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And anyone else who happened into his orbit.
That was what he’d learned on the streets. That was how he’d survived.
This would be no different.
Having already made mistakes with her, he would not be so foolish as to repeat them. He would treat Amalia the way he treated any obsession he happened upon. He would give himself to it totally, knowing all the while that soon enough, his obsession would burn itself out.
Maybe then he could be free.
Of this. Of her.
And as he moved over her in the bed, sinking deep into her flesh, and losing himself in that glorious burn, he assured himself that was what he wanted.
Freedom above all else. Because nothing else that he had ever touched had lasted.
Only his freedom to do as he liked, then move on when he was done.
Soon enough, he would leave here again, and he would be free. But this time he would not carry her with him, forever lodged in his heart, in his sex, and too many dreams at night.
Joaquin told himself he was tired of being haunted.
So he set about vanquishing this particular ghost the only way he knew how.
CHAPTER FIVE
THEDAYSBLEDone into the next. One week, then another.
It was tempting to imagine she had always been here on Cap Morat, in the shadow of the once mighty fortress. Amalia didn’t have to try too hard to feel as if, maybe, she had sprung into life in the Spanish sun and the sweet sea breezes. That this was simply who she was, a creature of appetite and leisure, no end and no beginning.
One morning, she found herself wandering her favorite path. It was the one that wound around the perimeter of the island, ranging from down on rocky beaches to up on higher cliffs, every step offering stunning views. Either of the sea on all sides or of the hotel itself, standing tall on the highest part of the island. Amalia liked that there was nowhere she could go on the island without seeing the old fortress. As if it alone stood guard over her, keeping her past from catching up to her here.
It was a lovely notion.
Joaquin had allowed a skeleton staff back on the island. His half-underwater dungeon had an office suite and he retreated to it at odd hours, barricading himself in there to buy and sell and whatever else it was he did with such ferocity. But when he emerged, he did not always have the patience to make his own meals. It had not been more than two or three days before the kitchen and cleaning staff returned, along with few other key personnel to see to it that Joaquin had every last thing he desired at his fingertips.
Amalia greatly enjoyed being one of them.
She tipped her face up to the sun as she walked, happy that there was enough of a breeze off the ocean to keep her cool. She wore her sun hat, as planned, and periodically had to clamp it to the top of her head with a free hand to keep the wind from stealing it away.
Her whole life seemed to her now, here on this island, as if it had been a dream. Her childhood had been a dreary slog of lectures on responsibility, uncomfortable public events, and her mother’s dire warnings about what could befall a young queen if she were not careful. Not that she had ever been given the opportunity to be anythingbutcareful.
Then, a pop of color. A burst of light. Life, finally, came for her on this island. She had lived a lifetime that summer. And she’d known it while it was happening. Even then, she’d told herself to hold on tight to every scrap of color and sensation, for she would have to live on it all the rest of her days.
She really had done her duty the day she left here, walking away without looking back no matter how badly she’d wanted to and burying herself in her responsibilities once more.
And now here she was on this island once more. Slowly coming alive again.
Amalia didn’t know what it meant long-term. If it meant anything at all. At some point, she was aware, she would have to engage with the world again. She would have to find something to do with herself. She was aware—Joaquin had informed her that the whole world was aware—that Esme had given her enough money that it was not necessary for her to do anything at all. She wanted to think of that as a gift, even a loving gift, but she knew Esme. She knew it was more complicated than that.
If Esme had her way, as Queen, her counterfeit daughter would disappear entirely. What Amalia thought Esme really wanted was to go back in time and not have this switched at birth situation happen in the first place. It was entirely possible Esme had discharged some of her ministers to look into time travel. But in the absence of that, what she’d likely prefer was that the stain that was Amalia—or, rather, the circumstances that had led to Amalia having been raised to imagine herself the daughter of the Queen of Ile d’Montagne—to fade from sight forever. Because the monarchy would go on, and Esme preferred that it do so with as little scandal as possible.
On the other hand, Amalia knew that Esme was genuinely fond of her. That despite everything, Esme likely wished that there was a way she could have kept the daughter she’d raised with her... But Esme was all about her throne, always. She would always put Ile d’Montagne first, even now.
She probably hoped that Amalia would continue to do the same. That she would choose a quiet life, far from the public eye, and live in a way that reflected well on the throne no matter where she ended up.
And there was a huge part of Amalia that wanted that, too. Because she hadn’t stopped loving Ile d’Montagne, or the throne, or Esme, just because of a few blood tests. Still, even if she chose that route, if she lived the rest of her life in quiet, elegant virtue, there was still the question of where. And how.
Unfortunately, she didn’t think she would be much good at doing nothing, however elegantly or virtuously, despite her time on the island. But here on Cap Morat, she wasn’t doingnothing, exactly. She was luxuriating. She was engaging each and every one of her senses, immersing herself in the sensual banquet that never seemed to end.
