All the while he was talking, that self-preserving voice at the back of his head was calling him a lunatic. Look at her, the voice warned, with her heart-shaped little face and pointed chin. Plus, under that outfit—was she crazy, wearing leather here?—he knew she was more than a handful up top, and everything a brother could ask for down below.
Oh, yeah, he taunted himself. You’ve noticed her over the months. Just how small is this cabin, he wondered. Would he be able to stay out of her range?
He’d better.
She was frowning. Thinking. Tempted. She glanced at her stuff, sitting in the trunk of the Beemer. “I don’t…”
He sighed; his patience was giving out. “It’s late, Merrick. We’ve flown all day, and we’re in a strange country. Stop fighting it. You need a meal and rest as much as I do. Come with me, just for tonight. You can call around for a hotel again in the morning.”
“There’ll be something for me tomorrow,” she wavered.
“Definitely,” he agreed, although he wasn’t betting on it.
It was futile trying to resist the onslaught of logic. Slowly, doubtfully, she nodded. “We split the tab,” she insisted.
“Deal.” He patted her lightly on the shoulder, the first time he’d intentionally touched her. He felt something shift deep inside. “Let’s go.”
She climbed into his car like it was a paddy wagon carting her off to jail. As she buckled up, he noticed her hands were shaking. He wanted to say something to put her at ease, but for the life of him, he couldn’t think of what.
He levered his long body into the driver’s seat next to her and unfolded a small map, clicking on the overhead lights with one hand.
“Know where you’re going?” Dakota asked.
He ran his finger along a fat blue line, tilting the map toward her so she could see as well. “It’s fairly straightforward. Just got to stick to the coastal road ’til we get to Speyside.”
“Is it far?”
Meaning how long would she be stuck with him, he thought. “The island’s about 25 miles long. I don’t expect anything’s far from anything else.” He gave her an amused look. “Don’t worry about it. You don’t even have to talk to me if you don’t want to. Just lean back and listen to the music.” He clicked on the radio and scrolled through the stations until he found one that suited him. Jazz, naturally.
“We’ll be there in no time,” he promised.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“My pleasure.” The word pleasure rolled off his tongue.
Mistake, the voice in his head harped. Big, big mistake.
* * *
Dakota had the distinct impression Walker was driving with a lighter foot than he would have if he were alone. Even so, less than an hour later the car turned onto a narrow, sand-swept driveway and slowed to a halt. She stole a look out of the window, while trying not to be too obvious about it.
The property rolled over low foothills to the dark sea. Moonlight glittered on the surface, breaking into a dozen pieces with the movement of the waves, until each piece danced to its own rhythm.
The softly lit estate was lined with greenery. She could just make out the silhouettes of tall, curving coconut trees that arched toward the sky, flanked by shorter, fan-shaped palms.
He helped her out, then yanked their bags from the trunk, holding one in each hand. “Come,” was all he said.
She followed him, clutching her carry-on. In the back of her head, a mantra had struck up: bad idea, bad idea, bad idea… . She shouldn’t have let him talk her into this. She should have made a few more calls. Tried more hotels…
Beyond the trees, a pair of spotlights illuminated an arched gateway of wrought iron, shaped like rambling vines curling and intertwining around each other. The word Rapture spanned the two supporting posts.
Dakota stopped short. “Tell me that’s not the name of the hotel!”
“I believe that’s the name of the hotel.” He seemed to be enjoying the shock in her voice. “Relax. It’s an adults-only resort. They’re all over the Caribbean: Hedonism, Sandals… It can’t be much different.”
“But why’d you pick this one?” she asked suspiciously. Maybe he was planning to take full advantage of all the delights available to a man of his stature at a festival like Jazz. She thought of the dizzy little groupie on the plane, with her diamond-studded tongue. Was Walker the kind of guy to choose the best of what was on offer at a concert and head back to his hotel to continue the party in private?
“By the time my assistant got around to booking, I didn’t have much to choose from. My travel agent said they had an opening, and I took it.” Then he reminded her, “It’s better than your alternative, correct?”
She conceded both his point and her rudeness. “Sorry. I’m very grateful—”
He cut her off. “So relax and enjoy it.” As he continued toward the entrance, his back turned to her, she heard him add, “You don’t have to swim in the nude pool if you don’t want to.”
“What?” she gasped, but all she got in reply was a soft, throaty chuckle.
At the end of a stone walkway they came upon a brightly lit building. Its doors were open, and the entrance was flanked by tall torches, their ends rammed into the ground. The air was filled with the scent of citronella.
As Walker began to climb the four or five steps leading to the entrance, Dakota lagged behind, overwhelmed by growing panic.
He sensed her reluctance and stopped abruptly, turning slightly to look back at her. Since he didn’t signal he was slowing down, she almost ran into him. His amusement at her discomfiture was all gone. He was just one step above, looking down into her face, his eyes searching hers for something. Maybe he found it, because he said, very gently, “Don’t worry.”
Instead of shooting back a skeptical response, she wet her lips and looked away. Nights were short on the islands, and things would look better in the morning. Plus, they weren’t exactly enemies; it wasn’t as if he’d sworn a blood oath to erase her and her kin from the earth. His business and her duty just weren’t in sync. It wasn’t personal.
Well, all right, it was a little personal. Like that evening at the album launch when he’d called her a bottom-feeding scavenger for ratting out his precious diva—and him. And she’d responded by decorating the front of his white shirt with a glass of ’03 Chilean red.
A movement in the doorway saved her from whatever he was going to say next. The apparition was enough to jolt all thoughts of Walker from her mind, and that was saying something.
The man standing in the glowing lamplight at the entrance was so tall that he dwarfed Walker, and his skin was so black he seemed to belong to the night, rather than simply inhabit it. Impeccably twisted dreadlocks cascaded from his head, a Medusa’s nest of snakes. He wore a tan suit made of a light fabric, with a cream-
colored shirt and a tie of deep garnet. He was so striking, so physically perfect, that Dakota almost believed he was supernatural. This was the Caribbean, after all. A place populated by the ghosts of African princes, forest deities and enchanted apparitions.
As they approached, onyx eyes gleamed behind thin glasses, and his dark face split in a welcoming smile. His large, perfect teeth all but glowed. “Mr. Walker! So good to meet you. Welcome to Tobago.” His deep voice floated on the wave of the graceful and enchanting accent they’d heard everywhere since they’d touched down.
Walker and the handsome devil clasped hands warmly, equally white grins on their faces. “Trent, please. And it’s good to be here.”
The big