Theirs will be a shattering affair.
The glass chalet has enchanted Reyna since childhood. Built upon the cliff face at Devlin Manor, the luminous curiosity dangles over the Caribbean like a diamond pendant. Wondrous to behold from the water, the house is even more astonishing up close, as Reyna quickly learns when she comes into service at the estate.
Left untouched as a shrine to the beautiful and tempestuous Celeste St. Claire, the glass house beckons to Reyna. It exerts the same sensual pull upon Lucas St. Claire, the mercurial master of the manor. Both are powerless to resist. When the two meet within, their need is as transparent as the walls surrounding them.
But that passion may be indulged at dear cost. Seduced by the shimmering cottage—and the tortured man who built it—Reyna risks joining its former mistress in oblivion.
House of Glass
Jen Christie
To John
Table of Contents
Prologue
St. Claire, August, 1932
A storm blew over the island last night.
We were safely tucked away behind the thick walls at Devlin Manor. Lucas entertained us all night, keeping the children distracted with tall tales and games. I knew that I was safe with my family, but I could not shake the strange apprehension that gnawed at me, and only increased as the night went on.
Each band of rain, each blast of wind that rattled the shutters pushed me further back in my memories, further back in time, to a night, more than twenty years ago, and a night that I thought was safely buried in the murky depths of history.
At the height of the storm, a gust of wind came that was so violent, so angry, that the howl of it carried through the house, echoing down the long halls and up to the tall ceilings. An image came to my mind, one that I had fought to keep away. It was of her.
Celeste.
When the dawn came, I threw open the shutters to see that the sky was once again a mollifying shade of blue and the wind was meek and apologetic. Palms rustled in the wind. Birds alighted from their dark, secret spaces. But the storm had shifted the coastline, exposing the marrow of the rocks. As I looked more closely from my perch, there, on the largest of them, I saw something…shiny. Shading my eyes from the dawn, I squinted and saw something that I had not seen in many, many years.
I didn’t need to walk down to the shoreline to know what it was. But I went, anyway. I had to see for myself if it was real.
It was. Celeste had returned. Her golden body still sharp with youth and beauty, while mine had begun to soften. The same after all these years and the beating tides.
Why now?
Did she think that I had forgotten?
Never. I went to the statuette and lifted it, wondering how something less than a foot high could do so much damage. I hoisted it into the air, that perfect golden miniature of her, and threw it back into the sea where it belonged.
Memories like jewels no matter how long or how deeply they are buried, always shine when exposed to the sun.
Chapter One
1902 – The Island of St. Claire
I will never forget the morning that my life changed forever. Dawn broke in a thick fog and I walked to the docks beneath a pinkish haze of sunlight to wait for my father’s return. Like ghosts from the mist the fishermen emerged on their boats, floating into the harbor. It all comes back to me so clearly that I can still smell the briny aromas of the pier, still hear the barks of the men as they called to each other. Finally, I recognized the familiar shape of my father’s small boat, and I gave a squeal of joy when I saw the bow riding heavy in the water. I may have been only ten years old, but I knew very well how important a good catch was.
My father always said that being born on St. Claire was a stroke of good fortune, that we didn’t need riches because life in the West Indies was treasure enough for any person. However, when the catches were meager and my belly hungry, I doubted his words. But on that morning, to see the sight of his boat with heaps of gleaming silver fish in the hazy light, I knew my father was right, and there was no better place on earth to call home.
I helped my father unload the boat, and sat beside him mending nets as he sold his catch. Once I was finished the day was my own, and I entertained myself by walking around and watching the other islanders as they worked. I passed baskets of starfish and octopus, and walked beneath small sharks that had been caught alongside the fish. The sharks dangled by their tails, upside down, their sharp teeth just over my head.
I settled, like I always did, on my favorite spot at the very edge of the pier, and dangled my legs over the side. Glancing into the water through my bare feet and tan legs I saw my likeness reflected back at me. Unkempt, wild dark hair framed my face. I never had a mother to chase me around and comb it. It blew in the breeze, a wind-knotted mess of long dark curls.
Cries of excitement surprised me, and I looked up to see not a fishing boat, but a pleasure vessel; a great sailboat had entered the harbor. The boat was almost as long as the pier I sat on, and the mast—two of them actually—had sails folded on themselves and cinched down. The flag of St. Claire waved proudly in the wind, the familiar reds and blues a welcome sight to my eyes.
It was then that I noticed a man at the helm. A wave of black hair, a rugged face, the man was clearly in charge, his hands gripping the steering wheel, guiding the sailboat to dock. That was how I first saw Lucas St. Claire, commanding and in charge. His voice called out in a baritone and the dockhands scrambled to secure the ropes. He landed the vessel perfectly, and it barely bumped against the dock, the bow not ten feet away from where I sat.
A pink hat bobbed up and down as I watched