“And only the tenth of June,” Gigi said. “Well, it’s the price we pay for our Florida sunshine and glorious winters.”
“Yes, ma’am. They say she’s bringing lots of wind and rain. Calling this one Anna. She’s coming ashore on the weekend.”
Corina stepped outside, into the warm, dewy evening, into the stiff breeze channeling down U.S. 1 from the Indian River.
“Let’s be ready, Corina. We might want to close the office early tomorrow.”
Corina started across the parking lot toward her classic ’67 black GTO sitting under the amber-glowing lamp. “Be sure to tell your editorial director.”
Gigi laughed. “You’re keeping me honest.” Then she reached for Corina. “You know I want all the best for you. Your mother and I go way back, but I—”
“It’s okay, Gigi. I know, I know.”
“Good.” Gigi started off around the building for her car. “Then stop busting my chops.”
“Never. You’ll be telling me, ‘You were right,’ within six months.” If not before.
“Whatever, darling, whatever.”
At her car, Corina unlocked the door, tossed her bag across the red leather bench seat, and faced the wind. She loved storms. Natural ones, not emotional. She’d had enough of those for a lifetime.
A tropical storm would be new for her. Besides the security features of her penthouse, the builder guaranteed the construction could withstand a Category 4 hurricane.
Tipping back her head, Corina scanned the sky. So clear and beautiful, fresh and breezy, with no hint of a tropical storm among the glittering stars.
“Corina?”
She turned at the familiar voice, her heartbeat cresting.Stephen?
Sure enough, standing between the glow of the parking lot lights and the shadows of royal palms was Stephen Stratton, Prince of Brighton, hands in his jeans pockets, his dark hair twisting above his crystalline eyes with every gust of wind.
“Oh my gosh . . .” She caught her trembling breath as she collapsed against the car. “What are you doing here?”
“I tried your flat but your doorman said you’d not returned for the evening. So I came here.” He stepped closer. “How are you?”
“How am I? You flew four thousand miles to ask me how I am?”
“You look well.” The end of his comment dropped low, a husky resonance soaking his voice. “Beautiful as ever.”
“Five and a half years.” She gripped her hands into fists. “Not a peep out of you. No call, no letter, not even a text or an e-mail.” She caught a shift in the shadows, a broad, burly figure, inching his way toward them. “You have a protection officer?”
“Thomas.” Stephen motioned over his shoulder toward the man.
“What are you doing here?” She crossed her arms and squared off with the man she used to love. Wholeheartedly. Without reservation. With a passion she never knew she possessed.
“I’m here on a private, sensitive matter.”
“You flew four thousand miles to talk to me about a sensitive matter? What happened to Brighton’s telephone service? Is the palace still denying you e-mail? The ability to text?”
“Brighton Telephone is in fine order. And all of Brighton royalty is current with the world’s technological standards. But the matter for which I stand here now was not one for a long distance call or a by-the-by e-mail.” Stephen glanced around and hobbled closer, his left foot bound up in a walking boot. “Is it possible to sit in your flat with a cup of tea?”
Corina motioned to the palms. “I think the parking lot can handle whatever you have to say. As I recall, the last time we talked it was outside the rugby stadium with you wearing a sweaty kit.”
He sighed, leaning to check his fingers in the light, and her bravado faded. Her knees weakened, and her heart smacked her head with a one-two, demanding a more cordial response.
He’s here.
In my parking lot.
