to fall apart in all the wrong ways.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Silence fell between them for a few moments. Then she asked, “Where did I land, anyway? There are so many small islands out here, and while I have a general idea where I am, I’m not sure which lump of rock I’m sitting on.”
He rotated his cigar to the other side of his mouth. “This lump is called Treasure Island.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. The first person known to have settled here was One Hand Hank Hanratty about eighty years ago. He was a fan of Robert Louis Stevenson, I hear.” The cigar bobbed as he resettled it. “Rumor has it the alligator bit off his hand.”
“The alligator?”
“Yeah. Apparently Hanratty brought him as a pet. Says something about the guy’s character. Anyway, Buster, the gator, is still around. Hanratty isn’t.”
“Well, if he brought only one gator, I can understand why the thing bit off his hand. Buster must be lonely.”
Buck shrugged. “He goes to Bridal Falls sometimes and scares the tourists when they’re having a tropical wedding. Mostly he just keeps to himself. Nobody wants to get him a mate, though. This isn’t his native habitat, and we don’t want the place crawling with gators, either. It’d scare the tourists.”
Hannah nodded. “What do tourists come here for?”
Apparently she’d asked exactly the right question, because Buck suddenly grew expansive. “Well, now, there are really cheap cruise lines. They like to pull into harbor here and let their passengers gamble at the casino. They market it as tropical charm, but what it really is is a bunch of big tiki huts with games, slots and a couple of bars. I guess it impresses people who come from way up north.”
Hannah nodded, envisioning it. “It would have a certain kind of charm, I guess.”
“If you’ve never been to Vegas or Reno, yeah. Anyway, they pull in for a day of gambling, and sometimes passengers will get married by the captain at Bridal Falls. I don’t reckon anyone knows who was the first person to do that, but it’s become a bit of tradition in these parts. Townfolk will attend to make it festive.”
“That’s nice.”
“It’s downright stupid, if you ask me.”
She felt herself bristling at his attitude, but tamped it down. She needed this idiot to repair the plane. She also needed to use his radio or phone or something to let her buyer know she would be late. Although after this he might not want the jet at all. She smothered a sigh. “What about the mountain? It looks like a volcanic cone.”
“It is.”
“Active?”
“That’s the story.”
Gloom began to settle over her. Could it get any worse? “How active?”
“It shrugs from time to time. Been awhile since the last eruption, though. Maybe five hundred years.”
“How often is it supposed to erupt?”
He suddenly grinned at her over the countertop. “Getting nervous, Sticks?”
“Absolutely not!” She had the worst urge to bean him with his cigar. Purposefully irritating, that was what he was. “Do you ever light that thing?”
He took the cigar from his mouth and studied it. “Why would I want to do something that stupid?”
“Then what is it doing in your mouth?”
He grinned again as he looked at her. “I have this oral fixation.”
To her horror, she blushed beet red. Quickly she looked away, out the window, hoping the last bit of red light would hide the blush.
“I’m going to bed,” she announced, rising quickly and putting her mug on the counter.
“Good idea,” he agreed. “You want to get some sleep before the storm hits.”
That froze her in her tracks. “Can we check the weather?”
“Sure. I’ve got a feed.”
She was relieved to hear it. At least this godforsaken airport had moved that far into the twenty-first century.
He turned behind the counter and flipped a dial. Soon a mechanized voice was reading the forecast. Then he flipped another switch and a fax machine began to print out a weather map.
Interested, as all aviators were interested in the weather, Hannah forgot her embarrassment and leaned over the counter, listening and watching.
“Tropical Storm Hannah has developed wind speeds in excess of sixty-five miles per hour. The storm has stalled at its current location and appears to be strengthening, with the barometer steadily falling….”
“Hell,” Buck said. Moments later he ripped the fax off the machine and stood up, putting it on the counter so they could both look at it. Their heads came close to knocking.
“Cripes,” he said, “look at those isobars. It’s tightening up.”
“Do you have an earlier map?”
He turned and pulled a sheet of paper off a shelf. “Here, see?”
Indeed the lines that measured barometric pressure were drawing closer together, around a circle that could swiftly become the eye of a hurricane.
“It doesn’t look good,” she said reluctantly.
“No, it doesn’t.” He took the cigar from his mouth and tossed it in the trashcan. “If she’d just kept moving, we’d have had a tropical storm. No big deal except for the casino. But if she stalls out there long enough, she could become a real beast.”
Hannah nodded and met his blue eyes. “I don’t like this.”
“Me neither. You might be here awhile, Sticks.”
“Is this place safe?”
“I built it to be. I didn’t want to lose everything every couple of years.”
“Well,” she said hopefully, “maybe even if it becomes a hurricane it won’t go past Category One.”
“We can hope.” He sighed. “Come on, I’ll walk you out to your plane. I forgot you don’t know your way around.”
The late evening was perfectly still, and growing darker by the second. The land had not yet cooled below the temperature of the surrounding water, so nothing moved. Later there would be a breeze, but right now the night was quiet and balmy. The air, full of moisture, felt soft to the skin. Hannah thought prosaically that in a climate like this, there’d be no need for moisturizers.
Buck opened the door to the hangar, letting her pass through first. He’d left a light on near the computer,
