over his arm. He was casually dressed in a deep green polo and dark jeans and oh, yes, they both fit him quite nicely. The rich fabric clinging to him allowed her to make out the imprint of toned pecs and biceps.
Not that she was admiring them or anything.
As he drew closer, Dakota became aware of an itch rising somewhere in her midsection and creeping upward, like an invasion of teeny baby spiders. Up, up, over her chest and throat, up into her hair, and…oh, ugh. Spider metaphors were so uncool. She was a better writer than that.
He was even closer now. Damn.
It was a six-hour flight from the small eastern seaboard city of Santa Amata. If she’d been granted three wishes by a genie, she was pretty sure that being trapped for so long in a flying potato-chip can with the great Trent Walker wouldn’t be one of them.
Especially since the last time they’d met, she’d almost got herself arrested.
He was not going to sit next to her. He was not… She’d rather sit next to a toddler with an ear infection. Anything would be better than being stuck with…
She was relieved to see that he was stopping two rows ahead. Dakota watched as he checked his ticket, his long face tilted down, his eyes hidden behind thin, expensive sunglasses. Then he lifted his head, verified his seat number and seemed satisfied.
Easily, he popped open the storage bin and stowed his haphazardly folded coat inside. He held on to the laptop. Sure he would, she thought. The music genius was probably going to work through the whole flight.
She looked down at the pile of magazines she’d brought with her, and tried not to feel competitive. There’d be more than enough work to keep her occupied once she got to Tobago, she reminded herself. She didn’t need to get all workaholic up in here.
A chubby-legged young girl in a too-short denim skirt—which looked more like a wide, clingy belt than anything else—squeezed past Walker, looked up into his face with a pardon-me smile, and stopped dead. Dakota could hear the squeal of recognition from where she sat.
Trying not to roll her eyes, she watched the two briefly exchange words. Walker was smiling nonchalantly, while the girl quivered like an overexcited rabbit and flipped her purple-streaked hair. He reached into his laptop pocket, pulled out a small card, wrote something on it and extended it to her between two fingers. She clasped it to her chest like it was Willy Wonka’s golden ticket, then did a little happy dance, chubby ankles tripping past each other in lace-up platform shoes.
Now Dakota really did roll her eyes.
Traffic in the aisle was backing up, so Walker excused himself with an incline of his head, and slid into his row. He smiled goodbye to the bunny rabbit and she jiggled down the aisle. She stopped, as luck would have it, right next to Dakota. Dakota rose and slid out, allowing her access to the window seat, glancing in Walker’s direction as she did so.
She was startled to discover that he was looking in hers.
His expression could have won him a prize at a lemon-sucking contest. Slowly, one long hand came up and removed the glasses, as if he needed more light to determine if it really was her. With that gesture, he revealed eyes that reminded her of the buttered toffee she used to make candy apples with as a kid. But in those eyes… There was no warmth there. The unsmiling set of his full mouth immediately squelched that happy memory.
Okay, so Walker was as thrilled to see her as she was to see him.
His momma must have raised him right, though, because he acknowledged her with a polite—if stiff—dip of the head. She responded with a dip of her own, and then hastened to get back into her seat. By the time she finished fussing with her seat belt, he was sitting in the aisle seat, and all she could see was his hand and the back of his head as he popped in his earbuds. Seemed the man liked to listen to music while he worked. Not surprising, considering his whole life revolved around it.
“Do you know who that is?” the bunny squealed in her ear as she clicked her seat belt shut.
“I’ve got a pretty good idea,” she answered dryly.
“That’s Trent Walker. You know, like, Outlandish Music, Trent Walker? The owner?”
Dakota looked past her seatmate onto the tarmac. April rain slashed at the windows. She hoped it wouldn’t delay their departure. Maybe if the engines started up, it would drown out the starstruck yipping. But if Walker’s momma had raised him well, hers had raised her better, so she smiled and said, “Sure is. Not a face you can miss.”
“Tell me about it! He’s off da hook, ain’t he? And I’m not just talking ’bout his face. He’s hotter than half the acts he produces. And we’re on the same plane. Can you believe it?” As the muted vibrations began humming through the cabin, her seatmate lifted her voice to be heard over the din. “And he’s going to the Tobago Jazz Festival, just like me. You going?”
Dakota nodded. She was pretty sure everyone on the plane was headed to Jazz. It was one of the most popular annual music events in the Caribbean, and music lovers from all over the world were streaming in for it. Although Tobago was a mere speck of an island, home to only sixty thousand people, music legends like Whitney Houston, Elton John, Smokey Robinson and James Ingram had set the festival stages on fire in years gone by.
The girl waved the piece of paper she was clutching. “He just wrote me a backstage pass. I can go back after any show and talk to the stars. Big stars, girl. Giants!” She clasped her hands in elaborate prayer and looked heavenward. “Oh, please, let Erykha be there! That would be sooo… You want a backstage pass? You should get one.” The girl prodded Dakota in the ribs. “Go ’head. Ask him. Fast, before we get airborne. Go on!”
The thought of her begging a favor off Trent Walker made her grin, but she explained gently, “Thanks, but I already have a pass. All access,” she couldn’t resist adding, and reprimanded herself for being childish.
“Really? What’re you, like… .” Large black eyes gave Dakota the once-over. “…a backup singer or something?”
Dakota wondered if she should be offended that the youngster hadn’t pegged her for a main act. She shook her head. “Nope. Can’t sing a note. It’s a press pass. I’m a writer. A music columnist.”
“Oh.” The interest faded, what with Dakota not being a famous entertainer or anything. “Well, Trent Walker’s got like, three acts performing at Jazz. Mango Mojo—the boy band, you know, with the sideburns guy? And Ryan Balthazar, and Shanique. She’s out of rehab, did you hear? First time back on stage.” She fluffed her purple-striped hair airily. “And I’m gonna get to meet them.”
You’ll meet them sooner than I will, Dakota thought, since Walker had shot down any hope of her ever interviewing his acts. The name Shanique tripped her up like a pothole on an otherwise smooth road. Yeah, she’d heard a little something about Shanique being out of rehab. Guiltily, her glance flew in Walker’s direction—and found he was looking back, over his seat, his steady eyes reflecting nothing.
Her seatmate clapped her hand over her mouth. “OMG! He’s looking at me!” She grabbed one of Dakota’s magazines and hastily opened it, pretending to read. “Is he still staring?”
Yeah, Dakota thought. But not at you. Walker shifted forward again, just as the plane lifted its nose and rose into the sky.
“It’s safe,” she
