Summer of Fire Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by River Grove Books

  Austin, TX

  www.rivergrovebooks.com

  Copyright ©2015 Kitty Pilgrim

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright holder.

  Distributed by River Grove Books

  For ordering information or special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact River Grove Books at PO Box 91869, Austin, TX 78709, 512.891.6100.

  Design and composition by Greenleaf Book Group

  Cover design by Greenleaf Book Group

  Cover image: ©Shutterstock/Natalia Barsukova

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63299-026-6

  Ebook Edition

  To the elements it came from

  Everything will return

  Our bodies to earth,

  Our blood to water,

  Heat to fire,

  Breath to air.

  —Mathew Arnold, 1852,

  Empedocles on Etna

  Iceland has produced some of the most destructive volcanoes in history. In 1783, the Laki eruption released a haze of ash, basaltic lava, and sulfur dioxide into the atmosphere, immediately killing tens of thousands of people. Ashfall destroyed crops and livestock as far away as England and Northern France.

  PIAZZA UMBERTO I, CAPRI, ITALY

  The golden afternoon was coming to an end. Dusk was falling, creating shadows in the main square of Capri. Storeowners were pulling down their aluminum gates with a rattle and a bang.

  Cordelia Stapleton walked up to a flower stall where a proprietor was preparing to close up for the day.

  “Un momento,” she said in halting Italian.

  The man stopped pouring water out of the plastic buckets and waited for her to choose. She looked over the selection. In the heat of the afternoon, the air was filled with the scent of flowers. The sweet scent of the petals mingled with deeper notes of damp green vegetation. It was amazing how many varieties were in season on the island of Capri.

  Living in London, she was used to the pale pastels of northern blooms. But here in the Mediterranean, vivid hues prevailed: reds and pinks, oranges and yellows—all different. It was almost impossible to decide. John would know which ones would be best for tonight.

  She turned to look for him. John Sinclair was a block away, talking on his cell phone.

  “Over here!” she called, waving to him with a sweeping gesture, as if signaling at sea.

  He disconnected and covered the distance rapidly, with a long-limbed stride.

  “We need to get a bouquet for the dinner party,” she said.

  He nodded. “Yes, sorry. I had to take that call. A volcano is erupting in Iceland. They say it will be enormous.”

  “Oh, which one is it?”

  “Ela … ka …” he said, stumbling over the Icelandic syllables.

  “You mean, Eyjafjallajökull?” she said.

  He cocked his head, amused. “Now, that’s impressive.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “There aren’t ten people who would know how to pronounce that correctly.”

  She laughed, pleased at the flattery.

  “I was a geology major in college,” she explained.

  “So, what do you know about Efyal … Iceland?” he asked, his eyes worried.

  She tried to remember. It had been a while since she studied the region, but the geology was simple enough.

  “There are four volcanic zones in Iceland, and Eyjafjallajökull is in the Eastern area—one of the biggest. Eruptions there can be enormous.”

  “What about this one?”

  She shrugged. “I have no way to tell. It depends on how long the eruption goes. But what’s your worry? We’re in Italy.”

  “I have an archaeological dig going on in the Mosfell Valley, an ancient Viking site in Iceland. I was wondering if I should tell my team to evacuate.”

  “It might be prudent,” she said.

  The buzz of a cell phone vibrated in her purse. “WHOI” flashed across the screen. Though she now lived in London, she still served on the board of the US-based Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute.

  “It’s Woods Hole,” she told him. “They’re probably calling me about the same thing. Give me a second.”

  The head of the ocean research department spoke over the line. “Delia?”

  “Hi, Joel. What’s going on?”

  “Sorry to bother you. NBC News wants to talk to you about that volcanic eruption in Iceland. The impact on the ocean.”

  She looked around at the town square. There was nowhere private to talk.

  “I think you should handle it, Joel. I’m in Italy.”

  “But I always get tongue-tied on TV.”

  “Just take a deep breath before you start,” she said. “You’ll be fine.”

  “Come on Delia. You could do it over the phone.”

  She looked over, and Sinclair was glancing at his watch, waiting for her to finish up. They were overdue for the dinner party.

  “Joel, you’ll be fine.”

  She said goodbye and turned back to Sinclair.

  “NBC News wants the institute’s opinion on the impact the volcano could have on the ocean. Joel’s going to handle it.”

  Sinclair smiled. “Then let’s pick out some flowers and get a move on. We’re late. Charles is expecting us at seven.”

  Their friend Charles Bonnard had a little villa up on the cliffs, in the hamlet of Anacapri. They were going to stay with him for a week.

  Cordelia turned back, and the proprietor of the flower stall was still standing there, patiently waiting.

  “I couldn’t decide,” she said, looking at the array. “Do you know if he has a favorite?”

  “I’m not really sure, but these should work,” Sinclair said.

  He reached for three bunches of brilliant red poppies, lifted them from their pail of water, then handed them, dripping, to the vendor. As the man wrapped them up, Cordelia examined his choice. The flowers had long green stalks, silk-soft petals, and a subtle fragrance. They reminded her of a Monet painting.

  “What are they?”

  “Tuscan poppies. They’re very special,” he said, pulling a twenty-euro note from his wallet.

  “How so?”

  “The ancient Romans used to remove the pistil and then boil the center to brew tea.”

  “Tea?

  “Yes. Supposedly it would soothe the aches of love,” Sinclair said.

  “Hmm …” Cordelia said, impressed

  As an archaeologist, Sinclair’s grasp of classical Greek and Roman culture was encyclopedic; it was almost as if he had lived in ancient times.

  “Ever brew any?” she asked.

  “No, but from what I hear, Charles is going to need it,” Sinclair said, taking the paper-wrapped bouquet and handing over the euros to the vendor. “He’s really in love this time.”

  “Who is she?”

  “I have no idea. Apparently, she’s famous.”

  Cordelia raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t ask?”

  “I didn’t want to pry.”

  “Pry … he’s your best friend!”

  “Delia, it’s called a private life for a reason.”

  “Charles is not allowed to have secrets from us.”

  “Men can have secrets,” he joked. “Women do.”

  “Really? Tell me your wor
st,” she teased, and stretched up to kiss him on the cheek. “I want to know everything.”

  “Another time,” he said, and smiled.

  As they walked across the piazza, she slid a hand around his waist. She could feel his warm skin underneath the cotton shirt. He hugged her in return, looping an arm over her shoulder and pulling her tight. Body against body, they fit perfectly.

  It was her first time to Capri. What a wonderful place! Yachts were anchored in the harbor, and designer shops lined the narrow cobblestoned lanes. Yet somehow this island was more interesting than the other glitzy vacation spots on the Mediterranean. There was a magical timelessness to Capri. A special atmosphere, and a sense of history. This island had once been an ancient Roman settlement.

  The enclave at the top of the island was called Anacapri. It would be a half-hour drive up the cliffs. Sinclair flagged down a cab and held the door open for her.

  “I can’t believe Charles finally has a new girlfriend. I’m just dying to know who she is,” Cordelia said as she climbed in.

  He smiled. “You won’t have to wait long. She’ll be at the villa when we get there.”

  VILLA SAN ANGELO, ANACAPRI, ITALY

  Charles Bonnard wiped his forehead with a towel and glanced over at the woman lying next to him. Personally, he would have preferred sitting under the awning, but Victoria insisted they sunbathe on the terrace by the pool.

  “V?”

  No response. She was asleep, face down. Her yellow bikini top was untied, her body bare except for a triangle of fabric that covered the twin mounds of her magnificent derrière.

  Charles leaned over, speaking softly.

  “Victoria, be careful you don’t burn.”

  No answer. He noticed that her arms were turning bright pink, so he reached for a towel and draped it across her shoulders, then turned to admire the panoramic view.

  His house was oriented high above the Bay of Naples where the ocean breezes blew. The sky was clear, and he could see the cone of Mount Vesuvius on the Italian mainland. Out on the water there were lots of white sailboats and motor yachts—everyone was out enjoying themselves.

  Unfortunately, he and Victoria were housebound. All day long he had a distinct feeling of being watched. It was textbook paranoia. At a thousand feet, nobody had a direct line of sight to where they were sunning. But still, he worried.

  Suddenly Victoria woke up and glanced over, her eyes blinking against the glare.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “Nothing in particular.”

  What a liar he was turning into. He had been agonizing about their predicament all day.

  The situation began when Victoria arrived two days ago. He planned to be alone. But then she turned up, assuming he would be interested in a romantic tryst.

  A fair assumption. But, if they were photographed together, the scandal would be international. The girl on his terrace was Victoria, Crown Princess of Norway.

  Victoria appeared so often in the headlines, the press shortened her name to V to conserve space.

  The articles were always flattering. V was often praised as being someone who behaved with royal dignity. Her reputation was above reproach. She had no serious romantic interests. In fact, the whole world was waiting to find out whom she would choose for a husband. Her parents had vetted all the young eligible men in Europe.

  And therein lay the problem.

  Charles wasn’t included. He wasn’t even royal. So forget the short list. The Norwegian Royal Palace didn’t even have him on the long list of appropriate aristocrats.

  Not that he didn’t have a noble pedigree. His mother’s family descended from a French duke who ruled Languedoc in the 1600s. But there was a vast age difference between Charles and Victoria. He was a mature man, at least a decade older than any of her other suitors—a lothario, by all appearances.

  If anyone saw her lounging on his terrace in her current state of undress, it would be a complete scandal. The princess had never been photographed while wearing anything more revealing than an evening gown.

  If he were an honorable man, he’d put a stop to this. But he couldn’t. His emotions were too strong.

  Reaching over, Charles trailed his fingers down her spine to make certain she was not a mirage. Her back was slim and strong. He kneaded the muscles just above her bathing suit bottom.

  “Your skin is hot. Are you all right?”

  “I have sun cream on.”

  “Shall I put on some more?”

  “Hmmm. Would you?”

  Charles squeezed a dollop onto her back and rubbed it in, still marveling that she allowed him to touch her like this. Her body was magnificent. Victoria was a biathlon champion and an expert fencer. Every inch of her was firm and beautifully proportioned.

  “Don’t stop,” she murmured.

  Her eyelids dipped twice and closed. Asleep again. Charles scrutinized her face, beautiful in its tranquility. But it was more than her looks. V had that indefinable power some women had over men. When he met Victoria, he lost all reason.

  In fact, they were both acting crazy. Victoria slipped away from her security escort two days ago, and her guards were searching for her throughout the streets of Capri. Sooner or later, she’d be photographed.

  Charles took a sip of his tea. The cubes had melted, diluting its strength.

  “V? You awake?”

  She stirred. The wind was whipping tendrils of her hair, the blond locks slowly coming lose from the ponytail.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing. It’s just that it’s getting late.”

  Victoria turned over, pulled the towel off her shoulders, and sat up, delicately blotting her face and neck. Her small, firm breasts were exposed for a moment as she fastened her top. Charles politely averted his eyes.

  “I can’t believe I fell asleep again.”

  “It’s hot,” he said. “You’re not used to the Med. I’ll get you a glass of ice water.”

  Charles stood up and started toward the house.

  “Oh, don’t bother,” she called. “I still have some here.”

  Charles hesitated halfway to the door.

  “Is it cold enough? I could get you some ice cubes from the freezer,” he offered.

  She laughed, squinting at him, shielding her eyes. “I don’t drink ice water. What do you think I am, an American?”

  “Do Americans drink ice water?”

  Charles returned and stretched out again. He was half American on his father’s side, but that was not something he talked about.

  Victoria picked up the glass near her chair and drank deeply. When it was empty, she ran a thumb across the condensation.

  “Water is one of the four basic elements.”

  “Mmmhmm.”

  “So tell me … which of the four elements am I?”

  Charles hesitated.

  “There are four natural elements: earth, water, fire, and air,” she listed, ticking them off on her manicured fingers. “You have to decide which one is your basic nature.”

  “I see,” he said, not comprehending at all.

  “So, which one am I?” she asked.

  “Earth?” he said.

  Her smile fell in disappointment.

  “Why?”

  “Your country. Norway.”

  “No, I’m talking about me.”

  “So am I …”

  “But earth? How could you say that?” Victoria sighed as she swung her long legs off the chaise. “Is that all I am to you? A country?”

  “V … you know I didn’t mean it that way.”

  She pulled the elastic out of her ponytail. Long blond hair cascaded over her shoulders. Her mouth turned down, eyes focused on the terrace.

  “I adore you. You know that, don’t you?” he blurted.

  Victoria smiled. “I know.”

  “So if I’m not earth which other element would I be?” she asked.

  He looked up sharply.

  �
��What element am I?”

  Charles met her gaze squarely, trying not to reveal his chagrin. “What do you want me to say?”

  “Tell me what element you think I am.”

  He shrugged, while mentally reviewing his choices.

  “I guess you’re fire,” he ventured.

  “Why?”

  “I see fire in your eyes.”

  “But they’re blue—more like ice.”

  “You are not ice,” he vowed.

  A flicker of satisfaction crossed her face.

  “If I’m fire, what are you, Charles?”

  “I am … air.”

  “How are you air?”

  He had no idea. Now he had to come up with something clever.

  “I am air with great V-locity,” he improvised. “I am wind.”

  “That’s good. We’re compatible. Wind fans a fire.”

  Oops. Fire. That reminded him. Charles checked his watch and stood up, draping a towel over his neck.

  “Listen, I hate to leave you, but I’d better get going on grilling that fish.”

  Victoria looked up at him. Her hair cascaded over her eyes.

  “Is it late?”

  “It’s six thirty. You can stay on the terrace if you like.”

  “Oh, no. I’ll come in with you.”

  She stood up, reaching to retrieve her beach wrap from under the lounge chair. As she bent over, the tiny yellow bikini rode up. That bathing suit was not palace-approved.

  “Should we get dressed?” she asked, tying the pareo around her waist.

  “No need to fuss,” he said. “My friends won’t care.”

  “When are they due to arrive?”

  “Any minute. They probably came over on the six o’clock ferry.”

  Charles reached down to collect the empty drinking glasses and towels.

  “How did you first meet Sinclair?” she asked.

  “We met about ten years ago in Monaco. He asked me to run his charity.”

  “Is he very wealthy?”

  “Yes. He made a bundle in the tech world. But he gave up his career in the States to become an archaeologist.”

  Victoria half-turned. “And Cordelia?”

  “She’s an oceanographer—a rather famous one. I’ve known her for two years. In fact, I introduced her to Sinclair.”