Jewel Cay was even more beautiful than Brooke remembered. She hadn’t visited Leonard Carter’s colonial-style home, perched on a tiny private island in the Florida Keys, for years – before college, in fact. In the interim, Jewel Cay’s grounds had grown more lush with foliage and, somehow, the water surrounding it had taken on an even brighter sparkle. Thankfully, David also loved the estate on sight, although in Brooke’s mind it would be hard to dislike the proud white house with its long decked porch, the hammocks swinging between shady banana trees and manicured lawns sloping down to the turquoise Caribbean. No wonder Leonard had cut down his workload at Asgill’s in the past few years, thought Brooke. During the winter months, he only worked two weeks out of every four, allowing him to come down and stay here. Since the death of his wife three years earlier, Leonard had begun to refer to Jewel Cay as ‘The Sanctuary’. Brooke was honoured that he would allow her and David to share its tranquil atmosphere.
‘This is just glorious,’ said Alessandro Franchetti, watching a pod of dolphins leap across the bay through the wide French windows. Behind him it was getting dark, the sun setting in banners of vivid red, lavender, and bronze across the sky. Alessandro had arrived two hours earlier in order to see Jewel Cay at night – Brooke and David’s wedding was to be at sunset. Alessandro was wearing a white linen suit, presumably in deference to his surroundings, although Brooke giggled to herself that he looked more like an up-market pimp. In Alessandro’s flamboyant entourage were two representatives from Miami’s leading wedding caterers, his handsome PA, who looked as if he belonged on the Versace runway, and two other assistants, whom he mysteriously referred to as the ‘setup team’. Clicking his fingers, Alessandro beckoned them to follow him to the front of the house. Brooke gasped as she stepped outside. Somehow, since his arrival, candles had been placed all around the fountain on the front lawn, while strings of fairy lights seemed to drip from the mahogany trees.
‘Alessandro, this is magical,’ said Brooke, her hands to her mouth. ‘Is this what your assistants have been doing?’
He gave a casual shrug.
‘I just wanted to get us in the mood.’
‘What for? I thought he was getting us to sample canapé options,’ whispered David as Alessandro sat them at a small linen-draped table under a tree.
Alessandro clapped his hands. Soft jazz floated from inside the house and two white-coated waiters came out holding trays of tiny, delicate food.
‘Imagine it’s December the twenty-ninth, your wedding day. Close your eyes, David. Come on.’
Brooke took a small ball of choux pastry off the silver platter. As she bit the delicate crust, soft mousse dissolved onto her tongue. It was exquisite.
‘Wow. David, try one of these.’
David gingerly picked one up and popped it into his mouth.
‘Umm,’ he nodded, ‘that’s really good.’
‘Of course it’s good,’ said Alessandro, his eyes wide open. ‘The guy who made it used to be Alain Ducasse’s pastry chef. That mousse is truffle-scented.’
Each canapé seemed more delicious than the one preceding it: caviar on rye and pumpkin brittle, topped with crème fraîche and chives from England, spoons of Finnish cloudberry sorbet, the softest beef carpaccio, tartlets filled with rare cheese and asparagus.
Finally Alessandro clapped his hands and the waiters disappeared.
‘These are my favourite caterers,’ said Alessandro, sotto voce. ‘I want to go with them, but the choice is entirely yours. They’ve signed a confidentiality agreement – but you never know. I dated a chef once: terrible gossip. He had to go of course, gossip is toxic in my professional life as you can imagine.’
David covered his mouth with a napkin to hide his laugh. ‘I think they’re amazing, Alessandro,’ said Brooke. ‘I love the food, I love the lights, and I also love your idea to have the ceremony around the pool.’
‘Well, I haven’t quite worked out how we’re going to build an aisle over the water, but leave it with me. In the meantime I’ve auditioned five Cuban jazz bands already. Miami-based but from Havana originally. One of them is especially cute.’
‘We want to know what they sound like, not look like,’ smiled David.
‘I like a nice all-round package,’ said Alessandro briskly.
‘So I heard,’ quipped Brooke. She had found Alessandro hard work at first but, having spent many hours with him, both in person and on the phone, she was beginning to enjoy his company. It was hard not to be dragged along in the slipstream of his seemingly endless enthusiasm.
‘You are a very naughty young lady,’ said Alessandro, swatting her on the arm.
Together the three of them walked through the grounds, talking through Alessandro’s ‘vision’. There would be jugglers and fire-eaters, a champagne bar by the ocean and an extravagant firework display at midnight. David was quiet throughout Alessandro’s walkthrough. Brooke watched him carefully as Alessandro explained how he planned to fly a DJ in from Paris for the dance floor they would build by the pool. In the ten days since he’d been back from Syria, he’d been spending long days in the studio, plus there had been a couple of big benefits including the Costume Institute Gala at the Met. No wonder he looked tired.
‘Are we both okay for the second canapé-tasting at ten tomorrow?’ asked Alessandro. ‘It’s with Starlight caterers. They’re based in South Beach and they’ve done fabulous parties for Madonna and Julio Iglesias.’
Brooke nodded, her eyes still on David. Her fingers moved up to touch the scarf around her neck. It was a beautiful piece of copper silk, shot through with gold thread, which David had brought back from Syria. They’d made up on the telephone after their quarrel about the bodyguards, but Brooke had still been relieved to receive it.
‘Wonderful, we’ll see you then,’ said Alessandro, summoning his PA and assistants, jumping into a waiting boat to take them back to the mainland. When the boat’s engine had died away, all was quiet again, just the occasional rustle of the palm trees in the breeze. Brooke walked back inside the house and poured them both a drink of iced tea from a pitcher.
‘Do we have to do all that again tomorrow?’ said David after a few moments.
‘Do what?’
‘Food theatre,’ he said with a half-grin.
‘This is really important, David,’ said Brooke, trying to control her annoyance. ‘And he’s not being theatrical, he’s just putting the food in context.’
David laughed lightly and shook his head. ‘Honey, I think you need to reassess your definition of “important”.’
‘So you don’t think our wedding is important?’
‘Of course it’s important. Jewel Cay is important. I needed to see it and I love it; I couldn’t think of a more magical place to marry you in. But I’m being honest here: do I care if we have tea-smoked duck blinis or mini foie-gras mousses? Frankly, I don’t.’
She recoiled, piqued at his flippancy.
I’m beginning to wonder how much you actually care about the wedding, period,’ she snapped. ‘If it’s relative to how much you’ve done for it, then I’m beginning to think you don’t care a great deal.’
She knew she was being a little unfair. David’s workload was twice hers, but it annoyed her that he seemed quite content to leave every last detail and decision to her. She wondered suddenly if he would be like this if he was marrying Alicia Wintrop, and then stopped herself.
All she wanted was for David to hug her and reassure her that he wanted to marry her more than anything in the world, but instead he ran his hand through his hair irritably.
‘Brooke, I have had a really tough week,’ he said. ‘I was just hoping this could be a break for us too. I mean, how often do we get away together these days?’
‘And how often do we get married?’
David looked at her. ‘I didn’t come all this way to get into a fight.’
‘Well, I didn’t start it.’
‘Neither did I.’
There was a tense pause and Brooke turned away, frowning more in puzzlement than anger. One of the reasons she’d been so sure that David was the right man for her was because they didn’t row and always felt so easy and natural in each other’s company. But recently, they’d had arguments about David’s ex, Alicia Wintrop, and her involvement in the Oracle story, a spat about the bodyguard, plus dozens of other little cross words and disagreements. Each of them had been patched up by flowers or sex, but it all left an anxious feeling hovering over her like a black cloud.
‘So why are we arguing, David?’ she asked. ‘Ever since we became engaged that’s all we seem to have been doing.’
His voice was cold. ‘That’s a slight exaggeration.’
‘Well, shall I be a little more specific then?’ she continued. ‘We argue whenever you’re around, which hasn’t been a great deal, has it?’
‘So this is what it’s really about? My job? Because I’m not in New York twenty-four/seven? Is that why you’ve been running around having lunch dates with Matt Palmer.’
‘I met up with Matt once.’ Brooke wished she’d never told him and was certainly glad she hadn’t mentioned it was a six-hour round trip into Pennsylvania. ‘It was just to say thanks for him looking at my foot.’
‘Of course, his tender loving care,’ he said sarcastically.
She looked at him as if observing a stranger. She’d never thought he’d be capable of jealousy, it just wasn’t part of his personality; he had too much old-money self-confidence for that.
‘David, when have I ever complained to you about seeing female friends?’ It was true, she didn’t complain, but it sometimes bothered her. She was glad David wasn’t like his father and brother, traditional old-money alpha males who frequented private ‘men-only’ clubs like the Racquet and Tennis Club, and huddled together after dinner to talk about sports and stocks and shares. But David had an uncommon amount of female friends, especially at work, who were always calling him up to ask him to lunch or just to ‘catch up’. It certainly bothered her, even if she didn’t show it.
David looked over at her and his eyes softened. ‘What’s really wrong here, Brooke? You would tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?’
His expression was grave and earnest; Brooke called it his ‘big story’ face, the face he pulled when reporting from war zones or disaster areas. God, is that what he’s thinking about our relationship? she wondered.
‘You know there’s something wrong, David,’ she said quietly. ‘Remember how good things were before we decided to get married?’
A deep frown appeared between his brows. ‘Are you saying you don’t want to get married?’
He sounded like David Frost quizzing Richard Nixon.
‘No,’ she said, honestly. ‘But don’t you miss the time when we could go to the movies, or eat hot dogs in Central Park without it being a circus?’
She had thought a lot lately about what point it had all become so crazy. The press attention had sneaked up on her. At first it was the odd photograph in US Weekly or People of them coming from a party, the occasional chase down the street by an enthusiastic pap. That had actually been quite exciting the first few times. Brooke supposed that before they had gone public as a couple there was no reason to suppose David’s relationship with her was any more serious than it had been with any of his other girlfriends. But their engagement in February had caught the media by surprise. The day the story broke there had been at least fifty reporters outside her apartment.
‘Yes, I loved that time,’ said David. ‘But I love the time we spend together now too. I know I’m busy, but it won’t be forever, honey, I promise.’
He reached out for her and pulled her into his arms. ‘That scarf looks really pretty on you.’
She grinned, remembering all the little gifts and trinkets he’d brought back from his travels. He kissed her bare shoulder, his lips moving up to her neck, to the soft curve of her cheek.
‘Hmm. That’s lovely,’ she smiled, her anxiety melting away.
As their kisses became deeper, he used both hands to lift off her slip dress.
‘Maybe we should argue more often,’ she smiled, letting him push her down onto one of the soft cream sofas.
‘Maybe we should,’ he growled, taking off his T-shirt and unsnapping her bra. He lowered his mouth back onto hers, his taste warm and sweet, and as his dark chest hair brushed over her tight, erect nipples, she groaned with arousal and spread her thighs. Suddenly David pulled up on his elbows, his head cocked.
‘Shit, my work phone.’
‘Leave it, leave it, leave it,’ she begged, linking her arms around his neck. He began to kiss her again, but the insistent ringing continued.
‘Honey, I have to get it,’ said David, pulling away.
‘You were the one who said we were on holiday.’
‘It could be important,’ he said, getting up and reaching for the phone.
She watched his face cloud with concern, her ardour cooling. Brooke had a love-hate relationship with David’s job. She smiled when her friends called him ‘Action Man’, and she enjoyed the fact that he was involved in important world events, even having some influence over them, however small. But it also bothered her every time he was sent away. David was not a war correspondent and rarely reported from the line of fire – David suspected his father had spies inside the newsroom making sure he never went anywhere near a mortar or landmine – but still, he was reporting from hot spots such as Palestine and Sudan and there always seemed to be some element of danger.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, pulling her dress back on.
‘It’s the studio,’ he said, covering the phone’s mouthpiece. ‘A boat is on fire just off Islamorada.’
Brooke’s eyes widened. ‘But that’s in the Keys, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘Is it national news?’
He nodded. ‘The boat was full of people. Women and kids. A fishing trawler is trying to get people out of the water now. Search and rescue are on the way there.’
David pulled his T-shirt back on awkwardly, trying to keep the phone to his ear.
‘I’m on hold,’ he said, ‘they’re trying to get hold of a local cameraman.’
‘They want you to do a broadcast?’
David perched on the edge of the sofa. ‘This is immigrant smuggling gone horribly wrong.’
‘Immigrant smuggling?’
He held up a finger. He was back on the phone.
‘Great,’ he said into the receiver, his voice clipped and businesslike. ‘No, thirty minutes isn’t fast enough. Okay, just get there as soon as you can.’
She watched him, mesmerized, as he shifted into full gear, gathering his things, dialling numbers, barking orders. She found it strangely erotic. Finally he reached for his jacket.
‘So what’s happening?’ asked Brooke.
‘I’m going down there. I can be there quicker than a news team coming down from Miami.’
‘I’m coming with you,’ she said suddenly, jumping to her feet.
‘Honey, no,’ said David, ‘you stay here.’
Brooke shook her head adamantly. ‘I’m not staying here thinking about canapés when there’s kids drowning in the sea ten miles away.’
He gave her a grateful smile and took her hand. They ran out of the house took the boat back to the mainland and then jumped into Leonard’s awaiting Jeep.
‘So tell me about immigrant smuggling,’ said Brooke. As they bumped along, her heart was racing at the drama of it all and, given her worried thoughts only minutes ago, she was excited to be involved with David’s other life for once. She reached over and squeezed his hand. One of the many things she loved about David was that he seemed to know everything. He was not intellectual in the way those foul people at Estella Winston’s party had been, but his head was like a dusty old library, packed with endless facts.
‘Well, it’s been going on for years,’ said David, not taking his eyes from the road. ‘Everyone thinks it’s all about smuggling drugs in Florida, but human trafficking is, if anything, even bigger business. Every day of the week, you can almost guarantee there’s some boat sliding up to some deserted beach along the Keys, dropping off people from Cuba, Puerto Rico, even Mexico. Smugglers can get up to ten thousand dollars a head, so if you’re ferrying over thirty people, that’s three hundred thousand a trip. It’s illegal, of course, but the penalties for transporting heroin and cocaine and those for carrying a handful of farm workers just don’t compare.’
‘And what happens to the people?’ asked Brooke, fascinated now.
‘Ah, well, that’s where it gets controversial,’ said David. ‘Generally, if they make it to land they can stay, but if they are found at sea they are sent back home. Although that only applies to Cubans. People from Haiti are usually sent straight back.’
‘That doesn’t seem fair.’
‘Life’s not fair, honey,’ said David, pulling the car to a stop and pointing out to sea.
They had turned off the main road onto a beach track with what looked like a landing jetty, surrounded by vehicles, their lights still on. On either side, the beach looked grey in the moonlight, but out in the inky distance, possibly less than a thousand metres offshore, was a fireball. Above it, she could see a helicopter training its spotlight onto the choppy blackness of the sea. A pick-up truck was parked by the jetty and a tall man jumped out. David climbed out to meet him.
‘Charlie, hi,’ he said. ‘You made good time.’
‘We’re the first media to get here,’ said the cameraman, already unloading his equipment.
‘Have you spoken to the police yet?’
Brooke could see the man’s teeth flash in the Jeep’s headlights. ‘I thought I’d save that treat for you.’
Brooke saw her fiancé run over towards a police cruiser, its red and blue lights swirling.
‘Sir, you’re going to have to move back,’ said the officer. He shone his flashlight into David’s face and his tone immediately changed. ‘Sorry, Mr Billington,’ he said more politely. ‘But you’re still going to have to move.’
‘How bad is it?’
‘Can’t say,’ said the officer vaguely. ‘I do know they’re pulling bodies from the sea.’
‘Alive or dead?’ asked David without emotion.
‘I don’t know,’ said the officer grimly. David quickly asked him a few more questions, memorizing the facts and figures.
‘Please, sir,’ said the officer, holding up his hands. ‘You’re going to have to move further down the beach. I’ll speak to my captain, and see if someone will come talk to you later.’
They jumped in Charlie’s pick-up and moved a hundred metres down the beach to the edge of the police cordon.
‘Okay, we’re not going to wait for the official version,’ said David decisively. ‘Let’s roll from here, Charlie, with the fire in the background.’
He looked back at Brooke. ‘Charlie can feed this straight back to the studio in New York from that little satellite dish in the back of his pick-up.’
Charlie grabbed some lights and set them up on the sand, running power cables from the truck. David stood in front of them and winked at Brooke.
‘Well, this is going to be basic,’ he said under his breath. She could see his sheer professionalism, his passion for what he was doing. She ran over to him and straightened his collar and smoothed down his hair, then ducked out of sight of the camera. He looked straight ahead, paused, then launched into an eloquent monologue about the events unfolding before them.
He’s good, thought Brooke, unable to take her eyes from her fiancé. He had no speechwriter, no script, and few hard facts available, yet he spoke with knowledge and authority. He wasn’t just good, he was brilliant. She felt a rush of pleasure, which turned into a curl of lust. She stopped herself, thinking how completely inappropriate it was to be thinking about sex when there was a search and rescue effort going on behind her.
Brooke’s eyes drifted out behind David. The glow from the fire was illuminating the tops of the waves, like the last rays of a sunset. If it wasn’t for the horror of what was happening out there, she thought, you might even think it was pretty. Suddenly she stopped, narrowing her eyes. There was something at the water line. Was it seaweed? Debris from the boat? Then she realized it was a body. Before she could think, she was running towards the sea.
‘David!’ she shouted. She turned and saw him drop his microphone and begin sprinting across the sand towards her.
Brooke splashed into the water, freezing cold against her bare legs, but David got there first. He hauled the body out and, with Brooke’s help, dragged it onto the sand. David glanced up at Brooke and said simply: ‘Get help.’ Then he bent over the woman and began to pump her chest.
Brooke ran across the beach, towards the police cordon, waving her arms.
‘Quick!’ she screamed to a paramedic beyond the barrier. ‘We have a woman over here.’
When she got back, David was bent low over the woman, his hand under her chin as he blew air into her lungs. Finally, a small plume of water exited her mouth, her whole body shaking as she turned onto her side, coughing violently. An ambulance roared up to them, the noise of the siren surrounding them.
David jumped out of the way as the paramedics got to work. Brooke threw her arms around him he squeezed her back as tightly as he could, kissing her neck. She didn’t mind the cold wetness of his T-shirt sticking to her, she didn’t mind the camera pointed at her tear-stained face. She felt safe and proud, in the embrace of the man she was going to marry.
‘I love you, David. I love you so much,’ she said, not wanting to let him go. And for the first time in months, she was more sure of those words than anything else in her life.