Page 4

“Here we go.”

The deeply tanned pilot of the twelve-passenger prop plane grinned as we rose into the air, adjusting the captain’s hat perched atop his shock of white hair.

There was no co-pilot for the short hop from St. Martin to St. Barth’s, and I’d readily accepted the opportunity to sit up front when he offered.

“How many times a day do you do this?” I yelled over the hum of the engines.

“Depends on the season. Twelve today.”

I looked out over miles and miles of deep blue sea, dotted with white-ringed islands edged by turquoise shallows.

Tyson’s jet had gotten me as far as St. Martin, but jets couldn’t land on St. Barth’s, so here I was on the commuter plane to the famed island playground of the wealthy, where I was to meet Tyson.

I hadn’t seen him since long before De-Sal took off, and I had no idea what to expect.

I’d reached out to our old friend Ryan, who was now an attorney in Charlotte, hoping he might have some insight to share, but he hadn’t seen Tyson in years either.

He did report that last time they’d hung out, he found that Tyson had become obsessed with the occult, with vibrations and energy.

That tracked with something his ex-wife’s nanny had said in one of the many tell-all articles on him that I’d consumed since I’d agreed to this trip, about his fasting and chewing khat leaves until he heard voices that gave him direction from a different dimension.

In most individuals, this might be seen as a mental break, but people were used to tech titans behaving strangely and the consensus was that the ideas the voices gave him on desalination and natural energy could quite literally save the world, so it was hard to argue that he should stop.

As we drew closer to St. Barth’s, I could make out rocky cliffs giving way to sandy shores around the ragged edges of the mountainous island, a mix of green- and red-roofed houses scattered over ridges and valleys and clustered around the port where yachts were stacked like bricks in the azure water.

“You ready for this?” the pilot asked.

Suddenly the harbor was beneath us, the earth rising alarmingly fast in front of us.

My heart leaped to my throat as we crested the steep spine of the island then plunged with the slope of the hill to the runway, touching down front wheel first and skidding to a halt at the edge of the turquoise sea.

The sound of propellers filled the air as I climbed down from the plane into the strong sun, holding my panama hat on my head so it wouldn’t blow away in the steady wind.

Benji and Alex didn’t have phones yet, but I texted Rosa to let them all know I’d landed safely, then collected my compact roller bag from the plane’s belly and dragged it into the small, uncrowded airport, past the lone passport control stand, where the remarkably handsome immigration officer obligingly directed me to the exit.

As I exited through the glass doors and wandered toward the taxi stand, I couldn’t help but notice that, like the sexy immigration officer, the tourists and locals loitering in the shade outside the airport trended toward good-looking and well-dressed.

More than trended. If someone snapped a photo and printed the name of a luxury fashion brand at the bottom, the scene would be believable as a fashion ad.

But of course, this island was a territory of France.

I heard snippets of French and caught a whiff of cigarette smoke.

At home, I would have made a face and waved the smoke away—even in college I’d never been more than a social smoker, and it had been years since I’d so much as taken a puff—but here, I was surprised to find I kind of wanted one, preferably paired with a cold glass of rosé.

Hot in the layers I’d worn on the plane, I stuffed my sweatshirt into my purse and tied my long hair back with the rubber band I always kept around my wrist. I felt underdressed in my ripped jeans and T-shirt, and was immediately glad I’d allowed Rosa to talk me into packing my most fashionable clothes.

The clothes I so seldom had occasion to wear in my regular mom life.

“Bonjour, madame.”

I turned to see a ridiculously sexy Frenchman, dressed in a crisp white button-down shirt and black trousers, smiling at me.

His skin was bronzed, his high cheekbones accentuated by his close-cropped beard, his tousled hair the kind of rich, multidimensional brunette that women paid a fortune for in the salon.

He took off his sunglasses, revealing eyes of mesmerizing blue. I mean, shit. My eyes were blue, but they were more of a standard midnight blue. His were stop-you-in-your-tracks blue, as electric as the sea I’d just flown over. “You are Audrey Collet, yes?” he asked in a lilting accent.

I nodded as he leaned past me to easily lift my suitcase. He smelled faintly of cologne and cigarettes.

“I am Laurent.” He deposited a business card printed on thick stock into my hand, and my eyes slid over the type, something about executive services. “Here we are.”

He loaded my suitcase into the back of a Mercedes Sprinter van, then reappeared at my side, deftly taking my hand to help me up into the back seat. My heavy bag threw me off balance and he caught me, his muscles flexing beneath his shirt, his arms surprisingly strong for his slight frame.

“Merci,” I said breathlessly, allowing him to deposit me into the cool leather interior before he climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

I smiled to myself as we turned onto the two-lane road that ran up the hill next to the airport. Clearly I needed to get out more, if an interaction as innocuous as that could make me flush the way it just had.

I didn’t date much. Rosa accused me of being jaded, and perhaps I was, a little bit anyway, but it was more that I liked my life just fine and didn’t see any reason to rock the boat.

After all, I didn’t just have myself to think about.

Any man I spent time with needed to be right not only for me, but for my boys.

And I didn’t exactly have the greatest track record with men.

Tyson had shattered me, and I’d in turn shattered a string of boyfriends afterward.

I’d learned the hard way that it was better to keep my occasional entanglements casual and brief, with no risk of anyone’s getting shattered.

Now that I was here, I suddenly realized how nervous I was about seeing Tyson again.

Not because I was still in love with him.

No, that had ended a long time ago. But because he’d always known which of my buttons to push, and now I had an added vulnerability in the form of two ten-year-old boys I loved more than life itself.

I was older now, I reminded myself. I wouldn’t allow him to manipulate me the way he used to.

Laurent glanced in the rearview mirror, his bright eyes mercifully hidden by sunglasses. “Is this your first time to visit St. Barthélemy?”

“Yes,” I replied, glad for the distraction.

“It is a special place.”

We skirted the roundabout at the top of the hill, where a bronze statue of a man in a loincloth stood, spear in hand, blowing into a conch shell. “This statue honors the Arawak, the first tribe to inhabit the island,” Laurent explained.

As we bumped over the narrow road that ran along the ridge of the island, I noticed that the landscape was more arid than tropical, with cacti and succulents rooted in the dry, rocky soil.

The views on both sides were spectacular, jagged green hills embracing red-roofed seaport villages and white sand beaches, the electric blue sea beyond marked with sailboats and yachts.

In the distance, the islands of St. Martin and Anguilla shimmered on the horizon.

“It’s beautiful,” I said. “Have you always lived on the island?”

“No. I came from France five years ago.”

“What brought you here?”

“There was a girl,” he said with a sly smile. “But I stayed afterward because I like the lifestyle. Also, the surfing is not so bad for the Caribbean.”

I smiled. “Really?”

In the rearview mirror, I saw I’d caught his attention. “In the winter is best, but we can get swells any time of year.”

“I’ve got kids, so I don’t get to go as much as I used to, but I grew up surfing in south Florida. Same thing. Not as reliable as someplace like Hawaii, but you can still have a good time.”

“How old are your children?”

“Fourth grade. Twin boys.”

He raised his brows. “I hope you don’t mind my saying, you seem very young to have children this age.”

“I had them young,” I said.

“I coach some boys this age in surfing,” he said. “It is a good age.”

The van came to an abrupt stop, and I leaned forward to see a pair of rust-colored chickens crossing the road.

“Have you worked for Tyson long?” I asked.

“I work for a company that manages many houses. His is one of them.” He made a hairpin turn off the main road, down a steep one-way street that hugged the side of the mountain. “I handle his house when he is in town because I understand his needs.”

“Which are?”

He flashed a smile. “Many.”

“Sorry,” I returned. “I just don’t know what to expect. It’s been a while since I last saw him.”

“Yes,” he said. “He told me.”

“What else did he tell you?”

He pulled through a modern wooden gate emblazoned with LE RêVE in sleek silver capitals and parked the van, turning back to talk to me over the seat. “That I’m to help you with whatever you need.”

I considered him, gauging what I could say. “Did he…say anything else?”

“He’s in a meeting now, but asked to see you in his quarters at seven.”

I nodded. So either Laurent didn’t know why I’d been called here, or he’d been instructed not to share whatever he knew with me. “Who else is here?”

“His wife, Samira, her friend Gisèle, his business partner, Allison, his brother, Cody, and Cody’s girlfriend, Jennifer.”

So, seven people, including Tyson and me, only four of whom I hadn’t met. That wasn’t so bad. And I was glad Cody would be here. No matter what had happened between us, Cody had always been kind to me.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

I placed my hat on my head. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”