The Summer Guests

PROLOGUE

The storm originated as a tropical wave off the coast of Africa, but during the next forty-eight hours, it grew highly organized. As it veered west, it met with favorable, warm surface-water temperatures and low wind shear. It rapidly intensified, developing a distinct eye feature. When the sustained winds reached seventy-five miles per hour, the storm was given a name: Hurricane Noelle.

The hurricane wobbled, shifting directions and sending the experts racing back to their computers to create updated tracking cones. This, in turn, sent another group of residents into panic mode. Everyone living in the Caribbean and along the southeastern coast of the United States was stocking up on supplies and preparing for evacuation.

The only thing the experts agreed upon was that Hurricane Noelle was fast becoming an extremely powerful, Cape Verde–type hurricane, typical in August and September and potentially deadly. As the storm plowed west across the Atlantic and intensified, it was becoming possibly the most catastrophic hurricane to reach land in more than a decade.

PART ONE

EVACUATION

ONE

August 15, 2018, 7:15 a.m.

Isle of Palms, South Carolina

Tropical Storm Noelle intensifies into a hurricane in the Atlantic Ocean

Cara Rutledge rubbed her arms and looked out over the Atlantic Ocean. The mercurial sea rolled in and out in its metronome fashion, reflecting the blue-gray color of the sky. The beach was nearly empty, the vast expanse of sand scarred only by her footprints. All seemed calm. Even the golden panicles of the sea oats hung still in the pensive air. Yet she sensed a heightened tension coiling under the calm façade of the water, like some great beast rippling, lying in wait to pounce.

Cara shivered, though it wasn’t cold. She was a tall, slender woman accustomed to daily walks along the beach with her daughter, Hope. She’d spent her childhood on this beach, and had returned as an adult to make the quaint beach house, Primrose Cottage, her home. From May until October she was on the Island Turtle Team, like her mother before her. After a lifetime living beside the ocean, she felt attuned to the moods of her old friend. And today, something felt off.

The sun was shining, but thin streaks of clouds stretched from the sea toward land, eerie fingers reaching out from the incoming storm.

Cara inhaled the salty air and placed her hand against her chest. There was an unusual heaviness in the air. A moistness that tasted of rain. She was no stranger to summer storms, or the havoc they could wreak. She also knew that she was unusually skittish when it came to storms. Cara had lived through too many hurricanes not to be on guard. And yet, she didn’t want to panic. There was a wave out in the Atlantic the meteorologists were keeping an eye on, but it was August, the height of the hurricane season. There were a lot of storms that lost steam or changed direction long before they neared landfall.

She was leaving the island this afternoon to visit the mountains of North Carolina with David Wyatt and his family. It would be a welcome change of pace with the lush green foliage, cooler air, and hiking. She might even get some horseback riding in. She exhaled slowly. Yes, she thought with relief. She was working herself up over nothing. Whatever storm was coming would likely blow in and out by the time she returned. And, she thought with a hint of a smile on her face, she was bringing along with her the one thing she treasured most in the world—her daughter, Hope.

Cara turned her back on the ocean and, swinging her arms, began her trek across the beach toward home.

TWO

August 20, 6:30 a.m.

Palm Beach, Florida

72 hours till Hurricane Noelle’s expected landfall in southeastern Florida

Hannah McLain brushed away a shank of blond hair to hold the phone to her ear. The male voice at the other end of the line rattled off instructions in staccato.

Do not forget the medals, Angel told her in his heavily accented English. "Most important is Olympic medals. Sí? You won’t forget."

Yes, okay. Got them, Hannah said as she pulled the gold and silver medals from their perch over the fireplace mantel. She tossed them into the leather duffel bag with the other awards he’d won in his fabled equestrian career.

The living room, usually bathed in southern light, today was shadowy. Outside the plate glass windows of her condo overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, an armada of silvery clouds streaked across the sky. Her television was tuned to the weather station, as it had been for the past twenty-four hours. A hurricane had developed in the Atlantic, and as of last night its path was predicted to hit southeastern Florida. Suddenly all the inhabitants of the eastern coast had shifted into emergency mode—especially those inhabitants with prize horses. The owners wouldn’t take the chance of leaving their horses to fend for themselves and were scrambling to leave the area early, a minimum of seventy-two hours before the arrival of the storm. Every owner’s nightmare was to get stuck in traffic with a trailer full of horses and a hurricane approaching.

Windows were boarded; store shelves had been stripped of essentials like milk, bottled water, and batteries; and plans were being made should the governor call for a mandatory evacuation. The arrival of the hurricane was no longer a question: now it was a matter of when and how big.

Angel was at the stable in Wellington loading up his horse. His decision to leave had come quickly, which was typical of him. He could be impulsive, but once a decision was made, he followed through with remarkable efficiency. And Javier Angel de la Cruz had very good instincts. On the phone, Angel continued listing all the things he wanted Hannah to pack up for him.

Javi, she said with a hint of impatience. Javier Angel de la Cruz was known as Angel by his adoring fans in the equestrian world, which made her private nickname for her lover more… intimate. Stop! I can’t bring all this, and I really have to go.

It’s okay. I know. But—

¡No más! she exclaimed, raking her hand through her long hair. Already a huge pile of riding gear, trophies, and files was on the bed. We can only take those few things we truly treasure. Everything else must be left behind. There’s no room in my car.

There was a long pause. I understand. Yes. She could hear him suck in his breath. You decide. I must deal with Butterhead. He paused. Except for medals. Bring those.

Of course.

You coming now?

Once I load up all your crap….

He chuckled. "Oh yes, sí, my Olympic medals son crap."

She laughed softly, conceding the point. I’ll be there soon. Please say you’ll be ready to go when I get there. I don’t want to get caught in too much traffic.

Yes. Much to do, but yes. Come now. Oh, and Hannah…

She liked the way he said her name. The H was silent, so it sounded more like Ana. Be nice to Max, okay? Very nice. You know he is scared of thunder. The storms, they make him crazy.

Hannah’s smile fell as her gaze slid across the room to the giant black schnauzer lying on the tile, watching her. That dog was always staring. It was creepy. Max was Angel’s beloved dog, and for the past ten years—throughout all his tabloid-fodder relationships—that dog had been his one constant companion. Even though she and Angel had been together for nearly six months, she still had the niggling feeling that she was in second place behind the dog in Angel’s heart.

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.