“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 than square footage.
Her divorce had been a life-changing decision. She’d given up her modeling career to marry Randall, though in truth after age forty the calls were winding down. She’d always been street-smart and had planned for the inevitable. So during her long career, Hannah had studied makeup artistry. She had a talent for it, understood the science of the compounds that went into making beauty products. She’d worked with some of the biggest talents in the fashion world, both in front of the camera and making up other models to practice. She’d been consumed by the dream of developing her own line of natural beauty products. With her divorce settlement finally out of the way, Hannah had committed herself financially and emotionally to her vision, carefully curating a selection of essential makeup. And she being an animal lover, they were all cruelty-free.
She’d launched her line, Nature’s Beauty, and was generating interest when she’d met Angel de la Cruz during a photo shoot for the cover of the Chronicle of the Horse magazine. An amateur competitive rider herself, she was the perfect choice to model with de la Cruz in the multipage shoot that would have her posing on and around horses. She’d heard of Javier Angel de la Cruz before the shoot—who in the horse world had not? His reputation as a medaled rider was well established. As was his reputation with the ladies. The equestrian world could be very closed and chatty.
It always struck her as ridiculous that the sport was stereotyped as a feminine one in the United States and that male riders were commonly regarded as “girly men.” Equestrian sports required extreme amounts of toughness and control to manage 1,500 pounds of spirited muscle. That was certainly masculine. In fact, in her experience, male riders were the best lovers.
So she’d been a bit nervous to meet Angel, expected him to be haughty, entitled. But he was anything but. Angel was charming, agreeable, willing to please. She, like everyone else on the set, was enamored with him. Then, during the shoot, their gazes had locked, and in those dreamy hazel eyes her life had spun on its axis.
Angel was like no one she’d ever met. What attracted her most was his charisma. When Angel was in the room, he was a magnet. Quick-witted and bold, he was both creator and destroyer, heroic and villainous, foolish and wise. So very wise, in fact, that fools often misunderstood his jests, much to the amusement of those who did. Their love life had burned hot. Not long after they met, Angel had moved in with her. She was quickly consumed by his world of competitive show jumping, and in the early days of their relationship, she planned her life around his hectic schedule.
But lately, her gaze had shifted back to her own dreams. In the past few months there had been renewed interest in her product line from serious investors.
Hannah glanced at the enormous mass of belongings on her bed. There was no way she would be able to load all that into her small Audi. She’d have to decide what to take and what to leave behind to fate. She glanced at her watch, and with a renewed burst of adrenaline grabbed the leather duffel bag filled with Angel’s medals. These were a must-go, she knew. The rest she would leave behind. Her own roll-on luggage was packed with just enough to last the few days of evacuation. Her closets were bursting with beautiful clothes, but as a model she’d always worn couture. They were, she knew, replaceable.
Her gaze fell on a cosmetic travel case. In it were the makeup samples for Nature’s Beauty. Years of study and development were all held in that one box. A small smile of pride slipped across her face. This was the one thing that mattered to her.
Grabbing the case handle, she made her way to the front door. She cast a final glance out the wide expanse of glass windows. Outside, the ocean roiled, a tempest of burgeoning power. What chance would those windows have against such fury? she wondered. Hannah shrugged and whistled sharply.
“Come on, Max. We’re out of here.” The dog looked back at her blankly. “And thanks for nothing. You’ve been absolutely no help at all.”
She tugged at the leash and could’ve sworn the dog smiled.
* * *
August 20, 7:00 a.m.
Kiawah, South Carolina
Moira Stevens’s house was a five-minute walk from the beach. Facing a lagoon, the soft-gray cedar-shake house looked like it belonged in New England more than it did beside the pale-colored lowcountry architecture. It seemed displaced . . . rather like Moira herself.
She’d lived in the coastal town of Kiawah since her marriage four years earlier. Kiawah was rich with long stretches of beach, lush maritime forests, and a wealth of wildlife. The community she lived in had a well-run stable. Moira, no longer a competitive rider, could ride purely for pleasure.
The windows and doors of her house, like so many others, were boarded up in readiness for Hurricane Noelle. From a distance, the homes resembled massive monoliths, cold and deserted. Her gardeners had moved all the planters and outdoor furniture inside, lest they become missiles in the high winds. All was in readiness for the storm. Walking through the house now, it was eerie how utterly silent it was, bathed in silvery light. Gigi’s nails clicking on the polished floors seemed to echo in the boarded-up house. The crisp white and pale-blue beach décor couldn’t disguise the shadowed, closed-in feeling. Without the usual sunshine or the sound of sea breezes filtering in through the windows, the house felt like a tomb.
She remembered reading the description of the house the first time she stumbled upon it in a real estate ad, when she and Thom were looking to purchase: “Its generously sized living spaces and four bedrooms will accommodate intimate family gatherings and large parties with equal ease. And the kitchen is a chef’s dream!” A young bride at the time, she’d imagined filling the rooms with children, and grandparents visiting often.
The children didn’t come, however, and her parents rarely came to Kiawah. Instead, whenever Thom was out of town on business travel, Moira returned to Freehold Farm, her parents’ sprawling horse farm in North Carolina, instead of staying by herself in the big, empty house.