Volcano (25 page)

“There's the taxi now. Come on.” Charlie grabbed her elbow and steered her toward the dock.

For a moment, Penelope felt as if she'd been thrown back to that first day when he'd practically kidnapped her off the plane. She dragged her feet until she realized the water taxi was the easiest way back to the resort.

Just so there was no misunderstanding, Penelope announced the name of the resort as her destination before climbing into the fishing boat and taking the seat on the far side of the pail of fish bait. She didn't like it when Charlie followed her in, but he probably had things back at the cabin he needed to collect. And maybe he had the old-fashioned notion of “seeing her home.” That was kind of sweet. Actually, she was relieved. She didn't like the idea of walking in on any more bats or tarantulas. She could get used to having a man around to handle some of life's more trying aspects.

As the boat roared into the deepening water of the cove, Charlie pulled his baseball cap over his eyes and fished in his pocket for the wallet he'd retrieved from her purse. Now that they were parting ways, it was only sensible to let him have his wallet back. She hadn't objected to his prying in her purse to get it. After all, he'd done it for her own good at the time.

“Here's a hundred if you can get us into Vieux Fort before noon.” Charlie waved the bill and shouted over the roar of the boat's motor.

Eyes widening, Penelope stared at him in shock. “That's way out of the way! The resort is just around the coast a little. Why can't you drop me off there first?”

“Because we're not going there.” Slapping his mirrored sunglasses on his nose, Charlie leaned back and rested his elbows against the rear seat as the boat changed direction for the southernmost point of the island.

“Don't be ridiculous.” Penelope jerked out her purse. She didn't carry hundred-dollar bills, but she still had most of her traveler's checks. If that's what it took, two could play this game.

She rummaged through the contents of her normally well- organized purse. Calculator, Kleenex, cosmetics case... Where the hell was her wallet?

Panicking, she started tossing the contents on her lap, one by one. No wallet. No passport. No money. No identification. This couldn't be happening. She'd held on to her purse through crashing cars and jungles and midnight flights from the police. No one could have stolen her wallet.

Except Charlie.

Stomach tightening in an all too familiar knot, she turned and glared at the man beside her basking casually in the sun. “Where's my wallet?” she demanded.

“In a safe place,” he answered calmly, not even lifting his head to look at her.

She'd only hurt her hand if she punched him. Too furious to speak, too furious to even consider consequences, Penelope abandoned any thought of propriety, lifted the pail of fish bait, and dumped the slimy contents over his fat head.

Charlie yelped and slid backward. She pounced on his backpack.

The boat slopped water over the side as it tipped back and forth. The driver shouted at her. Penelope didn't care. She damned well wouldn't let this man, any man, get the better of her.

She upended the backpack in the bottom of the boat. Jockey shorts, jeans, socks, and T-shirts tumbled out. She grabbed his shaving case and ripped it open. Nothing. She ran her hand over the bottom of the bag, searching for zippers or other openings. Nothing.

The more frantically she behaved, the more Charlie calmed down. After dipping a dirty shirt in the water to wipe his face, he jerked the pack from her grasp and began stowing his gear. “I said a safe place. Backpacks can get stolen.”

Fear gripped her, the kind of paralyzing fear she'd known right after Beth's accident, when she'd been helpless to do anything but watch her twin fight death. Clenching her fists and trying to disguise her panic, Penelope spoke carefully. “I'll never forgive you for this, Charlie. Never. You have no right at all to do this to me.”

“I got you into this, and I'll get you out,” he stated calmly. “I'd rather you hated me alive than loved me dead.”

“I more than hate you, Charlie Smith,” she spat. “I loathe, despise, abhor, and detest you. And you still can't stop me. As soon as we get back to Miami, I'll turn around and buy a ticket back.”

He looked at her with interest. “Did they teach you all those fancy words in college? Maybe I missed a few things. But that still doesn't make you any smarter than me.”

She didn't like the way he said that. Maybe she'd been a little hasty in declaring her intentions. Maybe she should have waited until she had her passport in her hands before she opened her big mouth.

Maybe she ought to just give it up and rob a bank for her sister's operation.

Gloomily staring out at the beautiful crystalline water she had yet to play in, Penelope didn't say another word.

Charlie didn't waste his time worrying about his companion's silence. The fish bait was an interesting new routine, but he'd lived with a lot worse than the smell of fish. If she could stand the stink, so could he. That he'd gotten so far under her icy accountant's skin that she could explode was the interesting point.

He'd already decided to ignore his niggling suspicions about Raul and concentrate on a plan to save his company and maybe uncover Jacobsen. Penelope's silence gave him time to refine his plan. She did “frosty” real well, but he figured he could defrost her when the time was right. Of course, from the looks of it, the time wouldn't be right until he took care of this job fixation of hers.

As they climbed onto the dock in Vieux Fort, Charlie kept a sharp lookout on his unwilling companion while he hastily splashed in the water to remove the worst of the lingering stink. He didn't want Penelope running off and getting into who-knows-what trouble while his back was turned. But she watched him bathe and followed him into a taxi without comment.

At the airport he bypassed the lines of tourists in the terminal by heading directly toward the ramshackle hangar where his plane was stored. His pilot and a customs inspector were already waiting when they arrived.

“I've brought another passenger, Jim,” Charlie announced, producing his passport and Penelope's from his pocket and handing them over. Penelope's eyes dripped icy disdain as the inspector marked the books and handed them back to Charlie. He could hear her diatribe on that now.

“Weather's fine. No problem.” Jim hitched their bags into the small plane's luggage compartment.

Penelope's silence was working on his nerves, but Charlie wasn't about to admit that. He handed her into the plane, and she jerked free of his hold as soon as her feet hit the deck. She was already buckled up by the time he climbed in.

All right, so he liked hearing her talk. She never rattled on about subjects of no interest to him. Of course, he probably didn't want to hear the topics rolling around in that powerful mind of hers right now. They probably had to do with international kidnapping and the police. So he was better served by her silence.

He just wished she understood a little better. He could use her insight on the best way to get the liens off his bank accounts.

Well, he had lawyers who could handle that. He'd have to concentrate on tracking down the connections between Jacobsen and his unlimited sources of income. That looked like the fastest way of putting the man out of commission. Charlie wasn't a cop. He couldn't identify the murdered man in Raul's shack any more than he could find Michel's murderer.

But he'd passed on all the information in his possession to the island police before they'd left this morning. They would have to handle their fair share of the burden while he tracked down the parts important to him.

Raul was his first goal. He only hoped his partner was being his usual cautious self by not imparting information unless he knew he was safe. Maybe that information implicated Emile, and Raul didn't feel safe telling it to Charlie.

He had to find Tammy, which meant meeting Penelope's sister and her cop ex-brother-in-law.

As the plane sailed over brilliant aqua waters, Charlie contemplated that little scene. Was Penelope's sister the stick- her-nose-in-the-air type? She probably wore little pearl necklaces and fancy flowy dresses like her twin. He assumed they lived in one of those uptown condos cluttered with the delicate antiques a man couldn't sit on to save his soul. The sister would hear him blundering into her expensive Chinese vases and figure Penelope had been having a little R&R with the stableboy.

Charlie slumped in his seat and rubbed his aching forehead. He knew better than to let his thoughts wander in that direction. Most of it was his own damned fault. He could put on a fancy suit and designer tie and drive up in a BMW—naw, he couldn't stoop that low, maybe a Corvette—but he just didn't see any future in it. He was a blue-collar kind of guy and he intended to stay that way. He had season tickets to the Dolphins games, not the opera. He didn't fit into Penelope's world any better than she fit into his.

But the sex sure was damned good.

He cast Penelope a sidelong glance, but she sat rigidly staring out the window. Well, he could kiss the sex good-bye. She'd sooner shove a knife down his throat than her tongue right now. Did she really think he'd leave her on the island to get kidnapped by thugs?

Shit. Charlie stared out his own window. He liked having Penelope working with him instead of against him. Hell, he'd even liked it when she'd been digging into him with those barbs of hers.

He liked the way they bounced ideas back and forth and reached the same conclusion. He liked the way one silky black tendril always escaped her pins and caressed her throat, and the way she absently shoved it aside with manicured fingers.

And if he got off on the subject of how well he liked the way she responded to him in bed, he'd be harder than a rock and twice as uncomfortable.

She was right. They had absolutely nothing in common, except sex.

Remembering the Jacuzzi, Charlie sighed. Nothing in common, maybe, but a little extra something neither of them had planned on.

What the hell would he do if he'd gotten her pregnant?

Charlie was studying the computer printouts she'd given him as if they were a puzzle he could piece together. Penelope tried to focus on the blue-green sea below, but the sight had become a little monotonous. She'd left her supply of books back in the cottage. She had nothing else to occupy her mind but the man in the other seat.

“There's not much on these Russian guys, is there?” Charlie commented, holding aside the two sheets with the foreign names on top while he studied another stack of paper.

“There wouldn't be unless they'd applied for citizenship or jobs,” she responded reluctantly. “Since their income is apparently from offshore investments, they don't even have social security numbers. Officially, I guess they're classified as tourists.”

“But they've been living in the U.S. for almost a year.” Charlie pointed at the date on the papers.

She didn't know why she was talking to him. He didn't deserve a second more of her time. But she was bored and he offered a challenge. “Their address is one of the hotels on the Foundation list. As long as they stay clear of the law, there's apparently nothing wrong with that.”

“So there's no way of connecting them with Jacobsen, other than they own stock in the same corporation?”

“They can't open bank accounts without social security numbers, so no, there's no personal connection to the funds. But if you'll look, Jacobsen's account receives regular deposits that correspond to withdrawals from the Foundation's island account. And the Russians are signatories on that account. They could be laundering money through the resorts and the Foundation into the pockets of individual owners. The United States requires banks to file forms on anyone depositing over ten thousand in cash, but if the cash from illegal operations is deposited in banks on the islands, there's no means of tracing the source of income.”

“But not all the owners of the Foundation are receiving these checks. I don't see any in Emile's account.”

“I don't claim to understand the minds of criminals. The Foundation could be a perfectly legitimate investment company, with only a few of the owners operating a scam. Or the whole thing could be legitimate. Maybe the Foundation is paying Jacobsen for construction projects.”

“Jacobsen's construction company has been closed down until all the suits against it are settled. One of his buildings collapsed during construction, killing several men. For all intents and purposes, he's dead in the water. What project can they be paying him for?”

Penelope made the mistake of looking Charlie in the eyes. Searing intelligence and justifiable anger stared back at her. His eyes were as crystalline blue as the sky above, contrasting handsomely with the sun-scorched color of his skin, but it was the intelligence bowling her over. She wanted him to be just another jock. She could no longer fool herself.

“He could have started another company,” she replied in her best crisp business voice. “Men like that file bankruptcy under one corporate name, leave their creditors hanging, and simply start over in a new company. PC&M handles clients who have done that, although they usually give more credible reasons for the new corporation.”