the weather station, as it had been for the past twenty-four hours. A hurricane had developed in the Atlantic, and as of last night its path was predicted to hit southeastern Florida. Suddenly all the inhabitants of the eastern coast had shifted into emergency mode—especially those inhabitants with prize horses. The owners wouldn’t take the chance of leaving their horses to fend for themselves and were scrambling to leave the area early, a minimum of seventy-two hours before the arrival of the storm. Every owner’s nightmare was to get stuck in traffic with a trailer full of horses and a hurricane approaching.
Windows were boarded; store shelves had been stripped of essentials like milk, bottled water, and batteries; and plans were being made should the governor call for a mandatory evacuation. The arrival of the hurricane was no longer a question: now it was a matter of when and how big.
Angel was at the stable in Wellington loading up his horse. His decision to leave had come quickly, which was typical of him. He could be impulsive, but once a decision was made, he followed through with remarkable efficiency. And Javier Angel de la Cruz had very good instincts. On the phone, Angel continued listing all the things he wanted Hannah to pack up for him.
“Javi,” she said with a hint of impatience. Javier Angel de la Cruz was known as Angel by his adoring fans in the equestrian world, which made her private nickname for her lover more . . . intimate. “Stop! I can’t bring all this, and I really have to go.”
“Is okay. I know. But—”
“No más!” she exclaimed, raking her hand through her long hair. Already a huge pile of riding gear, trophies, and files was on the bed. “We can only take those few things we truly treasure. Everything else must be left behind. There’s no room in my car.”
There was a long pause. “I understand. Yes.” She could hear him suck in his breath. “You decide. I must deal with Butterhead.” He paused. “Except for medals. Bring those.”
“Of course.”
“You coming now?”
“Once I load up all your crap. . . .”
He chuckled. “Oh yes, sí, my Olympic medals son crap.”
She laughed softly, conceding the point. “I’ll be there soon. Please say you’ll be ready to go when I get there. I don’t want to get caught in too much traffic.”
“Yes. Much to do, but yes. Come now. Oh, and Hannah . . .”
She liked the way he said her name. The H was silent, so it sounded more like “Ana.” “Be nice to Max, okay? Very nice. You know he is scared of thunder. The storms, they make him crazy.”
Hannah’s smile fell as her gaze slid across the room to the giant black schnauzer lying on the tile, watching her. That dog was always staring. It was creepy. Max was Angel’s beloved dog, and for the past ten years—throughout all his tabloid-fodder relationships—that dog had been his one constant companion. Even though she and Angel had been together for nearly six months, she still had the niggling feeling that she was in second place behind the dog in Angel’s heart.
“I will. But, Javi, be ready, okay? Don’t make me—and Max—wait.”
“Okay. And Hannah?” Pause. “Pick the right stuff, okay?”
She hung up the phone, stunned by the responsibility entailed in that last request. He trusted her to choose for him what he valued. An impossible task.
Her gaze swept across the gleaming, modern, all-white condo. Two large paintings of blue ocean waves dominated the walls. A bronze statue of a horse and a few coffee-table books sat on the glass coffee table. Hannah didn’t like clutter and kept her apartment spare. The large white phalaenopsis orchid and the lemons that filled the crystal bowl were all faux. No bugs, no mess. She spied black hairs on the white sofa again and with a huff of frustration brushed them off, muttering, “Bad dog.”
She finished and straightened to look around the room. What did she value? she wondered. There wasn’t much here she’d miss, she realized with sudden clarity. It wasn’t a grand apartment; it had only two bedrooms, but the building was desirable in Palm Beach. Though small, it had been enough space for her after her divorce. She’d taken precious little from the divorce, signing away a fortune in the prenuptial agreement. She’d left Randall’s spacious mansion after seven years of marriage and moved into this small condo wanting—needing—an uncluttered lifestyle and the soul-saving vista of blue water more