Her hands were sweating so profusely that the seat belt proved impossibly stubborn. She was about to call the stewardess for help when she heard the warning bells with a sinking despair. The engines were rumbling, missing every now and then, and Rachel leaned back in her seat, prepared to meet her doom somewhere over the Pacific. At least there was a priest at hand—maybe she could entice him into the rest room to hear a final confession.
Takeoff passed in a blur of agony and hyperventilation. Rachel didn’t dare open her eyes until she heard the small bells ring once again, signaling that smoking could resume and seat belts be dispensed with. Why in heaven’s name had she given up cigarettes? They could provide such comfort to a condemned woman.
She felt the eyes on her almost immediately, knew instinctively they’d been watching her for quite a while now, only she’d been too caught up in her panic to notice. Not another swinger, she prayed.
She managed to sneak a quick glance to her right. Straight into the amused but sympathetic eyes of the priest who’d kept her from making her escape earlier.
“I take it you don’t like to fly,” he murmured as he unfastened the seat belt that stretched across his generous paunch.
“Not much,” she admitted ruefully. “I try to avoid it whenever possible.”
“I hope it was something good that made you attempt such a hazardous feat?” He had warm, hazel eyes that smiled across the aisle at her, and a balding head with a ring of gray hair that accentuated his monklike appearance, though Rachel could tell that nature, not religious preference, was responsible for his hairstyle. His face and hands were tanned a deep teak color, with paler laugh lines fanning out around his kind eyes, smiling mouth, and double chins, and he could have been anywhere between thirty and sixty. Rachel guessed he was somewhere in between, perhaps his midforties. He must have been in the islands a long time to be that color, she thought vaguely.
“The best,” she confided with a reminiscent grin. “I’m going to see my brother.”
The priest’s cherubic face held an expression of mild interest. The plane was more than half empty, with only the two of them in the back section over the wings. Leaning across his empty seat toward her, he smiled. “How pleasant for you both. Has it been a long time since you’ve seen him?”
“Fifteen years,” she replied. At his sudden arrested expression she hastened to explain. “Not through any fault of our own. Things just…got a little complicated with the family for a while. But now everything is going to be just fine,” she added, more to herself than the politely interested priest.
“I don’t mean to be so inquisitive, Miss—”
“Chandler,” she supplied. “Rachel Chandler.”
“Rachel Chandler,” he echoed curiously. “We wondered whether you were going to show up.”
“You did?” Without realizing it, she undid her seat belt, and slid across to the aisle seat.
“You’re Emmett Chandler’s sister, aren’t you? Word had it that you’d turn up sooner or later. But I didn’t realize you were expected.”
It was Rachel’s turn to be startled. “How did you know? Do you know my brother?”
“We haven’t met yet, but we’re bound to sooner or later. Kauai is in many ways a very small island and gossip travels fast. Your uncle’s arrival, searching for the heir to several million dollars, took most people’s fancy. And then, having Emmett show up out of the blue was most extraordinary. Most extraordinary. The papers have been full of his family background, including his younger sister. Oh, forgive me, I’m Father Frank Murphy. I’ve been on Kauai for four years now, and I must say your brother’s appearance has been quite a wonder.”
“I can imagine.”
“I’ve been meaning to call on him for the last few weeks, but I never seem to make it to that side of the island. Perhaps you’ll tell him I’d like to visit?”
“Do you know where he lives?” Rachel asked hastily, immediately picking up on the most important part of the conversation.
“I believe so. He’s staying on part of the old Chandler estate, isn’t he? On the east side of the island. Haven’t you ever been there, Miss Chandler?”
“Rachel,” she corrected automatically. “I’m afraid not. I’ve never been to Hawaii before. You usually have to fly to get here.” She made a small, self-deprecating face. “I never had a good enough reason to risk it before.” She leaned forward in her seat. “I don’t suppose you could give me directions to the place? I was hoping a taxi driver would know, but now I’m not so certain. I could ask my Uncle Harris, but I’d rather not have to see him first.” For a moment she wondered why she was telling this affable priest more than she usually confided to her best friends, and then dismissed the worry. Priests were perfect confidants, and trained to be just that. And his sympathetic interest was just what she needed at the moment.
“He doesn’t know you’re coming?”
“Neither of them do. I thought I’d surprise them,” she said ingenuously. “Except that I don’t know how to get to Emmett’s house.”
“Oh, I imagine you’ll surprise them,” Father Frank mused, a small smile playing about the corners of his mouth. “And don’t you worry, I’ll drop you by your brother’s on my way back home.”
Doubt and relief warred within Rachel. “Are you sure it isn’t out of your way?” His kind offer certainly would solve a great many of her problems, and even a friendly priest was preferable as a witness to her longed-for reunion than a no doubt slightly inebriated Uncle Harris.
Father Frank seemed to have been blessed with the ability to read her mind. “Not a bit. And I’ll save my own visit for another time. I’m certain you don’t want a stranger intruding on your reunion.”
Rachel, usually a more reserved person, flashed a devastatingly sweet smile at Father Frank’s dazed expression. “Father, you’re a saint!” she cried happily.
Father Frank Murphy grinned with a touch of wryness. “Not quite, my friend. But I’m trying.”
Chapter Two
A light sheen of sweat covered the man’s forehead and soaked through the khaki shirt that hung open around his narrow hips, running in rivulets down his spine. Where were the trade winds when you needed them? he wondered, squinting up toward the blinding late-afternoon sunlight. The sand was hot and shifting beneath his bare feet, and the man calling himself Emmett Chandler moved onward back down the beach. He still couldn’t seem to get enough of the blazing sunshine, and wondered if he ever would. He might just have to do something to set things in motion, or he could get seduced into spending the rest of a slothful life in the islands. Not that he didn’t deserve a few months of sloth, he thought grimly. But now wasn’t the time. The itching in his palms, the edgy feeling to the airless afternoon, the restless nervousness that was making him smoke too many cigarettes and drink too much beer, were all signs that something was about to happen. He just hoped to God it would be soon.
Harris Chandler was no help, either, the man mused. That genial old rummy seemed perfectly content to let things take their natural course. “No rush, dear boy,” he’d murmured that morning. “Everything in its own time.”
But he had never been one to wait on an impersonal fate to decide his destiny. He’d been waiting long enough as it was. Fifteen years, to be exact. He was sick and tired of waiting.
He could feel the muscles in his legs begin to tighten up on him, and the familiar frustration washed over him. Frustration that his body would no longer do what he told it to, was only beginning to regain the strength and dexterity he used to consider his God-given right. It still amazed him, how fast a forty-year-old body could deteriorate during six months in a five-by-eight cell. And how damnably long it was taking to bring it back.
“There you are, dear boy.” He could recognize Harris Chandler’s portly figure on his front porch by the always immaculate white linen suit. No matter how warm it got, or how many rum and tonics Harris consumed, his attire was always spotless. Whereas the man known as Emmett
always felt sweaty and rumpled, two minutes after a shower.
“I told you I didn’t like unexpected visitors,” Emmett drawled as he crossed the last few yards of beachfront and headed up the steps. They were new, sturdy steps—he’d replaced them last week, along with several of the rotten floorboards on the porch. “This place is off limits to you unless invited.”
“Dear me, how inhospitable.” Harris fanned his flushed face, dropping dispiritedly into an ancient wicker chair. “If you would bother to get a telephone, I could check whether or not I was welcome. As it is—”
“I thought we agreed a telephone at this point was ill-advised? We certainly don’t want my devoted relatives phoning up to see how I am.” Emmett glared at him before flinging his tired body into the hammock he’d rigged in the breeze-laden corner of the porch. There were nights when the walls of his bedroom seemed to be closing in on him, when he was back in that tiny cell once more, and he had to be out in the fresh air or he’d suffocate. No one knew of his night terrors, particularly not the sly and devious Harris Chandler, and he preferred it that way.
“Oh, I still agree. I’m just pointing out that you’ll have to accept a few surprises every now and then,” Harris replied affably, his faded blue eyes surprisingly astute as they surveyed his partner in crime. “I don’t suppose you have anything to drink around here? It’s a hellishly hot day.”
“No trade winds,” Emmett muttered, dropping his eyelids over tired hazel eyes that had seen too much in forty years. “There’s beer in the icebox. Bring me one while you’re at it.”
“Beer.” Harris shuddered, but Emmett was paying no attention. Sighing, Harris heaved his bulk upward out of the protesting chair, lumbered toward the kitchen, and came back bearing two tall green bottles. Eyes still closed, Emmett held out one well-shaped hand, and Harris slapped the bottle into it.
“You’re a damnable man,” Harris observed as he took his seat once more. “Beer is uncivilized.”
“You mean the aristocratic Chandlers would never sink to such a working-class pleasure?” he drawled. “They’re going to have to accept the fact that Emmett Chandler may have changed during the last fifteen years. Including developing a taste for good beer.”
“Nothing Emmett does would surprise his family. At least beer is legal,” Harris said morosely, staring at the figure draped in the hammock. “How are you feeling?” he added abruptly.
“Just fine, Harris. How are you?”
“Don’t mock me, dear boy. I haven’t got the energy to deal with it in this heat. Do you suppose you’re ready for the next step in our little enterprise? Have you recovered enough from—”
“I’m great, Harris,” Emmett snapped, ignoring the cramps that clenched at his calves. “I’m ready when you are.”
Harris eyed him doubtfully. “Well, if you’re sure…”
“I’m sure. The newspapers next?” Emmett opened his eyes to survey his half-empty beer bottle. For all Harris’s complaints, his was already drained.
“Perhaps. I’ll file the preliminary papers with the lawyers next week, and then we can decide who we’ll tackle next. The entire island knows about your miraculous reappearance from the dead, and nothing’s happened. I would think the news needs to be spread a little farther afield.” He looked longingly into the dark, cool interior of the small house. “I may have time for just one more beer before I’m due back at the hotel. We’re playing bridge this evening. If I win, I’ll take you to dinner tomorrow.”
“No more beer,” Emmett said flatly. “And I thought we decided I shouldn’t be seen any more than necessary in town?”
“I thought so too, but I gather you haven’t been paying particular attention to that part of our agreement. The young lady at the Floating Lotus is very appealing, if you like that sort of thing….”
“I like that sort of thing,” said Emmett. “Melea is none of your business.”
“As long as you understand your priorities, dear boy.” Harris rose, mopping his brow with a perfectly laundered handkerchief.
A savage smile flitted briefly over Emmett’s darkly tanned face. “Never doubt it, Uncle. Never doubt it.”
“IS IT ALWAYS so airless, Father?” Rachel pushed a useless hand through the tendrils of damp hair that had escaped the one thick braid. The hot, humid air had assailed them when they disembarked from the small airplane, still miraculously intact. Rachel could only decide that God had chosen to spare the plane because one of his servants was on it.
Father Frank’s round face was flushed and damp, the beads of sweat starting halfway up his bald dome and following a trail down to his double chin. “Not usually. That’s the beauty of the tropics. We have natural air conditioning with the trade winds.” The taxi smelled of old sweat and bubble gum, and the open windows brought little respite from the stifling heat. “It won’t be long till we reach your brother’s cottage. It’s right on the ocean, so I expect a stray breeze will crop up.”
“Has he lived there long?” The dampness of Rachel’s palms couldn’t be attributed to the weather—it was a cold sweat that started at her backbone and reached down to her fingers and toes. After so many years a sudden panic filled her, overshadowing the terror she had endured that day on the plane. What if he barely remembered her, what if he didn’t want to see her? She had burned her bridges behind her, and nothing, not even the eruption of the various volcanoes that dotted the islands, would get her on an airplane for a long, long time.
“Since he returned,” the priest replied. “I gather the cottage and all the land surrounding it belongs to your family, at least indirectly. Someone told me Emmett lived there at the end of the sixties, and then disappeared. No one ever knew where, and at that time it seemed better not to ask questions.” Father Frank’s obvious concern filled his voice.
Rachel leaned back against the seat of the taxi, oblivious to the spring sticking into her damp back. “I remember hearing about the place. We had offers to sell it—incredible offers—but Ariel never would. She thought he might come back to it, and he did.” The soft note of triumph blended with the barely controlled fear, a fear Father Frank recognized.
“Don’t worry, Rachel. Emmett won’t hurt you,” he said softly. “I’ve heard that he’s a good man, a fair man. You may come as a surprise to him, but I’m sure once the initial shock is over he’ll welcome you. And you know if there’s any problem, if you need a place to stay, someone to talk to, I’m always available.”
Rachel opened her eyes, smiling across at him in gratitude. “You’re very kind. But you’re right—there’s not going to be any problem. He’ll be surprised at first, but Emmett and I were always best friends. I loved him more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my life, and he knows I wouldn’t hurt him. It’s only natural that I’m a little…nervous. After all, it’s been fifteen years, and I was so terribly afraid he was dead.”
Father Frank patted her hand, and the warmth of his touch was comforting. “Well, apparently he’s not dead, he’s very much alive.” With a sudden sinking feeling Rachel realized that the taxi had stopped. “And he’s not more than a few hundred yards down that path. I’ll be more than happy to come with you if you prefer.”
Resolutely Rachel shook her head. “No, thank you, Father. I’ve planned this for years; I’m not going to let an attack of cold feet stop me now. I appreciate all you’ve done for me.” Her icy cold hand reached for the door handle, opening it before she could have second thoughts.
“Wouldn’t you like some help with the luggage?” Father Frank stuck his balding head out the taxi window. “I’m sure the driver wouldn’t mind.”
Rachel shook her head, hefting the small canvas suitcase in one hand, her purse and tote bag in the other. “I’m fine. I’ll call, Father, when I get the chance. Don’t worry.” She managed a creditable laugh at his troubled expression. “I’m going to be fine.”
His smile seemed almost an effort. “I’m sure you are, Rachel. Only be sure to come to see me if there’s a prob
lem.”
She stood there in the sandy soil, watching as the taxi backed around and took off down the rutted road. And then she was alone, surrounded by the exotic sounds of nature, the swish of the palm trees, the not-too-distant rush of the surf, the calls of a dozen strange and beautiful birds. Her white suit was plastered to her lean body, the linen blend that was guaranteed never to wrinkle in a crumpled mess. She could feel her usually sedate hair escaping its thick braid and curling with the moisture, and the first few steps she took along the sandy path almost buckled her ankles beneath her.
“Damn,” she muttered under her breath, dropping the suitcase and bags to massage one ankle. She stripped off her thin, high-heeled sandals and added them to her burdens before starting off down the path once more. All her fantasies were crumbling around her: there’d be no beautiful reunion, with her cool and elegant, a sister any man would be proud of. Instead an overheated waif would arrive on his doorstep, and she wouldn’t blame him if he viewed her with less than complete enthusiasm. Well, if he refused to let her stay, she could always find Uncle Harris’s hotel. Or Father Frank would provide something. It was comforting to know there was someone she could turn to if this was a complete fiasco. God, what was he going to look like after all these years?
A thousand questions rushed through her mind, flitting in and out like the birds through the towering palms above her. And then suddenly the clearing was upon her, and she stopped dead, her numb fingers still clutching her possessions like a shopping-bag lady.
It was a small cottage, much smaller and more tumbled down than Rachel had imagined. The porch showed signs of recent renovations, the new lumber white-yellow next to the weathered gray boards. The small porch ran the length of the front of the house, holding a few comfortable-looking chairs, a hammock, and three empty beer bottles. If there had ever been a drop of paint on the rough siding it was long gone, and the roof looked in need of patching. But the windows looking into the house were spotless, reflecting the bright sunlight like unseeing eyes, and the shrubbery around the house was trimmed and neat.
Men Made in America Mega-Bundle Page 124