back with that one. He implied you were having some personal trouble.” He gave her the investment banker size-up, part admiration, part domination. “You’ve lost weight.”
For almost a year now, she’d been unable to sleep and uninterested in food; she’d compensated by burying herself in work. Though she’d dropped half a stone from her already lean frame, she often felt three times that was draped across her shoulders.
The woman joined them and slipped her arm through Salustrio’s.
“Marlena,” he said, “meet Ms. Gordon from Simon Coxe’s team at Standard Heb. Or should I introduce you as Lady Eleanor?”
“Els will do,” she said.
Marlena did not extend her hand.
“What brings you to paradise?” Salustrio asked.
“Coxe bought a week here at some charity auction with no intention of using it,” she said. “Made a big show of sending me here as a birthday getaway.”
“Alone?”
“My man couldn’t make it.”
That she was turning thirty-three was but a convenient cover. This birthday would arrive just before the dreaded first anniversary of a loss that had forced a question she couldn’t answer: Who would she be now, since nothing she’d planned was going to happen?
She finished her drink and ordered a refill. “What pried you away?”
“The yacht had a week available,” Salustrio said. “So, when’s this birthday?”
“Tomorrow.” When the bartender delivered her scotch, she dragged over a bowl of nuts.
“The mahi-mahi is fabulous,” Marlena said.
“I was planning on eating a few of these nuts,” Els said, “getting a little squiffed, and calling it a night.”
Laughter erupted from the limbo crowd, one of whom had collapsed on the dance floor and had to be pulled to his feet.
“Look,” Salustrio said, “how about a little celebration sail tomorrow?”
“You know I promised Louisa her first mani-pedi,” Marlena said. She fluffed her hair and said to Els, “We agreed we’d spend our last day in the Resort, but he can never get enough yo-ho-ho.”
“I’m no fan of boats,” Els said.
“This isn’t just any boat,” Salustrio said.
“Humor him,” Marlena said. “If he’s ashore, he’ll drive me and the girls crazy. I’ll have the hotel send out some lunch.”
Salustrio patted Marlena’s hand. “Be on the dock at nine thirty,” he said to Els. “Look for the zodiac from Iguana, probably a big Jamaican guy at the helm. She’s the huge white ketch, likely flying a tanbark mizzen.” He signaled for his check.
Els swallowed more scotch, thinking how self-important guys were suckers for jargon. Coxe would squirm when he found out that she’d gone yachting with his archrival. She raised her glass. “Cheers, then, to yo-ho-ho.”
The man steering the rubber dinghy had blue-black skin and wore a crocheted hat stuffed with hair that resembled an enormous muffin. He was tall and sinewy, and his reflective sunglasses and silence gave him a sinister air. The sailboat was anchored beyond the rest of the craft. With its hull looming over them, the helmsman shouted a few unintelligible words and a blond sailor descended the ladder and stepped into the dinghy.
When Els stood up, the dinghy lurched on a wave and the sailor caught her hand and guided it to the ladder. “Welcome aboard Iguana, Ms. Gordon,” he said. His accent was American. “I’m Captain Ingraham. Known to all as Liz. You’ve already met Jason, our first mate.”
“Liz?” she said. “Does that get you into fights?”
He flashed a chipped-toothed grin. “Something does,” he said. “Did.” Nickname aside, he radiated full-on guy vibes—cocksure, ironic.
“I’m known to all as Els,” she said.
The captain followed her up the ladder. He took her elbow as they stepped onto the deck, but she shrugged free, saying, “I’m fine,” before stumbling into the cockpit and landing on a banquette. All around, ropes and wires slackened and tightened with the swells, much larger here than at the wharf.
Salustrio appeared in the hatchway, a cigar in his teeth. “Don’t you just love these classic beauties?” he said. “This boat’s a legend, a phoenix. Built in the ’40s and nearly destroyed in St. Maarten during Hurricane Luis in ’95.” He stepped into the cockpit. “I tried to buy her and restore her myself, but nobody returned my calls. The owner’s probably some money-laundering Colombian drug lord.”
The engine rumbled.
“Mr. S, hook’s up,” the captain said.
Salustrio flicked his eyes over the white linen shirt and floppy pants covering Els from fingertip to toe. “Let’s show Lady Eleanor what this baby can do.”
After Liz had piloted the yacht farther from shore, he pointed the bow into the wind and turned the wheel over to Salustrio. Els was fascinated by the