the main gates, he set their bags down. The concrete was sprinkled with a fine dusting of sand, crunching under her feet. She smelled that fragrance again, full of promise and invitation. She was too hungry and tired to answer its call. And after the cold, wet misery of her hometown, Santa Amata, the island heat was getting to her. Please, she prayed, all I want is a shower, a meal and a good night’s sleep.
“I can take it from here,” she told Walker, as politely but as firmly as possible.
“Hmm,” he responded, but didn’t move.
Suit yourself. She rummaged through her carry-on, found her phone, and poked at the numbers. Nothing. She tilted it so she could see the screen. Not a single measly bar. “Oh, just great.” She glared at him as though the aura of magnetism surrounding him was responsible for the technical failure.
He reached into his pocket and withdrew his phone and held it out to her. “Try mine.”
She gave it a suspicious look. Was it rigged to explode in her hand? “Why?”
He shrugged. “So you can get out of here, and I can go to my hotel with a clear conscience.”
“Am I on your conscience?”
He paused for a moment before he answered. “Only to the extent that we’re two American citizens landing on foreign soil, and one of us looks to be in trouble.” Then he added, “Am I on yours?”
To save herself from answering, she grabbed his phone. It was smooth and warm to the touch. Naturally, it was the kind of gadget that could pick up a signal from Mars.
She dialed. On about the 20th ring, someone at the Sea Urchin got around to picking up. The conversation didn’t last long.
“What do you mean, I’m not confirmed?” she blurted. “My assistant made that booking. Can you check again? Thank you. What? It’s Merrick. M-e-double-r…but it has to be there.” She realized she was squeezing the phone like a mamba with a rat. The voice on the other end was lilting and musical, but what it was saying was anything but gratifying.
“Can I make another booking, then?” She hated the sound of pleading in her tone, especially since Walker made no attempt to disguise the fact that he was listening. She nodded, groaned and clicked the phone off, teeth grinding.
“What’s the problem?” he asked, as though he hadn’t been overhearing every word.
“The problem is,” she explained tautly, “that my new assistant forgot to confirm my booking. And with all the people turning up for the Jazz Festival, they haven’t got any rooms. From what they’re telling me, there’s hardly a room left on the island.”
He contemplated her predicament soberly. “What’re you going to do?”
“Find another hotel,” she said, as though it was the world’s stupidest question. Hotel information wasn’t going to fall from the sky; she’d have to find some help. Back at the airport, she remembered seeing a tourist bureau. She spun around and started dragging her suitcase.
To her surprise, he fell into step. She stopped so hard her shoes squeaked. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Walking you to wherever you’re going for help.”
Did music impresarios get merit badges for being nice to stranded travelers? “Why? I’m a grown woman.”
Lazily, he let his eyes roam her body, something on his face telling her he was well aware she was a woman. “I told you—”
“I know,” Dakota interrupted. “Two Americans on foreign soil, and all that. Thanks for being so patriotic, but if I really get into deep trouble, I’ll take it to the embassy.”
When he smiled, his long face, the same color as the sand scattered at their feet, almost warmed…but his voice held a note of amused mockery. “Our nearest embassy is one island over, in Trinidad.”
“I’ll be fine anyway,” she said with dignity. “I can take care of myself.”
His shapely lips tautened, and she knew exactly what was going through his head. “Yes, I forgot. You’re very good at taking care of your own interests.” Carefully, he set down her bag, hefted his, and stepped away. “Good luck. I imagine I’ll be seeing you around at the festival?”
She shrugged. “I’m covering it, so I guess… ”
“Well,” he said, his voice dripping with irony. “I hope you find the stories you’re looking for.” His bag swung as he walked away.
Sure, you do, Dakota thought.
She didn’t step into the tourist office until he was out of sight.
Chapter 2
Island time, Walker thought. No matter how often he traveled through the Caribbean, he never ceased to marvel at the slow, easy pace of everything and everyone around him. Coffee shop attendants stopped to chat in the middle of pouring him a cup, porters took their own sweet time crossing the road… Car rental companies moved with the speed of honey dripping off a spoon.
The previous client—no doubt an islander, he thought wryly—had returned the rental car he ordered more than an hour late, whereupon smiling employees had informed him in their musical accent that they’d clean the car up for him “just now.” Suspecting that “just now” in island-speak meant a good chunk of time, he’d bought himself a local paper and settled in for the wait.
By the time they’d handed over the keys to the pearl gray BMW sedan, it was fully dark outside. He eased past the airport, noticing that traffic had thinned significantly. The flight they were on was probably the last international arrival of the evening. Everyone had already gone home.
At least, those who had a home to go to.
In the yellow glow of a streetlamp, a hunched shape sat on a bench, two small bags propped up beside her. Merrick, he knew at once. The curve of her shoulders, her mere presence, in fact, told him she hadn’t found a place to sleep. He wondered idly how she planned on dealing with her assistant when she got back to New York. From his brief experiences, Merrick had quite a tongue on her; he was half-sorry for her assistant once Merrick could rustle up a few bars of signal on her phone.
As he rolled past, struggling to remember to drive on the left rather than the right, he turned his head—and their eyes locked. Hers were wide and dark against her tan skin, Japanese anime-huge, and in a flash he read anxiety and fear. One hand clutched the collar of her leather jacket to her throat. It was still warm out, so it couldn’t have been to ward off the cold. In his rearview mirror, he saw her slap at her neck and wince.
In the darkness, the mosquitoes had come out.
The gods were having a laugh at her expense. Poetic justice, given the mess she’d almost made of his career.… Well, technically she’d made a mess of Shanique’s career; he’d survived virtually unscathed. But still… Feeling guilty at the meanness of the thought, he comforted himself. She’d get lucky; it was mathematically impossible for every single bed on the island to be filled. She’d try again in a while, and at the very least find a dive where the all-night bar would keep her up and the bedbugs wouldn’t give her a moment’s
