He remembered, or convinced himself that he remembered, that he’d been about to reward her with a trip to Antigua. She had been fascinated by the ocean, his Helen. And had told him, during those first heady weeks of love and discovery, how she sometimes dreamed of living on an island.

In the end, the sea had taken her.

Because he could feel the depression rolling into him like a fog, he poured a glass of mineral water and took one of his pills.

No, he wouldn’t sell the house, he decided in one of his lightning mood changes. He would open it. He would give one of the lavish, A-list parties, the kind he and Helen had hosted so often and so successfully.

It would feel as if she were there beside him, as she was meant to be.

When the phone rang, he ignored it and continued to stand, gently rubbing an etched gold hoop earring through the fine linen of his shirt.

“Sir? Ms. Reece is on the phone. She’d like to speak with you if you’re available.”

Saying nothing, Evan held out a hand for the portable phone. He never glanced at the uniformed maid who gave it to him, but slid open the terrace door and stepped outside in the balm of breeze to speak to his sister.

“Yes, Barbara?”

“Evan, I’m glad you were in. Deke and I were hoping you’d join us at the club this afternoon. We can have a set of tennis, lunch by the pool. I hardly see my baby brother these days.”

He started to refuse. His sister’s country club circle held little interest for him. But he reconsidered quickly, knowing how well Barbara planned entertainment. And how much of the annoyance of the details she would willingly take from his hands.

“I’d like that. I want to speak to you anyway.” He glanced at his Rolex. “Why don’t I meet you there. Eleven-thirty?”

“Absolutely perfect. Prepare yourself. I’ve been working on my backhand.”

His tennis game was off. Barbara had broken his serve yet again and was prancing around like a fool in her designer tennis skirt. Of course, she had time to fritter around any fucking day of the week, making time with some slick-fingered tennis pro while her asshole husband practiced his putting.

He, on the other hand, was a busy man, with a demanding business and high-powered clients who whined like babies if he didn’t give them his full attention.

He didn’t have time for goddamn games.

He bulleted one over the net, gritted his teeth audibly when Barbara hustled and returned it. Sweat dampened his face, ran down his back. And his mouth peeled back in a snarl as he raced over the court.

It was a look Nell would have recognized. One she would have feared.