by Diana Palmer
Amanda didn’t want to think about Josh’s women. She knew he had them, all too well, but it was much more comfortable to keep her head in the sand and not confront the reasons it bothered her.
“I suppose,” she replied noncommittally. “Listen, I’ll be home at the end of the week,” she continued, changing the subject. “We can go shopping. Now that I work every day, I find I don’t have enough clothes to cover the whole week. When I was in school I could wear jeans and T-shirts.”
“Okay. I’ll go shopping with you, if Josh lets you come home so quickly. He may think you need more of a break, and I’d have to agree,” she added solemnly. “Taking care of your dad and working every day took its toll on you.”
“I figure that if you agree to take a job, it’s your responsibility,” she reminded her friend. “I like working. Dad had private nurses, thanks to Josh. He never paid much attention to me, even when he was so sick.”
“He never paid much attention to you, period,” Mirri said coldly. “Just like my father. If I’d had somebody to take care of me when I was in my teens, maybe I wouldn’t be the emotional wreck I am now. He turned me loose. He never cared that I went out at night alone, and I was too stupid to know the danger.” She paused, her voice thin with memories as they came back to haunt her. “Sweet Jesus,” she whispered reverently, gripping the telephone cord, “what I’d have been spared if my mother hadn’t died. My life changed when your father sent you to my grammar school instead of a private school.”
“We had each other, Mirri,” Amanda said with a smile. “Even after I had to transfer to that private high school. Even when your worst nightmare came true.”
“If it hadn’t been for you, I’d have killed myself that night,” Mirri said soberly. She was silent for a minute, remembering the details of that horrible night. Too often they played through her mind. But Amanda was the only one she dared tell. “You took me home with you because Dad was out of town. I cried all night long after we got back from the hospital, and you sat up with me.”
“You should have accepted the counseling they offered,” Amanda ventured.
“Talk about...that...to a bunch of strangers?” Mirri asked, incredulous. “It’s bad enough to have Nelson Stuart looking at me as if he thinks I stepped out of a brothel. He thinks I’m one bad lady.”
“You might tell him that vivacious persona is a mask.”
“Are you nuts?!” Mirri burst out. “Anyway, Mr. Stuart’s opinion of me and fifty cents might buy me a cup of coffee.”
“You’re hopeless.”
“And getting worse. Look, I’ve got to run. You take care of yourself.”
“You, too. See you soon.”
As Mirri hung up, she became aware of dark eyes staring at her, glaring at her. She was wearing a colorful skirt with a red peasant blouse—wild colors that suited her and disguised the shamed severity of her soul. Her long red hair fell in natural waves to her shoulders, and her blue eyes were big and thick-lashed in a face dominated by pale skin and freckles.
“Using the company phone on company time, Miss Walsh?” he asked without smiling.
“It’s my coffee break, and I got called. I didn’t call anyone.” She propped her chin on her hands, supported by her elbows on the desk, and gave him a big-eyed stare. “May I ask you something, Mr. Stuart?”
One dark eye narrowed. “What?”
“Is that your real face, or one you glue on every morning?”
The glare got worse.
“It’s just that you never smile, sir,” she said with an irrepressible grin. “I only wondered if your face would crack if you tried.”
“Proper use of the telephone goes with your responsibilities,” he told her stiffly. “No personal calls on company time, whether or not you initiate them.”
“I still have—” she checked her watch “—two more minutes on my coffee break. And if you aren’t certain that I didn’t initiate the call, you can always check,” she offered. “After all, you whiz-bang FBI guys can get access to telephone company records, right?”
He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “In addition, I would appreciate it if you could dress in an appropriate manner around this predominantly masculine office.”
She looked at herself, from her huge dangly gold circle earrings to her jangly gold bracelets. “You mean, you’d like me to go naked?! Mr. Stuart!”
She raised her voice just as two of the younger agents came in the door and quickly averted their faces. They disappeared into another office with muffled hysteria while Mr. Stuart’s bruised dignity healed itself.
“On the contrary, Miss Walsh,” he said through his teeth, “having you naked in the office would be much less of a distraction than having you dress like a kaleidoscope!”
He turned and walked into his office, closing the door with a subdued thump.
Mirri watched the door for a minute. Then she licked the point of her index finger and, with a grin, made a mark in the air.
“One for my side,” she murmured dryly.
* * *
JOSHUA WAS PREOCCUPIED as he made his way out of the Lincoln he’d just driven around to the village on the other side of the island. He maintained a small cottage industry there so that the local people could better their standard of living.
The islanders on Opal Cay, like many of the Bahamian people, were skilled craftspersons. They wove palm fronds into intricately designed baskets and purses and hats and wall hangings. On New Providence, where Nassau was located, a huge warehouse had long since been converted at St. George Wharf into individual stalls where crafts could be sold by Bahamian merchants to tourists on incoming ocean liners that docked at the bay. But this was a notoriously low-paying procedure, especially as tourists felt obliged to bargain the friendly merchants down so low that they were making the equivalent of one US dollar for a purse or hat that had taken all day to make.
This sort of thing had irritated Josh, who knew full well that people who could afford the trip to the Bahamas could afford to pay five dollars for a handmade straw hat or purse. So he’d worked out a deal with a friend in Kansas who ran an import shop. Crafts made by his employees were marketed in a place far from the ocean, where such exotic goods were rare indeed and brought a fair price.
Joshua furnished the raw materials from which the crafts were made by people on Opal Cay and arranged for their transport and sale. The islanders paid no rent. After all, he reasoned when some of them protested, wasn’t it their land to begin with? A piece of paper was no claim on land that generations had loved and nurtured. There was a resident nurse and a small clinic where a French physician called twice a week. Joshua made available modern amenities like electricity and running water, but only for those who wanted them. He forced change and acculturation on no one. Studying the Native American experience had convinced him that trying to absorb a culture and change it completely was nothing more than slow genocide. What he was doing on Opal Cay was meant only to give the people the means to do as they pleased with their own culture. They had requested that he appoint a manager for their profits, which he had. With investments and securities, they were amassing a sizable nest egg. If something ever happened to him, or his empire, they would not be at the mercy of some newcomer who might buy the island and value profit over native population.
He felt at an ebb. The death of Amanda’s father had put more strain on him, and he was feeling the burden of endless rounds of talks and bargaining that he now had to shoulder alone. Brad was essentially a contact man, a public relations whiz who could charm just about anyone. But, if pushed hard enough, his brother would give in to deal-breaking points. Josh would crack wide open before he yielded an inch.
He paused in the study long enough to pour himself a small brandy. He’d planned to go into Nassau again to talk to the minister of education about upgrading the computers in the school system, but the gentl
eman was out of town, and he couldn’t get an appointment until next week.
He really was tired. Brad hadn’t come back from Montego Bay or telephoned, and he knew that meant one of two things: his baby brother had stumbled onto either a willing girl or a high-stakes poker game. He didn’t honestly know which would be worse. Brad was careful, but it was a dangerous world for a womanizer. His own reputation was more myth than fact, to keep women at bay. But Brad’s reputation was earned.
While he was glaring into his brandy snifter, Amanda came into the room, in jeans and a white tank top with her long black hair in a braid down her back.
She stopped at the door. “I didn’t hear you drive up.”
He studied her figure, liking its slender, elegant lines. “Imagine keeping a Lincoln just to drive around a tiny island. Extravagant, isn’t it, but visitors are impressed by it.”
“No doubt.” He liked the way she looked, young and fresh and unpretentious. His heart ached at the sight of her.
Almost involuntarily, he moved forward and touched his brandy snifter gently to her full lower lip, which was devoid of lipstick. “Taste.”
“I don’t like brandy,” she began.
“It’s an acquired taste. Acquire it.”
He smiled slowly, and she couldn’t resist him. She tasted it and made a face as it stung her tongue.
“You’re the one indulging in it. Why force me?” she asked, watching him reach out to place the snifter on the bar.
“Because.”
She smiled back at him, delighted at his playfulness, then stunned when he casually draped his arm around her. Amanda’s heart ran wild at the closeness, at the feel of all that warm strength and power so near. He looked tall and intimidating at this range. Far too handsome for comfort with the overhead light making metallic patterns in his blond hair, with his dark eyes narrow and sensuous looking into hers.
Her breath caught as his fingers stroked down the side of her neck. His voice was deep and soft in the stillness. His eyes searched hers. She could feel his breath on her parted lips. “Being near you makes me hungry.”
Amanda quivered and drew in her breath at the suggestion of such intimacy.
He cocked an eyebrow at the betraying gasp and let his gaze fall deliberately to her mouth. He dragged his thumb over it. She wanted him. He wanted her. He kept fighting the temptation to give in to it, but it got worse by the day.
He moved away from her abruptly and picked up his drink.
“I must be more exhausted than I realized,” he said dryly as he bent his head to light a cigar. “Where do you fancy eating tonight?” he asked.
Amanda was still trembling inside, but if he could shake off that kind of sensual temptation, so could she.
“I still like seafood.”
He turned, with frank admiration in his eyes. He didn’t like most women, but Amanda was unique: an independent woman with a mind of her own who could still be very, very feminine when she wanted to. “So do I. Go change and we’ll go.”
“Okay,” she added, and hesitated. She looked worried.
He sighed. “You can trust me. I don’t have plans to seduce you on the table.”
She sighed. “Pity,” she murmured, tongue-in-cheek.
She could learn to play his game if she had to, she thought to herself.
He cocked an eyebrow. “I told you. I’m not that kind of man. I want some assurances, or I’m not leaving the island with you.”
She laughed delightedly. She could manage her turbulent emotions with humor. Right now it was the only safety valve she had. “Oh, all right, then,” she laughed. His gaze slid over her without expression, although there was an unfamiliar glitter in it. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said quietly.
He made it sound like a statement of intent. “When I’m ready?”
“Are you going to dress?” he asked with polite interest. He flicked his wrist and checked the time. “Because I’ve got a long-distance call coming in three hours that I have to be back here for.”
“Oh. Sorry. I’ll hurry.”
He was, she thought as she rushed upstairs to dress, the most exasperating man she’d ever met. He wasn’t like Josh lately. He was intense and watchful. He’d wanted to kiss her, but he seemed always to catch himself in time. She wanted to push him off balance and see what happened. Something was bothering him, something deeply personal. She wished she could ask what it was.
* * *
BACK IN MONTEGO BAY, a frustrated Brad had spent a fruitless evening and morning trying to seduce one saucy little blonde waitress. He hadn’t had any success, and his own woes were playing on his mind.
The call he’d just received was from Las Vegas, from a flunky who worked for the casino owner to whom he owed a fortune. Perhaps, he thought, if he could speak to the owner himself, he could buy enough time to tell Josh how much trouble he was in. He hadn’t managed that much nerve just yet.
He picked up the phone in the suite he’d rented and dialed a stateside number, waiting impatiently for it to ring.
“Desert Paradise Casino,” came the reply eventually, in a soft, seductive voice.
“Let me speak to Marc Donner,” he said shortly.
“One moment. I’ll see if Mr. Donner is in. May I tell him who’s calling, please?”
“Tell him it’s Brad Lawson.”
There was a very long pause before the telephone was answered.
“Donner.” The voice was deep, unaccented, and without compromise. It reminded Brad vaguely of his older brother.
“I’m working on the money I owe you,” he told the man. “I’m staying on Opal Cay. One way or the other, I’ll have it in a few weeks, a month at the outside.”
“Do you think your brother will give it to you?” came the amused reply. “Josh Lawson isn’t known for a life of frivolity.”
“No, but he’s known for other reasons,” Brad said defensively.
“Sure. His money and his cutthroat approach to business. But he won’t save you if you try to duck out of paying me,” the silky voice purred. “And just between us, I don’t think he’ll try. He doesn’t like gamblers. Even ones he’s related to.”
“Blood is thicker than water.”
“Strange that you should mention blood,” Donner said carelessly. “Don’t let me down, Lawson. Don’t even think about it.”
“I told you. I’m working on it.” The man chilled Brad’s blood. Donner had been connected with a couple of murders though he’d never gone to court for any of them. Brad was worried, but he had nobody to blame except himself. He didn’t really expect Josh to bail him out of this one. No, he’d have to get himself out of this mess. “I’ll get back to you next week.”
“You’d better. I know where to find you.”
“Don’t I know it.” He sighed and put down the receiver.
He needed to get his hands on a substantial amount of cash at once. He’d tried his luck at the tables, but that hadn’t worked. He knew Donner was too intelligent to leave him bleeding in a ditch even if he did look more like a wrestler than a casino owner. He would probably show up at a board meeting, cause a scene, and blow the whistle on him. Josh would then have no choice but to pay the debt and kick Brad out. Brad winced at the thought of it. He had to find a way out—any way out.
CHAPTER SIX
AMANDA WAS SLEEPING LATE. Josh had taken her to dinner the night before, but it had been a quiet, uncomfortable outing. Despite his attempt at humor, he was having trouble coping with their new relationship. He couldn’t seduce her, but it was impossible to think of her as Harrison Todd’s little girl anymore. He seemed to have spent the entire time working to keep his hands off her while he endured the gnawing ache in his loins. By the time they got back home, his nerves, and apparently hers, were shot. They parted company at once.
She’d mentioned going
home Friday, which was tomorrow. He hadn’t argued. He’d wanted to, but she was right. It was a hopeless situation, and every day they spent together made matters worse. He didn’t want to hurt her. For her sake, it was better that she left before he lost his precarious control.
He sat down in his study and reached for the telephone. It might be a good idea, he thought, to find out how things were going with the newspaper back in San Antonio. If, as Amanda had said, Ward Johnson was paying less attention to management than he should, it didn’t bode well for the paper’s financial future—or that job press she was so worried about saving. He could at least insure that Amanda had a reasonably secure future.
* * *
WARD JOHNSON WAS making up the front page when he was called to the telephone. Down the long wooden makeup board from him, Dora Jackson was making up a grocery ad while one of the part-time people wrote cutlines for the photographs and headlines for stories as they were pasted up with hot wax on the ruled sheets.
Putting down his scissors Ward walked to the extension phone behind him. As he spoke, he couldn’t help staring at Dora. It was inconvenient having a woman who looked as good as she did in the office with him. Once they had been high school sweethearts. Now they were both married and trying to keep up happy facades. It had been impulsive and crazy of him to hire her when she’d come looking for something to keep her busy.
“Johnson,” he spoke into the receiver.
“Lawson,” came the terse reply. “I want an update on the paper’s finances.”
It took Ward a long moment to realize that his caller was Joshua Lawson. He hesitated. “Mr. Lawson,” he stammered, caught off guard. “The finances...oh, you mean the quarterly report.”
“That’s right. I need you to fax it to me today.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
“Include an update on the job press, could you?”
“Well, I told you about that,” Ward reminded him. “It’s a waste of capital. The newspaper will carry us along.”