The Storm Sister: Book Two (Volume 2) (The Seven Sisters, Band 2) - Hardcover

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Lucinda Riley is the New York Times bestselling author of over twenty novels, including The Orchid House, The Girl on the Cliff, and the Seven Sisters series. Her books have sold twenty million copies in thirty-five languages globally. She was born in Ireland and divides her time between England and West Cork with her husband and four children. Visit her online at LucindaRiley.com.

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Storm Sister

1

The Aegean Sea

I will always remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I heard that my father had died.

I was lying naked in the sun on the deck of the Neptune, with Theo’s hand resting protectively on my stomach. The deserted curve of golden beach on the island in front of us glimmered in the sun as it sat nestled in its rocky cove. The crystal-clear turquoise water was making a lazy attempt at forming waves as it hit the sands, foaming elegantly like the froth on a cappuccino.

Becalmed, I’d thought, like me.

We’d dropped anchor in the small bay off the tiny Greek island of Macheres at sunset the night before, then waded ashore to the cove carrying two coolers. One was filled with fresh red mullet and sardines that Theo had caught earlier that day, the other with wine and water. I’d set down my load on the sand, panting with effort, and Theo had kissed my nose tenderly.

“We are castaways on our very own desert island,” he’d announced, spreading his arms wide to gesture at the idyllic setting. “Now I’m off in search of firewood so we can cook our fish.”

I’d watched him as he turned from me and walked toward the rocks forming a crescent around the cove, heading for the tinder-dry sparse bushes that grew in the crevices. Given he was a world-class sailor, his slight frame belied his strength. Compared to the other men I crewed with in sailing competitions who seemed to be all rippling muscles and Tarzan-like chests, Theo was positively diminutive. One of the first things I’d noticed about him was his rather lopsided gait. He’d since told me how he’d broken his ankle falling out of a tree as a child and how it had never mended properly.

“I suppose it’s another reason why I was always destined for a life on the water. When I’m sailing, no one can tell how ridiculous I look walking on land,” he’d chuckled.

We’d cooked our fish and later made love under the stars. The following morning was our last aboard together. And just before I’d decided I absolutely had to resume contact with the outside world by switching on my mobile, and then subsequently discovered my life had shattered into a million tiny pieces, I’d lain there next to him perfectly at peace. And, like a surreal dream, my mind had replayed the miracle of Theo and me, and how we’d come to be here in this beautiful place . . .



I’d first set eyes on him a year or so ago at the Heineken Regatta in St. Maarten in the Caribbean. The winning crew was celebrating at the victory dinner and I was intrigued to discover that their skipper was Theo Falys-Kings. He was a celebrity in the sailing world, having steered more crews to victory in offshore races during the past five years than any other captain.

“He isn’t what I imagined at all,” I commented under my breath to Rob Bellamy, an old crewmate with whom I’d sailed for the Swiss national team. “He looks like a geek with those horn-rimmed glasses,” I added as I watched him stand up to move across to another table, “and he has a very odd walk.”

“He’s certainly not your average brawny sailor, admittedly,” agreed Rob. “But, Al, the guy is a total genius. He has a sixth sense when it comes to the water and there’s no one I’d trust more as my skipper on stormy seas.”

I was introduced to Theo briefly by Rob later that evening and I noticed his hazel-flecked green eyes were thoughtful as he shook my hand.

“So, you’re the famous Al D’Aplièse.”

Behind his British accent, his voice was warm and steady. “Yes, to the latter part of that statement,” I said, embarrassed at the compliment, “but I think it’s you who’s famous.” Doing my best not to let my gaze waver under his continued scrutiny, I saw his features soften as he let out a chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” I demanded.

“To be frank, I wasn’t expecting you.”

“What do you mean me?”

Theo’s attention was diverted by a photographer wanting a team photo, so I never did get to hear what it was he meant.

After that, I began to notice him across the room at various social events for the regattas we took part in. He had an indefinable vibrancy about him and a soft, easy laugh that, despite his outwardly reserved demeanor, seemed to draw people to his side. If the event was formal, he was usually dressed in chinos and a crumpled linen jacket as a nod to protocol and the race sponsors, but his ancient deck shoes and unruly brown hair always made him look as if he’d just stepped off a boat.

On those first few occasions, it seemed as if we were dancing around each other. Our eyes met often, but Theo never attempted to continue our first conversation. It was only six weeks ago, when my crew had claimed victory in Antigua and we were celebrating at the Lord Nelson’s Ball, which marked the end of race week, when he tapped me on the shoulder.

“Well done, Al,” he said.

“Thanks,” I replied, feeling gratified that our crew had beaten his for a change.

“I’m hearing many good things about you this season, Al. Do you fancy coming to crew for me in the Cyclades Regatta in June?”

I’d already been offered a place on another crew but had yet to accept. Theo saw my hesitation.

“You’re already taken?”

“Provisionally, yes.”

“Well, here’s my card. Have a think about it and let me know by the end of the week. I could really do with someone like you aboard.”

“Thanks.” I mentally pushed aside my hesitation. Who on earth turned down the chance to crew for the man currently known as “the King of the Seas”? “By the way,” I called out as he began to walk away from me, “last time we talked, why did you say you weren’t expecting me?”

He paused, his eyes sweeping briefly over me. “I’d never met you in person; I’d just heard tidbits of conversation about your sailing skills, that’s all. And as I said, you aren’t what I was expecting. Good night, Al.”

I mulled over our conversation as I walked back to my room in a little inn by St. John’s harbor, letting the night air wash over me and wondering why it was that Theo fascinated me so much. Streetlights bathed the cheerful multicolored house fronts in a warm nocturnal glow, and from a distance, the lazy hum of people in the bars and cafés drifted toward me. I was oblivious to it all, exhilarated as I was by the race win—and by Theo Falys-Kings’s offer.

As soon as I entered my room, I made a beeline for my laptop and wrote him an e-mail to accept his offer. Before I sent it, I took a shower, then stopped to read it through again, blushing at how eager I sounded. Deciding to save it in my drafts folder and send it in a couple of days, I stretched out on my bed, flexing my arms to relieve the tension and soreness from the race that day.

“Well, Al,” I muttered to myself with a smile, “that will be an interesting regatta.”

I sent the e-mail as planned and Theo contacted me immediately, saying how pleased he was I could join his crew. Then just two weeks ago, I’d found myself inexplicably nervous as I stepped aboard the race-rigged Hanse 540 yacht in Naxos harbor to begin training for the...