Man Trouble (11 page)

“I can find proof,” she said.

He grinned, not missing the sudden apprehension in her eyes. She didn't have it, and she wasn't sure that she could find it. Things were suddenly looking much better. “So,” he said, “this is all just speculation.”

“It is not! Mary gave up piracy and retired to a small island near Antigua, where she ran a sugar plantation. There are very few islands that fit that description.”

“
Very few
means more than one. For all you know, your progressive feminist pirate never set foot on my island, and this estate actually belonged to some macho male colonist who abused his family, was cruel to his workers, and deserves to have the remains of his rotten life bulldozed.”

“Mary Morgan lived here,” Molly Shaw insisted.

“So you claim,” Jake said. He was now feeling almost cheerful. “Bring me some proof, and then we'll talk.”

“I will,” Molly said ominously. “You'll see. But regardless of that, this is a very well-preserved site. You should restore it and turn it into a museum. It would be a wonderful addition to the resort.”

Jake suppressed the urge to laugh. She was serious. It was almost endearing. “Professor,” he said, “I realize that this will shock you, but the average Gold Bay guest doesn't care very much about the eighteenth-century Caribbean. If my customers had to decide between visiting an old ruin shined up to look like a museum, or playing eighteen holes on the most beautiful golf course south of Miami, do I really need to tell you which they would choose?”

Molly Shaw glared at him, and Jake mentally checked himself. He did not need to make an enemy out of this woman, if there was any other option left. Without proof that the estate was special, she would have no leverage with the press, but even so, it would be foolish to antagonize her. He didn't want to do anything that might lead to the project being tied up in court.

“This may also shock you,” he added, “but I'm not your enemy. If you can find me solid evidence that this plantation did belong to Bonny Mary Morgan, then I'll take it to my board and try to convince them to rework the plans for the golf course.”

It was a deceptively magnanimous offer. If she had the proof and the will to start a public fight, then Berenger would have no choice but to rezone the golf course and exclude the sugar estate. They couldn't afford the negative publicity. But with luck, Molly Shaw's pirate would turn out to be nothing more than a colorful local legend, and she would admit defeat, go away quietly, and the project would proceed as planned.

Molly was frowning slightly, as if trying to figure out whether he was trying to trick her. Finally, she nodded. “Okay,” she said. “That sounds fair. When is construction supposed to start?”

“Immediately,” Jake said, lying again. He saw no reason to hand a single advantage to this woman. He had never had any problem with lying, as long as it wasn't to his family or his shareholders, and Molly Shaw did not fall into either category. “But I'm willing to push the start back another week, or even two, if necessary. Would that give you the time you need to settle this?”

She looked stunned. “It might,” she said. “I'll start checking the records right away. Thank you. That's…very kind.”

“My pleasure,” Jake said, trying to look noble.

She was still staring at him, as if he'd grown a second head—a nicer one, this time. “I didn't expect…I mean, you don't seem like the kind of person who would care about…”

“Anything but money?”

She flushed slightly. “I didn't mean that.”

“I feel very strongly about the preservation of important cultural heritage sites,” Jake said, glad that they were alone in the wilderness and nobody had this moment on tape. “But my own personal feelings have to take a backseat to the needs of my company and my shareholders. I have a duty to them. If we can confirm that this was Mary Morgan's estate, then I'll do my best to negotiate an acceptable compromise.”

He was rewarded with a smile so genuine that he actually felt guilty. Incredibly, Molly Shaw was beautiful when she smiled. Her eyes crinkled at the corners and her whole face seemed to light up. She suddenly reminded him of someone else, someone who he couldn't place. An actress, maybe. Someone he had met socially, but didn't know well.

“I never would have guessed that someone like you would care about local history,” she said.

“Well,” he said, and shrugged modestly, “I was at your lecture, wasn't I?”

CHAPTER 11

T
here was chaos in Cottage Five when Molly walked in the door at ten-thirty. Carter had been pacing up and down the length of the sitting room, and he stopped in his tracks when he saw her.

“Do you know what time it is?” he cried, waving his arms. “Where have you
been?
You were supposed to be here at ten. That was the
plan.
Remember?”

“I'm sorry,” Molly said. She had no intention of telling him that Jake Berenger had just dropped her off outside the reception lobby. It would have cheered him up, but the astonishing encounter felt private to her, and she didn't want Carter—or anyone else—to know about it. The feeling made no sense, considering that the point of this whole trip was for her to get close to Jake.

No, she corrected herself. The point was for Sandra to get close to Jake. What Molly Shaw did had nothing to do with anything, and therefore, it was her own business.

“The
plan,
” Carter said, sounding aggrieved, “was to put Sandra on the beach with Elaine while Jake was windsurfing, so that he could see her when he finished. And then she was supposed to invite him to lunch. It would have been perfect. The moment was right. But now we don't have time to get you ready before he quits at eleven.”

“Jake isn't windsurfing,” Molly said. “I just saw him over by reception.”

Carter's eyes rounded with delight. “You did? He's late, too? Was he going to the beach?”

“How would I know?” Molly asked crossly. Jake hadn't exactly detailed his plans for the day during the short drive back from the ruins. They had made polite small talk. He had asked her about her work, and Molly had launched into her usual litany of papers published and grants received. It was the kind of answer designed to impress another academic, but Molly had suddenly realized that she sounded as pompous as…well, as her father. Jake had feigned interest, but the truth was undeniable. In the car with that man, in that bright and steamy tropical landscape, her carefully cultivated scholarly image felt as colorless and desiccated as an old bone.
I'm not boring,
she thought, frustrated.
Not really.
She knew it, but Jake Berenger didn't. And for some reason, that bothered her.

“We'll give it a try,” Carter said decisively. “We've got nothing to lose. Elaine has the perfect spot on the beach. I'll go and send her back to help you get ready. Today is the day, I can feel it.”

They arrived at the beach shortly after eleven, with Molly transformed into Sandra, to find Carter holding their place and practically quivering with excitement. He reported that Jake had taken his board out onto the water, and if he stayed out for his usual hour-long session, he was due back in about twenty minutes.

Due to the amount of padding and tape involved in being Sandra, Molly was not able to wear a bikini, so Elaine had improvised by dressing her in a pair of tight white shorts and a white push-up bustier, covered by a gauzy pink button-down shirt open at the front and knotted at her waist. A folded pink and white Hermès scarf served as a headband to help keep the platinum wig in place, and since Elaine's silver sunglasses had become part of Sandra's look, Molly was wearing them, as well.

The only problem was with her “shoe strategy,” as Jake had put it. In the soft sand, neither the platform sandals nor the stiletto heels were functional, depriving Molly of the four inches of height that Carter considered scientifically essential.

“Tiptoes,” Elaine said cheerfully as they prepared to go for a stroll on the beach. “Up, up, dear.”

“Huh?” Molly said.

“Did you ever see Brigitte Bardot clumping around St. Tropez like a flat-footed elephant? I don't think so. Did Marilyn Monroe shuffle like a waitress on the late shift? Never. Tiptoes. Light and playful. Frolic a little. Smile, dear, we're being watched.”

Molly smiled. “Are you seriously telling me,” she said through her teeth, “that you want me to walk up and down this beach on my
toes?”

“Lifting the heels elongates the leg and raises the derriere,” Elaine said. “It also tones the calf muscles, which is something that we ought to discuss, dear, just as a point of interest to you. A regular exercise program can do wonders for both physique and mood.”

“Thanks, dear,” Molly said. “I'll make a note of that.”

There were several bright sails visible on the bay, but they were all too far out for Molly to be able to identify Jake. It was interesting that he was so committed to his daily hour of windsurfing. She wondered whether it was the sport itself that he loved or the hour of solitude. Despite everything she'd read and heard, he really didn't seem to be the shallow playboy type. He was smart, with a sense of humor, and he had utterly astonished her with his willingness to give her time to confirm the provenance of the plantation ruins. If she had been wearing the Sandra suit, his kindness might have been suspect, in light of his reputation as a womanizer. But, she thought, with a small twist in her heart, it was safe to assume that Jake Berenger had not developed a sudden passionate attraction to Molly Shaw.

So why had he been so agreeable? Did he actually—as he had claimed—care about the island's cultural heritage? It was hard to believe, but she could find no other explanation. He had been willing to listen to her. And to help her, at his own expense. She knew very little about commercial construction, but delaying a project of that size—even for a week or two—had to be costly. His generosity was extraordinary.
How,
she thought,
can a man like that be as bad as the press makes him sound?

“My goodness,” Elaine said. “The sun is very hot today.” She was wearing an enormous straw hat that prevented Molly from walking within two feet of her, oversized square sunglasses that covered half of her face, and a black bathing suit with a chiffon wrap tied strategically around her hips. “As a rule, I prefer shade, and so should you, my dear. The sun is not a woman's friend. I know a doctor in New York who is an absolute genius—not to say that I've had any work done, but I make it my business to know these things, and he tells me that it's not just a matter of wrinkles. It's about texture, you see, and too much sun will make you look like an old boot…Good heavens!”

She stopped in her tracks.

Molly followed her gaze, and saw two people approaching from the opposite direction. One was a tall and stunningly beautiful young woman, thin as a whippet, wearing a red bikini made of three microscopic triangles. Next to her walked a bald man in flowing white robes. Molly glanced around and saw that she and Elaine were not the only ones staring.

“I don't believe it,” Elaine said through her teeth. “Him! That crook! How dare he. I've heard the rumors, of course, but I didn't believe them. I couldn't imagine that any client of mine would ever…oh, this is very bad.”

“That woman was a client of yours?” Molly asked.

“Yes. Ingrid Anderson. She's a well-known model. I introduced her to her husband two years ago.”

The couple was getting close, and Molly looked askance at the robed man. “That's her husband?”

Elaine looked offended. “Certainly not,” she said. “Her husband is an investment banker.
That
man is a bedsheet-covered charlatan.”

This didn't clear anything up for Molly, but she couldn't ask for more information, because the odd couple was now right in front of them. Elaine pulled off her sunglasses. “Ingrid!” she exclaimed. “Darling! How wonderful to see you.”

The young woman looked alarmed. “Oh,” she said. “Baroness Von Reinholz.”

Elaine patted her fondly on the arm. “It's Mrs. Newberg now, dear. I haven't used my title since I remarried. How are you? I see that you have a new”—she looked the robed man up and down with a cold eye—“friend.”

“Namaste,”
said the man. “Peaceful greetings.” He put his hands together in the prayer position and bowed.

Elaine's lips formed a tight smile. “Indeed,” she said.

The man extended his hand to Molly. “And what is your name, my child?”

“Sandra,” Molly said. “Sandra St. Claire.” She had been squinting at him from behind her sunglasses, trying to guess his age and ethnicity, and having no luck with either. He had a sculpted face, darkly tanned skin, pale blue eyes, and no discernible accent.

“Sandra,” said the man. His fingers held hers, and his eyes lingered briefly on her chest. “My earthly incarnation is known as Rama Guru. I would be honored if you would know me, Sandra.”

“Uh…” Molly said, taken aback.

“The Spirit is One,” said Rama Guru. “In the Light, we are One. Would you like to know the Way to the Light, Sandra?”

“That
will do,” Elaine said sharply. “It's a very kind offer from Mr. Guru, I'm sure, but we have time commitments, so we'll have to say good-bye. Ingrid!”

Ingrid Anderson jumped. Elaine patted her again, as if she were calming a skittish horse. “Come and see me, dear. Alone. Three o'clock. Cottage Five. We'll have tea and some girl talk.”

“Okay,” Ingrid said. She didn't sound enthusiastic.

“I bid you peace,” said Rama Guru. “And the courage to Seek.”

Elaine glared at him, took Molly by the arm, and marched her down the beach. Her posture was ramrod-straight, and her lips were pressed together.

“Who was that weird guy?” Molly asked as soon as they were out of earshot. “Where is he from?”

“California,” Elaine said grimly, as if that explained everything. She looked out at the bay and then stopped walking. “Ah,” she said in a more normal tone. “Let's turn around. I believe I see Jake coming in.”

Jake let his sail drop into chest-high water, and jumped off the board. He floated on his back and raised his face to the sun. It was a perfect day, and he would have paid a million dollars—in cash—for the chance to spend another hour on the water. But God was not taking bribes, and neither was his mother. She was giving a luncheon party for the Koppelsons, old friends from Palm Beach, and he was due back at the house at noon. It was currently ten minutes to twelve.