Man Trouble

by Melanie Craft

  “I never would have guessed that someone like you would care about local history,” she said.

  “Well,” he said, and shrugged modestly, “I was at your lecture, wasn't I?”

  CHAPTER 11

  There was chaos in Cottage Five when Molly walked in the door at ten-thirty. Carter had been pacing up and down the length of the sitting room, and he stopped in his tracks when he saw her.

  “Do you know what time it is?” he cried, waving his arms. “Where have you been? You were supposed to be here at ten. That was the plan. Remember?”

  “I'm sorry,” Molly said. She had no intention of telling him that Jake Berenger had just dropped her off outside the reception lobby. It would have cheered him up, but the astonishing encounter felt private to her, and she didn't want Carter—or anyone else—to know about it. The feeling made no sense, considering that the point of this whole trip was for her to get close to Jake.

  No, she corrected herself. The point was for Sandra to get close to Jake. What Molly Shaw did had nothing to do with anything, and therefore, it was her own business.

  “The plan,” Carter said, sounding aggrieved, “was to put Sandra on the beach with Elaine while Jake was windsurfing, so that he could see her when he finished. And then she was supposed to invite him to lunch. It would have been perfect. The moment was right. But now we don't have time to get you ready before he quits at eleven.”

  “Jake isn't windsurfing,” Molly said. “I just saw him over by reception.”

  Carter's eyes rounded with delight. “You did? He's late, too? Was he going to the beach?”

  “How would I know?” Molly asked crossly. Jake hadn't exactly detailed his plans for the day during the short drive back from the ruins. They had made polite small talk. He had asked her about her work, and Molly had launched into her usual litany of papers published and grants received. It was the kind of answer designed to impress another academic, but Molly had suddenly realized that she sounded as pompous as…well, as her father. Jake had feigned interest, but the truth was undeniable. In the car with that man, in that bright and steamy tropical landscape, her carefully cultivated scholarly image felt as colorless and desiccated as an old bone. I'm not boring, she thought, frustrated. Not really. She knew it, but Jake Berenger didn't. And for some reason, that bothered her.

  “We'll give it a try,” Carter said decisively. “We've got nothing to lose. Elaine has the perfect spot on the beach. I'll go and send her back to help you get ready. Today is the day, I can feel it.”

  They arrived at the beach shortly after eleven, with Molly transformed into Sandra, to find Carter holding their place and practically quivering with excitement. He reported that Jake had taken his board out onto the water, and if he stayed out for his usual hour-long session, he was due back in about twenty minutes.

  Due to the amount of padding and tape involved in being Sandra, Molly was not able to wear a bikini, so Elaine had improvised by dressing her in a pair of tight white shorts and a white push-up bustier, covered by a gauzy pink button-down shirt open at the front and knotted at her waist. A folded pink and white Hermès scarf served as a headband to help keep the platinum wig in place, and since Elaine's silver sunglasses had become part of Sandra's look, Molly was wearing them, as well.

  The only problem was with her “shoe strategy,” as Jake had put it. In the soft sand, neither the platform sandals nor the stiletto heels were functional, depriving Molly of the four inches of height that Carter considered scientifically essential.

  “Tiptoes,” Elaine said cheerfully as they prepared to go for a stroll on the beach. “Up, up, dear.”

  “Huh?” Molly said.

  “Did you ever see Brigitte Bardot clumping around St. Tropez like a flat-footed elephant? I don't think so. Did Marilyn Monroe shuffle like a waitress on the late shift? Never. Tiptoes. Light and playful. Frolic a little. Smile, dear, we're being watched.”

  Molly smiled. “Are you seriously telling me,” she said through her teeth, “that you want me to walk up and down this beach on my toes?”

  “Lifting the heels elongates the leg and raises the derriere,” Elaine said. “It also tones the calf muscles, which is something that we ought to discuss, dear, just as a point of interest to you. A regular exercise program can do wonders for both physique and mood.”

  “Thanks, dear,” Molly said. “I'll make a note of that.”

  There were several bright sails visible on the bay, but they were all too far out for Molly to be able to identify Jake. It was interesting that he was so committed to his daily hour of windsurfing. She wondered whether it was the sport itself that he loved or the hour of solitude. Despite everything she'd read and heard, he really didn't seem to be the shallow playboy type. He was smart, with a sense of humor, and he had utterly astonished her with his willingness to give her time to confirm the provenance of the plantation ruins. If she had been wearing the Sandra suit, his kindness might have been suspect, in light of his reputation as a womanizer. But, she thought, with a small twist in her heart, it was safe to assume that Jake Berenger had not developed a sudden passionate attraction to Molly Shaw.

  So why had he been so agreeable? Did he actually—as he had claimed—care about the island's cultural heritage? It was hard to believe, but she could find no other explanation. He had been willing to listen to her. And to help her, at his own expense. She knew very little about commercial construction, but delaying a project of that size—even for a week or two—had to be costly. His generosity was extraordinary. How, she thought, can a man like that be as bad as the press makes him sound?

  “My goodness,” Elaine said. “The sun is very hot today.” She was wearing an enormous straw hat that prevented Molly from walking within two feet of her, oversized square sunglasses that covered half of her face, and a black bathing suit with a chiffon wrap tied strategically around her hips. “As a rule, I prefer shade, and so should you, my dear. The sun is not a woman's friend. I know a doctor in New York who is an absolute genius—not to say that I've had any work done, but I make it my business to know these things, and he tells me that it's not just a matter of wrinkles. It's about texture, you see, and too much sun will make you look like an old boot…Good heavens!”

  She stopped in her tracks.

  Molly followed her gaze, and saw two people approaching from the opposite direction. One was a tall and stunningly beautiful young woman, thin as a whippet, wearing a red bikini made of three microscopic triangles. Next to her walked a bald man in flowing white robes. Molly glanced around and saw that she and Elaine were not the only ones staring.

  “I don't believe it,” Elaine said through her teeth. “Him! That crook! How dare he. I've heard the rumors, of course, but I didn't believe them. I couldn't imagine that any client of mine would ever…oh, this is very bad.”

  “That woman was a client of yours?” Molly asked.

  “Yes. Ingrid Anderson. She's a well-known model. I introduced her to her husband two years ago.”

  The couple was getting close, and Molly looked askance at the robed man. “That's her husband?”

  Elaine looked offended. “Certainly not,” she said. “Her husband is an investment banker. That man is a bedsheet-covered charlatan.”

  This didn't clear anything up for Molly, but she couldn't ask for more information, because the odd couple was now right in front of them. Elaine pulled off her sunglasses. “Ingrid!” she exclaimed. “Darling! How wonderful to see you.”

  The young woman looked alarmed. “Oh,” she said. “Baroness Von Reinholz.”

  Elaine patted her fondly on the arm. “It's Mrs. Newberg now, dear. I haven't used my title since I remarried. How are you? I see that you have a new”—she looked the robed man up and down with a cold eye—“friend.”

  “Namaste,” said the man. “Peaceful greetings.” He put his hands together in the prayer position and bowed.

  Elaine's lips formed a tight smile. “Indeed,” she said.

  The man exten
ded his hand to Molly. “And what is your name, my child?”

  “Sandra,” Molly said. “Sandra St. Claire.” She had been squinting at him from behind her sunglasses, trying to guess his age and ethnicity, and having no luck with either. He had a sculpted face, darkly tanned skin, pale blue eyes, and no discernible accent.

  “Sandra,” said the man. His fingers held hers, and his eyes lingered briefly on her chest. “My earthly incarnation is known as Rama Guru. I would be honored if you would know me, Sandra.”

  “Uh…” Molly said, taken aback.

  “The Spirit is One,” said Rama Guru. “In the Light, we are One. Would you like to know the Way to the Light, Sandra?”

  “That will do,” Elaine said sharply. “It's a very kind offer from Mr. Guru, I'm sure, but we have time commitments, so we'll have to say good-bye. Ingrid!”

  Ingrid Anderson jumped. Elaine patted her again, as if she were calming a skittish horse. “Come and see me, dear. Alone. Three o'clock. Cottage Five. We'll have tea and some girl talk.”

  “Okay,” Ingrid said. She didn't sound enthusiastic.

  “I bid you peace,” said Rama Guru. “And the courage to Seek.”

  Elaine glared at him, took Molly by the arm, and marched her down the beach. Her posture was ramrod-straight, and her lips were pressed together.

  “Who was that weird guy?” Molly asked as soon as they were out of earshot. “Where is he from?”

  “California,” Elaine said grimly, as if that explained everything. She looked out at the bay and then stopped walking. “Ah,” she said in a more normal tone. “Let's turn around. I believe I see Jake coming in.”

  Jake let his sail drop into chest-high water, and jumped off the board. He floated on his back and raised his face to the sun. It was a perfect day, and he would have paid a million dollars—in cash—for the chance to spend another hour on the water. But God was not taking bribes, and neither was his mother. She was giving a luncheon party for the Koppelsons, old friends from Palm Beach, and he was due back at the house at noon. It was currently ten minutes to twelve.

  “Christ,” he muttered. He knew exactly what awaited him, and it involved fruit salad, poached fish, and an interminable period of time in a seat next to Bunny Koppelson, who was always on some kind of weird health-food diet that she wanted to talk about.

  Cora had been laying on the guilt for the past few days, telling Jake that he was neglecting his duties as a host to Amanda. She had suggested that he redeem himself by escorting Amanda to the party, and Jake had made the mistake of pointing out that since he had not invited Amanda to stay with them in the first place, he did not—in his opinion—have any duties as a host. He should have known better than to argue. Cora had then given him a choice: Show up at lunch, or teach Amanda to scuba dive. She added, with the kind of smile that Jake knew much too well, that it was entirely his decision.

  He wondered what the professor was doing at the moment. Frantically making calls to the Antigua Historical Society, no doubt, looking for some sort of title deed to the old plantation. He wasn't worried. They were talking about the 1700s, after all. He didn't know much about historical research, but he seriously doubted that such specific records from the colonial West Indies would be easy to find, if they still existed at all.

  He dragged his board up onto the sand and shook his head like a dog, tossing the water out of his hair. A beach attendant trotted up and handed him a bottle of cold mineral water and a towel. The latter was not really necessary, as the sun would dry him before he even reached the boathouse, but he approved of the prompt attention.

  “Mr. Berenger!” said a female voice, and Jake turned. Standing there, in huge black sunglasses and a hat the size of an extra-large pizza, was a woman he had never seen before in his life. Actually, he had no way of knowing, as he could only see the lower twenty-five percent of her face. But the girl next to her was very familiar. He remembered the sweet smell of her perfume, the feeling of her legs entangled with his own, and her hands pushing against his bare chest.

  “Sandra,” he said. “Rico told me that you canceled your lessons. Is your ankle bothering you?”

  “Oh,” she said. “No. Well, only a little. I felt a tiny twinge in it this morning, and I thought it would be better to let it rest.”

  “No doubt,” Jake said. He absolutely could not imagine her on a windsurfing board, and if her coordination on land was any indicator of her skill level on the water, then she was likely to be doing more swimming than sailing, anyway.

  The woman next to Sandra took off her glasses, and Jake realized that she was the one he had met at Cora's VIP cocktail party the other night. Elaine something. “What a pleasant surprise to see you here, Mr. Berenger,” she said. “Don't you usually go out at ten?”

  “Usually,” Jake said. He took a drink from the bottle of water. “But I'm running late this morning.” He looked at Sandra and remembered something interesting. “Are you sharing your cottage with a history professor?”

  Sandra looked as alarmed as if he'd said “ax murderer.” “I…uh…what?” she said.

  “Molly Shaw. She's in Cottage Five with you, isn't she?”

  “Yes…how did you know that?”

  “My mother told me. She talked to Professor Shaw after the lecture last night.”

  “Lecture?” Elaine repeated.

  “Molly gave an informal talk,” Sandra said shortly. “About pirates, or something. I wouldn't know. I didn't go.”

  “I thought she was a very good speaker,” Jake said.

  Sandra looked surprised. “You did?”

  “Yes. Have you known her for a long time?”

  “No. She's my research consultant, that's all. We hardly know each other. I almost never see her. We talk by phone. She lives in Wisconsin, and I…don't.”

  “Nice of you to bring her along on your trip,” Jake said. That solved the mystery of how a college professor had been able to afford Cottage Five.

  “She needed a break,” Sandra said. A sudden smile twitched the corners of her mouth. “She's very hardworking. She's considered a rising star in her field, in fact.”

  “Really,” Jake said. He frowned.

  Sandra's smile grew. “Molly is utterly devoted to Caribbean cultural heritage, and her help has been invaluable to me on my current project. I'm writing a novel based on the life of Bonny Mary Morgan.”

  Jake choked on his water and began to cough violently.

  “Goodness!” exclaimed Elaine. “Mr. Berenger, are you all right?”

  Jake nodded wordlessly. He had to clear his throat several times before he could speak. “Excuse me,” he said, finally. “Do you mean that you and Molly Shaw are writing a book together?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Sandra said sweetly. “Molly is helping me with the research. She has an amazing ability to find information about almost anything. You'd be amazed by how many documents still exist from the eighteenth century.”

  “Really,” Jake said again.

  “Of course, I can't be bothered to sort through it all. It's much too boring and complicated for me, but Molly is a research genius. You'd never guess by looking at her, but she's actually very witty. And exciting. Not boring at all.”

  “I thought you said that you hardly know her.”

  “Oh,” Sandra said. “Well, that's true. But I'm getting to know her now, on this trip. You'll have to meet her sometime.”

  Jake said nothing. Great, he thought. Just great. Not only did he have to deal with a “rising star” with a sadistic plan to sabotage his golf course, but now her friend, a best-selling novelist, wanted to immortalize Mary Morgan in print. This was becoming a complete nightmare.

  “Is that why you're here?” he asked. “Because Molly Shaw thinks that Mary Morgan lived on this island?”

  Sandra nodded. “That and the spa. I absolutely adore your spa. My international jet-set friends and I agree that any resort that offers both a rich cultural heritage and a five-star spa is tops on our list of d
estinations.”

  Elaine cleared her throat impatiently. “Sandra, dear,” she said.

  Sandra looked startled, as if she'd forgotten that her friend was there. “Oh,” she said, and smiled charmingly at Jake. Her eyes were as blue as the bay on a clear morning, and he wondered if she had any idea that she was colluding to ruin his life. Probably not, considering that Molly Shaw had not even told her about their encounter at the ruins that morning. His impression was that Sandra St. Claire was a nice and slightly ditzy woman; some sort of literary savant who churned out salacious prose while the “brilliant” Molly Shaw worked the strings behind the scenes like an evil puppeteer.

  “Sandra,” Elaine said again. “My head.”

  Sandra nodded. “Jake,” she said, “Elaine and I had a plan to take a picnic lunch up to—what is it called? Eagle Point?”

  “Falcon's Point,” Jake said.

  “That's right. It's all packed and ready to go, but poor Elaine has a terrible headache, and now she'd rather go home to bed. I just hate to be alone, and I was wondering if—by any chance—you might like to have lunch with me?”

  CHAPTER 12

  Molly looked over at Jake, who was in the driver's seat of the open-air Jeep, and suppressed a mild attack of panic. She hadn't actually expected him to say yes. He had seemed about to refuse, in fact. She could have sworn that she had seen the shape of the words of a refusal touch his lips before he paused, narrowed his eyes as if he were making a mental calculation, and then—shockingly—accepted.

  Could it be that there really was something to Carter's so-called scientific plotting? He had also given her detailed instructions about how to manage the lunch, and how to bring up the topic of interviews, publicity, and biographies in a seductive and appealing manner, but Molly—convinced that things would never reach that point—had barely listened. And now here she was, alone in a car with Jake, and she had no clue of what to do next.