by Rachel Woods
At the luggage carousel, I scanned the bags circling the conveyor belt for my suitcase. Minutes later, I realized there was no more luggage on the carousel, and the other passengers who’d been waiting with me had gotten their bags and dispersed.
Where the hell was my luggage, I wondered, my blood pressure spiking. Had it been stolen? Or, had the airline lost it? Maybe put it on a plane to St. Maarten instead of the plane to—
“Ms. Miller?” said a voice behind me, very deep and slightly gruff, the island accent prevalent.
Turning, I stared up into a pair of dreamy brown eyes, as potent as whiskey. The rest of the man was dreamy as well. He was tall, broad, and muscular in his chauffeur’s uniform. And he was heartbreakingly handsome with a strong, square jaw, full lips, and a Roman nose. A ripple of excitement fluttered through parts of my body that hadn’t fluttered in years as I remembered the letter from the hotel I’d read on the plane.
Your fantasy awaits and will begin as soon as you arrive.
“My name is Icarus.”
“Icarus …” I repeated, my voice a breathy whisper. The name was intriguing, and yet I was wary. In Greek mythology, Icarus was the boy who flew too close to the sun. His tale was cautionary, a warning against being too prideful or arrogantly trusting in your own abilities. Somehow, a handsome driver named Icarus seemed a bit too much like a harbinger of grim tidings.
Maybe I was making too much of things. Sometimes, a guy named Icarus was just a guy named Icarus. Maybe his mother thought the name was cool. Or, most likely, Icarus wasn’t even his real name. The Heliconia Hotel was all about fantasy, I reminded myself. Mysterious aliases were probably de rigueur.
“On behalf of the Heliconia Hotel,“ he said, giving me a dazzling smile, “welcome to St. Mateo.”
“Thank you. But, um, my bags,” I said, remembering my missing luggage. “I think maybe—”
“I have your bags in the car.”
“Oh, thank God,” I said, relieved. “I thought they’d been stolen.”
Icarus gave me a reassuring gaze. “This way,” he said, placing a hand on my back and guiding me, gently but firmly, out of the airport and toward a limo parked at the curb. My heart slammed as we walked toward the car, and I couldn’t help but feel self-conscious. Maybe I was paranoid, but I imagined the throng of tourists, milling about, waiting for taxis and shuttle buses, was watching me. I couldn’t help thinking that they knew, somehow, I was one of those sex-starved, neglected women headed to the Heliconia to have her brains boffed out by a bunch of buff Island guys.
After opening the door and helping me inside the limo, Icarus got in behind me and closed the door.
Startled, and suddenly claustrophobic, I scooted across the bench seat. Trying my best to bury myself in the crook between the rear seat and the side sofa that ran the length of the limo, I noticed a bouquet of gorgeous red roses, a bucket of champagne on ice, and a crystal bowl piled high with fresh fruit cut in the shape of flowers. Nice but a little kitschy, although not entirely cheesy—the fruit hadn’t been dipped in chocolate, thank goodness.
“So, here on the island of St. Mateo, much of our economy is dependent upon the crops we grow and sell to neighboring islands and a few countries in Europe,” Icarus said. “Our island is known for its fruit, which is sweet and succulent, because of the intense concentration of minerals in the volcanic soil high in the mountains.”
I nodded, not sure what to say.
“Would you like to try some mango or pineapple?” he asked, leaning a little too close, but he smelled good, a faint, intoxicating mix of sandalwood and something that was smoky and vaguely sweet, although not sugary.
Clearing my throat, I said, “Maybe later.”
He nodded and then asked, “Champagne?”
“Yes, please,” I said, hoping the Krug would calm my nerves. “Thank you.”
He opened the champagne; the cork popped and foam erupted from the opening, spilling down the side of the bottle. Icarus laughed as he grabbed a napkin. Nervous, I giggled and perched on the edge of the seat as the chauffeur poured bubbly into a flute and handed it to me.
He put the bottle back into the bucket and said, “Once again, welcome to St. Mateo. It is my pleasure to serve you so please let me know what I can do to make sure that you are satisfied.”
It was one of those trite, stock “customer service 101” phrases, but considering the reason for my trip to St. Mateo, the words pleasure and serve and satisfy were practically dripping with sexual innuendo.
The generous sip of champagne I’d just indulged in nearly came spewing out of my mouth, and I had to force myself to swallow, which, of course, sent a bit of bubbly into my nose, and it was an effort to cough delicately and not hack like I longed to do.
“You okay?”
Taking a deep breath, I managed to nod and said, “Just too much in my mouth at once.”
The slow lift of Icarus’s brow was seductive, curious, and mischievous. Mortified at how my words could be misinterpreted, I coughed again, a bit less ladylike.
“Would you like some water?”
“I’m fine,” I said, putting the flute on the wet bar.
“Okay, we’ll get going now,” he said. “Should take about an hour or so.”
After he got out and closed the door, I winced, embarrassed by my behavior. Why was I acting like some silly, giddy teenager? Why was I giggling and behaving like this was the first time I’d ever had champagne? Why was I nervous and jumpy, as skittish as a filly? Maybe because Icarus was a dreamboat. Dreamboat? I shook my head at my choice of description as the limo’s engine fired up and the wheels started to roll. Who the hell says dreamboat? Well, I didn’t actually say it out loud, I thought, settling back on the leather sofa. I’d thought of Icarus as a dreamboat, and since no one could read my thoughts, I didn’t care that it was a term from the 1950s.
Icarus was a dreamboat chauffeur.
He was tall and gorgeous, and he wanted to please me and make sure I was satisfied. But, no, not really, I reminded myself, reaching for the flute of champagne. The pleasure he wanted to provide me with had been bought and paid for; I couldn’t forget that.
This was all fantasy. Nothing was real.
About ten minutes later, the intercom came on, and Icarus spoke through the system, informing me that he would point out a few sights along the way.
“But, if you would rather just have a relaxing ride without the narration, that’s okay, too.”
“No, that’s fine,” I said, looking toward the closed partition separating us. “I’d like the narration, please.”
We headed away from the airport, down a wide avenue lined with palm trees, red hibiscus bushes and pink oleander trees, their leaves fluttering in the breeze.
Moments later, Icarus navigated the limo through the center of town, providing a bit of narration.
It was a thriving, bustling enclave of activity set amidst palm trees, plumeria, bird of paradise, oleander, and other flowering shrubs, all basking in the brilliant sunshine under a cloudless blue sky. Everywhere I looked, I saw a mix of St. Matean people and European tourists, going about their day, walking, talking, and shopping. We shared the narrow, paved road with taxies, cars, and small vans or jitneys.
The limo sailed along and we passed an open-air flea market where vendors sold everything from fresh fruit to hair extensions, hawking wares spread out on tables beneath blue tarps.
After some rather aggressive maneuvers through a busy traffic circle, we headed down a boulevard where there was a shopping plaza with various souvenir shops, a grocery store, and a few fast food restaurants.
We turned another corner, and Icarus pointed out the post office, the police station—a cute lavender building with a wide, wraparound veranda and tropical landscaping—the First Bank of St. Mateo, which had several branches throughout the Palmchat Islands, and several churches.
“We are all Catholic here,” Icarus said. “And on Sunday, we all go to church, and the whol
e city pretty much shuts down, we don’t work.”
Leaving the city, the island’s elevation increased, and I was able to look over the rainforest and down to the lovely white sand beaches, a small fishing village that fronted a bay where several boats bobbed in clear waters, and a banana plantation.
Silence ensued for about twenty minutes as the limo followed the winding road, ascending around the mountainous terrain. Icarus said, “In a moment, we’ll stop so you can take a few photos at Plantain Pass. It is one of St. Mateo’s most famous sites. Lots of tourists like to take a photo there because it is the only place where you can have our sister islands in the background of the picture.”
As he promised, moments later, the limo angled left, slowly veering off the main road and onto a large gravelly shoulder. He parked the limo close to a low guardrail behind a shuttle bus whose passengers had already disembarked and were excitedly posing, positioning themselves for the perfect photo, which would feature the four islands in the background.
The limo door opened, and as I was about to get out, Icarus grabbed my hand. “Watch your head,” he advised, and I was careful of the car’s roof as he helped me out.
The balmy breeze carried a hint of the salty ocean as it propelled me toward the guardrail. The shoulder was a precipice overlooking several stories of rainforest, clusters of trees with large, dark green leaves.
“I’m afraid it might be awhile before we get a chance to take your photo,” Icarus said, behind me, his deep voice close to my ear, the timbre brusque and yet tender, like a rough caress.
Nodding, I agreed. The shuttle passengers were hogging the scenery, crowded in clusters, jockeying for the best angles. “Maybe I could come back another time.”
“Or, maybe you could have your picture taken somewhere else,” he suggested. “A place that’s much more beautiful than Plantain Pass.”
Facing him, I had to step back to look up at him since he was so huge and imposing. And much too handsome. Entirely too sexy.
“There’s a place just across the road,” he said. “It’s behind that little shack.”
Hesitant, I turned and saw the shack, a small clapboard structure with peeling paint and boarded-up windows. Surrounded by a dense snarl of tropical trees, it seemed just about ready to collapse. Alarm bells went off within me, loud and blaring. Did he really think I was about to go behind that shack with him? He was handsome, absolutely. But not handsome enough to fool me into following him into the rainforest where he could do God only knew what to me.
“It looks a little dicey,” he said, as though sensing my wariness. “But trust me, the photo you’ll have will be worth it.”
Glancing at the shuttle passengers, I silently cursed them for being inconsiderate tourists. I wanted them to hurry up and take their damn photos and then pile back into the shuttle so I could have my picture taken, but I wasn’t holding my breath.
And Icarus was waiting for my acquiescence. I still wasn’t sure about the photo opportunity behind the dilapidated shack, but something about those whiskey-colored eyes intoxicated me, and like someone under the influence, I stopped thinking clearly and said, “Okay, let’s go.”
He took my hand, and after several cars passed and the road was clear in both directions, we ran across the road. My heart slammed as we walked closer to the shack. Yards away, it was in worse shape than I thought, and I was half-convinced that Icarus planned to drag me into it and murder me.
“You okay?”
Taking a deep breath, I said, “Um, yeah, I just …” I glanced back at the shuttle passengers, still striking poses and taking selfies. Would any of them even hear me if I screamed bloody murder?
“We don’t have to go if you don’t—”
“No, no,” I heard myself say, even though everything within me was telling me not to go because I wouldn’t return. My body would be found hacked to pieces. If it was found. And yet, some strange practical part of me rationalized that Icarus had to know he would be the prime suspect if anything happened to me. For one, the hotel had sent him to pick me up. And two, I was sure airport surveillance had us on camera. There was sure to be video of our brief conversation and of him getting into the limo with me.
“After you,” I said.
Smiling, Icarus took my hand again and led me around to the back of the shack, where we were greeted by a cluster of elephant trees. Pushing back the broad leaves, he guided me into the tropical forest. Beneath the wide, green leaves of more elephant trees, we took a natural path between bamboo and banana, shrouded by flowers, cool and dim. The path seemed to descend and slope downward for the next few moments, and Icarus tightened his grip on my hand, making sure I didn’t slip over any low-lying branches. Soon, we reached a clearing, and when I looked over my shoulder, all I could see was a tangle of trees and bushes. A wall of flora and fauna, impenetrable, I could never have found my way through if I needed to escape.
“You okay?” Icarus asked.
“Yeah, I just, um …” Scratching my eyebrow and my heart slamming, I said, “I just wondered … I mean, you do know how to get back to the car, right?”
“I know every inch of this island,” he said, stepping closer to me, his voice low and deep, the timbre brushing over my skin like the whispery breeze floating through the trees.
Swallowing my fear, I nodded and we continued on. As we angled through more trees, the breeze seemed to pick up, tempering the humidity, and I heard a sound I wasn’t really prepared for—waves crashing. Icarus pushed through another wall of huge, waxy elephant leaves. I hurried behind him, and moments later, I was walking on sugar-white sand.
It stretched before me, a shimmering white blanket that unfurled into the clear turquoise waters.
“So, here is the place I told you about,” Icarus said, arms outstretched, smiling. “What do you think?”
Looking around, I couldn’t help but be awed by the beauty. The beach was beyond gorgeous, a lovely ribbon of land dotted with towering palm trees. Practically deserted, it seemed unspoiled, as though it hadn’t been tread upon since the Carib Indians had inhabited the island centuries ago.
“It is beautiful,” I said, taking a few steps toward a palm tree, enjoying the breeze wafting from the ocean waves.
“And most people don’t know about it,” he said. “So it’s nice for taking photos. When you show the picture to someone else who has been to St. Mateo, they will ask you, where did you take that photo? And you will have an interesting story to tell them.”
Turning to him, I said, “I don’t want to take any pictures. Not of me, I mean.”
“You sure?” he asked. “This is a beautiful setting.”
“Yes, it is,” I said. “And I would like some pictures of the area, but I don’t want to be in the pictures.”
“You would look lovely in front of that palm tree.”
I stared up, slightly irritated, at Icarus. I was sure he said that to all the women he led through the rainforest to see the secret beach. Still, I felt my cheeks warm, and felt foolish because I was sure I was blushing. The hint of amusement in his luminous, bedroom eyes told me that he knew how his compliment had affected me.
“I’m sure,” I said, as politely as I could, considering I was still annoyed by the idea that I was just his latest co-star in a play he’d starred in countless times with countless other women. “Anyway, I’m so crazy. I think I left my camera in the limo.”
Icarus gave me a sympathetic smile and offered to snap a few pictures of the scenery on his smartphone, but I told him not to bother.
We headed back through the elephant leaves, and I followed him along the path, but something about it seemed different. “Are you sure we’re going the right way?”
“Actually,” he said, “I just need to make a quick stop.”
“A quick stop?” I asked, my pulse racing. “Where?” What I really wanted to ask was why he needed to make a quick stop? What did he need to do? Locate a machete to hack me to death?
“It
’s just this way,” he said, grabbing my hand, forcing me to follow him. “Won’t take too long to get there.”
“What do you have to do?” I asked, unable to pull my hand away or even dig in my heels to stop our progress, and as we hurried along, I looked over my shoulder and saw nothing but trees. Where was the beach? Which way was the path back to the limo? How the hell was I going to get away from him and—
“Here we are …”
“Huh? What?” I stammered, glancing up at him and then forward. Before us, several yards away, was a charming thatched-roof bungalow made of bamboo. “What is this place?”
“It’s the hotel’s spa,” Icarus explained, leading me to the door, flanked by hibiscus and oleander. “The spa is known for special body treatments which require ocean water and seaweed from the beach. My supervisor wanted me to make sure that the bungalow was secure. The spa specialist wasn’t sure if she’d locked the door.”
“Oh,” I said, my heart rate returning to normal.
At the door, Icarus released my hand, and I walked toward one of the hibiscus bushes, feeling a bit silly and overwrought for thinking he was trying to kill me.
“Damn …” Icarus muttered.
Turning to him, I asked, “What is it?”
“The door was still open,” he said. “I need to go in and make sure nothing has been stolen. You can stay out here or you can come in, whichever you prefer.”
Shrugging, I said, “I’ll come inside.”
Icarus went inside and I followed, stepping into a cool, dark room with bamboo walls and bamboo floors. A reception area, I guessed. From there, I headed down a short hallway and into a room which featured long panels of gauzy material hanging from the thatched ceiling, forming partitions, billowing like sails in the wind.
“Icarus …” I said, hesitant as I walked through the gauze, vaguely wondering where he’d gone. The bungalow intrigued me. I couldn’t imagine a spa treatment which required someone to travel through a gauzy gauntlet. Considering the nature of the Heliconia Hotel, though, I imagined that the trip through the whispery fabric was meant to be made with no clothes on with the gauze caressing intimate places.