The sea around Isla Gaviota was a deceptively gentle turquoise, lapping at white sand that felt like sifted sugar. Elena had come here to disappear. After a scandal that ended her engagement and her career as a concert pianist in one brutal season, the remote, ferry-accessible island off the coast of Venezuela was the last place anyone would look for her.
On her third morning, the silence was broken by a sound she dreaded: music. Not the tinny static of a radio, but a live cello, its deep, sonorous voice drifting through the hibiscus bushes from the neighboring cottage. It was Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1—the same piece she had played at the gala where her world ended.
He kissed her then—not gently, but with the same raw, off-beat passion as his merengue . It tasted of sea salt and second chances.
“Stop,” she said.
The bow froze. He opened his eyes—a startling, clear grey against his tan. “The neighbors usually request encores.”
