An excerpt from The Phantom Island

Tiny lights beneath the surface of the pool lit Chiara's way to the bottom, and at first, she just kicked along, stretching out and remembering what it was to have the freedom to move anywhere, released from the harsh restrictions of land that kept one mired to the ground. The underwater world was a place where humans could fly, put out arms and be free. Soaring low, Chiara's hands found their way, as always, to the uneven but smooth surface of the mosaic, along the curved locks of golden hair, over the deep green eyes, ever open and at peace.

Eventually, Chiara's lungs protested, and she had to remember that she was not a creature of the water—and that there was no little boy nearby to grant her the power to change that. Reluctantly, she kicked back up to the surface and tilted her head up to the stars, taking in a deep breath of cool Salina air. Then she opened her eyes.

Maybe it was her imagination. It had to be, right? The figure sitting on the stone steps that led to the spa, half-revealed in the soft light at the base of a nearby orange tree, was a hallucination, produced by nostalgia and nerves. But when Chiara blinked, the man was still there. Still calmed by the peace the place had given her, she even began to swim a few yards toward him before reality seized her movements.

Aeolian Islands

An assassin...

The pool felt cold. Chiara looked toward the office of the Villa, but no lights burned there. She and the man were alone with just the glow of the deck and the brightness of stars.

And just as she feared, it was when she started to back up and try to get to the exit of the pool on the other side that he moved suddenly, stood up, and came toward her. When he walked into brighter light, Chiara stopped moving altogether.

His hair was as gold as the mermaid's beneath the pool, that was the first thing she noticed. It fell in waves above his eyes, not cut long enough to be shaggy, but not so short that it did not manage glorious curls. His cheekbones were broad, his nose strong, his mouth beautifully shaped, an adjective Chiara so rarely thought a man merited. His eyes were shadowed in the dim light, but seemed the color of the dark blue shirt he wore, untucked, buttoned to the middle of his chest, loose around broad shoulders and falling just below a narrow waist. He wore dark cut-off jean shorts and his feet were ill-housed in a pair of too-large brown sandals.

He stood still again, just watching her, and Chiara found not a thought of fear in her head. She reached the shallow stairs of the pool and climbed out of the water to stand on the edge of the cliff, only sea and rocks below her. The cool air seized on her skin, and Chiara shivered. Maybe from cold.

"Hi," he said. Closer up, she could see that he stood only an inch or so taller than her.

"Hi." Her voice sounded quite calm and easy.

After a second more, he gave her a hesitant smile. "You look cold," he said, and he reached out and picked up her robe.

Chiara moved toward him, feeling a little like she was still walking through the water, so slow. She put out her hand and took the robe from him, not touching his fingers, wrapped it around herself, warm and soft, like an embrace.

Storm over the Tyrrhenian Sea

When she looked back up at him, his face was shadowed, but his expression was not completely hidden. He looked—he looked like he'd been at sea a long time and had just found land again. He looked like...

Or is that just your imagination, Chiara?

Is this all your imagination?

"My name's Chiara," she told him.

He did not look a bit surprised. He made no move to answer her, he made no move at all, except that his eyes fell to her mouth. She could almost feel the heat of him from across the few feet that separated them, and Chiara was suddenly certain that if he reached out and touched her, the pool would probably burst into flames.

And then it did.

There was a crash that sounded like breaking glass, and a whoosh of air combusting, and Chiara whirled around, stared at the completely impossible sight of bright orange fire on the pool deck, wondering if somehow, it could be her fault for imagining it. Then a pair of strong hands came down on her shoulders and yanked her off her feet and away from the pool just as she heard another explosion.

Chiara crumpled to her knees on the pale wood deck and there was heat in the air, there were birds screaming, and Chiara understood then. It was real. And so was he. The man bent over her so that his body covered hers, between her and the fire, and Chiara could not see his face, but she felt the strength in his arms. He smelled like the sea.