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foolish. But she had fallen in love. The precious memories were the ones she would learn to recall, not those of his dark ferocity at her deception. She would learn to remember his eyes as they blazed the tender fire of passion, not the charred embers of scorn.
And in the loneliness of her austere existence, she would sort out the misery of the different types of love. Her tears would come later. Upon the remote windswept island that was her home, she would find ample time for solace. And she would be plunged back into grueling reality.
The woman the world knew as Mrs. Pieter von Hurst walked away from her breakaway cruise, her heels clicking briskly upon the deck.
The immaculate sophisticated lady.
Beautiful, poised, reserved, genteel—yes, the perfect, seldom- seen wife of the world's most brilliant contemporary sculptor.
And one of the most unhappy women alive.

Chapter Two
It was amazing that the sea could change so quickly. It had been calm, glassy, and cobalt-blue for the cruise, serene beneath powdery skies.
Now it matched Ronnie's mind. Foam-flecked waves were pulsating in wild whipped peaks, rising with the whistling of the wind. The sky was losing its early-morning glow, growing gray with a vengeance.
"Storm's blowin' in," Dave Quimby announced unnecessarily, pulling his yellow slicker cap lower over his forehead. He scratched his grizzled beard and gave Ronnie a gap-toothed smile. "Maybe ye'd best head on in to the cabin, Miss Veronica."
Ronnie shook her head and smiled back with affection. Dave, her husband's fulltime captain—a necessity when one lived on one's own island miles off the the shore of Charleston—was her one true friend in her home of five years. He was a man unintimidated by Pieter von Hurst; if he feared and respected anything, it was only the sea. To his credit, Pieter respected and admired Dave.
And if Dave cared for any human being with a degree of his softer nature, it was Pieter's young wife. She might be the courteous Mrs. von Hurst to the rest of the world, but to Dave she was Miss Veronica, as she had been on that day long ago when Von Hurst had returned to the island to stay as a recluse forever.
Dave sensed more than most people. He had known from the beginning that there was something very wrong with his employer's marriage. Brides were supposed to be happy, radiant young things. Miss Veronica had never been happy—not since the day she stepped ashore and looked over the barren island with a deep sigh of resignation. Only he had seen the dejection in her eyes. When Von Hurst had snapped something at her, she had turned to him with a gentle, tolerant smile.
Of course. Von Hurst was sick. Much sicker than most folks knew. If Dave's intuitions were right, Von Hurst was dying. And God forgive me, Dave thought, the sooner the man dies the better.
Better for the gentle mistress he loved.
Ronnie shook her head at Dave. "I don't want to go below!" she called above the roar of the Boston Whaler's engines and the wind. "I love the sea like this!"
He grinned knowingly. Maybe he loved her because she loved the sea as he did—and because she was like a storm at sea. Her true nature always hidden, unless she was out with him, Miss Veronica had depths as fathomless as the Atlantic, as tumultuous as any gale that blew. Only with him was she like a nymph of Neptune, her feet scampering over planks with excitement when they sailed, her head lifted to the wind. She was always willing to fight the roughest weather.
The sea was her escape.
Too soon they reached the jagged shore of Von Hurst's island. "Go on up to the house, Miss Veronica," Dave yelled over the encroaching wind. "You look too pretty to get a drenching! I'll get your things up right away."
"Thanks, Dave," Ronnie said, slipping her bare feet back into her heels. The pathway to the gray brick manor loomed before her, and she had no choice but to follow it. Resecuring strands of hair as she walked, she made her way along the gravel, her