I have a private island in the Caribbean. That’s where I’d go if I needed to escape a broken heart.... No one can get at you there, Diana. There’s no internet, no phones, no way to even get on the island except by my plane.
I’d wanted to run out of the house in my robe and sleeping shorts. Madison had talked me into getting dressed first, in the closest clean thing that still fit me. Twisting my hair into a knot, I jumped into the sports car and drove down the road like a race car driver.
Now, as I drove west toward the coast, the low-lying mist was growing thicker, the air cooler near the ocean. The wind felt fresh and cold against my skin as it blew over the convertible, pulling my hair out of the knot and flying it around me. I pressed on the gas.
I had to reach Edward in time. I had to. Because if his plane took off, I feared it would be a long time before I saw him again....
Red lights glimmered on the cars ahead of me on the highway, forcing me to push on my brakes.
“Come on, come on,” I begged aloud, but the cars ahead just grew slower and slower until they stopped altogether. Was there an accident ahead? Someone filming a movie? A visiting political dignitary? Or was it just fate pulling Edward away from me, just when I’d finally realized what I’d lose?
What was the point in having a fast car just to be stopped in L.A. traffic?
I thought I could make you happy. But I can’t force you to marry me. Of course you deserve love. You deserve everything.
Every time Edward had loved anyone, they’d abandoned him. His mother. His father. The woman in Spain. He’d learned not to trust. He’d learned words were cheap. So he’d tried to show me he loved me, in a way more real than words.
How had he found the courage to come to California and humbly tell me he wanted me back? What had it cost him, to try to earn back my love?
Everything, I realized. His heart. His pride. Even his birthright.
All of that—and he’d still let me make the decision. He’d loved me enough to let me go.
Traffic finally picked up speed again. The sun was growing warmer, but I still felt cold, my teeth chattering as I finally arrived at the small nonpublic airport where Edward kept his private jet. He’d been here a month, I realized, and he hadn’t used it once. He’d been too busy taking care of me.
Would I be in time?
Driving past the gate, I parked the car helter-skelter in the tiny parking lot, leaving the convertible door open as I ran into the hangar.
No one was there, except for a lone airplane technician looking into the engine of a small Cessna. He straightened. “Can I help you?”
On the other side of the hangar, I heard a loud engine. Through the open garage door, I saw a jet that looked like Edward’s accelerating away, headed down the small landing strip.
“Whose plane is that?” I begged.
The mechanic tilted back his baseball cap. “Well now, I’m not rightly allowed to say....”
“Edward St. Cyr,” I choked out. “It’s his plane, isn’t it? Is he headed to the Caribbean?”
The man frowned. “How the heck did you...”
But I was no longer listening. I took off running, as fast as a heavily pregnant woman could run, across the hangar, straight through the garage door and out onto the tarmac.
“Wait!” I screamed, waving my arms wildly as I ran down the runway, following the plane, trying to catch it though I knew I had no hope. “Edward! Wait!”
The roar of the engine and wind from the propellers swallowed my words, whirling the air around me, pushing me back, making me cough. I felt a sudden pain in my belly and hunched over, at the same moment that the mechanic caught up with me.
“Are you crazy?”
“Edward!” I cried helplessly.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed? Get off the runway!” The man, who must have thought I was having some kind of pregnancy-related breakdown, half pulled, half carried me back to the hangar. Winded and weak and grief-stricken, I let him.