Immortal Billionaire. Jane Godman
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turned to Sylvester and his heart somersaulted. “I find it fascinating. I’d love to know more.”
This was too dangerous. Her nearness was intoxicating. If only he could tell her. Explain why he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of getting closer to her. If only he didn’t have to brutally snuff out that half hopeful, half scared light in her eyes.
Getting a grip on his emotions with difficulty, he injected a note of steel into his response. “Matt’s right. If I’m not careful, I can turn my hobby into something resembling a lecture. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do.” He turned away, but not before he saw the flash of pain in her eyes or the surprise in Matt’s.
You bastard. His lips compressed into a thin line as he marched back to the house. If she had to be here at all, why did Connie have to be so vulnerable, so easy to hurt? Why couldn’t it be brittle Lucinda or robust Ellie? Why shy Connie, who was already so damaged? Someone took a knife to her throat not so long ago, and now you are doing the same thing to her heart.
Because she’d fallen in love with him at first sight. Of course she had. Just as he had with her. It was inevitable when you’d shared all they had before they’d even exchanged that first glance.
Sylvester wanted to turn back, to draw her tenderly into his arms and kiss away the hurt before explaining it all to her. But he didn’t want to see her expression change to one of horror. He didn’t want the ensuing speculation about his mental health, the stares, and the whispered comments behind hands. He didn’t want anyone to try to stop him seeing this final task through to its inevitable conclusion.
Ignoring the sounds of revelry from the pool area, he made his way up to his room. Going to the drawer in his dresser where he kept the files on each of his guests, he reached beneath those and withdrew the portrait of Máximo de León y Soledad. The face that stared back at him was proud and noble. A perfect, precise, mirror image of his own.
“This had better be worth it.” Five hundred years ago, Máximo had set off on a journey into the unknown. Now it was time for modern-day Sylvester to do the same.
He didn’t know how long he sat in his room, gazing at that picture, but it was some considerable time later when he was roused from his thoughts by the sounds of shouting, running footsteps in the hall below and a woman screaming. Frowning, he replaced the portrait and made his way down the stairs. When he reached the foot of the staircase, there was already a crowd in the marble-tiled hall.
“What’s going on?”
The group around an unconscious figure on the floor parted in recognition of Sylvester’s authority. Guthrie, clad in swim shorts, and still wet from the pool, was lying on his back, a puddle of blood forming behind his head. A smashed glass lay beside him and a strong smell of liquor pervaded the scene.
“Somebody find Roberto. He’s a trained paramedic.”
Sylvester knelt beside Guthrie, checking his pulse. It was regular. Clad only in a bikini, Lucinda was still screaming. Sylvester glanced over his shoulder. “Can someone get something to cover her up? Keep her warm. Vega, maybe a cup of tea...” The message behind the words was clear. Get her out of here. Making soothing, clucking noises, Vega led Lucinda away.
“Shall I help you lift him onto one of the sofas?” Jonathan offered.
“Let’s wait for Roberto.”
Roberto arrived a minute later, carrying his medical bag. Sylvester rose so Roberto could get better access.
Turning Guthrie’s head, Roberto discovered a nasty wound on the back of his skull. The movement caused Guthrie to groan and open his eyes.
“What the hell hit me?”
“You fell.” Jonathan told him. “You left the pool to come and fix yourself another drink. When you didn’t come back, Lucinda came looking for you and found you here. You must have knocked your head on the floor when you fell.”
“No, that’s not right.” Guthrie winced as Roberto began to clean the wound. “I’d got my drink and was on my way back to the pool. As I was passing the stairs, something hit me on the back of the head and I went down. That’s what happened. Not the other way around.”
“But that can’t be how it was. Who would hit you?” Jonathan insisted. “It’s much more likely you fell and banged your head. Your feet were wet and—” he gave Guthrie an apologetic glance “—you had been drinking.”
“I know what happened, damn it!”
Sylvester met Roberto’s eye over Guthrie’s head and Roberto shook his head with a frown. “This needs stitches, boss. I can do it, but he should probably get it checked by a doctor, as well.” He beckoned Sylvester to take a look. The cut on Guthrie’s scalp was circular and deep. “He’s right. It looks like he’s been bashed hard with a heavy object. No way was this caused by hitting his head on the floor.”
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