Every Breath You Take (6 page)

“Compliments of the young gentlemen,” the waiter announced.

“Take it back to them and tell them I don’t want it,” Kate ordered, her voice ragged with emotion. She flicked an apologetic glance at her audience within the restaurant; then she bent her head and turned to a new page in her notebook. She began a list of things she had to do at her father’s house.

On the patio outside, the boys let out a groan of dismay when the waiter walked out of the restaurant carrying an untouched glass of tomato juice on a tray.

At the table beside them, Mitchell Wyatt turned his head to hide his amusement and encountered laughing looks from several people on his left. By now, everyone seated on the patio was privy to the boys’ repeated amorous attempts to make an impression on the woman inside.

Although Mitchell had a view of her sitting at the bar, she was in deep shadow, so he had no idea what she looked like. According to the boys, who’d repeatedly expressed their opinion to everyone within hearing, she was “Soooo hot” and “Such a fox.”

The waiter put the glass of tomato juice on their table and sternly informed them, “The lady does not want another glass of tomato juice.”

Trying to ignore the outburst of laughter and the youthful exclamations of disappointment that followed the waiter’s announcement, Mitchell picked up the estimates his contractor had given him, but the youngest boy evidently decided to seek advice from an older, more experienced male. Leaning toward Mitchell, he held up his palms in a gesture of helplessness and demanded, “So, what would you do?”

Mildly annoyed at yet another distraction, Mitchell eyed the glass of unappetizing tomato juice and said, “I’d add a stalk of celery and a shot of vodka, if it was for me.”

“Yes!” the kid exclaimed excitedly, looking at the waiter.

The waiter looked questioningly at the bodyguard, who was seated at the table with them and trying to read a newspaper. The boys looked hopefully at the bodyguard. “Give us a hand here, Dirk,” one of them implored. The bodyguard sighed, hesitated, then nodded at the waiter and said, “Only one.”

The boys cheered and exchanged high fives.

The man at the table on his left laughingly confided to Mitchell, “You can’t blame them for trying. Hell, if I were single, I’d make a play for her. She looks just like Julianne Moore.”

In disgust, Mitchell gave up trying to concentrate on the list of estimates and looked around for a waiter to bring him his check. The waiter wasn’t in sight. He’d gone into the restaurant.

Oblivious of the commotion on the patio, Kate looked at the tasks she’d written down to do at her father’s house, and the ache inside her grew and grew.
Donate clothes to the Salvation Army
. Her father’s suits … His favorite green sweater that made his eyes look even greener. He had such wonderful eyes … warm, laughing, Irish eyes. She was never going to see those eyes again.

She was going to cry, Kate realized in horror! She had to get out of there. She closed the notebook and got off the barstool, just as the waiter put a Bloody Mary in front of her and a man strolled in from the patio, heading in her direction. “Compliments of the young gentlemen,” the waiter explained.

“Tomato juice was cute,” she told him. “A Bloody Mary isn’t cute. It’s—inappropriate and offensive for kids to do something like this.”

“It wasn’t their idea, miss,” he said quickly.

“Then whose idea was it?” Kate demanded, not caring that everyone in the restaurant—and probably on the patio, too—was watching to see what she’d do about the Bloody Mary.

“Mine,” the newcomer said from right beside her.

Kate could tell from his deep voice that he was old enough to know better, and she refused to give him the courtesy of a glance. “It’s reprehensible to help those adolescents buy alcohol.” With her left hand, she grabbed her notebook and
Coping with Grief
from behind her plate; then she slid her right arm through the long straps of the green canvas bag and picked up the Bloody Mary, intending to give it back to him. “I don’t want this—” The straps of her canvas bag snagged on the back of the chair, and she gave the straps an impatient jerk while she thrust the drink at him.

Red liquid erupted from the glass and drenched the front of his white shirt.

“Oh, no—” Kate exclaimed, drowning out his startled expletive and the gasps from onlookers. “I am
so sorry!”
Dropping everything but the Bloody Mary, she put the half-empty glass on the bar, swiftly exchanging it for her glass of ice water and a cloth napkin. “The tomato juice will stain if we don’t get it out right away,” she babbled, unable to look him in the eye.

When she doused his silk shirt with freezing-cold
water, Mitchell’s skin flinched, and when she began dabbing madly at the mess with her cloth napkin, and apologizing frantically, his annoyance switched to reluctant amusement, but when she told the hovering waiter to bring her some club soda, Mitchell drew the line: “Do not give her anything else to pour on me,” he warned. “Bring us a towel instead.” She’d spilled the drink on him before his eyes had adjusted to the shadows, and she hadn’t lifted her gaze above his chest since then, so he had no idea what she actually looked like except that she was about five feet six inches tall, and she had long, dark red hair that was very thick, damp, and curly. Beyond that, all he could tell from his current vantage point was that her eyelashes and eyebrows were the same color as her hair. He tucked his chin down and addressed her eyelashes. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to say, ‘Thank you kindly, but no’?”

Kate finally realized he wasn’t furious, but her relief was offset by shame. “I’m afraid your shirt is ruined,” she said as she reached for the waiter’s towel with her right hand and shoved the fingers of her left hand between the buttons of his shirt and his bare skin. “I’ll try to blot as much of this off as I can.”

“That sounds like a better plan than trying to drown it.”

“I couldn’t feel any worse about this,” she said in a muffled voice.

“Yes, you could,” Mitchell said, but his attention was on the title of the book she’d dropped, and he was trying to read it upside down.

“How could I?”

“I didn’t intend for the boys to send you that Bloody Mary,” he replied just before he realized the title of the book was
Coping with Grief
.

Stricken, she finally lifted her face to his, and in a flash of blinding clarity, Mitchell realized exactly why three
teenage boys had been making fools of themselves over her. Framed by a mass of curling titian hair, and without a trace of makeup, her face was striking, with ivory skin, high cheekbones, and a small square chin with an intriguing cleft in the center. Her nose was straight, her mouth soft and generously wide, but it was her eyes that momentarily mesmerized him: Beneath gracefully winged dark red brows and a thick fringe of long russet lashes, she had large green eyes the startling color of wet leaves. Belatedly, Mitchell realized those eyes were shimmering with tears, and he felt a sharp, idiotic pang of regret for his part in causing them.

“Naturally, I want to pay for your shirt,” she said, stepping back and turning away.

“I’d expect nothing less from someone with your lofty principles,” Mitchell said lightly, watching her put the towel on the bar and reach for her canvas bag. She wasn’t wearing a ring on her left hand, he noted.

Kate heard his joking tone and couldn’t believe how nice he was being. Or how incredibly handsome he was. With her back to him, she took her checkbook out of her bag and groped in it for a pen. “How much shall I make my check out for?”

Mitchell hesitated, preoccupied with rapid observations and assessments: The Island Club was an extremely expensive, elitist little hotel, yet her wristwatch and the ring on her right hand were inexpensive, and her canvas bag had the name of a bookstore on it, not a designer logo. That meant she was probably here with someone who was paying all her expenses. With her striking good looks, she’d undoubtedly have wealthy men standing in line to take her to the best places and show her a good time … but the bathing suit top she was wearing was a little on the modest side for a “good-time girl.” Besides that, there was something soft and vulnerable about her and even a little … prim?

When he didn’t reply, Kate turned around and looked inquiringly at him.

“This is an extremely expensive shirt,” he said gravely, but with the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “If I were you, I’d offer to take me to dinner instead.”

Startled laughter welled up inside Kate, pushing past the aching misery she’d felt for nearly two weeks. “Your shirt is that expensive?”

He nodded with sham regret. “I’m afraid so. Taking me to dinner would be the wisest choice for you financially, believe me.”

“After what I just did to you, you want to have dinner with me?” Kate said, finding that a little difficult to believe.

“Yes, but with only solid food around. No liquids within your reach.”

Unable to keep a straight face, Kate bent her head, her shoulders shaking with mirth at his dire tone.

“I’ll take that to mean you’re prepared to discharge your debt—shall we say at eight o’clock tonight?” Mitchell said smoothly, wishing he could see her expression.

She hesitated a moment; then she nodded and finally lifted her face to his. Mitchell’s gaze dropped from her eyes to her entrancing smile, and his heart missed a beat. When she smiled, she had the most inviting, romantic mouth he’d ever seen.

“I’m Kate Donovan,” she said, her pretty mouth relaxing into a friendly smile as she held out her hand.

She had a nice handshake, Mitchell decided as her long fingers slid across his palm and grasped his hand. “Mitchell Wyatt,” he replied.

Kate’s mind switched to practicalities. Evan had made advance reservations for the two of them to dine that night at Voyages, the hotel’s beautiful all-glass restaurant
at the water’s edge. “Let’s meet at Voyages at eight o’clock,” she said.

“Let’s meet in front of the hotel, instead. I have another restaurant in mind.”

Vague uneasiness crept over Kate, but she was preoccupied with his ruined shirt; his handsome, tanned face; and a sudden awareness that everyone inside the restaurant was either watching them or listening to them. “All right,” she said, and gathered up her belongings. Rather than leave via the patio and walk past the teenagers’ table, Kate turned toward the exit behind her, which also enabled her to cut diagonally across the sand to the villa where she was staying. Halfway there, she glanced over her shoulder, and when she didn’t see a tall man behind her with a large red splotch on his shirt, she realized he’d left the restaurant via the front entrance. Guiltily she wondered what sort of hilarity he’d had to endure from the teenagers on the patio when he passed by them.

S
TANDING IN FRONT OF THE BATHROOM MIRROR
, wrapped in a white terry-cloth robe that the hotel provided, Kate finished taming her curly hair into soft waves, then switched off the blow-dryer and walked over to the closet to survey her choice of clothing. Most of the restaurants in Anguilla were casual, but a few were quite elegant, and she had no idea whether her dinner companion would be wearing jeans and a T-shirt, or a sport jacket and slacks.

Since he’d been wearing a white shirt, slacks, and loafers at lunch, it seemed likely he’d be dressed at least that well for dinner, and possibly more so. Based on that, Kate chose a pair of silk pants with a hazy version of Monet’s
Water Lilies
on a pale blue background, a matching top with a wide off-the-shoulder neckline, and a pale blue satin sash; then she hesitated, hanger in hand.

Rather than try to second-guess him and end up making the wrong choice, she put the clothes back into the closet and walked over to the phone on the desk in the living room. A balmy breeze drifted in from the gardens through the open terrace doors as she pressed the button for the hotel operator and asked to be connected with Mitchell Wyatt’s room.

“I’m sorry,” the young man said after a pause, “but Mr. Wyatt isn’t staying with us.”

“You’re certain he isn’t registered here?” Kate asked.

“Yes, very certain.”

The vague uneasiness Kate had experienced earlier when he said he had “another restaurant in mind” sharpened into alarm as she hung up the telephone. Gazing blindly at the
Hotel Services
notebook lying beside the desk phone, she reviewed the facts: She’d met a man in a hotel—a stranger about whom she knew absolutely nothing—and she’d agreed to get into a car and go somewhere with him. The man was extremely handsome, flawlessly charming, and very glib—the perfect combination for a gigolo who hung around expensive hotels, hoping to pick up wealthy women.

Or, he could be much worse than a gigolo. He could be a rapist. He could be a murderer—a serial murderer who moved from island to island, butchering his victims and burying their bodies in the sand.

Unnerved by her thoughts, Kate wandered outside onto the terrace; then she stifled a nervous gasp as a large canine head suddenly reared up from the bushes on the edge of the terrace. “You scared me, Max!” she said. The dog flinched at her accusatory tone, and Kate instantly switched to a soft, reassuring one. “You didn’t really scare me. I was already scared, because I may have agreed to have dinner with Jeffrey Dahmer or Jack the Ripper.”

The dog looked over his shoulder as if to be certain no one was watching; then he moved around the bushes and hesitantly put one paw onto the terrace. Just one paw, Kate noticed, not two. “I don’t have any more food to give you,” she told him, gesturing to the empty table beside her. “See, there’s nothing here.”

He put his second paw onto the terrace, still hesitant, but looking at her intently as if he wanted something from her. Stepping forward, she laid her hand on his head. “I don’t have anything for you,” she repeated, but his tail wagged as soon as she touched him. “Is this what you want?” she asked in surprise, and tentatively stroked
her hand from the crown of his head down his neck. In response, he pressed the side of his head against her leg.