He reached out to take her hand. “Come with me.”
She recoiled. “Please don’t touch me.”
“You can’t mean that.”
“I do.”
He stared at her, horrified.
“Delia, don’t let this destroy us.”
She moved farther away.
“You’re the one who’s destroying everything,” she accused. “Go ahead. Leave if you want to.”
Their eyes met. He swallowed, trying to comprehend why she was forcing him to abandon her. The ticking clock measured a full minute. Margaret ambled into the salon.
“You rang, miss?” she asked, but her cheery expression faded as her eyes traveled from one to the other.
“John brought me some flowers. Could you please take them away?”
“Shall I put them in your room?”
“No.”
Cordelia’s tone was pure ice. Margaret looked around for an explanation, but he remained silent.
Sinclair silently cursed himself. Those roses now implied guilt. Cordelia probably thought he had bought them as a peace offering. If only she knew his real intentions.
“I’ll put them on the table in the entrance hall,” Margaret declared. She picked up the roses and trudged out.
Cordelia watched her go, her face impassive, then turned to him.
“Before you leave, I want to get something clear between us. I want to know how you feel about me.”
He took her hand in both of his.
“Delia, you know how I feel.”
“Actually, I don’t.”
He realized that this whole thing could be solved with the words “marry me.” Those two little words would do it. But under the circumstances, he settled for three.
“I love you.”
Her face remained warily expectant.
“Do you?”
“Yes, Cordelia. I do.”
“Have you ever considered the future?” she asked.
His heart sank.
“Of course I think of the future, Delia. All the time.”
“So why are you so reluctant to talk about it now?”
“It doesn’t seem appropriate, with all this going on.”
She looked up at him, eyes shimmering with tears.
“Who is John Sinclair? I feel like I don’t know him anymore.”
She looked small and frail, sitting on the far side of the couch. He leaned forward, speaking urgently.
“Delia, I’m the same man I have always been. A newspaper doesn’t change that.”
“So why don’t you answer me?”
“I did. And I really don’t know why you are suddenly questioning my intentions.”
“I don’t question your intentions. I just want to hear how you feel.”
He closed his eyes and shook his head, refusing to budge.
“We can talk about it after this is over.”
His tone was firm, but part of him was racked with doubt. If he asked her to marry him now, she’d never know if he really loved her or if he’d been pressured by circumstances. Their life together shouldn’t start with a scandal.
Sinclair stood and paced toward the window.
“I’m going to go,” he said and looked out at the rain.
RUE DE VAUGIRARD, PARIS
When Charles Bonnard entered the breakfast room, his mother was at the table looking at a tabloid newspaper. A neighbor subscribed to the publication. Madame Bonnard would never buy it herself, but she wasn’t above accepting it secondhand after her friend had finished reading it.
Charles sat down, poured some café au lait, and added two lumps of sugar with a pair of silver tongs. At this hour of the morning, his mother was already fully dressed in a beautiful Yves St. Laurent wool suit and a lovely filigree gold bangle on her right wrist. On her left hand was the emerald wedding ring that Alphonse Bonnard had given her all those years ago.
The reality of her life was very different from the impression she presented. Since her husband’s death, the family fortunes had dwindled alarmingly. The Bonnard family still had the house, which could fetch millions if need be, but Madame Bonnard was clinging to it with something akin to panic. She was unwilling to give up her aristocratic lifestyle.
For Charles, this created enormous pressure. After a gilded and carefree youth, it was now up to him to support the household.
So far, they were scraping by.
His sister was a fashion designer and chipped in. Her business was good, but seasonal. Charles was the only steady income earner in the family. His job at Sinclair’s Herodotus Foundation paid well. But keeping up to his mother’s standards took all his resources.
Madame Bonnard dabbed her lips daintily with a linen napkin and dropped the newspaper onto the tablecloth.
“Good morning, Charles.”
“Good morning. Anything interesting in the gossip columns?”
“There’s an article about your friend, John Sinclair.”
That was no surprise. As a wealthy philanthropist, Sinclair was frequently in the news.
“What are they saying about him?”
“He has another woman.”
“No he doesn’t. They’re making things up again.”
Madame Bonnard’s smile of satisfaction was barely hidden.
“Her picture is right here. The usual kind of girl, young and pretty. Except this one happens to be famous.”
“Ridiculous. I just saw him in Capri.”
“Alone?”
“Of course not. He’s still with Cordelia.”
“Then he’s cheating on her,” Madame Bonnard proclaimed.
“Sinclair doesn’t cheat.”
“Well apparently he’s moved on to someone else.”
Madame Bonnard picked up her orange juice and redirected her argument. “I think Cordelia Stapleton should marry you, Charles.”
His mother had been pushing Cordelia on him for a long time, and he was used to fending off that suggestion.
“I’m afraid Delia has other ideas about whom she wants to marry,” Charles said tersely.
“Well she might be changing her mind about Mr. Sinclair.”
Charles held his hand out for the newspaper.
“Let me see.”
He was one of the directors of the Herodotus Foundation and should be aware of any negative press. Charles unfolded the tabloid and glanced down
“Princess Victoria’s Lover—Playboy John Sinclair.”
He swallowed hard, reading the words twice.
“This isn’t true!”
Madame Bonnard spooned strawberry confiture onto her croissant. “It’s a disgrace. Princess Victoria is only twenty years old.”
“Twenty! No she isn’t!”
He felt the blood drain out of his face.
“It says right here, she’s twenty,” his mother declared.
“I thought she was twenty-five,” he said feebly.
He tried to recall the exact conversation he had with Victoria about age. She had made a joke of it, brushing off his inquiry.
He pushed back his chair. “I have to make a call.”
“Charles, please. Finish your coffee. I don’t want you getting involved.”
“Sinclair’s in trouble. I have to warn him.”
His mother shook her head firmly.
“You will do nothing of the kind. This is not about the Herodotus Foundation.”
“But he’s also my friend.”
“That may be so, but John Sinclair can take care of his own sordid affairs.”
GROSVENOR STREET, LONDON
Malik stood in the doorway of the bedroom, as Sinclair pulled shirts from the top shelf of the armoire and flung them into his calfskin satchel. He was using the Gladstone bag—the luggage that usually went on expedition. His exact travel plans were a mystery, but by the look of things he was headed to a warm climate.
“I assume Mr. Bonnard will handle all calls about the Herodotus Foundation while you are away?”
&nb
sp; Sinclair stuffed a shirt into the bag.
“Yes. I just spoke to him.”
“I thought I heard you on the phone with him just now.”
Sinclair looked up, sharply. “I expect the whole house heard me, Malik. What are you getting at?”
“Is everything all right, sir?”
“We had some difficult things to discuss.”
Malik had witnessed Sinclair and Charles quarrel many times before. But it was usually amiable, like brothers. Now apparently there was a more serious issue.
Malik spoke in Turkish, using a common expression from his native country: “Only friends can speak bitterly to each other.”
“Then Charles and I must be very good friends,” Sinclair said in Turkish.
Charles and Sinclair had met a decade ago, and Sinclair had suggested they work together on the Herodotus Foundation. It was a successful partnership.
At that time, he was an American billionaire from Boston, newly arrived in Europe. Charles, with his aristocratic lineage, was connected to everyone of importance on the continent. Under Charles Bonnard’s tutelage, the Herodotus Foundation became internationally recognized.
“Sir, the planes in the UK have been grounded,” Malik volunteered gently. “With that volcano in Iceland, nothing is taking off from Heathrow.”
“That’s why I’m traveling by train. I’m booked on the Eurostar out of St. Pancras Station.”
“How will I get a hold of you, sir?”
“I’ll forward you a landline number when I get there.”
Again, Sinclair did not reveal his destination.
Malik tried another approach. “When will you return?”
“When I’m ready to deal with civilization again.”
“Will that be long?”
Sinclair snapped his bag shut and buckled it firmly.
“Yes, it will be quite some time.”
ST. PANCRAS STATION, LONDON
St. Pancras Station was filled with people who had been stranded by the airline shutdown. Sinclair had never seen such bedlam. The counter clerk thumbed the dog-eared passport, fanning through twenty extra pages of stamps and visas.
“I see you travel frequently,” she said.
“Yes, I’m an archaeologist.”
“Destination, please.”
“Paris, then Sicily.”
She surveyed his paperwork, taking an extra moment to examine his photo, then handed everything back with a smile.
“If you’re going to Sicily, you’d better take care. I hear Mount Etna is starting to rumble.”
Sinclair tucked his passport into his inside pocket.
“My dig is in Morgantina, about sixty miles away.”
She glanced at the clock on the wall.
“You’ll have to hurry. The train is about to leave.”
He rushed through the luggage scan and ran down the escalators. On the platform, several trains were about to depart. Sinclair dodged the crowds and stepped into the premiere carriage of the ultramodern Eurostar just as the train doors slid shut.
It would take two hours and fifteen minutes to make the trip from London to Paris. From there he’d take an overnight sleeper straight to the tip of Italy. His dig in Sicily was free of ashfall; the prevailing winds had blown the debris away. So he could work there for a while. A couple of weeks of hard labor would help him sort out his feelings. There was nothing like shoveling in the dirt to set a man right.
GROSVENOR STREET, LONDON
And there was nothing like a long soak in a hot bath to set a woman right. Cordelia came into her room toweling her hair. The ivory silk bathrobe was soft against her skin as she tied the belt.
For the hundredth time, she wondered about Sinclair. Speculation about his whereabouts had become almost a constant thrum in her mind.
The evening stretched ahead of her, empty and alone.
Why had he left without telling her where he was going? Grim-faced, he said he would get in touch in a few weeks. Sinclair could be stubborn when he was angry, and so could she. This wasn’t the first time that they’d had a falling out and he had stormed off. He’d probably relent in a day or so and call her.
“Take care, John,” she had replied, displaying frosty indifference.
And foolishly, she let him to go.
Now the house was too quiet. Malik was finished for the day, and Margaret was sitting with the dog watching the telly in the kitchen. Cordelia opened her laptop, hoping to find out the latest about the ashfall that was shutting down Europe.
According to the BBC, the Eyjafjallajökull volcano was causing the biggest disruption of air travel since World War II. The videos of the event in Iceland were heart-stopping. Jude Blackwell’s pictures on YouTube already had 1.2 million hits.
Jude Blackwell was a legend. He lived on the edge—literally. In a spectacular feat, he had donned a thermal-resistant “hot suit” and zip lined across the lava lake of Ethiopia’s Erta Ale volcano—a solitary figure flying across a sea of fiery orange, lava splatters missing him by inches.
He was quite the daredevil. She knew him by reputation long before they met. Their paths crossed a few years ago. It was in the South Pacific, where he was photographing volcanoes and she was on a geological expedition to study the seabed. They struck up a casual conversation over a drink in a crummy little bar in Tuvalu.
She noticed immediately how attractive he was. Rugged male energy radiated off of him like heat. When he suggested a walk on the beach, her heart had skipped. This was the kind of man who would waste no time in putting the moves on her. She said yes anyway.
As they walked along the deserted beach, she listened to his voice, half distracted by her own thoughts. Relationships were hard for her. Ever since the death of her father, becoming attached to a man was risky stuff. Her heart was usually locked up. And Jude Blackwell looked like trouble. If she fell for him, what would happen? In most likelihood, she’d just be one more conquest for him to brag about.
Without wasting any time, Jude had taken her hand and pulled her toward him. The kiss was demanding and sexy. But she pulled away.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“Timing.”
“Got another fella?”
“Something like that.”
His grin was wicked.
“Well, don’t tell him,” he said and kissed her again, lifting her off her feet.
Nothing more happened that night except a half-dozen torrid kisses on the deserted beach. But they did become good friends, albeit at a distance. He emailed from time to time, always very flirty.
She scrolled down to the comments section for the video of the volcano.
Her fingers paused over the keyboard.
“Spectacular photos, Jude!” she typed. “But a little too close for comfort—take care.”
KEFLAVIK AIRPORT, ICELAND
Jude saw the comment from Cordelia Stapleton as he was checking in at Iceland’s international airport. He smiled as he read it.
Delia was one brilliant woman. And to be perfectly honest, she appeared in his fantasies quite often.
But then, ladylike types always intrigued him.
Delia was more than an illusion. She was very down to earth—intellectual and sexy—the kind of woman who would never be boring. He had half a mind to look her up next time he was in London to see if she was free. Even if she weren’t, she’d be worth the effort.
But, first things first. He had to get out of Iceland.
The flight status window on the departure board was spinning like a slot machine.
CANCELLED, CANCELLED, CANCELLED.
“Rome,” he said. “Please, not Rome.”
There it was: KEFLAVIK to ROME—BOARDING. The ashfall had shut down most of Europe. But Southern Italy had been relatively spared. Apparently the drift had not yet reached Sicily.
Mount Etna was still a possibility.
He walked over to the counter.
“Are you calling flight 75W?”
&n
bsp; The counter clerk pressed her lips together in annoyance.
“Yes, sir. One moment please.”
Jude hoisted his backpack and stood by the gate, anxious to go. He’d fly through Rome and take a train to Sicily.
Every news network in the world was clamoring for volcano video—from Hawaii’s Kilauea to Mexico’s Popocatepetl. Some pundit on television had proposed the theory that this was a “Summer of Fire,” as if all the volcanoes were going to light up simultaneously like some kind of a pinball machine.
Of course, that was complete rot.
Seismic activity in one part of the world did not automatically generate eruptions in other hemispheres.
But it didn’t stop the news networks. They were convinced there would be hundreds of eruptions this year. And they wanted pictures. So that meant he was going to make a lot of money.
The only problem was that Iceland wasn’t photogenic anymore. Magma splatters had died down, and a haze obscured everything. The best shots were over. It was time to move on.
The Discovery Channel had commissioned him to get footage of any volcano in the world. His choice.
He chose Mount Etna.
In terms of beauty, it was the ultimate caldera. There were constant puffs of white gas from the southeast crater, which contrasted nicely with the blue Mediterranean sky.
The airline attendant began the boarding process and scanned his ticket.
“Have a safe flight.”
The words gave him a chill. Flight conditions were deteriorating. Westerly winds were carrying the ash into the upper stratosphere.
The sulfuric acid corroded the metal skin of the plane. Grit was abrading the cockpit windows. Each speck of ash was as fine as baby powder. During flight, that debris was sucked inside the engine. The superheated chamber was 1,400 degrees, and the grains of silica would melt and fuse onto the turbine blades.
This wasn’t just a paranoid fantasy. In the past three decades, more than one hundred civil aviation accidents had been from volcanic ash. An organization known by the acronym VAAC monitored air quality conditions from twelve sites around the world.
There had been a few near misses with commercial liners. Once, ash from Mount Galunggung in Indonesia caused a jumbo jet to stall. All four engines shut down. Luckily, the pilot switched to glide mode and was able to restart. In Alaska, a 747 flying over Mount Redoubt plowed through volcanic ash and plunged for two miles in a near free fall.
Summer of Fire Page 9