Chapter One
Five years - Julie hadn't seen or thought about him in all that time, and now in the middle of nowhere, he stood on the beach drying off from a swim. Droplets flew as Robert shook his hair. His black mane was shorter than the last time she saw him. The wet ends dripped water on his bare, muscular shoulders. Tricia, an old high school friend once said he had the body of a male stripper - time hadn't changed that.
Julie stepped back onto the beach path, transfixed by the sight of the one person she hated. Her repulsion and loathing of him ran so deep; she'd repressed all memories of him. She thought he'd loved her, and had taken a chance, opening up her heart and body to him. But instead of returning her love, he proved himself worthy of the gutter from which he'd crawled.
Her body said run, but her feet refused to move as she watched a long-legged, svelte, golden blonde rise from the beach chair. She trickled her fingers down his rippled stomach. His voice floated across the sand. It was a calming sound, which had brought a smile to Julie's face when he whispered words of love and passion.
Details she thought she'd long forgotten surged forward. She remembered the way his dark eyes smoldered with anger and his sly, innocent grin. His joyous laughter had made her feel the abandonment of a child frolicking in the year's first snowfall. She stepped backward onto the path, distancing herself from the lovers as the blonde undid the strings on her bathing suit top, and let it fall to the sand.
With an unexpected shiver, Julie hurried along the meandering path, and returned to the cottage, and to the man she accompanied - who was nothing like her betrayer. Vincent's sad brown eyes reminded her of a basset hound's - loyal and true.
"Julie." She looked toward Vincent standing on the deck. "Jean-Marc's on the phone. Shall I take a message?"
"No, I won't make him suffer. He has very few hairs left to pull out of his head." She took the cell phone and sat on a deck chair. "Hello, Jean-Marc."
"How's the knee?" he asked. As always, Jean-Marc, Artistic Director, was direct to the point.
"Better."
"Have you been following your doctor's orders?"
"Yes, all I've done is sit on the deck, stare at the ocean and get fat. We leave this afternoon, and if the doctor says everything's okay, I'll be back on Tuesday. Sound good?"
"Great. Bye."
She placed the cell phone on the table, and the other slid down to her knee. Two weeks ago, it was grotesque and painful. During a simple rehearsal, Julie posed in an elegant arabesque held tall on her pointe. Her leg was lifted high above her head, back arched, and her arms suspended in the air, as if frozen in time. Until she collapsed on the floor.
At first, only her dignity was hurt. Then the pain shot from her knee to her brain. The doctor said she was lucky there was no serious damage He urged her to take a vacation to let the knee mend.
Julie gazed out at the ocean listening to the waves splash against the shore. Had it really been that long ago? Five years since she'd left her friends, her family and the longhaired, scruffy guy who snuck his way into her heart. Notorious gang member or not, he still portrayed a sense of vulnerability and innocence. Then in true gang style, he stabbed her heart - figuratively. She shook her head. "No, don't think of him."
"Hmm?" Vincent peered over the top of his Financial Post.
"Nothing, just mumbling to myself. I can't get over this view." Julie waved a hand toward the ocean and inhaled the headiness of the salty air, sighing in contentment.
Now, it was time to get back to the harsh realities of daily class, rehearsals and performances. She was a dancer, and that's what she must do – not lie on the beach making love. She slapped the wooden arms of the deck chair, stood and followed Vincent into what he called a rustic little thing tucked among the trees.
"Which would you prefer?" He held out two plates. On each was a light meal of vegetables, a creamy dip, fruit wedges and low-fat cheese. Julie carried hers to the dining room where she found a pitcher of ice tea and a tray of crackers.
"Rustic little cottage. The dining room seats eight. It has five bedrooms, four baths, and you could roast a pig in the fireplace." Her gaze settled on the expanse of sand and seawater that stretching to the horizon. "But you could begin to believe you're the only person alive. So different from my life at home - people at rehearsal and hundreds of people in the audience. It was nice to be alone, just you and I. If only for a little while." She turned to face Vincent. "Hello? Humph, I make a great impassioned speech about my place in the universe, and I'm talking to myself."
"Pardon?" Vincent entered the room and sat at the far head of the table. "I'm sorry I didn't realize you were speaking to me. Please, continue." He folded his hands.
Julie dipped a broccoli bud into the dressing. "Short version, it's been a great week."
Vincent nodded. "It'll be great to get back to work."
"You never left work." She raised her broccoli and shook it at him. "If you weren't texting someone, you were calling them."
"I can't be expected to be away from work for a whole week. I'm the boss." Vincent straightened his linen napkin. "But I did this for you. And look at you - all tanned and healed. I've a notion you're biting at the chance to get back to work."
Julie munched a carrot stick and stared out the window.
With the last bit of lunch consumed, Vincent carried the remains of the meal to the kitchen. Julie wandered back to her deck chair, and let the warmth of the sun relax her soul. Immobile, she listened to the clatter of Vincent as he cleaned the few dishes they had dirtied.
Bartholomew, Vincent's personal assistant/body guard, had been sent back to open the estate, and now Vincent's compulsion for neatness forced him to assume butler duties. "Robert wouldn't have done that." Julie lurched up clamping her hand over her mouth.
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