She’d thrown herself into their relationship with passion, enthusiasm and a deep joy; and when, all too soon, rifts had appeared, she’d worked with all her heart to mend them. In consequence, the final and utter failure of their marriage had devastated her.
But that was a long time ago.
The only thing she’d have to beware of was touching him. The physical bond between them had never ruptured, not even in the worst of times, and when he’d wrapped his fingers around hers last night as she’d passed him the key, all the old magic had instantly exploded to life, like fireworks glittering against the blackness of sky.
He’d seduced her—literally—from the beginning. She mustn’t, for her own sake, allow him to do it again.
There were six other people in the group; she’d have lots of protection. Plus the itinerary would keep everyone busy. On which note, Rowan thought lightly, you’d better get moving. She scrambled out of bed, headed for the shower and left her room at ten to six.
Breakfast started at six on a charming open patio twined with scarlet hibiscus and the yellow trumpet-shaped flowers called Allamanda. The six other members of the group were tucking into slices of juicy papaya; Brant was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he’d decided to heed her advice and take the day off, thought Rowan; or, even better, fly back to Toronto. She beamed at everyone, inquired how they’d all slept, and heard Brant’s deep voice say from behind her, “Good morning—sorry I missed seeing all of you last night.”
Rowan said evenly, “This is Brant Curtis, from Toronto. He’s taking Rick’s place, because Rick’s ill with pneumonia.” Quickly she introduced the others to Brant, then said, “I’m sure you won’t remember everyone’s name. But you’ll soon get to know each other. Coffee, Brant?”
“Shower first, coffee second,” he said easily, “that’s been my routine for a long time.”
He was smiling at her. Often they’d showered together; and they’d both loved Viennese coffee ground fresh and sweetened with maple syrup. Willing herself not to snarl at him, Rowan said, “Personally I prefer herbal tea—can’t take the caffeine anymore.”
Peg and May, the two elderly sisters from Dakota who looked fluttery and sweet and knew more about birds than most encyclopedias, passed Brant the plate of papaya and the cream for his coffee; Sheldon and Karen, the newlyweds from Maine, gave him the bemused smiles they gave everything and everyone; Steve and Natalie, unmarried and so argumentative that Rowan sincerely hoped they weren’t contemplating marriage, both eyed Brant speculatively. Steve no doubt saw Brant as a potential rival for Alpha male; whereas Natalie was probably wanting to haul him off to bed the minute Steve was looking the other way.
Brant was a big boy. Let Brant deal with Natalie.
Peg said, “You missed some wonderful shorebirds in Antigua yesterday, Brant. But you’ll have lots of time to catch up...I’m sure you saw the mangrove cuckoo in the breadfruit tree?”
“And the black form of the bananaquit in the bougainvillea?” May added.
Brant took a deep draft of coffee; he was going to need it. He said cautiously, dredging his memory for the pictures in the bird book, “I thought a bananaquit was yellow?” and realized he’d said exactly the right thing. Peg and May launched into an enthusiastic and mystifying discussion about isolation and Darwinian theory, to which he nodded and looked as though he understood every word, munching all the while on a deliciously crumbly croissant smothered with jam.
Natalie, who was wearing a cotton shirt with rather a lot of buttons undone, smoothed her sleek black hair back from her face and pouted her fuschia-colored lips at him. “On the way back to our rooms, Brant, I’ll have to show you where I saw the crested hummingbird.”
“You can show me first,” Steve said aggressively; he had the build of a wrestler and the buzzed haircut of a marine.
“Oh,” piped Karen, who had fluffy blond curls and artless blue eyes, “what’s that black bird with the long tail on the ledge of the patio?”
“A male Carib grackle,” Rowan replied. “The equivalent of our starling, we’ll be seeing a lot of them.”
Sheldon, Karen’s husband, said nothing; he was too busy gazing at Karen in adoration.
Everyone else, Brant saw, had brought binoculars to the table; he’d forgotten his. Rowan looked as though she hadn’t had much more sleep than he’d had. Good, he thought meanly, and took another croissant. He was already beginning to realize that keeping up with this lot was going to take a fair bit of energy and that he probably should have read more of the bird book and thought less about Rowan on the long flight from Toronto.
Not that he was here to see birds.
He was here to see Rowan—right?
By the time they left the hotel, the sky had clouded over and rain was spattering the windshield. Their first stop was an unprepossessing stretch of scrubby forest on the side of a hillside, the residence of an endangered species called the Grenada dove. Brant trooped with the rest up the slope, thorns snatching at his shirt and bare wrists, rain dripping down his neck. Wasn’t April supposed to be the dry season? Where was the famous sunshine of the Caribbean? Where were the white sand beaches? And why was Rowan way ahead of him and he last in line? Natalie, not to his surprise, was directly in front of him, an expensive camera looped over her shoulder, her hips undulating like a model’s on a catwalk. He’d met plenty of Natalies over the years, and avoided them like the plague; especially when they were teamed with bruisers like Steve.
When they were all thoroughly enmeshed in the forest, Rowan took out a tape deck and played a recording of the dove, its mournful cooing not improving Brant’s mood. She was intent on what she was doing, her eyes searching the forest floor, all her senses alert. Maybe if he blatted like a dove she’d notice he was here, he thought sourly.
They all trudged further up the hillside and she played the tape again; then moved to another spot, where there was a small clearing. Rowan replayed the tape. From higher up the slope a soft, plangent cooing came in reply. She whispered, “Hear that? Check out that patch of undergrowth by the gumbo-limbo tree.”
Brant didn’t know a gumbo-limbo tree from a coconut palm. Peg said, “Oh, there’s the dove! Do you see it, May? Working its way between the thorn bushes.”
“I can see it,” Natalie remarked. “Not sure I can get a photo, though.”
“Then why can’t I find it?” Steve fumed.
“Come over here, Steve,” Rowan said, “I’ve got it in the scope.”
She’d been carrying a large telescope on a tripod; Brant watched Steve stoop to look in the eyepiece. Then Karen and Sheldon peered in. Rowan said, “Look for the white shoulders and the white patch on the head. Brant, have you seen it?”
He hadn’t. Obediently he walked over and looked through the lens, seeing a dull brown pigeon with a crescent of white on its side. Natalie rubbed against him with her hip. “My turn, Brant,” she murmured.
May—who had mauve-rinsed hair while Peg had blue—said to him, “Isn’t that a wonderful bird?”
She was grinning from ear to ear; Brant couldn’t possibly have spoiled her pleasure. “A terrific bird,” he said solemnly.
