Penelope lined the sofa bolsters down the middle of the bed, switched off the light, and slipped beneath the mosquito netting. He’d taken the key with him. He would be back.
The sea had submerged the moon by the time Charlie traipsed back up the hill to the cottage. He’d had a hell of a time explaining to Henwood why he’d left his bride alone on their first romantic evening in the Caribbean. Mixing margaritas and beers hadn’t been a smart idea, but it had distracted the man for a while.
And he’d secured the jeep. Fingering the keys in his pocket, Charlie slipped into the cottage as quietly as the obdurate lock would allow. He’d like to drive into the interior now, find Raul, and get home quickly. But driving island roads at night was the act of an insane man, particularly after ten years away. The forest would have reclaimed the roads he knew, and even the new ones tended to halt abruptly, buried under rock slides. Besides, he needed sleep.
His “bride” had curled up around her pillow in a waterfall of silken black hair and rose pajamas, resembling some exotic flower in the dim light. If he could just think of her in terms of objects, he could survive the night.
Eyeing the bolsters and the narrow space remaining on the bed with disfavor, Charlie jerked off his shirt and sat down to remove his shoes.
Penelope whimpered and stirred restlessly in her sleep.
Oh, hell, he’d be better off sleeping on the porch.
The problem was, despite all the grief they gave him, he really liked women. He even enjoyed finding feminine dainties strewn across his room. He didn’t much enjoy their blather over coffee in the morning or their possessive instincts when they thought they had their claws in him, but up until that point, he really enjoyed himself.
Maybe that’s why he’d chosen this hard-as-nails, no- nonsense tailored robot to appropriate. But then she had to go and put on pink silk pajamas. Damn, his hands itched to touch.
He dropped his shoes on the floor and unsnapped his pants. Glancing at the woman sleeping in the bed, he resisted pulling his trousers off. He’d be as uncomfortable as hell, but he didn’t relish the scene she’d create otherwise. He didn’t own any pajamas.
***
Intoxicating warmth enveloped her. Penelope buried her nose in her pillow. The alarm hadn’t gone off. She could sleep a minute longer.
Sunlight flickered on her eyelids, but she ignored it. She loved the sound of waves lapping on the shore. Tropical warmth caressed her. She could conquer whole new worlds like this.
A masculine snort near her ear shattered the illusion.
Springing awake, Penelope discovered she was snagged in the trap of a muscular arm. A very naked, very broad chest pressed against her back. She wouldn’t think about what her bottom curved against. The snore in her ear was sufficient distraction.
She jerked her elbow backward. “Let go of me!” she hissed as she connected with a taut midriff instead of soft belly.
“Oomph.”
She tensed as a wide hand flattened against her stomach, hesitated, then drifted ever so slightly upward. She elbowed him again.
“Arghh,” he groaned sleepily.
He rolled over, releasing her. She jumped from the bed and immediately tangled with the mosquito netting. Ignoring his snicker, she swatted at the netting until she had it over her head. Damned man, he had no right....
She slammed into the bathroom. When she emerged half an hour later, wearing her linen pantsuit, he was gone.
***
“Smith and Son,” Sherry chirped into the phone as she examined a nail she’d broken in the filing cabinet. “Mr. Smith isn’t in. May I take a message?” she answered automatically.
Charlie was never in, even when he was here. He didn’t like being interrupted during his few hours in the office. In the year since she’d had the job, she’d become quite expert at knowing which callers she could handle on her own, which messages to jot down on pink memo slips for Charlie to follow up, and which calls to divert directly to her boss, whether he liked it or not. She was rather proud of her accomplishment. It hadn’t helped her much these last two days.
“It’s urgent. I must speak with him this moment. Can you not put me through to his cellular?”
The lilting Caribbean accent alerted her. Dropping the file, she grabbed a pencil. “Mr. Smith is unavailable. Is that you, Raul?” The man with the subpoena hadn’t returned yet this morning, but Sherry still spoke furtively, afraid the walls might have ears.
“Tell him not to come to St. Lucia. Do you understand? Don’ come to St. Lucia.”
Horrified, Sherry tried to untangle her thoughts and her tongue and keep the construction foreman on the line. The phone went dead before she could stutter out a single word.
Shaken by the ominous tone of his warning, Sherry stared at the buttons on her phone. Who did she call now? Old Mr. Smith was dead. Charlie was incommunicado. The company’s best foreman had disappeared into the jungle and just called from out of nowhere. What should she do now?
Biting her bottom lip, she picked up her nail file and thought about it.
SEVEN
Anticipating the tropical treat of fresh juice on the veranda in the warmth of a Caribbean February sun, Penelope ignored the niggling concern over Charlie’s whereabouts. If she had any luck at all, he’d stolen a jeep and disappeared from her life forever. She could immerse herself in the world of accounting software she knew so well and not be disturbed by unruly thoughts of imposing men and life passing her by. It would have been nice if she’d been sent to a singles’ resort where she might at least have dallied with some interesting young engineer or lawyer.
That wistful thought shocked her sufficiently to force her to look around for other objects to concentrate on.
Following the waitress to a table overlooking the beach below, Penelope noted a small crowd forming in the cove where they’d left the boat. She wouldn’t think a fishing boat was worthy of that much interest, even on a private beach.
Watching the crowd from the safety of the high veranda occupied her thoughts as she waited for someone to return with a menu. Two of the black men gesticulating vehemently on the beach wore the white shorts and shirts of resort employees. Several others wore cutoffs and T-shirts. She couldn’t precisely place them as staff, but the resort had a variety of maintenance employees and occasionally allowed local artisans to set up booths on the beach.
She watched as Mr. Henwood hurried across the sand to join them, accompanied by a man in what appeared to be a khaki uniform. Police?
Liquid panic shot through her veins, fed by memories of yesterday at the airport.
The men below were looking at the boat, not knocking on her door, she reminded herself as she calmly accepted the menu and pretended to peruse it. But Charlie’s warnings about catastrophic prison conditions on the island played a horror film through her mind.
Maybe the uniform was for security employees.
That thought evaporated with the arrival of a motorboat bearing an official-looking insignia and occupied by uniformed men. It might not be Miami Vice, but from this distance, the boat gave a good imitation.
Penelope clenched her fingers around her juice glass and tried not to panic. It was just a fishing boat, for heaven’s sake. If Charlie had taken the wrong boat, he could pay the owner rent for its use, if that was the problem. Where was Charlie? He could explain.
Charlie. Horror washed over her as she stared down at the vignette playing before her eyes. Had something happened to Charlie?
And where the hell had that concern come from?
She suffered a moment’s unreasonable dismay before the object of her fear sauntered from behind the beach umbrella stand at some signal from Mr. Henwood. She would recognize her roommate’s hulking shoulders in that red muscle shirt anywhere. The damned man dressed like a pig. He probably rode a Harley. No, she mentally corrected herself. Good ol’ boys like Charlie Smith drove battered red pickup trucks with “No Fear” stickers in the window.
Her
horror and fear turned to disgust. A man like that would poke his nose in where it didn’t belong, like a gawking voyeur at an accident scene. Rude, crude, and uncouth.
As if he’d heard her thoughts, Charlie glanced up the hill in her direction. Penelope imagined him straining to see her, and she had the foolish urge to duck from sight. He couldn’t possibly pick her out from the other diners.
To her dismay, she saw him speak intensely with Henwood and the policeman, pound the slightly built manager on the back—probably enough to make him wince—and saunter off in the direction of the beach stairs. And her.
She would not panic. She had no reason to panic. She would sit here and eat a civilized breakfast like any rational person on a lovely day like this. Then she would introduce herself to the office staff and go to work. Perfectly logical, sane, and safe.
Until the disruptive force with the improbable name of Charlie Smith swept onto the veranda.
Heads swiveled as he muscled his way past tables of decently dressed couples. Waitresses in their triple-knotted head scarves stopped and gawked as he winked in their direction. He swiped a glass of juice as he passed the juice bar, sprawled in the chair across from her, threw back the juice, glanced around, and, discovering a coffeepot, got up and helped himself. On a second thought, he carried the pot to the table and poured Penelope some.
“Act calm,” he ordered as he poured. “Drink your coffee while I talk.” He returned to his chair, swigged from his cup, and grimaced. He hadn’t shaved, and the stubble of the beard darkened his angular jaw in a manner Penelope wanted to label “criminal,” but her libido yelled “sexy!”
For a moment, Penelope had the dizzying sensation that Charlie’s bronzed shoulders and piercing blue eyes had obliterated her surroundings. Shaking her head, she forced her gaze away from the mountain of masculinity across from her. She had to get out of here.
Charlie caught her hand and pressed it to the table as she started to rise.
“No. Listen. There’s a body in the boat we brought in last night.”
Oh, God, this couldn’t be happening. Penelope sank back into her seat and stared at him, willing herself not to believe.
Tension tightened the muscles of his unshaven jaw. The blue of his eyes had frosted into ice. He exuded fury. Not fear. Fury. He held her pinned with his glare.
“An old man, a harmless one. He played in the streets for coins. But Michel knew everyone, heard everything. He helped me out more than once when I was a kid. Jacques looked out for him when he could. Now Jacques has disappeared and Michel is dead. I’ve got to find Raul and get out of here before something else happens.”
Penelope wanted to ask him who Raul was but she had a sneaking suspicion it was the man whose life was purportedly in danger, the one she didn’t want to hear about. The rest of Charlie’s words alarmed her enough: an old man who had helped him out. Penelope let the words wash over her, tried not to let them sink in. But instinct, intuition, some sixth sense she hadn’t known she possessed screamed warnings. “An old man?” she questioned. “Tall, skinny? Carved bowls?”
Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “You saw him? When?”
“He warned me about the muggers last night. He led me to you. Do you think...?”
“Hell, yes.” Looking suddenly pale beneath his tan, Charlie gulped the rest of his coffee, and glanced down at the beach where the police had laid the body on the sand. “Grab the bread. We’re getting out of here.” He shoved several rolls into a napkin and stood up.
“What do you mean, we?” She wasn’t certain whether to be scared or furious. That gentle old man hadn’t deserved to die. He’d done nothing. How had he gotten into the fishing boat?
Charlie caught her arm, dragged her to her feet, and handed her the remaining baguette from the basket. “I told Henwood last night I had only a few days on the island, and offered to pay your expenses. I told you they’re a romantic lot here. He waived the fee and offered you the day off, especially after I gave him some information about a couple of new engineers who could help him with the perennial wastewater problem.”
He tugged her through the rapidly filling restaurant. Embarrassed by the scene he was creating, Penelope hurried to keep up with him.
“What do you need me for?” she hissed as they reached the path outside.
“Protective coloration. A white man driving alone out here is automatically suspicious. One wearing a baseball hat and squiring a female is a tourist. It would help if I was sunburned, but otherwise, I can play lost tourist real well.”
“I can’t!” she protested as she ran to keep up with him. She’d thought herself in good shape, but she was already panting in the uphill race. Maybe it was the altitude. “I have a job and a family to get back to.”
He swiveled and glared back at her. “You’re married?”
“No!” She should have said yes. Damn, that was stupid. But he unnerved her so thoroughly, she couldn’t think. “My sister is blind. She can get around pretty well, but she’s not used to being left alone for long.”
He returned to his race up the hillside. “This should only take a day or so. One of my employees is missing and I have to find him before whoever murdered Michel does. The island is only nineteen miles across. There are only so many places he can hide.”
Remembering the mountainous trip here, Penelope wondered if that was nineteen miles up and down or as the crow flies. She suspected she didn’t want to know.
“Look, I don’t see any reason why I should accompany you. You’ll travel faster without me. Just go your own way, and I won’t tell anyone about you.” She swore as her heeled sandals caught on a rock and twisted. They were almost at the cottage, thank heavens. She could scarcely catch her breath.
Charlie snorted. “The dust wouldn’t have settled behind me before you’d be telling the cops how I blackmailed and kidnapped you. They’d have search parties after me all over the damned island. Forget it. We’re going together.” He caught her hand as she halted, pulling her up the porch stairs. “Pack an overnight bag. Include insect spray and soap. And for Pete’s sake, change into jeans and tennis shoes. This isn’t a cruise ship.”
Penelope stared at him in horror as he threw her suitcase on the bed and began heaving clothing and toiletries into his backpack.
When she didn’t move, Charlie propped his wide hands on his hips and stepped in front of her. Her breath shortened even more at his imposing proximity.
“They murdered Michel,” he reminded her. When she still didn’t respond, his mouth tightened in impatience. “They saw us together. They dumped Michel in that boat, on that beach, for a reason. They’re telling us they know where we’re staying, and warning us to back off.” He glared at her blank look of incomprehension. “They’re not just after me now. They’re after both of us.”
Penelope’s knees nearly crumpled. “They’re after me? What have I done?”
“Kept me from getting killed.” Abruptly, he swung around and returned to packing.
This couldn’t be happening. In blind terror, Penelope stumbled to the closet and reached for her khakis. She didn’t own jeans.
She would lose her job. Beth wouldn’t have her operation.
She could be killed out there.
***
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Penelope muttered as the pink jeep with its candy-striped awning bumped down a dirt road that looked as if it might fall off the side of the mountain at any given moment. The view was phenomenal, if she didn’t think about falling into it. The lush fronds of banana trees vied with the frothy foam of fern trees and the brilliant scarlet of poinciana to pave a path of greenery straight down to the vivid blue of the sea below. If she had been watching it on TV, she would have been overwhelmed by the beauty. Instead, she clung to the seat and prayed.
She’d stripped off the loose linen shirt she’d worn to protect her skin from the blazing sun. The jungle provided shade and enough humidity that even her square-necked T-shirt clung to her
back. If the maniac in the driver’s seat would only stop to allow a quick dip in a mountain stream or just a moment of peace where she could enjoy a breeze, she might relax. As it was, her perspiration was as much from fear as from heat.
Maybe she should tell him she was the world’s biggest coward, that she was more hindrance than help, that he should just put her on a plane back to civilization.
He wouldn’t listen.
The jeep finally rumbled to a halt in front of a crude cabin propped on stilts. Had it not been surrounded by towering cocoa trees and the thick leaves of a local vegetable vine, the cabin would have resembled some of the worst housing in Miami’s slums. But amid the luxurious vegetation, it merely appeared quaint.
“We’re blamed lucky nobody out here carries shotguns,” Charlie muttered as he unfolded his big frame from the small seat and stepped out. “I’d shoot anything looking like this if I were them.”
Since he’d been complaining about the pink jeep since they’d climbed into it, Penelope didn’t question his grumbling. Charlie Smith made a surly companion when his mind was focused on something. She’d given up asking him anything after the first few minutes in his company.
A goat ambled from beneath the house but no other sign of life appeared. She would have liked to ask if Charlie was lost and looking for directions or if this had been their destination all along, but she merely stayed seated and enjoyed the respite from their breakneck pace. Her companion looked slightly miffed that she didn’t respond, but he shrugged his massive shoulders and sauntered toward the cottage. Maybe if she gave him the silent treatment long enough, he’d put her out at the airport.
As he approached the cottage, a large mocha-colored woman filled the doorway, her flowered cotton dress swirling around her legs, barely missing a rooster that darted from behind her. “Charlie?” she called, in a voice entirely too high for a woman her size. “Charlie!” she squealed as her visitor ran up the path.
“Monica! You haven’t changed a bit.”
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