Volcano (4 page)

He didn't uncross his arms but his voice dripped ice. “You catch on quickly, pretty Penny. But I'm not the one they'll put in jail. I'm just a businessman looking to protect his interests. They didn't find drugs in my suitcase.”

She gave his tank top a look of disdain. “I can see you're a businessman. Is surfing a moneymaker these days? And I'm not a drug smuggler. That stuff was planted there. I'm not even certain it was drugs.”

“Believe me, it won't make any difference. Money talks louder than evidence. You can argue your case all you like from the inside of a jail cell. Or you can spend a pleasant few days in my company, no strings attached. I just need a roof over my head until I accomplish what I'm here to do.”

Penelope smoldered. She detested gambling, for good reason. Her father had gambled away her family and their happiness. Since then, she'd learned to search for life's certainties. She had no intention of taking any chances with Beth's future.

She heartily suspected this callous jerk or his officer friend had planted the white powder on purpose, but could she take a chance and call his bluff? Poindexter, Combs, and MacMillan wouldn't appreciate bailing her out of a Caribbean jail on the day of her arrival. She didn't think the management of Anse Chastenet would appreciate their expensive consultant landing in jail either. She very much suspected Mr. Charlie Smith wasn't bluffing on that point. There was something hard and uncompromising behind his mocking smile.

Damn, but she didn't like haggling. She knew instinctively this man represented chaos, anarchy, and the devil himself. She quaked at the idea of sharing a cottage with him, however temporarily.

With a sigh of defeat, she realized she was neatly trapped. She had to do it. Dealing with one man was far preferable to dealing with foreign authorities and international law. A cottage wasn't as bad as a hotel room. There would be several rooms. She might not even have to see him at all. A man who looked like Charlie Smith didn't need to rape women. He could have any woman he liked. She just needed to survive his arrogance and imposing physical presence. Remembering what Beth endured every day, Penelope thought she could handle this much. Heaven only knew, she'd put up with a lot worse from the stiff rumps at PC&M.

With resignation, she asked, “Why me? There must have been three hundred people on that plane. Why did you pick on me?”

“You were the only one who needed rescuing,” he said smugly.

Penelope's frayed nerves reached a screaming crisis as they turned on the potholed dirt road into Anse Chastenet. She had expected primitive. She hadn't expected a treacherous mountain path that surely should be accessed only on the back of a donkey. That the taxi driver didn't put them out and make them walk gave her new respect for his tenacity. Unable to verbalize her appreciation, she just groaned and avoided looking over the edge of the road.

The man beside her chatted with the driver in the island patois, each pointing out sights of interest to the other. She gathered Mr. Smith hadn't been here in a while and the driver showed him the latest additions to the town below—from their thousand-foot vantage point on the mountainside. Penelope closed her eyes and prayed they would arrive sometime before the acid in her empty stomach ate through her insides.

She could swear the drive into the resort took longer than the drive from the airport. Her head pounded with all the decisions she must make before she reached the reception desk. The management would be surprised that she had brought along a “husband” on a business trip, especially since management had paid for that trip. She could take a chance and explain everything that had happened since her arrival, but the idea of relating that hideously embarrassing incident at the airport overwhelmed her. If they called her employer or the authorities and questioned her story, it would embarrass her even more, and possibly cost her the assignment. PC&M wasn't the most understanding or considerate of employers. Her old self-consciousness and her weakened state of anxiety and hunger steered her down the path of least resistance.

The van finally halted, and Penelope held her eyes closed a second longer, forcing her knotted nerves into submission. She could just pretend the big oaf beside her didn't exist. Maybe he would disappear if she pretended long enough. All men had their Achilles' heels, and she was very good at finding and using them.

Instead of dealing with their luggage and driver as she had expected, her obnoxious companion insisted on leading her down the stone-paved stairs to the reception area, abandoning all her luggage. Penelope threw a frantic look over her shoulder at her suitcases. Waiting porters had gathered her possessions and struck up a conversation with the driver. No one seemed in any hurry.

With the air of a seasoned traveler, Charlie strode to the outside reception desk. Amazed that the resort didn't even have an enclosed lobby, Penelope gazed around at the natural beauty of the greenery, unintentionally handing Charlie the lead. Taking full advantage, he introduced himself as Charles Albright, and flirted with the clerks while they found Penelope's file. He turned and handed Penelope the free tropical drink brought over from the bar and grinned at her stunned look.

“You're supposed to look as if we're on our honeymoon, Miss Penny,” he whispered. “The islanders are just as romantic about newlyweds as any soap opera-watching housewife at home. Smile and look love-struck.”

“I'm here on a business assignment,” she answered as sharply as she could without being heard at the desk. The presence of towering hibiscus behind her, the sound of the surf from below, and the island music from the bar disoriented her. She stood outside on a tropical patio, sipping an alcoholic concoction while checking into a hotel. Had she arrived here without Mr. Charlie Smith, she would have been enchanted. As it was, she felt more inclined to throw up. On her empty stomach, she wasn't certain if the latter was possible.

The resort manager approached to greet them, addressing her with pleasure. A dapper Englishman of middle age, he wore the white slacks and open shirt of the tropics rather than the business suit of the States. Penelope straightened and assumed the reassuring professional demeanor that had won the respect of her clients, introducing Mr. Henwood to her “husband.”

“You did not tell us this would be your honeymoon,” the manager chided her. “We would have provided a special treat. It is a shame to work when you are newly wed.”

Penelope glared at Charlie from beneath her lashes but plastered a smile on her face. “Charlie is a bit of a jokester. This is more of a second honeymoon than a first. He was scheduled to be out of town this week but surprised me by meeting me at the airport.” There, that should satisfy any nosy authorities who might doubt their cover-up.

Charlie beamed in approval at her improvisation as the manager shook his hand and offered a round of drinks at the bar. To Penelope's relief, Charlie took a rain check. She had seen the wad of bills in his wallet earlier, but she swallowed her amazement as he paid for a week's meal plan in cash. No matter how much money she earned, she'd never learned to wield cash that casually. This man threw hundreds on the counter as if they were ones. Maybe he was a drug dealer after all.

That thought didn't improve her stomach, and her head pounded in sympathetic accord. She almost didn't care when Charlie signed them in, tipped the taxi driver, and strode ahead of the porter carrying their bags up the winding path to their assigned cottage. She didn't care about anything except three Excedrins and a hot meal.

Penelope could swear the interminable path climbed straight up the mountainside. It led them past magnificent ferns, frangipani trees, and what were almost certainly tree-high poinsettias, but the beauty didn't relieve her suffering. Her calves ached, her shoes rubbed, and she wanted to swear at the man whistling ahead of her, not showing an ounce of exertion.

She thought longingly of the sea pounding somewhere on the other side of the jungle. Perspiration streaked her brow. The irony of being surrounded by some of the world's most beautiful scenery while she was dying did not amuse her. She hoped Mr. Charlie Smith had to carry her coffin single-handedly down the hillside.

Penelope sighed in relief and collapsed on a step as the porter finally set their bags on the porch of one of the cottages. She let her jackass of a companion carry in the luggage. She rather liked sitting here alone. It gave her a moment to gather her resources and admire the view. Of course, observing that the cottage seemed impossibly perched on the side of the mountain almost made her quiver, but she could get used to it. Looking down through palm trees and frangipani, she could see the ocean. She really could come to like this place if it weren't for the beast of burden inside. Somehow, she had to discover his weak point.

The porter emerged whistling, apparently well paid. Penelope called on what remained of her strength and stood up again. She wondered if she could charge her employers for all these tips she wasn't paying. It would serve them right for not adequately preparing her for this assignment. Actually, she had some recollection that tips weren't required here. Oh, well.

Penelope crossed the weathered porch to admire the view from the railing. Chairs and a table beckoned the inhabitants to watch the sunset on the horizon while sipping a late-evening drink. A bird called from the treetop below, and Penelope caught sight of a bright blaze of yellow just before the creature landed on the railing beside her. She stared in amazement at the brazen little fellow staring back at her.

“Bananaquit,” a voice from behind her explained. “Little beggars. He thinks you'll give him food.”

He handed her a glass as he stood beside her. Champagne. Just what her stomach needed. Still, the idea of sipping champagne while admiring the tropical view was a tempting one. Penelope accepted the offered glass and took a sip without looking at him. Charlie Smith's physical presence was overpowering. She lifted her chin and let the sea breeze cool her brow.

He perched his hip against the railing and stared at her. “I feel as if I just fell off that turnip truck you mentioned and bumped my head in the process. Do you have any idea at all how beautiful you are like that? This is like a scene from one hell of a movie.”

Startled, Penelope glanced at him. Big mistake. He'd removed his sunglasses, and intelligent blue eyes nearly fractured her already shaky composure. Beneath that droopy mustache, he almost looked serious, and the puzzlement in his expression did something to her already disturbed stomach. He scared her as much as the soldiers at the airport. At least, she thought it was fear raising goose bumps up and down her arms.

“It's the setting.” She tried keeping her voice cool and collected, but the trembling had returned. She definitely needed food. “I assume something about the Garden of Eden must always tempt the human race. If you're not going to shower yet, I think I will. I haven't had anything to eat all day and I'm about to die.”

“You should have mentioned that earlier. They don't dine here until seven. Unless you want to go back into Soufriere, you'll have to settle for the basket of fruit inside.”

Penelope stared at him in disbelief. No food? Surely she hadn't heard him right. “There are supposed to be three restaurants on the grounds,” she informed him coldly.

The teeth beneath that thick mustache gleamed white and strong. “The main dining room, the beach bar, and the grill. The last one closed at three. You can have afternoon tea at four, I suppose, if you're into little snacky things.”

Even little snacky things sounded good at this point. Stalking into the cottage, Penelope halted inside with a jolt of horror.

The cottage was just one big room. With one big bed. The living area had two short willow couches padded with loose pillows, neither big enough for anyone but a child to sleep on. The walls consisted of wood louvers that could be lowered against rain, and little else. No privacy whatsoever except the wooded hillside beyond. Nowhere she could escape the big jerk who was no doubt grinning himself to death right this minute.

He'd known this would happen. She could kill him. But not right now. Right now she would eat one of the strange fruits in the basket to prevent fainting from starvation. Then she would take a calming shower and plan her attack.

Whatever the odd fruit she bit into was, it was juicy and sweet. Sipping her champagne and sucking on the juicy meat, Penelope explored the bathing facilities. No bath. All right, she could survive that. She preferred showers anyway. This one was big enough for ten people. The bathroom had everything a woman could ask for, from makeup mirror to hair dryer. And a door she could close and lock—thank heavens for small favors.

Setting her glass down on the vanity and washing off' her hands, Penelope went in search of fresh clothing. Exhilaration unexpectedly swept through her, probably the result of champagne on an empty stomach. This was the most exotic place she'd ever seen. Champagne in midafternoon and tropical fruits for the asking, a view to die for, and the rest of the afternoon to relax and pull herself together. By the time she showered and had tea, she would know how to handle Mr. Football Player.

Carrying her clean clothes into the bathroom, she firmly shut the door, then stripped to her camisole and panties before pulling back the shower curtain to warm up the water. A tarantula marched across the tiles in greeting.