Volcano

by Patricia Rice

  “I’m not a drug dealer,” she asserted. “I never saw that bag of white stuff before.”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s what they all say.” He ought to feel guilty for his little prank of asking Alonzo to plant that bag, but he didn’t. Raul was more important than the princess.

  “I thank you for your assistance,” she said stiffly, obviously offended by his rudeness. “I’m sure I could have straightened it out eventually on my own. I don’t wish to keep you from your duties any longer. I must insist the driver let you out wherever it’s convenient for you.”

  Charlie turned his head and glared at her in disbelief. Her wide round glasses framed unblinking brown eyes rimmed with thick black lashes. He would wonder what world she came from, but unfortunately, he knew. “Do you have any idea what the Vieux Fort jail looks like?” he asked.

  Charlie didn’t think she could turn any paler, but she did.

  “I’m sure it wouldn’t have come to that,” she replied as stiffly as before. “I’m an American citizen. They would have called the consulate or whoever is in charge of these matters. It probably wasn’t even drugs, just someone’s bath powder.”

  “They wouldn’t have bothered testing before they threw your sweet little tail in jail and forgot about you. They do things in their own time and their own way around here,” he said without repentance. “They haven’t had a magistrate in six months and cases are backed up the wazoo. The inmates are a bit miffed, if you catch my drift.”

  Charlie checked over the driver’s shoulder to be certain they headed the right way. Once out of Vieux Fort, nothing but the narrow rural road gave evidence of civilization. She might even be grateful for his company when they hit some of those hairpin turns.

  He’d appreciate a little gratitude about now, but his haughty companion obviously disdained his animal presence. Charlie shoved his mirrored glasses more firmly up on his nose and sank back in the seat.

  “Surely you needn’t accompany me any farther,” she protested, but her shoulders sagged in defeat as the town outside the window vanished from view behind a banana forest.

  Charlie smugly suspected she’d just realized the village they left behind was the only civilization around. That ought to scare the hell out of Miss Rich Bitch. His animosity toward her surprised him. Generally, he was a Good-Time Charlie around women.

  “I’m going to Soufriere. Anse Chastenet is just down the road. This suits me fine.” He tried to stretch his long legs out. The position brought his hip closer to hers. He grimaced as she scrunched against the window. Maybe if he tried charming her just a little bit... Hell, he’d never charmed a woman in his life. They took one look at his bulk and either crawled all over him or ran for their lives. This woman was the running kind.

  Maybe she responded to reason. Charlie didn’t think it very likely, not the way she inched away from him as if she suspected he would pull out a machete and take off her scalp. A guy would think she’d never seen a man before. So maybe he didn’t wear a slick Italian suit or those yuppie camp shorts or whatever she considered socially acceptable. That didn’t make him a killer or a rapist. Lots of women liked his size. Lots.

  Forget reasoning. He couldn’t take a chance on telling her about Raul. He didn’t know anything for certain except that he knew damned well Raul wouldn’t abscond with his money. He and Raul had grown up together, protecting each other’s backs. He’d trust Raul with his life, just as Raul must be trusting Charlie with his right now.

  “I suppose offering a ride is the least I can do in exchange for your help,” she said tentatively, turning toward him with fear still etching the corners of her eyes behind those awful glasses.

  That was more like it. Crossing his arms, he regarded her with no small degree of interest. After all, they’d be spending considerable time together, although she didn’t realize that yet. “My name’s Charlie Smith. What’s yours?”

  That brought a wry look from beneath sooty lashes. “Smith? Why not just call yourself Brown and make a joke of it?”

  He scowled. “Because the name is Smith. I come from a long line of plain ordinary Smiths. I take it you don’t follow football?”

  She still seemed tense, and she answered cautiously, “No, I don’t. Should I recognize the name?”

  “Probably not,” he admitted, shrugging. “Not unless you follow college ball. I pulled a kneecap my senior year and never went on to the pros. I could have though,” he added defensively. It was a bit of a sore point with him. He’d been one of the top contenders for the NFL draft. His life could have been filled with wine, women, and song. What made it worse was that he hadn’t even ruined the knee playing ball. He’d done it falling off a damned roof. He glared at her. “Your turn.”

  Briefly, amusement curved her naturally red lips and banished the wary look from her eyes. “Penelope Albright; no comments, please. I’m bright, but I’m not a Penny.”

  “Yeah, I doubt you come that cheap,” he offered pragmatically. He didn’t spend much time around women wearing designer suits and real gold, but he recognized them when he saw them. “So, what are you doing in St. Lucia, Penelope? Laptops and briefcases aren’t the normal tourist attire.”

  “I’m a management specialist in computer software design. I’m here on business. And you? You seem fluent in the native tongue.”

  She spoke stiffly, but Charlie noted that her hand no longer clutched as tightly at the weapon in her pocket. Maybe he’d found the key to getting where he wanted. Women always loved to talk.

  “I spent some time here in my misspent youth,” he admitted. “I’m here on business too. I can’t imagine anyone in Soufriere possessing a computer though. The electricity is erratic at best. Whose software are you designing?”

  She returned to regarding him warily. “I respect client confidentiality. Is Soufriere very small, then?”

  Well, that didn’t get him any answers. Charlie shrugged. “It’s a fishing village aspiring to be a tourist mecca. They sell arts and crafts to the few souls brave enough to wander that far. The tourists come for sun and water, and everything they want is at the resorts. Why risk getting ripped off by fast-talking hustlers outside their sheltered world?”

  Little Miss Albright grimaced. “There are streets in Miami I can’t walk down without fear of being hustled. I like nice, private little shops with prices clearly marked. I never learned to haggle.”

  He’d figured that. His mother had always turned up her nose at the village market. This conversation was getting him nowhere. Pointing out the window, he changed the subject. “There’s a cocoa tree. Have you ever seen one?”

  The driver obligingly slowed so they could observe the green pods. In accented English, he pointed out the banana plantation farther up the hill, and the mango trees along the road’s edge.

  The farther they drove, the more Penelope succumbed to the grandeur of the view, forgetting her fear. She admired the lush vegetation of the roadside and strained to determine one variety of tree from another. The natural spill of palm trees and bougainvillea down the mountainside captured her appreciation. It was as if she’d entered another world, a tropical jungle where none of the usual human hazards existed. The only people she saw were young children scrabbling in the dust along the roadside, and an occasional elderly man or woman watching the world go by from their front stoop. Mostly, the road wound through acres of vegetation, offering glimpses of the sea far below.

  Even the man beside her no longer seemed quite as ominous. She could handle old college football players. They were a breed she knew well. If he’d planned to hurt her, he would have tried by now. She’d still like to smack those mirrored sunglasses off his handsome nose. She hated the way the glasses hid his eyes—and his thoughts.

  “I’m surprised the area isn’t more developed,” she commented. The bag of white stuff nagged at the back of her mind, but she strove for calm. “I thought all these Caribbean islands were wall-to-wall tourist havens.”

  “Competition is tough
, and St. Lucia doesn’t have the services other islands have developed. They’re working on it. Castries, of course, is just what you’ve imagined. That’s where most of the tourists go, because that’s where the hotels are.” He shrugged. “On the other side of the island where we’re headed, the water and electric systems are unpredictable. Sewers, nonexistent. They’ve experimented with using the volcano’s natural heat for generating energy, but the government takes the cheapest bids, and the companies they hire don’t have the experience necessary for the task. Like everything, money is the key. Myself, I’d hate seeing this end of the island turned into a Miami parking lot. I prefer it as it is.”

  Penelope nodded at a shack on stilts with chickens pecking in the shade beneath the porch. “You prefer seeing people grubbing for a living with no hope of making anything of themselves?”

  Taking a deep breath, she finally released her grip on the pepper spray. He hadn’t attacked her in any way, and it seemed a trifle irrational to fear a man who talked intelligently of the island economy. On the other hand, he’d been at the right place at the right time when that powder appeared in her suitcase, and dammit, he looked like a drug smuggler. Maybe he’d been waiting for that shipment.

  She shifted away from him as Charlie rested his arm on the seat back to lean over and point out the window again.

  “Do you really think civilization is worth trading in that view?” he demanded. “Fish are plentiful. Fruit hangs on trees in the front yard. Vegetables grow like weeds. What more can a man ask?”

  “Maybe that’s enough for a man,” she answered scornfully, pointing at a line of colorful clothes drying in the sun, “but what about for a woman? They’re still scrubbing clothes by hand. Are there hospitals where they can have their babies? Can their children get an education? What if a person likes reading and math better than fishing and weeding gardens? What opportunities does that person have? Civilization isn’t all bad.”

  His muscled arm behind her increased her nervousness, but Penelope refused to acknowledge it. Some people just didn’t understand the need for personal space. A smaller man might not have made her so uneasy, but his build was a trifle overpowering. Zack had been a boy when she dated him. Charlie Smith was definitely a full-grown, very possibly dangerous male.

  Her unwelcome companion sat back. “Civilization isn’t all bad, but people don’t know where to draw the line. Schools and utilities are needed. Miles of hotels and parking lots are not. Anse Chastenet has the right idea. They’ve developed a nearly inaccessible area using architecture that blends in with the landscape and a minimum of cement. They’ve taken care not to harm the environment and to preserve the natural beauty of the area. It’s primitive, perhaps, but it has everything a person should need.”

  Penelope couldn’t believe he was giving this lecture, but she listened as he continued relentlessly.

  “Golf courses and cutesy boutiques can be found anywhere in the world. Why ruin the natural beauty of the island, something that can be found in fewer and fewer places, for something that can be had everywhere else you go?”

  “I’m not arguing.” Penelope held up her hands in surrender. Not having seen Anse Chastenet, she could scarcely argue the point. She couldn’t believe she was actually discussing social economics with a man who had practically kidnapped and blackmailed her. He was too large, too masculine, too damned self-assured. He crowded her space, usurped her control, and now he sat here conversing on vital issues as if they’d known each other all their lives. In her experience, men didn’t do that. Not with her, anyway.

  She didn’t think the combination of raw male sexuality and stimulating discussion healthy for her state of mind, yet talk was better than glaring silences that left her with nothing to do but worry. “I like my creature comforts. And I suspect ninety-nine percent of the people with the wealth to travel here want the same. Doesn’t the island have any other economy besides tourism? I should think it would be simpler to preserve the island’s natural state if they could keep tourists out.”

  “Farming is the only other economy, and it doesn’t support them. If you’ve ever lived on a farm, you know the uncertainty of weather and markets. St. Lucia will have to develop industries to supplement the tourist trade, but industries rely on transportation and utilities, and they’re just not available yet.”

  Turning to stare at him, Penelope caught her own reflection in his mirrored sunglasses—a reminder of just how little she knew about this man.

  Feeling anxious and awkward all over again, she forced her attention back to the incredible vistas of sea on one side and mountains in the distance. She had never seen such magnificent scenery, and rather than argue with her accidental escort, she admired the explosion of flowers along the hillside, hoping they might distract her.

  But in the unair-conditioned van, Charlie Smith’s expensive fragrance combined with his healthy male musk into a heady odor she couldn’t ignore. “It’s like driving through a natural conservatory,” she said, controlling her nervousness with speech. Clasping her hands, she nodded at the window. “Look at the philodendron climbing that tree. And that looks like an anthurium growing in front of that house. And bromeliads growing wild. I can’t even grow those things in my apartment.”

  “Well, they’d have to build climate-controlled buildings here to grow apple trees and lilacs,” he said dryly. “This is a tropical climate, after all. I never saw the point of houseplants anyway.”

  “Men don’t generally see the point of picking up dirty clothes until they need something to wear either,” she replied, irritation prevailing over fear. “It’s the difference between the species.” Ignoring the big brute, Penelope focused on enjoying her first Caribbean experience.

  Except that experience included a bag of white powder, police, and a glaringly male jock in a red muscle shirt and mustache. The incident in the airport had thoroughly shaken her. If she failed at this assignment, she could lose everything she’d worked so hard to gain these last years. And she would fail Beth.

  Beth, the obedient twin. Blind Beth. Penelope uttered a mental groan and closed her eyes tighter against the image of her beautiful, kindhearted sister wearing scars and dark glasses. The accident hadn’t just destroyed Beth’s eyes, it had destroyed her marriage, her home, everything. John hadn’t been able to cope with the disaster. He’d taken the kids and left, not even thinking of how that would affect Beth. He’d called it making things easier for her, and the court had agreed—a blind unemployed mother could scarcely take care of herself, and certainly not two rambunctious preschoolers. John had robbed Beth of what few expectations she’d had left.

  Despite her twin’s brave efforts to build a new life, she was wasting away before Penelope’s eyes. The new doctor with his experimental procedures had returned hope. Penelope knew her twin thought if she could see even partially again, get rid of the mind-bending pain, she could have her old life back. It wasn’t a reasonable hope, but Penelope couldn’t deny it to her. She just needed to provide money for the operation, and this job would do it. John certainly couldn’t.

  In any case, her sister’s ex had finished the job that Zack and her father had begun of lowering Penelope’s expectations of men.

  Remembering her promises, she set her chin firmly. She would make partner and double her income. Maybe she couldn’t save the world, but she could save her twin. She would have traveled to darkest Africa if that was what it took to get that money. She could certainly endure the man beside her for a little longer.

  “I don’t think different species can procreate,” her companion said thoughtfully in response to her earlier remark. “I don’t think a difference in priorities creates different species.”

  Penelope regarded him with hostility. “You’d argue over anything, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied cheerfully. “Especially when it makes your eyes get all glittery like that. I like the touch of color in your cheeks too. We’ll get along just fine.”

&nb
sp; “We’re not going to get along at all. You’ll get out at Soufriere and we’ll never see each other again. I appreciate your help back at the airport, but I don’t owe you any more than that.”

  He tugged at his thick mustache as he looked down at her. “You don’t really think those soldiers let you go scot-free, do you? They think you smuggled drugs. Just because I bribed old Alonzo doesn’t mean they’ll forget the whole incident. They’ve probably already called ahead. What do you think will happen if you let me off in town and waltz off on your own to an unprotected port where anyone could drop off drugs?”

  Penelope stared at him in horror, all the reassuring platitudes she’d whispered to herself crumbling into dust, whipped by gusts of panic. “You should have let me go to the American consulate. They would have fixed things.”

  “There’s no consulate in Vieux Fort or Soufriere. You’re on your own out here. There’s scarcely even any Americans out here. Anse Chastenet is a European hangout. Face it, lady, you’re stuck with me.”

  “I most certainly am not!” she replied in horrified tones, struggling for control of her emotions as well as the situation. “I have business to conduct here. I can’t have a two-hundred- pound gorilla trailing behind me. Who in heck do you think you are?”

  “Two-twenty, actually,” he replied with more cheer than she thought warranted. “I have business here too, but we’re both better off if we pretend we’re married. We can be Mr. and Mrs. Smith-Albright, if you prefer. Or we can stay with your name. I’d prefer not using my own.”

  His suggestion was too absurd to take seriously. Penelope twisted until her back rested against the window, restoring the distance between them. “You’re obviously known here. Why bother with the charade?” she asked coldly.