by Diana Palmer
He wasn’t sure he liked it.
Six
Emma loved the feel of the hot, sugar-white sand under her bare feet. The water crept in from the bay, swirling around her feet as she walked along the beach. There were plenty of people, but Connor had stayed in the villa while he dealt with a crisis at one of the companies that manufactured his aircraft.
It was lonely without him. She listened to the gulls calling as they flew overhead and laughed as they dived and soared. She closed her eyes and listened to the rhythm of the surf rolling in from the bay. Nearby, tall casuarina pines swayed gracefully in the breeze that seemed constant and eternal on the beach.
Connor owned a huge villa on the bay. It was a symphony of white and royal blue, with graceful arches and stone patios and floors. All around it, blooming flowers loosened a scent more delicate than the finest perfume.
Emma hadn’t put on the swimsuit Connor bought her. They’d only just arrived, and she wanted to settle in before she tried swimming in the salt water. She could swim, just barely, but she couldn’t float. She sank like a rock. Not that she’d been swimming that much since she was a little girl.
The Bahamas had to be close to paradise, she thought as she walked. She’d never been anywhere like this. She’d dreamed of seeing foreign places, but this surpassed her imagining. Pirates had walked here in centuries past. Travelers from all over the world came to Nassau to vacation. It was incredibly beautiful.
Connor had promised to take her on a tour tomorrow, to see the forts and downtown Nassau. They might, he teased, even take in the casino on Paradise Island, across the bridge from Nassau. She could try her luck with the one-armed bandits.
She’d buried her nose in a travel brochure while Marie unpacked for him. He was on the phone again. He’d been yelling at someone when she dived out the door to go for a stroll. He was the man in charge, and the aircraft corporation, from what she’d gathered during her tenure as his secretary, was enormous and worldwide. Something was always going wrong, and many times he couldn’t delegate when problems arose. There were decisions that only he could make.
“Emma!” he called, breaking into her thoughts.
“I’m right here.” She ran up to the porch, where he was standing, waiting, in the shade of the eaves. He was wearing white shorts with a red-and-white button-down shirt, open down the front. She’d never seen him quite that undressed and she couldn’t help eating him up with her eyes. He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, perfect physically, powerful and sensuous. She had to clench her teeth not to reach out and touch that broad, muscular tanned chest with its pelt of black, curling hair.
“What are you doing?” he asked. “Gone in swimming already?”
“I don’t swim that well,” she confessed. “I’ve just been walking along the beach, drinking in the sounds and smells. It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen!”
He laughed softly at her enthusiasm. “I’m glad you like it. My grandfather built this estate. I like France better, but this is close to the States when I want to get away for a few days.”
“Why do you like France best?” she asked, curious.
“My grandmother was French,” he said simply. “I was raised by my grandparents. My mother died when I was four or five. My father was too occupied with making money to care what happened to his two sons. William and I were dumped on our grandparents. They lived on the Riviera. Old money.” He chuckled. “They had ancestors who were beheaded in the French Revolution.”
“My goodness!”
“We all have skeletons in our ancestry,” he teased.
“Well, we had a horse thief who was hanged, back in the 1800s,” she confessed.
“See?”
She laughed. “Do you want to come walk on the beach?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I’m overseeing some changes in the design staff at our northern Atlanta facility,” he said darkly. “I gave orders that weren’t followed, so heads are going to roll.”
“I guess you have a lot of employees.”
“Too many, sometimes. Don’t stay out in the sun too long. It can be deadly.”
“I won’t. I’m just exploring.”
He managed a smile for her. “Okay. I’ll have some letters to dictate in about an hour. You’re free until then.”
“I’ll be back in time,” she promised.
* * *
It was lonely when he left. Odd, how his very presence seemed to color her world, she thought as she dragged her bare feet through the sugary sand. He wasn’t the man she’d thought he was when she first met him. He was surprisingly personable and kind, for a millionaire.
She picked up a few shells and carried them inside when Marie announced that lunch was on the table.
There was conch soup and a mango salad with chicken and macaroni, followed by lime custard pie.
“This is wonderful!” Emma exclaimed as she tasted each dish.
Marie laughed. “Thanks. Mr. Sinclair had a chef from one of the local restaurants come and teach me how to make all the island dishes. He was very good.”
“I like local fare when I travel,” Connor said easily. He finished his coffee and stretched, rippling muscles in his broad chest. “Okay, Emma, let’s get some work done if you’re through.”
“I am,” she said, finishing up her last bite of pie. “Thanks, Marie!”
“You’re most welcome.”
Connor paused. “It really was good, Marie,” he added.
The cook arched both eyebrows. She’d worked for him for years. That was the first time he’d really complimented her on a meal. “Thank you,” she said.
Connor turned and made his way to the big study, where an oak desk and several bookcases and leather chairs made up the furnishings. There were wooden blinds at the windows that fronted on the bay, and beige carpet on the floor. There was also a huge wooden ceiling fan with lights, and it was turning lazily, moving the air around.
“This is grand,” Emma murmured as she took in the furnishings.
He chuckled. “I always liked it. Barnes said he put the laptop on the desk.”
“Yes, he did.” She pulled it around in front of her and sat down in one of the roomy leather chairs that surrounded the six-foot desk.
Connor felt his way around the desk and into the enormous chair behind it. He sat down gingerly and let out a breath. “Well, that’s something, I guess,” he mused.
“What is?”
“I left standing orders that not a stick of furniture was supposed to be moved before I got here. The cleaning crew was briefed.” His face hardened. “I’m still learning my way around places I used to be able to see.”
She bit her lip. “Isn’t there some chance that your sight could return?” she asked.
He leaned back in the chair. “One of my doctors is a famous neurosurgeon, another is a famous neurologist. They did every test known to man and I passed them with flying colors.”
“Then there’s no physical damage?” she asked hesitantly.
“Of course there’s not! That’s why I’m blind!” He hit the desk with his fist, his mood gone sour in an instant. “Tests, damned tests, and the damned tests didn’t show anything! If I’m all right, why can’t I see?” He groaned and drew a hand over his face. “Oh, God, why can’t I see?”
“You don’t remember...anything?” she persisted.
“No.” He flexed his shoulders and sat up straight. “I remember pain. They said my head was bleeding. There was a mild concussion, but nothing serious enough to cost me my sight. I was alone on the lake. There were other boats, but they were far off. If one had hit me, surely it would have totaled the Jet Ski,” he added irritably.
“It wasn’t hit?” she fished.
“Well, yes, it was,” he said after a
minute. “I’d forgotten that. There was a dent in the side. So maybe something did hit me.” He frowned. “There was an incident. I think I was angry at someone, for speeding on the lake.” He ground his teeth together even as Emma cringed inwardly. He scowled. “Damn it, I can’t remember!”
She was almost holding her breath by now. She wished she hadn’t brought up the subject. But she needed to know if there was hope, if she might someday find absolution if his eyesight returned. “What did they think it was?’ she asked.
He clenched his fists together on the desk. “Oh, this is good,” he said, his smile a study in sarcasm. “They say it’s hysterical blindness.”
Her heart jumped. “But you’re the least hysterical person I’ve ever known,” she blurted out.
That brought a faint smile to his face. “Thank you.”
“It’s some long scientific name, isn’t it, like short-term amnesia or something,” she guessed.
“They said that if I saw something coming toward me and expected to be blinded, that my senses might trick me into believing that I was. But it’s been weeks, Emma,” he added. “If I were going to see again, I’d be able to by now. No, I think there’s something else, something they missed.” He clasped his big hands together. “Maybe they’ll find it eventually. I have to hope so. I can’t bear the thought of living in this darkness for the rest of my life.”
Her heart sank. What he said made sense. If it was psychosomatic, it probably wouldn’t have lasted this long.
“We won’t solve the problem today, at any rate, so let’s get to work. Read me the message from Cybernetic Systems. They produce the computers we use in our executive jet, the one we’re having problems with.”
She obliged him, her voice soft and quiet in the stillness of the office. But when she finished, she had no idea what the message meant. “It’s Greek to me,” she muttered.
He chuckled. “Not quite. We’ve got a glitch in one of the backup systems, an error that keeps cropping up in the software. That’s what he and his team are trying to address. Ready? Here’s the reply...”
* * *
They worked for a solid three hours. Emma was learning volumes about the aviation industry and its components. She hadn’t realized so many different companies were involved in the construction of an aircraft. But when she thought about it, there was the fabric used in the seats, the material that constituted the storage bins, the oven in the small kitchen, the plumbing and hardware in the bathrooms—and all that was separate from the engines, the electronics, the endless wiring and computer systems that actually made the plane fly.
“How in the world does an airplane ever get off the ground with so many things that can go wrong?” she wondered when she’d sent the last email message out.
“It was easier for the Wright brothers,” he agreed with a chuckle. “In fact, before World War I, aviators had no way to land the plane unless they could get a few cars to line up and light the landing strip.”
“My gosh!”
“My great-grandfather flew with the Lafayette Escadrille in France during the First World War,” he recalled. “He was still alive when I was a boy. He could tell some stories. Like the time when he shot off his own propeller and went down behind enemy lines. It was before the days of proper machine guns that fired through the propeller by syncing the action.”
“I’d love to have heard those stories.” She sighed. “It must have been a great adventure.”
“To hear him tell it, certainly. He said that when the Red Baron crashed his triplane, the Brits flew over and dropped a wreath on enemy headquarters in his honor. They were a special breed, those first aviators. It was a gentleman’s war in the air.”
“I’ve read about the Red Baron,” she confessed.
He nodded. “So have I. Those first planes fascinated me. I think it’s why I went into manufacturing in the first place. I wanted to build something new, something innovative. I guess I did. The first baby jet I designed won awards and made my first millions.”
“I’d never be smart enough to design anything,” she said.
“I was always good at math,” he said simply. “Electronics was a breeze. I learned everything I could from men like my great-grandfather and improved on their designs. But I got a degree in business from Harvard,” he added. “I needed to know how to manage what I had. I didn’t like to delegate.” He leaned back in his chair wearily. “I still don’t. But I have to now. I can’t even see the designs, much less approve them. I have to count on my executives not to bankrupt us.”
“If your executives are like Marie and Barnes, they must be wonderful at what they do,” she said. “You have a knack for picking the right people for the job.”
He smiled. “They’re great, aren’t they?” he mused. He cocked his head. “You’re not bad yourself, young Emma. You take dictation very nicely. At the computer, too.”
“I had to learn that at my first job,” she said. “The lady I worked for didn’t bother writing notes. She just started talking and expected me to write it all down. So I did.”
“What sort of work did she do?”
Tricky question, Emma, she reminded herself, be careful. “She was an attorney,” she prevaricated. “She said that going in front of a jury was like storytelling, and if you told a better story than the defense attorney, you could win the case.” Actually, she’d learned that from one of the Griers’ friends, Jacobsville’s district attorney, Blake Kemp.
“It is like storytelling, isn’t it?” he agreed. “But I’ll tell you a secret, Emma. It’s usually the client with the most money who wins the case. Innocence or guilt is relative.”
“That’s very cynical,” she pointed out.
He shrugged. “I’m a cynical man.” His sightless eyes stared straight ahead, full of the disillusion he felt. “Most people are out for what they can get. Especially women.”
“Not all of them.”
“Little Miss Sunshine,” he chided. “Don’t you want a sports car to drive?”
“I don’t like sports cars,” she said simply.
His thick eyebrows lifted. “What do you like?”
“Pickup trucks.” She grinned. “That’s what I drove back home, a twenty-year-old pickup truck with a dent in the fender and a straight stick with a clutch.”
“My God! Poverty row!”
“I lived within my means,” she pointed out.
“And liked it?” he chided.
“Yes.” She smiled at his expression of disbelief. “I told you, I like crickets. You can have your casinos and your flashy lights. I’ll take a quiet night anytime.”
“You really need corrupting,” he said. “I’ll have to work on that.”
“Do your worst, you won’t change me,” she dared. “I’m just a simple country girl. Anyway, you’re a millionaire and you can get all the beautiful, glamorous women you like. I’m much too plain for someone like you, even if I weren’t poor and uneducated.”
“Did you graduate from high school?”
“Sure,” she said. “But I never went to college, unless you consider vocational school higher education. I went straight to work and took courses on the side.”
“Typing.”
“Actually, my first job was cooking,” she confessed. “I made all the cakes and pies and pastries for a restaurant.”
“I hate sweets.” He chuckled.
“No wonder you have such perfect white teeth.” She sighed.
He pursed his lips. “And a great dentist,” he added, tongue in cheek. He got up from the desk. “How would you like to go to the casino tonight?”
Her lips parted. “I’ve never been in a casino.” She grimaced. “And honestly, I don’t have the clothes for it...”
“You’ve been watching too many James Bond films,” he scoffed. �
�People wear anything from shorts to blue jeans.”
“Really?”
“Really. So. Want to go?”
“Yes, please,” she replied.
“We’ll go first thing after dinner,” he told her.
* * *
“Oh, my goodness, it’s like...like Christmas,” she exclaimed as the limousine took them over the bridge to Paradise Island. “The boats in the marina light up!” she enthused. “And the city looks like a Christmas tree!”
He laughed softly at her enthusiasm. She was wearing jeans and a button-up blouse and sneakers. He had on navy twill slacks and a white sports shirt. It made her less inhibited. He didn’t actually look like a millionaire tonight.
“Wait until you see inside the casino,” he told her. “It has crystal chandeliers and imported cut-glass accents.”
“You’ve been there before.”
“Yes. The owner of the Bow Tie is a friend of mine. His name is Marcus Carrera. His wife is from Texas.”
Emma felt as if she’d been slammed in the stomach with a bat. She knew Marcus Carrera’s wife, the former Delia Mason. Delia had done repairs for the dry cleaner in Jacobsville, where Emma had worked in the café, and was a gifted dressmaker, as well. She’d made a dress for Emma to wear to the one dance she’d attended with Steven before he broke off their engagement.
If Delia saw Emma, she’d recognize her on sight, and that would lead to questions she couldn’t answer in front of Connor. He thought she was from North Carolina. The joy drained out of her like water through a sieve.
“You’ve gone quiet,” he said, looking in her general direction. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she assured him. “I’m just drinking in the view. Will we get to meet Mr. Carrera?”
He hesitated. There was an odd note in her voice. He couldn’t quite place what it was. “I don’t think so. Not tonight, anyway. He and Delia took their little boy to see his aunt in California. She’s a commercial artist. She was married to Marcus’s late brother. They had two children.”