Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
“I gave speeches at the aquarium when I was a student in Cape Town. I dare say I managed to convert a few souls. But there will always be people who can’t tell fact from fiction.”
“Exactly,” she says, snapping her fingers. “That’s just how I feel. It’s very difficult to make a real difference. I’m working with a team of scientists on writing a few articles that are due for publication on online sites and in seaside accommodation brochures. Would you like to give me your input?”
“I’d love that,” I say. “If you’d like, I can send you my notes. Maybe some of the data will be useful.”
“Yes, please. You do that.” Turning to my husband, she says, “This one is a good catch, excuse the pun. You better hold onto her.”
“Oh, I intend on doing that,” he replies darkly.
“We should donate more money to shark research,” she says. “It’s extremely worrying that no less than seventy-five percent of the species are in danger of extinction.”
“That’s a great idea.” I nudge Angelo. “Don’t you agree?”
“Absolutely.” Angelo nods at Mrs. Powell. “Seeing how passionate my wife is about the subject, I’ll organize a monthly donation when we get home.”
“That’s very generous of you.” Mr. Powell scrutinizes him. “Businesses like ours that rely on sea freight have a responsibility to conserve the ocean life.”
“Indeed,” Angelo says. “All cargo ships should switch to low-sulphur fuel and implement an exhaust scrubber system. I only use the best anti-fouling hull paint for my own ships.”
Mr. Powell raises his glass. “Cheers to that, my good man.”
“I hear you’re a keen sailor yourself,” Angelo remarks.
Perking up, Mr. Powell asks, “Do you sail?”
“I do. As a matter of fact, I come from a long history of sailors.”
“In that case, I have to introduce you to another dear friend who’s a sailboat fanatic.” Mr. Powell turns to his wife. “Will you excuse us for a moment, darling? I don’t want to bore you with boat talk.”
She waves a hand. “You go along. Sabella and I have much to discuss, it seems.”
The men wander off, engrossed in their conversation.
“Do you mind if we sit for minute?” she asks. “I’m suffering from bad blood circulation, and the old legs don’t support standing for so long.”
“Of course,” I say, taking her arm and leading her to a cocktail table with a couple of chairs.
After making herself comfortable, she launches into a conversation about sharks. When I tell her about my one and only encounter with a great white that I filmed, she asks if she may see the video. I make up an excuse of having left the USB key with the clip with my marine vertebrate professor in South Africa. Our exchange is stimulating. I’m enjoying myself so much that I don’t see the time go by.
When the men return, Angelo’s broad smile tells me he succeeded in his goal. We shake hands with a promise to arrange a get-together on Angelo’s yacht in the summer. As the Powells have never visited Corsica, they undertake to sail there from Marseille.
We greet a few more people while nibbling on the finger food the waiters offer. My husband chats a couple of minutes with each, just enough not to appear rude, but now that he’s achieved his aim, I sense his urgency to escape the party. He did tell me on the night we met that, like me, he didn’t care much for them, especially not birthday parties.
Time and again, my gaze lands on the Powells as they do their round of the room. The pride in Thomas Powell’s eyes when he looks at his wife fills me with longing for the same. His affection for her is obvious. They seem so happy. I want someone to look at me like that too. I want to know what it feels like to be loved and respected by the man who shares my bed.
“Would you like another drink?” Angelo asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
I turn my face to him. “I’ve had enough, thank you.”
His mouth lifts in one corner. “I recall a time when you didn’t say no to champagne. On the contrary.”
“That was different.” I tense at the memory. “I was nervous.”
Taking my empty glass from my hand, he brushes a thumb over my cheek. Something dark and heated slips into his voice. “Did I make you nervous, cara?”
“You know you did.”
His deep timbre drops another octave. “How about now? Do I still make you nervous?”
I swallow. Quoting his words from earlier, I say, “You shouldn’t ask questions if you know the answers.”
He holds my gaze as he puts the glass aside. Not saying a word, he takes my hand and leads me upstairs. The closer we get to the suite, the harder my heart beats in my chest. His intentions changed in the blink of an eye, going from networking to something entirely different, and as much as it frightens me, I can’t say it doesn’t excite me too.