“I want a yacht, Tom,” she sighed.
It was a bright and shiny new idea and it leapt from her lips with the freshness of prophecy. At the very least, it was an intriguing possibility that pushed away the boredom.
Tom ignored her, but to her, that was not important.
For the moment, she was on this new track and life again had purpose. She stretched out and lifted her tanned arms up to the sun as if in thankfulness.
As for me, I was intoxicated with sunlight, waves and the scent of her suntan lotion. I envisioned mysterious beaches, lazy afternoons and Charlotte—all alone in moonlight with me.
But we weren’t alone—Tom was there and in a maddening way, I resented his presence, even though he was her husband.
I was a fool and knew it—it wasn’t real love so much as self-delusion, but I was smitten and being stupid—and she was luxuriating in her new found dominance.
I was offered my uncle’s Gulf side villa—he tendered it as an incentive for me to finish the novel I began a few years before. He thought it pleasing to have a writer in the family and promised to hand off the manuscript to his publisher friend—if and when I ever completed it.
I did try. I started well and even wrote about thirty thousand words—but that was before I discovered my neighbor, or rather she took an interest in me.
“I’d be careful about wading out too far.”
I looked up from seashell hunting and saw a beautiful girl above me, on the cliff by the sea.
“I’m a good swimmer,” I smiled.
She tossed back her long wet hair and stood, arms akimbo, staring at me like a bronzed Greek goddess.
“That’s not what I meant,” she said and pointed back to the green sun-dappled water. A huge triangular shadow glided silently past.
“What the hell is that?” I shouted.
“Mantra Ray—been following him down the beach.”
A sudden frisson passed through me like an electric current. She must have noticed, because she deftly leapt from the cliff to a smaller hillock and then scampered through the sand to stand beside me.
“Are you okay?”
Her body was wet from the ocean and little goose bumps stood out on her arms. Up close, I could see she was older than I thought—perhaps my age—just nearing thirty.
“I’m fine—just not used to the seashore, I guess.”
“Oh, don’t you live around here?”
“I’m staying at the white villa down the beach—but I’m from New York.”
Her eyes lit up. “I love New York—the Metropolitan—Coro’s.”
The mention of the high-end restaurant defined her for me—a woman of wealth. Coro’s was definitely off my radar.
“What do you do for a living?” she asked.
“I’m a struggling writer,” I laughed.
“Aren’t all writers?”
I nodded, my eyes crinkling with boyish charm—at least that’s what I’ve been told.
She seemed to size me up and come to a decision. “I’m Charlotte Simpson,” she said, extending a wet hand.
“Si Lewis,” I replied grasping her hand and feeling a sudden pulse of energy flow through me. I blinked. Beautiful women don’t usually intimidate me, but I’m not usually galvanized by them either.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
She looked at me quizzically, her green eyes searching mine.
“Why don’t you come up and have a drink on my patio?”
And that was how it began, innocently enough, although in retrospect all the danger signs were out, but I refused to see.
