the humidity level had filled the clouds to capacity. I’d grown used to the stability of hot days and wet nights.
But today, the sky was not stable.
Black-edged clouds gathered in one giant mass. Wind sprung up as if Zeus flicked a switch, whipping the calm sea into choppy whitecaps. A rumble of deep, disturbing thunder echoed in the distance.
My fear morphed to panic.
The parrot hopped from one bag handle to the other, chirping and twittering in worry.
“Shit.” I plowed the oar into the water, shooting us forward. A tropical storm could rip palm trees from the soil, claw apart villas, and decimate islands. A tropical storm at sea where a girl and a tiny parrot sat in a flimsy kayak? It could kill us.
I rowed as fast as I could.
The heavens opened.
And big fat raindrops fell.
Chapter Thirteen
I LANDED IN JAKARTA.
Alone.
The whole flight from the USA back to Indonesia had been a torture marathon of my thoughts. The waiting in LAX for a way home had driven me insane. The five-hour delay in Singapore shredded my self-control.
I’d flown to my lab to protect everything valuable to me. I’d left my sanctuary to face a brother I despised with every molecule, yet…before I’d even arrived, I’d turned around and jumped on the next available flight home.
I’d chosen a fucking goddess over my empire.
I’d sent Calvin to deal with Drake when it ought to have been me.
My palms had crescent-moon cuts from my nails digging deep. I’d clenched my fists the entire journey, unable to figure out what the fuck I was doing.
Why had I abandoned everything I’d built? Why had there been no question about which catastrophe to chase?
Even Cal had known. The minute Arbi called, he’d collected my thrown phone, called to book the next available flight back to Indo—a wait-time of eight fucking hours—and then continued to the chartered plane to San Diego.
I trusted him to kick Drake from my building.
I knew he’d set the board straight.
But it should have been fucking me.
Christ!
I raked a hand through my hair, pacing down the air bridge with the two other first-class passengers. I had a good mind to turn around, jump back on the Boeing, and order the pilots to take me back to America. To stop being a goddamn idiot and put my company before a goddess.
I’ll book a return journey.
Right now.
Turning on my phone, I gritted my teeth with determination. I’d made a mistake flying back here. Arbi could find Eleanor. He could discipline her. She couldn’t have gotten far. I’d arrange yet another plane to get me to San Diego, and I’d deal with my fucktard of a brother myself.
And then I’d deal with my runaway possession.
Notifications and emails pinged as I connected to the internet. Ignoring it all, I scrolled through my phonebook to the travel associate on file.
My phone vibrated in my hand before I could connect the call, the ringtone following a second later.
Arbi.
Pressing accept, I picked up my pace to customs and immigration. “You find her?”
If they’d found Eleanor, they knew what to do until I returned. She’d be held with means fitting for an ungrateful runaway. No more luxury. No more kindness. She ran from my gifts? Well, she’d fucking return to my fury.
“Eh, we found the kayak,” Arbi muttered.
“Where was she? How far did she get?”
Silence thickened before he admitted, “We found the kayak, sir. But…not the goddess.”
I slammed to a halt. “What?”
“She, eh, wasn’t on the boat. It capsized in the storm. It didn’t last long, but the wind and rain—”
“Storm? What fucking storm?”
“It came through early this morning.”
Placing him on speaker, I brought up the local weather forecast. Sure enough, a tropical pattern had swooped through just before dawn, drenching the area, causing localized flooding and a few ruined infrastructures.
My island would’ve withstood its ferocity, thanks to the quality craftsmanship of my villas, but a tiny kayak at sea? She would’ve been a cork bobbing at its mercy. No, worse than a cork. She would’ve been a rock, plunging to the depths the moment the boat capsized.
She wasn’t just missing.
She’s probably dead.
The lance to my heart overrode every scrap of common-sense I had left. Hanging up on Arbi, I called my helicopter crew.
The pilot answered on my second ring. “Mr. Sinclair. We’re at the private hangar. Do you still wish to return to—”
“I’m on my way. Make sure you have plenty of fuel on board. Today isn’t a taxi service. It’s a recovery mission.”