Page 5

I slipped the keycard that Olivia handed me into the lock of my bungalow, a small click confirming my entry into luxury. We walked inside. Olivia was right. The view over the ocean was beyond spectacular.

“I’m staying in this room,” Olivia said, pointing at an open door. “Yours is over here.”

The door swung open to reveal a room that was everything I expected it to be. Polished mahogany floors reflected the soft glow of the bedside lamp, and the sheets on the king-size bed whispered promises of silken comfort. I admired the array of fresh fruit and chilled water on the marble countertop.

I immediately felt enveloped in tranquility, the only sound being the distant murmur of the sea. Even the air smelled expensive, infused with a subtle scent of jasmine that seemed to be pumped through the vents.

I barely had time to appreciate the artisan chocolates left on my pillow before Olivia's voice carried from outside my room, "Mom, you'll miss dinner if you don't hurry!"

"Coming!" I called back, slipping into sandals that were more suitable for the evening festivities.

I made my way to the main house where the welcome dinner was unfolding like a scene from a movie. Guests mingled on the expansive deck, silhouettes framed against the setting sun. The clinking of glasses punctuated the laughter that swirled around the gathering as lively conversations took flight. A server offered me more champagne, and I accepted, the bubbles tickling my nose as I surveyed the scene.

"Quite the soiree, isn't it?" a woman who appeared at my elbow said, her voice smooth as velvet.

"I'd expect nothing less from Victoria," I responded, taking in the grandeur of the dining area.

"Indeed," she said, her gaze sharp as she scanned the faces of our fellow guests. “My name is Beatrice. I’m Victoria’s sister and Mark’s aunt.”

“Aunt Bea! I’ve heard a lot about you over the years. Nice to meet you." I extended my hand to the woman who stood like a pillar of grace in an ocean of casual elegance. She was older than Victoria by about seven or eight years.

“I’m Eva Rae Thomas.”

Her handshake was firm, and her steel-gray eyes scanned me with an efficiency rivaling any seasoned agent I'd ever encountered.

"Eva Rae Thomas, the friend from the FBI?”

“The one and only,” I said.

“I’ve heard about you too,” she said.

“Only good things, I hope.”

Beatrice answered with a light smile.

“It’s really nice here,” I said, to take the conversation elsewhere. “Beautiful.”

"Indeed,” she said. “But it's not just the surroundings that make this place special—it also has a lot of history."

"Every good mystery needs a backdrop like this," I quipped, matching her wit.

"Careful, Eva Rae," she warned playfully. "You might find yourself part of the story."

"Wouldn't be the first time," I admitted, the corner of my mouth lifting in a half-smile.

"Enjoy the evening," Beatrice said before gliding away to join another conversation, leaving me to ponder her cryptic words.

"Here's to old friends and new adventures!" Victoria's voice rang out clear as a bell, drawing everyone's attention for the toast. “And to my handsome son’s birthday, of course. Happy birthday, sweetie. I can’t believe you’re twenty now.”

“Thank you, Mom,” Mark said.

“To Mark,” she said.

Glasses raised, we echoed her sentiment, the collective cheer marking the beginning of something memorable—or so we hoped. As the applause subsided, I found myself momentarily caught up in the jubilant atmosphere, the intrigue of the evening palpable.

And that’s when I saw him—this extremely handsome man. He stood apart, a solitary figure wrapped in mystery, his eyes observing the interactions around him with a quiet intensity that drew me in. The setting sun cast an amber glow on his face, accentuating the thoughtful expression he wore as if it were his armor.

"Who's the loner?" I whispered to Olivia, nodding subtly toward him.

"Ah, that's Emilio," Olivia shared, her voice dropping to match mine. “He came here with Aunt Beatrice. I’m not entirely sure if he’s related to Mark or just a family friend, to be honest. Some say he’s Aunt Beatrice’s young Latin lover.”

"Interesting," I mused, watching Emilio's gaze flit across the crowd with a dancer's poise, deliberate and full of purpose. His presence seemed to weave a silent narrative that begged to be read between the lines.

"There’s something about him," I continued, more to myself than to Olivia, intrigued by the enigma standing before me.

"Beats me," Olivia shrugged, her attention already snatched away by Mark calling for her to join him and his friends.

"Excuse me," I said, sliding past a waiter balancing a tray of hors d'oeuvres, my feet carrying me toward the intriguing stranger before I could second-guess the impulse.

"Mind if I join you in the land of observers?" I asked, coming to stand beside Emilio.

He turned, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

"I prefer it here," he said, his voice a melody that commanded attention despite its softness. "The view is clearer."

"Clarity is often elusive," I remarked, matching his calm demeanor.

"Especially when one isn't looking for it," Emilio countered, his dark eyes locking onto mine for a moment that stretched long enough to feel significant.

"True enough," I conceded. "Eva Rae."

"Emilio," he introduced himself, though I already knew his name. It was a formality, yet there was a weight to it—a significance he intended.

"Enjoying the party?" I ventured, casting a glance at the chattering guests.

"Observation is a form of enjoyment," he replied cryptically.

"Spoken like someone who knows how to listen."

"Or someone who knows what to look for."

"Are you looking for something?" The question slipped out before I could corral it.

"Perhaps." His answer was a wisp of intrigue, leaving me to wonder at the depth hidden beneath the surface of those two syllables.

"Curious," I murmured, filing away the exchange for later reflection.

"Isn't that what brought you here?" Emilio's gaze was penetrating—as if he could see right through me. “Curiosity as to what your friends have been up to, how successful they have been, what they look like now? Who has aged the worst?”

"Touché," I said with a nod, acknowledging the point well made.

"Mom, come on! Dinner’s ready!" Olivia's voice pulled me back from the precipice of the conversation, her enthusiasm a stark contrast to the stillness that emanated from Emilio.

"Coming, sweetheart!" I called back, offering Emilio a parting nod.

"Until next time," I said, stepping away, the curtain falling on our brief act in the night's unfolding drama.