GHOSTS OF ST. BARTS a totally addictive romance read (St. Barts Romance Books Series Book 5) by EMME CROSS Page A
Authors: EMME CROSS
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St. Barts.”
“Who knows? Maybe he’ll entertain at midnight mass or sing at a New Year’s Eve party. Speaking of which, why are you hosting one? You hate that kind of thing.”
Linus gave an embarrassed shrug. “I lost a uranium mine to Ivan.”
Ivan Ivanoff was a rival billionaire and had produced two of Sven’s movies, including the one where he and Sunny had first met.
“The deal was that the loser would pay for a party and host it. The bastard cheated. He had somebody on the inside and I ended up losing the mine. That means I have to slap on a tux and pretend to be interested in all the celebrities and hangers-on. That’s why I want you and Sven to come. I’ll need some normal people to talk to.”
“It means getting all dressed up and having my hair and make-up done, so you’ll owe me!” She blushed and set aside her foie gras. “You know I’d do anything for you. I can never repay you . . .” Sunny’s voice trailed off as she remembered how Linus had saved her life and that of her unborn child from the tsunami.
“Enough!” The voice that brought a thousand boardrooms to attention snapped her out of her reverie. “Stop being grateful. I should be grateful to you. Saving your life was the best thing I’ve ever done; it’s the thing I’m most proud of. It helps,” he said softly, “that it was your life. And Bliss. Stop thanking me. If you feel the need to pay me back, there is a way you can help me.”
“Anything.”
“I want to take the boat out to Rockefeller Beach. I want to go back to where everything happened and finally remember. And I want to say goodbye to Mimi properly.”
Taking her hand, he looked into her eyes. “I can’t imagine being able to do that without you.”
The only response from his dining companion was, “when?”
* * *
Sven’s arms were overflowing with diapers, beer and mail when he stopped by the harbour to take a break and sort through his parcels and letters. It was another perfect day in St. Barts. The boats were crisscrossing the harbour hunting for a berth and the sun was shining. Why then did he feel so at odds?
“What are you reading?” Sven looked up to see Reverend Nelson approach through the stone gates of the greenery beside the church.
“I can’t make heads or tails of this letter. Can you read French?”
“Come into the garden. It’s a nice cool oasis in this heat.”
Once they were seated on a stone bench surrounded by a fragrant array of roses, he put on his reading glasses and had a good look at the letter.
“Evangeline Rousseau! The French actress?”
“Yeah,” shrugged Sven. “She keeps writing me since Henry died but I haven’t understood a word. I didn’t want to ask Sunny to translate.”
After a quick glance and a blush, the cleric agreed these weren’t the kind of letters one would share with one’s wife. “What’s going on? I wouldn’t have thought she’d be your type, and she’s almost as old as your mother.”
Sven explained how Evangeline had propositioned him during the filming of The Barbarian King. He’d pretended to be involved in a homosexual relationship with Sir Henry Clover. With Henry dead, Evangeline had been writing non-stop on embossed and heavily scented paper trying to rekindle what she considered to be their aborted affair.
“You’re turning down Evangeline Rousseau? Subject of untold numbers of adolescent fantasies?”
“If you met her, you’d understand that she’s better in fantasy than in reality. Besides, I’m married. Happily!” Sven added.
“Sunny is looking a little peaked these days. I thought maybe something was going on. No,” Reverend Nelson said, holding up his hand, “she hasn’t said anything, but I can always tell.”
He waited. Clergymen are champion waiters. As he expected, Sven filled in the blanks, recounting in fits and starts what happened in London after Henry’s death.
“So, Sunny’s forgiven you but you haven’t forgiven yourself. The two of
“Who knows? Maybe he’ll entertain at midnight mass or sing at a New Year’s Eve party. Speaking of which, why are you hosting one? You hate that kind of thing.”
Linus gave an embarrassed shrug. “I lost a uranium mine to Ivan.”
Ivan Ivanoff was a rival billionaire and had produced two of Sven’s movies, including the one where he and Sunny had first met.
“The deal was that the loser would pay for a party and host it. The bastard cheated. He had somebody on the inside and I ended up losing the mine. That means I have to slap on a tux and pretend to be interested in all the celebrities and hangers-on. That’s why I want you and Sven to come. I’ll need some normal people to talk to.”
“It means getting all dressed up and having my hair and make-up done, so you’ll owe me!” She blushed and set aside her foie gras. “You know I’d do anything for you. I can never repay you . . .” Sunny’s voice trailed off as she remembered how Linus had saved her life and that of her unborn child from the tsunami.
“Enough!” The voice that brought a thousand boardrooms to attention snapped her out of her reverie. “Stop being grateful. I should be grateful to you. Saving your life was the best thing I’ve ever done; it’s the thing I’m most proud of. It helps,” he said softly, “that it was your life. And Bliss. Stop thanking me. If you feel the need to pay me back, there is a way you can help me.”
“Anything.”
“I want to take the boat out to Rockefeller Beach. I want to go back to where everything happened and finally remember. And I want to say goodbye to Mimi properly.”
Taking her hand, he looked into her eyes. “I can’t imagine being able to do that without you.”
The only response from his dining companion was, “when?”
* * *
Sven’s arms were overflowing with diapers, beer and mail when he stopped by the harbour to take a break and sort through his parcels and letters. It was another perfect day in St. Barts. The boats were crisscrossing the harbour hunting for a berth and the sun was shining. Why then did he feel so at odds?
“What are you reading?” Sven looked up to see Reverend Nelson approach through the stone gates of the greenery beside the church.
“I can’t make heads or tails of this letter. Can you read French?”
“Come into the garden. It’s a nice cool oasis in this heat.”
Once they were seated on a stone bench surrounded by a fragrant array of roses, he put on his reading glasses and had a good look at the letter.
“Evangeline Rousseau! The French actress?”
“Yeah,” shrugged Sven. “She keeps writing me since Henry died but I haven’t understood a word. I didn’t want to ask Sunny to translate.”
After a quick glance and a blush, the cleric agreed these weren’t the kind of letters one would share with one’s wife. “What’s going on? I wouldn’t have thought she’d be your type, and she’s almost as old as your mother.”
Sven explained how Evangeline had propositioned him during the filming of The Barbarian King. He’d pretended to be involved in a homosexual relationship with Sir Henry Clover. With Henry dead, Evangeline had been writing non-stop on embossed and heavily scented paper trying to rekindle what she considered to be their aborted affair.
“You’re turning down Evangeline Rousseau? Subject of untold numbers of adolescent fantasies?”
“If you met her, you’d understand that she’s better in fantasy than in reality. Besides, I’m married. Happily!” Sven added.
“Sunny is looking a little peaked these days. I thought maybe something was going on. No,” Reverend Nelson said, holding up his hand, “she hasn’t said anything, but I can always tell.”
He waited. Clergymen are champion waiters. As he expected, Sven filled in the blanks, recounting in fits and starts what happened in London after Henry’s death.
“So, Sunny’s forgiven you but you haven’t forgiven yourself. The two of
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