ramrod straight posture oozed confidence, as though through sheer strength and force, he could keep his accusers at bay. Then he smiled, and Ava imagined if all else failed, he could charm his way out of a courtroom.