Volcano (11 page)

Charlie nodded grimly and swung the jeep onto a paved highway, or what passed for a paved highway in these parts.

“All right. This shouldn't take more than a day or two. Once we find Raul, he can tell me who's behind whatever's going on. Then you can go back and do your job and everything will be just fine. If not, I'll take care of things. I have connections all over Miami. You'll keep your job or I'll find you a better one, and your sister will get whatever she needs. Just help me out a little here. We're heading back into civilization and I need your cooperation.”

“Yeah, right, like I believe you.” Penelope sat back in the seat and crossed her arms. She could repeat a litany of broken promises she'd heard from men, starting way back in kindergarten when her father had promised to take them to Disneyland, and continuing right up to her employers, who'd told her she'd have a corner office within five years. “Do all men think women are fools?”

Charlie reached into his hip pocket and wiggled out his wallet. He threw it in her lap. “Keep it. It's got my credit cards and my ATM card. You can run a credit report, empty my bank account, run up my American Express, whatever. I don't give a damn. Money isn't worth shit. It's a pity you haven't figured that out yet. Women never do.”

“That's because women have to work three times as hard to earn it,” she responded angrily. “Our fathers don't conveniently leave us their businesses or connect us to their old-boy networks. Male-dominated companies don't promote or encourage us. We have to fight for every damned penny we make. So don't give me that ‘money is shit' line. It's only shit to people who eat it for breakfast.”

He flashed a row of white even teeth as he grinned. “That's more like it. I knew you had brains, Miss Penny. Let's apply them to getting out of here. We're off to visit a volcano. Hold your nose.”

He swung the jeep down another sharp turn, narrowly missing a police car.

Ignoring the island police, Charlie gunned the putt-putting engine of the sissy jeep down the road to the island's biggest tourist attraction. Damn, but he couldn't believe the resort didn't have something with a little more oomph to it.

He pressed the gas harder. Raul's grandmother had said Raul had been hanging out with his second cousin Pedro lately. If he had to follow the convoluted vines of his friend's island relatives for information, it could take him years.

Shooting a sideways glance at his terrified companion, Charlie eased up on the gas. She clung to the jeep as if he meant to personally dump her on the side of the road. At least she'd ditched that bulky flowing thing she'd been wearing so he could have a view to admire. She was a little too slender for his tastes—those thin, long bones reminded him of a greyhound. He could get used to it though, if she'd let that long black hair down. It was like thick silk. He wanted to dig his fingers into it.

That was not a thought conducive to intelligent conversation. He had to keep her talking so she looked less like a kidnap victim and more like a wife. That's who he'd told the police she was. He'd also used her name instead of his. He'd vaguely recognized a couple of the older officers investigating Michel's murder, but the younger ones wouldn't know him from Adam. He prayed the older ones had forgotten him too. He didn't want word of his visit getting back to his mother.

“Focus on Raul,” he muttered as he swung the jeep into the parking lot.
Get Raul back, then go after that bastard, Jacobsen, and his liens.
The company couldn't run long without money. His employees had to be paid. There were plenty of topics to chew on without bringing in his mother.

The famous St. Lucia “drive-in” volcano didn't have many visitors this morning, thank goodness. Turning off the ignition, Charlie saluted the security guard drifting out to take his money. The place crawled with guards in uniforms, none of them looking particularly eager to do anything more than eye Penelope with appreciation. Charlie resisted the urge to cover up her skimpy T-shirt again.

The guy taking his money beamed as Charlie spoke to him in patois. Maybe he shouldn't do that. Knowing the language didn't fit with the image of tourist. Damn, but he wasn't any good at this spy business. He was a damned contractor, not a cop who knew how to protect himself.

Penelope still sat cross-armed in the jeep, sulking. He'd never known a woman who could look elegant as she sulked. He ought to leave her here and see how she liked it when the jeep crawled with beggars trading cheap gewgaws for anything they could lay their hands on. She'd end up half-naked and covered in malachite necklaces.

“Are you coming out or do I have to haul you?” he asked in his most polite tones, bending down to see beneath the wretched striped awning.

“I see no reason why I must accompany you on whatever nefarious business you're pursuing. I'll assume you're not here to admire the view.” She glared straight ahead at the pitted gravel road and the gray blot on the landscape that was the outskirts of the volcano.

He opened the low-slung door. “We're tourists, remember? We're here to see the volcano. Come on. I have to speak with one of the guides. You'll have something to talk about when you go home. This place is advertised as the world's only drive-in volcano, although I wouldn't advise driving over the part that bubbles.”

“It bubbles?”

Ha! He'd finally caught her attention. Taking advantage, Charlie caught her elbow and helped her out. He couldn't get used to having a woman standing nearly shoulder to shoulder with him. There couldn't be too many men in this world who would appreciate her height as much as he did.

Miss Penelope Albright was way out of his league. He wasn't much into the country club social scene, ballroom dancing, and monkey suits. Give him a wide- screen TV, a Dolphins game, and a beer. Miss Penny would die a thousand deaths before stepping inside his favorite bar. He'd suffocate in the rarefied atmosphere of her golf club.

“It's a live volcano,” he reminded her as he guided her toward the steaming gray hell they called a tourist attraction in these parts.

“It could explode?” she asked warily, treading delicately through the ruts.

“Nah, probably not. It lets off enough steam on the surface so it doesn't build up.” Keeping his eyes open for Pedro, Charlie steered her toward the safer edge of the bubbling, steaming morass.

“You said the beach was caused by a volcanic explosion,” she reminded him.

Damn, when he wanted her to shut up, she wouldn't. Wasn't that just like a woman? Scanning the dark-skinned guides collecting tips from tourists, he wanted to ignore her, but remembering the part he played, he grudgingly answered. “The last time it exploded, this place was a mountain. The explosion took out the whole side. That's lava we traveled on driving in here.”

Spotting Pedro, Charlie released Penelope's elbow. “Stay right here. Don't wander off. That stuff down there is treacherous. It's swallowed grown men.”

He trotted off, leaving her near the only guardrail. In the States, the place would be a liability hazard so high they'd have the whole area cordoned off. Here, a person could walk right into the volcano if they were stupid enough.

“
Bozhu
, Pedro!” Charlie shouted as he neared his goal. He was taking chances again, but Monica had told him Pedro and Raul had been barhopping together. He didn't know Raul's cousin well, but he had to start somewhere. If he'd known a private detective on the island, he would have hired one.

Pedro looked momentarily puzzled at a T-shirted tourist in a baseball cap yelling his name and a greeting in patois. Recognition lit the guide's face as Charlie doffed the cap and sunglasses. He instantly pokered up and glanced furtively over his shoulder in the direction of the forest.

“Don't you dare run,” Charlie warned in a whisper as he approached. He reached for his wallet, remembered he'd given it to Penny, cursed, and pulled out the cash from his pocket. “Pretend I'm just asking you to be our guide. Walk with me back to my wife and pretend you're giving your usual spiel.”

Pedro nodded nervously and fell in step with him. He shoved the bills into his pocket as he walked. “You should not be here,” he whispered harshly. “It is dangerous.”

“I'll be damned if I'll leave Raul out to dry. Where is he?”

“Don' know. He go into jungle and not come back.”

“If that's all it is, then why do you say it's dangerous for me? Monica says Raul's been talking to you. You must know something.”

They reached Penelope's side and Charlie offered brief introductions. Pedro gesticulated grandly at the gray bubbling cracks of mud beyond the guardrail. In a low voice, he continued their conversation. “Ask your papa,” he said scornfully. “Ask the man. Better, just go and not come back. There are forces here you cannot control.”

“Bullshit.” Charlie strode along the railing, pretending to point out things of interest. He was aware of Penelope's inquiring glance, but she followed without a word. “The only forces are man-made ones. I want to know what man, when, and how.”

“Ask your papa,” Pedro repeated stubbornly.

“He's not my damned father!” Charlie bit his tongue and curbed his temper before speaking again. “I don't want to see the old goat. What's he got to do with anything? He never worked a day in his life and he's not about to start now.”

Pedro shrugged. “If you say. Then go home. Forget Raul. Forget this island. Make beautiful babies and be happy.”

Charlie ignored Penelope's unfeminine snort. “I won't forget Raul and I have too much money tied up in this island to walk away. Give me something concrete, Pedro.”

The guide gestured toward the edge of the volcano. “There is no concrete in Soufriere. We live on molten lava. Go, and don' come back.”

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Pedro walked away, leaving them to stare at the steaming maw of boiling mud beneath them.

Penelope twitched her shoulders and stepped back first. “What was that bit about your father?”

Charlie didn't know whether to be exasperated or relieved that she had settled on this topic instead of the more deadly one. Pedro had just asserted their lives were in danger, and she asked about his damned father. Women!

“He's not my father,” he repeated, catching her arm and steering her toward the car. Now what in hell would he do? Jacques was in hiding. Monica could tell him nothing. Pedro wouldn't. Michel was dead. Where did he go next?

“Okay, he's not your father. Who is he, then?” She trailed along obediently.

Charlie liked the way she fit beside him. Maybe they could find some common ground back in the States. “You like football?”

She jerked her arm loose, halted, and glared at him. So much for that theory.

Not knowing where else to turn, Charlie ran his hand through his hair and stared down at her. Sort of down. Her nose wasn't much below his and it was pointed so far upward right now they could play Eskimo. He briefly contemplated the wide mouth below her uppity nose, wondered how those moist lips would feel against his, but heroically, he resisted that too. “I just asked. You don't have to look at me as if I'd insulted your honor.”

“I
detest
football,” she replied in a tone so cold it should have frosted the volcano.

“Yeah, I kinda figured. You and my mother ought to get along real fine. Come on. I'm not getting anywhere as a tourist. Let's see what happens if I play it straight.” Without touching her, Charlie swung on his heel and marched toward the jeep.

Hell, if he found Raul alive, he'd murder him for putting him through this ordeal.

With no idea of where they were going or why, Penelope admired the scenery and tried to ignore the tense man in the driver's seat. He swore every time an approaching car forced him to slow and take the pulloffs on the narrow road. He definitely hadn't developed the islanders' laid-back “don't worry, be happy” attitude.

She frowned as a foreign sports car didn't yield the right-of-way but forced them off the road where there was no pulloff. The man behind the wheel looked as angry as Charlie. She caught only a glimpse, but she thought it was the contractor she'd seen in the airport. PC&M clients tended to be overbearing power-trippers.

The man's glare as he passed surprised her. Had he recognized her? Surely not. She was much too low on the totem pole to deal with the firm's big clients. Maybe she'd imagined it. Charlie was too busy trying to keep the jeep out of the mud to notice.

To Penelope's surprise, Charlie jerked the jeep down a private drive equipped with a seven-foot wrought-iron gate laboriously painted white and tipped with gold. Surely it wasn't gold leaf. Nobody outside Versailles used real gold leaf anymore. She couldn't read the significance of the scrolled insignia as Charlie drove through. Maybe this was some historic landmark. She vaguely remembered reading that Josephine Bonaparte had been born or grew up on this island. Maybe this was her estate.

The drive curved through a landscaped forest of every tropical tree known to mankind. A waterfall splashed merrily into a flowing stream lined with exotic flowers. Shrubbery spilled red and gold blossoms across their path. Ingeniously tended vines crept up trees and over arches, blending water with grass and pavement and trees, painting a landscape of elaborate lushness. Penelope wanted to tell Charlie to halt the car and let her breathe it all in.