Before she considered whether it was a good idea or not, she leaned toward him, pressed her lips to his cheek and repeated in a whisper, “Thank you for being a concerned fellow American.”
She went to draw back and discovered Ross’s hand on her nape, effectively holding her head in place. He didn’t force the issue; he just waited to see what she would do next.
It was curiosity, of course, that got Diana in the end. She thought of her trembling reaction to his caress the night before, and all he had done was brush his lips across her palm.
What would it be like to really kiss this man?
That was the question that raced through her veins.
It would only take a minute to find out the answer. All she had to do was lean toward Ross again, and she would run straight into his mouth.
She made an almost imperceptible movement in his direction, and their lips met.
Diana had always thought that kissing was a pleasant enough diversion, although she’d never cared for it in its more intimate forms. She had been called an “ice princess” all the way through high school and college, as much on the basis of her cool blond looks as anything. Despite what everyone thought, she did not have a chunk of cold stone where her heart was supposed to be. It just took her a little longer to warm up to people.
It had all been a lie.
Ross St. Clair brought his mouth down on hers, and Diana burst into flames. Suddenly she was on fire. She was burning white-hot from the inside out, yet her skin was cool to the touch.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this, she thought, trying not to panic, trying to retain what little rational mind she had left. She’d kissed the man on a whim, and it had backfired on her. She was in trouble. Big trouble.
“Ross—”
“So your curiosity got the better of you, too?” he murmured as he continued nibbling on her mouth.
“Too?” she echoed.
“I couldn’t get to sleep last night,” he admitted. “I kept wondering what it would be like to kiss you.”
“This is crazy,” she said breathlessly.
“Yeah, I know.”
“We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Probably not.”
“We’re all wrong for each other.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more.”
“We’ve got to stop.”
“We will.”
But they didn’t.
Her fingers encircled his neck. His hands found their way around her waist. She parted her lips slightly, and he plunged into her mouth, sipping her, tasting her, devouring her, nipping at her with his teeth, using his tongue to seduce her until she wanted to weep from both joy and sorrow.
God forgive her, it felt so right and yet he was the wrong man. And this was the wrong time and the wrong place.
She finally managed a strangled, “Please, Ross—”
“Please, Ross, what?” he breathed against her feverish skin.
“Please stop.”
He paused and stared down at her.
“I—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I shouldn’t have kissed you. It was my mistake.”
She watched the fire extinguish in his eyes. Within seconds they were once again two hard chips of variegated stone.
The skin on his face seemed to tighten. “My mistake, as well.”
She was shaken. “I’m so sorry, Ross.”
“So am I, Diana. So am I.”
Her eyes traveled reluctantly to his. “I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s nothing to say. We got a little carried away—we went a little crazy. It happens.”
“Not to me,” she said, bewildered. “It doesn’t happen to me.”
And suddenly, with a cold pang, Diana thought, What if it never happens to me again?
“Sure it happens to you,” Ross stated, contradicting her. “You’re only human—flesh and blood like the rest of us.”
If he only knew. If he only knew. But he must never know. Her hand floated to her breast. “I guess I’m still suffering from jet lag.”
He nodded his head. “Right. Jet lag.” He turned and gazed out the window of the aircraft. “I think we’re coming in on Port Manya now.”
Diana quickly straightened her hair, tucking a stray wisp behind her ear, and attempted to put herself to rights, firmly ignoring the fact that her hands were shaking.
She glanced out the window across the aisle from their seats. Her heart gave a leap. “Ross, it’s nothing but jungle.”
He responded evenly, “Yup, sweetheart, it’s a jungle out there.”
Six
She took it back. Ross St. Clair was no gentleman.
“Excuse me,” Diana called after him as he disembarked and began to walk away from the aircraft.
He paused, glanced back at her over a broad, muscular shoulder—the one without his canvas knapsack casually tossed over it—and said from behind dark aviator glasses, “Yes?”
She stood waiting beside her luggage. It had been dumped on the grass at the side of the runway by their Asian Air pilot. “I need your help.”
Ross removed his sunglasses and slipped them into the breast pocket of his khaki shirt. “You do?”
Diana gritted her teeth. The man was deliberately being obtuse. “Yes, I do.”
“With what?”
So, he was determined to make it as difficult for her as he could. She should have known he’d insist upon having his pound of flesh.
Diana shifted her weight from one spindly high heel to the other, and adjusted the strap of her leather handbag. “I need your help with my suitcases.”
He had the nerve to laugh in her face. “Do I look like a damn bellhop?”
“Ross—”
“You’re about to learn another important lesson, Diana.”
“Great,” she mumbled under her breath. “This must be rule number two.”
“Only pack what you can carry.”
She planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. “It’s a little late for advice, Mr. St. Clair.”
“It’s never too late for advice, Ms. Winsted,” he shot back with what sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.
“But I can’t manage all of this luggage by myself.”
“Only bring the necessities. Leave the rest here,” was his suggestion.
“I can’t just abandon my belongings out in the middle of the jungle.”
Was the man crazy?
Ross shrugged. “I understand the town of Port Manya is about a mile down the road in that direction,” he said, pointing to the east. “There’s only one hotel. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding it. I wouldn’t dawdle, however. It will be dark in another half hour.”
Surely he wasn’t going to desert her. Not when he’d been so kind on the airplane, offering her coffee, keeping an eye on her while she slept, even saving some of his lunch for her to eat.
But she had a feeling that Ross St. Clair was nobody’s fool. She shouldn’t have kissed him. That was when the trouble had started.
Well, actually, the trouble had started yesterday afternoon when he’d accosted her in the Metro Manila Airport. But who was splitting hairs?
Diana stood there and watched him walk away. She reminded herself to stay calm. He was simply trying to teach her a lesson. “Ross, please—”
He stopped, kicked at a rock in the road and swore fluently in several languages. She knew he was disgusted with her, with himself, with the whole bloody situation.
Ross turned halfway around. “Wait there, Diana. I’ll be right back.”
With that, he took off across a sugarcane field. There was a boy of ten or eleven working a two-wheeled cart and a team of oxen along the perimeter, collecting what was left after the recent harvest. Ross spoke to the youngster and gestured in her direction. Then he took several coins from his pocket, and the boy nodded, grinning from ear to ear. The two of them headed toward her.
“The kid’s name is Pablo. He will deliver your suitcases to the h
otel in town. I gave him a few pesos as a down payment, but I promised that the pretty lady would reward him with even more pesos when her bags arrived in good shape and not covered with mud or dung or sugarcane juice.”
She wrinkled her nose at Ross and spoke to the boy. “Hotel Paraiso?”
“Hotel Paraiso,” he repeated shyly.
She smiled at him and resisted the urge to ruffle his dark hair with her hand. “Thank you, Pablo.”
Ross patted the boy’s thin shoulders as they loaded the four matching and expensive pieces of Louis Vuitton onto the primitive cart. “Salamat, Pablo.”
“What does salamat mean?” she inquired as they started off along the dirt road, the boy and oxen-drawn conveyance following at a discreet distance behind them.
“‘Thanks’ in Tagalog.”
She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “Salamat, Ross.”
“Walang anoman.” He translated his response for her, “You’re welcome.”
A quarter of a mile later Diana wished she’d had the sense to bring along walking shoes on this trip. Or, at least, a pair of Reeboks.
Of course, she hadn’t realized she would be hiking down a narrow road cut out of the dense jungle while wearing a three-hundred-dollar pair of imported Italian high heels and an even more expensive designer outfit.
She permitted herself a small sigh. What in the world was she doing on this remote island? Why had Yale dragged her out here in the middle of the Pacific Ocean? And where was he, anyway?
This wasn’t at all how she’d pictured her reunion with her fiancé. She had envisioned a lovely candlelight dinner in the Manila Hotel, complete with flowers and champagne. Yale would be dressed in a beautifully tailored suit and she in her favorite cocktail dress.
Instead, she was trudging along a dirt path that had ruts the size of craters. She was hot and she was tired. She was hungry and thirsty. She could feel the perspiration dripping down her back. The silk dress was clinging to her skin. Her hair was coming undone from its usually neat chignon. Her feet were killing her.
And the last thing she would get from the silent man beside her was sympathy.
It was nearly dark by the time they reached the outskirts of the town.
Diana took one look at the corrugated tin-roofed shacks, the unpaved streets filled with naked children, clucking chickens and barking dogs, and exclaimed weakly, “This can’t be Port Manya. There must be some mistake.”
She prayed there was some mistake!
“There’s no mistake. This is Port Manya,” Ross insisted as he headed for the hotel.
Diana was in shock. Nevertheless, she hurried along behind him, catching a glimpse of a single row of ramshackle businesses among the main street.
“But what would Yale be doing in a village like this?” she speculated aloud.
“Beats me. He’s your boyfriend.” Ross quickly corrected himself. “Excuse me, your fiancé.” He put his head back and studied the sign over the doorway. “Hotel Paraiso. Hotel Paradise. This is it,” he announced. “I’ll go inside and see what I can find out about Grimmer. Maybe you’d better stay out here on the verandah and wait for Pablo and the rest of your luggage.”
“All right, I’ll wait here.” Diana tried to brush the dirt and the grime and what appeared to be chicken droppings off a wooden bench. She finally gave up and sat down on the very edge of the seat.
It was twilight, but she could still see the local children as they played “kick the can” with a rusty piece of tin that had no top or bottom to it. Their young voices were raised in squeals of delighted laughter. They shouted to one another as they raced back and forth across the street. They didn’t seem to mind the filth and the poverty all around them.
“So, this is Port Manya,” Diana mused, fanning herself with her handbag. She thought of a sign she had once seen posted on the outskirts of a small picturesque town in Michigan: Look Her Over—She’s Beautiful.
The Hotel Paraiso reminded Ross of a scene out of the classic Humphrey Bogart/Ingrid Bergman film, Casablanca. Only the piano in the Hotel Paraiso was out of tune. So was the soprano.
He sauntered up to the bar. It apparently served as the check-in and registration desk, as well. There was a well-thumbed, ink-stained guest book beside the cash register, a pre-Second World War model in brass and mahogany. A dried-up ballpoint pen was chained to it.
“What can I do for you?” inquired the man wiping off the countertop. The finish had been scrubbed away long ago, leaving the bare wood exposed.
Ross tipped his hat. “I’m looking for somebody.”
The bartender gave him an inscrutable smile and said philosophically, “We are all looking for someone, or something, are we not?”
Ross rubbed the back of his neck and returned the smile with one of his own. “I suppose we are. But I’m looking for someone in particular. Do you have a man named Yale Grimmer registered here?”
Dark island eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you a friend of his?”
Ross shook his head and answered truthfully, “No. Not particularly.”
“You do business with him?”
He shook his head again. “I’m just looking for him. It’s… personal.”
A noncommittal reply came from the man behind the counter, “Maybe this Yale Grimmer you are searching for is staying here—maybe he is not.”
Ross reached into his pocket and took out a ten-dollar bill. He placed it on the bar. “How about a drink?”
The bartender’s eyes lit up. “Whiskey?”
“Whiskey will be fine.”
An unlabeled bottle was taken from beneath the bar, and a shot of amber-colored liquid was poured into a small glass. Then it was set in front of Ross.
He pushed the money toward the man. “Thanks. Keep the change.”
Ross raised the glass to his lips. In a single gulp, he tossed back the homemade liquor. God, the stuff was raw. It burned all the way down to his belly and brought tears to his eyes.
“Is Yale Grimmer staying here?” he asked a second time.
“A man calling himself Grimmer is registered here,” replied the bartender as he quickly pocketed the money. “But I haven’t seen him since he checked in yesterday.”
“What do you mean?”
“He inquired about renting a boat. I gave him the name of a certain fisherman on the other side of the island who might be willing to accommodate him. He went out shortly after that and has not returned.” He kept wiping the counter. “Grimmer must be a popular man. There was somebody else here looking for him this morning.”
That took Ross by surprise. “Who?”
“Two men.”
“Islanders?”
A shake of his head. “Outsiders.”
“What did they look like?”
The man behind the bar seemed to be suffering from selective amnesia. “Strangers.”
Ross took another ten from his pocket and slid it onto the counter. “Another whiskey, please.”
His glass was refilled.
Miraculously the bartender seemed to recover his memory about the same time. “Both men were big.” One hand was raised a good foot or more above his head to show just how big. “Muscular. But their eyes were cold and lifeless, like those of a dead fish. There was a bulge under each of their shirts. I think they were carrying guns.”
“Simon Ha, you information-selling old devil!” came a voice from the doorway of the Hotel Paraiso.
The newcomer was dressed in a faded uniform with an official-looking patch on the sleeve. The swinging doors closed behind him. He strolled over to the bar and spoke directly to Ross. “I heard there were more strangers in town. Port Manya has become very popular in the last two days.”
“So it would seem,” he said carefully.
The official gave Ross a quick but thorough once-over. “I am Sergeant Charoon Bok, Port Manya’s chief of police and town barber. This sly one behind the counter is Simon Ha, the owner of the Hotel Paraiso and village elder.”
“Ross St. Clair.”
“You are an American, are you not?”
“Yes, I am.”
“You were in Santo Tomas recently.”
That brought a raised eyebrow. “News travels fast.”
Sergeant Bok explained. “My wife’s great-uncle by marriage lives in Santo Tomas. He is an old man named Cebu.”
Ross relaxed and broke into a broad grin. “Ah, I know Cebu well.”
Charoon Bok extended his hand in friendship; he pumped Ross’s arm. “You did a most wonderful thing in digging a new well for Cebu’s village. You saved the people of Santo Tomas.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” Ross protested out of modesty.
“Simon Ha, this is the man who was the savior of my wife’s great-uncle’s village. He showed them exactly where and how to dig a new well. Now they have all the drinking water they require.”
“Ah…” said Simon Ha, suitably impressed.
“You were also the best man and the guest of honor at my wife’s second cousin’s wedding. You are most welcome in Port Manya, Ross St. Clair,” said the chief of police and town barber. “We will be happy to assist you in any way we can.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Bok.”
“I understand you are looking for the man who calls himself Yale Grimmer.”
“Yes, I am,” he admitted. News really did travel fast in Port Manya!
“I will make discreet inquiries on your behalf. Meanwhile, I must bicycle to the other side of the island. There has been a small disturbance. It is all in the line of duty. But I will return by tomorrow evening.”
“I’ll speak to you then, if Grimmer has not returned.”
“Will you be requiring a room for the night?” inquired Simon Ha.
Ross had almost forgotten. “Yes, I will.”
“And the beautiful young American lady I passed on my way in,” speculated the sergeant. “She is your—sister?”
Ross glanced toward the swinging doors of the Hotel Paraiso. “She is my—wife.”
“Your wife,” repeated the man behind the bar.
He was in it up to his neck now. “We’re newlyweds.”
“In that case, you must have our honeymoon suite. It also happens to be our best room,” claimed Simon Ha, and he flashed Ross another of his inscrutable smiles.
Not His Wedding! (Silhouette Reissued) Page 5