Second Chance Gold (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 4) by John Cunningham (tohfa e dulha read online TXT) 📗

Why would Jerry ever leave this beautiful spot and his beautiful wife to carouse around the island with Eurotrash?

“Monsieur Reilly?”

I stepped onto the tiled patio and followed a path between potted palms to where Giselle reclined in a lounge chair. I sat in a straight chair next to her. She stubbed out a cigarette and took a long drink from a clear plastic cup of water. Her face was still bruised, but not so bruised that you couldn’t see I’d been right about her being beautiful.

“I’m glad you’re home,” I said. “I understand Lou Atlas—”

“Yes, he paid my expenses—I am sure he was embarrassed to learn of my predicament. Thank you for telling him.”

I’d debated whether I should raise the issue of her quiet efforts to overturn what Jerry’s attorney referred to as the Marital Regime. If she couldn’t overturn the pre-nup, she wouldn’t be able to keep this fabulous place for long—not without help.

“My father told me what you said—and about the others who’ve been asking about Jerry.” She lit another cigarette. “Jerry was no treasure hunter, he was a spoiled trust fund brat who hoarded the money sent by his uncle every month. After the Eden Rock, he was filled with paranoia of being penniless.”

That helped explain the banker’s assessment of Jerry.

“These men seem fixated on Remy de Haenen as well,” I said. “Aside from buying the Eden Rock from him, I haven’t found any connection between your husband and Remy.” No reaction. “Do you know of any?”

“With Remy de Haenen? No. He laughed all the way to the bank after Jerry bought those run-down little shacks—it is beautiful now, but back then it was nothing, neglected after Remy’s years in politics. Remy was a great promoter, a visionary, some say. But he suckered Jerry into buying the hotel and then made sure everyone knew he had overpaid.” A bitter laugh. “I met Jerry shortly after. He had no idea what people were saying, he was too busy trying to modernize and enlarge the hotel.”

“He must have been really excited.”

“Until he found out what everyone else thought—that he was a fool. And then all the stock markets dropped when the Internet companies lost value overnight. Jerry had invested a lot of his money there. It would take years of his trust fund payments to finish what he had started, so he quit. Not because he wanted to but because he had no choice. He sold out for half what he originally paid.” She shook her head. “Again the laughing-stock.”

There was no quiver to her voice but I sensed a depth of feeling nonetheless.

And she’d confirmed why he’d sold the hotel when he did—and why he’d stiffed Antoine Construction. Jerry’s one attempt to do something with his life had failed.

I suddenly felt an unexpected solidarity with Jerry. I too had sought to build something only to have it ripped away by yet another market crash, and I too had lived beyond my means and lost everything I’d held dear. But anonymity was easier as a relocated recluse in Key West than it would have been as a very public foreigner in St. Barths.

I followed Gisele’s gaze to the large island a mile or so straight out from Flamands. It reminded me of a saddle, two tall peaks with a swooping valley in the middle. White water crashed all around it, and I imagined her sitting here, staring at it, smoking cigarettes and questioning the decisions of her life.“Did Jerry spend a lot of time here?”

“Here, no. At the bar by Hotel St. Barth, yes.” She pointed down to the right end of the beach. “Or at La Plage or the Yacht Club or Le Ti.”

All places Lou Atlas had mentioned.

“Did he Jet Ski often?”

She smiled. “It was his favorite way to go places—no sideswiping or crashing into cars on narrow roads, nobody tailgating him. Freedom from the world is how he described it. And early in the day, before he was drinking, he would sometimes ride a Jet Ski all the way to St. Martin, or Anguilla, and sometime stay for days. He had friends there.”

Women, I presumed.

She must have read my expression.

“Bankie Banx?” she said. “The reggae musician who owns the Dune Preserve on Rendezvous Bay in Anguilla? He was a good friend of Jerry’s.” I could tell by her tone that she was used to defending her husband. Probably for her own self-esteem, but also because she’d loved him.

If Jerry traveled that far and that often on Jet Skis, it struck me as odd that he would crash and drown so close to home.

Unless he was wasted, of course.

“Sometimes he would park on the beach right out front.” She pointed toward the water. “Take the children for rides. Or pick up cash.”

“Do you know Nicole de Haenen?”

“We were friends when we were girls.”

I told her Nicole had also been approached by the men from the Dominican Republic. Gisele sat up straight and stared. I waited, but she said nothing.

“Tell me about Jerry after you got married.”

“He ignored most of the rude talk about his failure with the hotel. He drank, but not as much.” A sudden laugh caused Gisele to tilt her head back. “And he began to paint. I was so happy—I thought it would be his salvation. He didn’t need to work, and after the loss of his investments he needed something to pour his soul into.”

I thought of the modern paintings inside their home.

“Did he sell or show his work?”

A bitter laugh followed. “No, but friends who came to visit saw them and laughed. He dropped the interest after a few months. I tried to encourage him, but he just said he’d painted all he cared to.”

“Then what?”

“We waited to have children. I was carefree and we traveled for a while, but I got restless. I wanted a family, and Jerry finally agreed.”

Gisele raised a palm to her bruised eye and held it there.

“Are you okay?” I