A bolt of lightning seemed to light up the entire sky, intruding into the cabin. Grant saw the fear flicker through her eyes. It was a bit too close for his comfort as well, but kept her talking. “You don’t strike me as a worrier, Cheyenne.”
How could he just sit there, as calm as if they were in his living room talking about the outcome of a baseball game? That was a bolt of lightning that had just creased the sky. The next one might crease them instead.
“I prefer to think of myself as a realist.”
Or a fatalist, he added silently. “Do you like roller coasters?”
What did that have to do with anything? All this time, she’d been worried that one of the men pursuing her would kill her. Instead, the subject of her interview, through sheer recklessness was going to finish her off.
“Yes,” she answered warily.
“All right, just think of this as one giant roller coaster.” The plane lurched, then dipped, dropping enough to unsettle his own stomach. “A flexible one,” he amended. He pressed the button on his own armrest, connecting him to the cockpit. “Jack?”
“Just a little bumpy weather, Mr. O’Hara, nothing I can’t handle,” the deep, rumbling voice assured him.
Grant released the button. “See? Nothing to worry about. Jack flew in combat.”
“So if the lightning starts shooting at us, he’s got it covered, right?” She had to get hold of herself, she thought, or O’Hara was going to think she was a babbling idiot. “Just how far is it to your island?”
If he told her in miles, he knew she’d figure out that they should already have reached it. “We’ll be there before you know it.”
“I wouldn’t count on that. It already feels as if we’ve been in the air all night.” To her surprise, he took her hand.
Her hand felt cold and damp to him, and her fingers looked as if they were going to snap off if she held on any tighter. He threaded his fingers through hers. “Maybe if you try to think about something else, you won’t worry about flying.”
Her first inclination was to remove her hand, but she had to admit that there was something comforting about having him hold it. It would have been even more comforting if he held her, but she knew that would be giving him the wrong idea.
“I don’t worry about Hying,” she corrected. “I worry about crashing.”
Grant laughed, but his tone was sympathetic. “Very unsophisticated of you, Cheyenne.”
She raised her chin, irritated at his amusement. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
The icy tone gave him hope. He’d rouse her yet out of this near-paralyzing state. “Oh, you don’t disappoint me.”
The complete opposite was true. It felt as if his life had turned into a larger-than-life adventure since this afternoon when he’d met her. He rubbed his thumb along her hand, remembering the way he’d felt while kissing her.
“As a matter of fact, I might even thank Stan for pulling me into that poker game. As long as that article of yours isn’t too invasive or unflattering,” he qualified.
She spoke before thinking, a habit she thought she’d broken—but apparently not during times of stress. “I can’t imagine you coming off in an unflattering light.”
He cocked an amused eyebrow. “Compliment?”
This time, she withdrew her hand, placing it in her lap rather than on the armrest, hoping she had enough fortitude to keep it there. “Observation. The camera makes no judgment calls. It merely records.”
It was an interesting philosophy, but not one he fully bought into. “The camera is in your hands. It has to reflect what you think, what you see. You choose to take the photographs that you do,” he pointed out. “The camera isn’t autonomous.”
He saw her smile for the first time since she’d boarded the plane. “You’d be surprised.” At times, she thought, the camera felt as if it had a mind of its own. “I just hang on for the ride.”
He doubted that Cheyenne Tarantino hung on for any ride. Phobia not withstanding, he had a feeling that she was the kind of woman who either took the driver’s seat, or else she just didn’t go.
Her complexion was returning to its normal color. Good, he thought, it was working: she wasn’t thinking about the flight. “How long have you been doing this?”
She thought of the old-fashioned, manual camera her mother had gotten her for her tenth birthday. It had come from a pawn shop. The same pawn shop where, when money was tight, Anita Tarantino periodically hocked her grandmother’s diamond ring—the only thing of value they owned. Cheyenne hadn’t wanted a camera for her birthday, she’d wanted a doll. The one like her friends had, with the long, golden hair and pretty clothes. It wasn’t unusual that her mother hadn’t paid attention when she’d pointed the doll out, but Cheyenne had really hoped, just this once...
Disappointed, she’d left the camera in her closet until frustration and boredom had turned her attention to it. Miguel had given her money for a roll of film that came with processing, and a brand-new world had opened up for her.
But the story was too personal to share. Cheyenne shrugged. “Forever.”
There it was again, that touch of vulnerability in her eyes that made him wonder. That made him feel that there was so much more to her than she was letting him see.
“You’re not that old,” he commented.
She laughed quietly to herself. “Sometimes I feel as if I am.” And she did—whenever she felt herself just an observer, watching the rest of life go by, as she recorded it instead of taking part.
Grant forgot about taking her mind off flying and the approaching storm. Suddenly he wanted to know things about her that she was keeping secret. He wanted the intimacy of an answer she wouldn’t readily share with anyone else. “And why is that?”
The shoulders beneath the snug jacket lifted and fell carelessly. “The hours I keep,” she lied. And then she gave him a look that said he was asking too many questions. “Did Stan tell you you’d get equal time for questions in this arrangement?”
“Sorry,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. “Fascinating women intrigue me.”
Now there was a line if she’d ever heard one. Being her mother’s daughter had made her twice as suspicious, twice as leery as she might otherwise have been of any compliment thrown her way. She’d learned early that behind every compliment was a lie. “Is that something you learned in Elementary Lady Killing?”
“Sorry, never took the course. And I’ve never killed a lady, though there might have been one or two I wouldn’t have minded strangling at the time.” Grant looked at her pointedly. “But it passed, and my natural good humor prevailed.”
“Said he, modestly,” Cheyenne concluded.
And she wasn’t so sure about his not having killed anyone—or at least mortally wounded them. He had what her mother would have called a “killer smile.” Every time he used it, she could feel something stirring within her in response. For the most part, she managed to ignore it.
“I said good humor, not good looks,” he reminded her. “If I’d said the latter, that would have been conceited.”
“But accurate,” she allowed, unconsciously slipping back into the sterile mode of photojournalist. With the air of an accountant, she enumerated his main attributes. “You’re good-looking, rich and at the prime of your life. And still, you’re not married. Why?”
Questions about his marital status always annoyed him. As if his private life was something people had a right to dig around in. But he’d given his word, so he told her—even though it sounded hackneyed. “Never met the right one.”
“Nothing more original than that?” Given his lifestyle and reputation, she’d expected a far more elaborate answer from him.
“The truth doesn’t have to be original, it just has to be.” He toyed with cutting the line of questioning short here, but that would only bring her mind back to the plane. Grant decided to give her more information. In part, it was a matter of public record anyway. “My father was married five times.
All of the marriages ended in divorce—and in disaster long before that I don’t know why he married the women he did. Maybe he thought he was in love with them at the time. Or maybe it was just out of a fear of being alone.”
Because, beneath his bluster and blunt ways, the old man was afraid, Grant thought. Afraid of being alone. And yet, somehow, he had never managed to find a way to bridge the gap that existed between him and his sons, other than by throwing money at them. Money didn’t buy anything long lasting, least of all love or backbone. His half brothers were each, in their own way, living testimonies to that fact.
“And you have no such fears,” she probed. It wasn’t a question.
He supposed he’d always hoped that he’d find someone, but he was still realistic enough to know that things didn’t always happen just because you wanted them to.
“I’d rather be alone than miserable with someone I chose out of desperation.” And then he smiled.
There was that flutter inside her again, she thought. She wanted to capture that smile on film. Maybe use it for the cover. It would guarantee unprecedented sales—she’d stake her reputation on it.
“What?” she asked, wishing he would stop looking at her like that.
Grant nodded at the hands in her lap. “Your knuckles.”
Perplexed, she looked down at her hands as she reached for her camera. “What about them?”
“They’re not white anymore.” He felt a surge of satisfaction. “See, it’s just a case of mind over matter.” Turning in his seat, Grant glanced out the window. It wasn’t raining enough yet to obscure the view. “Look—” he pointed for her benefit “—there’s the island, dead ahead.”
“I wish you hadn’t chosen quite those words.” She leaned over to see, but it took her a moment to spot the island, even with him pointing to it. “It’s not very big.”
Size had never entered into the decision. “I don’t require much when I get away. Just privacy.”
Her mouth curved. Not much. “And your own airstrip.”
“That’s right.” He grinned. “Just the fundamentals of life.”
“Like a big sprawling house,” Cheyenne joked. Despite her reservations and her determination not to succumb, Cheyenne found herself warming to Grant. Maybe there was more to him than money and good looks, just as Stan had said.
“Not so sprawling,” replied Grant. He knew plenty of people who had summer “cottages” that were a great deal larger.
She looked out the window again as they began their descent. “There are kingdoms that are smaller.”
“Name one.”
She was ready for him. “Monaco.”
“Buckle your seat belt,” he instructed.
In self-defense, Cheyenne lowered her eyes from his grin and did as he advised.
Miles Taylor was standing at the airstrip, a huge, black umbrella held high overhead against a wind that threatened to rip it away before the plane landed. When the plane finally landed and came to a stop at the end of the runway, Miles hurried over.
Shoulders hunched against the gusts of wind and rain, Grant stepped out of the plane first, giving Cheyenne his hand. She took it, her other hand pressed against her chest, holding her camera in place. Afraid of getting it wet, she’d hidden it beneath her green jacket.
Grant nodded at Miles as Jack stepped out of the cabin. “Hello, Miles, thanks for coming.”
Miles angled the umbrella, offering as much shelter from the rain as possible. “You picked a terrible night to visit, sir.”
“Mother Nature’s just blowing off a little steam after the celebration.” Grant turned to introduce Cheyenne. “Cheyenne Tarantino, Miles Taylor, my caretaker. Miles and his wife, Sarah, run the house for me when I’m not here.”
She barely had time to say “hello.” His arm around her shoulders, Grant ducked his head beneath the umbrella and hurried her over to the car.
Miles stepped back, waiting for them to get into the rear of the vehicle before commenting. “It’s more like our house than yours, Mr. Grant. You’re never here.”
Grant got in beside Cheyenne, his face glistening from the rain. “Most people don’t complain about an absentee employer.”
Miles slid behind the wheel, wedging the dripping umbrella between the two front seats. “Most people don’t work for you.” Waiting as Jack adjusted his seat belt, Miles turned to get a better look at Cheyenne.
The scrutiny made her self-conscious. Cheyenne dragged her hand through her damp hair, which curled around her fingers like wood shavings planed off a board. “I must look like a drowned cat.”
Unable to resist, Grant touched a curling strand. “More like a slightly wet cat.” He looked at Miles pointedly. “Miles doesn’t get to see too many people and he tends to forget his manners at times. You’re staring, Miles.”
“Sorry,” the other man murmured, but a broad smile split the bearded face. “Mr. Grant doesn’t generally bring ladies to the island, Miss.”
That was surprising, Cheyenne thought. She looked at Grant as Miles started up the car. “I would have thought this the perfect place for an idyllic weekend. When it’s not being blown away, of course.”
“I don’t get many idyllic weekends these days.” Then he changed the subject; he had no intention of discussing his fleeting past relationships with her. “Jack, looks like you’re stuck with us for the night.” He knew the pilot preferred going back to the mainland and returning in the morning to pick them up, but the weather was becoming ugly. He had no desire to lose his pilot—or his plane. “You can take the back bedroom.”
Jack grumbled his thanks, obviously knowing it was useless to protest.
“Stuck” was the word for it, Cheyenne thought, at least until this storm saw fit to blow out to the sea, or somewhere else. She thought of the photographs. “Do you have a computer?”
“State of the art. Every bell and whistle you can think of. Why, are you planning to work tonight?” He could think of other things he’d rather do than watch her work. Like watch her eyes soften the way they had just before he’d kissed her in the wedding hall.
She nodded. “I want to get a look as soon as possible at the photographs I took of the men in the alley.” She wanted to be sure the shots were as clear as she thought they were.
Jack leaned his arm over the back of the seat. “Don’t you need to process the film first?”
She shook her head. “I took them with a digital camera. All I need is an obliging software package to see what I took.” And then she remembered. “Oh, damn. In all the confusion, I didn’t take any photographs of you.” She wondered if she could superimpose O’Hara’s image on some of the shots she had taken of the parades. It was cheating, but this didn’t exactly meet the specifications of a typical assignment, either.
“There’s always tomorrow.” Grant saw Miles looking at him quizzically in the rearview mirror. “Ms. Tarantino is doing a photo essay on a day in the life of Grant O’Hara.”
“Two days in the life of Grant O’Hara,” Cheyenne corrected.
“Which will end when?” he asked with a sigh. In some ways, the woman was like a pit bull.
She did a quick calculation. “Day after tomorrow, at about six.”
“We met in the restaurant at two,” he reminded her.
“To make arrangements to begin the interview at six,” she countered, as a crack of thunder punctuated her sentence.
Suddenly the car swerved as Miles struggled to get out of the way of a falling branch. Sucking in her breath, Cheyenne grabbed Grant’s arm. Instantly, his hand went over hers.
She flushed, embarrassed, as she settled back in the seat again.
Outside, the wind was beginning to keen. “Looks like the storm has just decided to put in an official appearance,” Grant observed.
“We’re here,” Miles announced, pulling up the hand brake. He parked in the courtyard, directly in front of the front entrance.
Cheyenne slid along the seat, getting out behind Grant. Mi
les tilted the umbrella to cover as much of them as he could.
“Isn’t this where I came in?” she murmured, holding the camera against herself.
“You were the one who wanted to shadow my every step,” Grant reminded her, raising his voice above the howl of the wind.
“Don’t remind me.”
If not for the light being cast from the front of the house, it would have been too dark to see two steps in front of her. Rain came at them from all directions, like marauders attacking defenseless travelers. In the short distance from the car to the house, they became completely drenched.
“I’ve got to change—I don’t care into what,” she said. Setting her camera on the hall table, she peeled off the dripping jacket and held it away from her. The blouse underneath adhered to her torso as if it were cellophane tape. Her eyes met Grant’s. Her skin warmed immediately. “Scratch that, into something decent and manageable.”
Grant had the grace to suppress his grin. “I’m sure we can come up with something the reverend would approve of.”
“Reverend?” Miles exchanged looks with Jack. No one else was expected.
“Reverend Ming,” Grant explained, then glanced at Cheyenne. “The man who married us.”
The woman entering the hall dropped the cup from the tray she was carrying. It shattered noisily on the tiled floor.
Chapter Six
“Oh, Sarah, now look what you’ve gone and done.” Miles moved to pick up the pieces of the cup that had slid off his wife’s tray. Dark streaks of liquid raced after one another on the tile, away from the pool of coffee.
Cheyenne was there ahead of him. Taking the tray from the stunned woman, she quickly gathered the jagged fragments, then sopped up the spilled coffee with the napkin Sarah had brought.
Clearly surprised, Miles exchanged glances with Grant and Jack. “Sarah’s not feeling well, Mr. Grant,” Miles mumbled, still staring at Cheyenne. “She should be in bed, but she won’t listen to me.”
Sarah waved away her husband’s words, curiosity obviously eating away at her. “You’re married, sir?”
“In name only,” Grant and Cheyenne answered in unison.
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