Volcano (3 page)

Even the man beside her no longer seemed quite as ominous. She could handle old college football players. They were a breed she knew well. If he'd planned to hurt her, he would have tried by now. She'd still like to smack those mirrored sunglasses off his handsome nose. She hated the way the glasses hid his eyes—and his thoughts.

“I'm surprised the area isn't more developed,” she commented. The bag of white stuff nagged at the back of her mind, but she strove for calm. “I thought all these Caribbean islands were wall-to-wall tourist havens.”

“Competition is tough, and St. Lucia doesn't have the services other islands have developed. They're working on it. Castries, of course, is just what you've imagined. That's where most of the tourists go, because that's where the hotels are.” He shrugged. “On the other side of the island where we're headed, the water and electric systems are unpredictable. Sewers, nonexistent. They've experimented with using the volcano's natural heat for generating energy, but the government takes the cheapest bids, and the companies they hire don't have the experience necessary for the task. Like everything, money is the key. Myself, I'd hate seeing this end of the island turned into a Miami parking lot. I prefer it as it is.”

Penelope nodded at a shack on stilts with chickens pecking in the shade beneath the porch. “You prefer seeing people grubbing for a living with no hope of making anything of themselves?”

Taking a deep breath, she finally released her grip on the pepper spray. He hadn't attacked her in any way, and it seemed a trifle irrational to fear a man who talked intelligently of the island economy. On the other hand, he'd been at the right place at the right time when that powder appeared in her suitcase, and dammit, he looked like a drug smuggler. Maybe he'd been waiting for that shipment.

She shifted away from him as Charlie rested his arm on the seat back to lean over and point out the window again.

“Do you really think civilization is worth trading in that view?” he demanded. “Fish are plentiful. Fruit hangs on trees in the front yard. Vegetables grow like weeds. What more can a man ask?”

“Maybe that's enough for a man,” she answered scornfully, pointing at a line of colorful clothes drying in the sun, “but what about for a woman? They're still scrubbing clothes by hand. Are there hospitals where they can have their babies? Can their children get an education? What if a person likes reading and math better than fishing and weeding gardens? What opportunities does that person have? Civilization isn't all bad.”

His muscled arm behind her increased her nervousness, but Penelope refused to acknowledge it. Some people just didn't understand the need for personal space. A smaller man might not have made her so uneasy, but his build was a trifle overpowering. Zack had been a boy when she dated him. Charlie Smith was definitely a full-grown, very possibly dangerous male.

Her unwelcome companion sat back. “Civilization isn't all bad, but people don't know where to draw the line. Schools and utilities are needed. Miles of hotels and parking lots are not. Anse Chastenet has the right idea. They've developed a nearly inaccessible area using architecture that blends in with the landscape and a minimum of cement. They've taken care not to harm the environment and to preserve the natural beauty of the area. It's primitive, perhaps, but it has everything a person should need.”

Penelope couldn't believe he was giving this lecture, but she listened as he continued relentlessly.

“Golf courses and cutesy boutiques can be found anywhere in the world. Why ruin the natural beauty of the island, something that can be found in fewer and fewer places, for something that can be had everywhere else you go?”

“I'm not arguing.” Penelope held up her hands in surrender. Not having seen Anse Chastenet, she could scarcely argue the point. She couldn't believe she was actually discussing social economics with a man who had practically kidnapped and blackmailed her. He was too large, too masculine, too damned self-assured. He crowded her space, usurped her control, and now he sat here conversing on vital issues as if they'd known each other all their lives. In her experience, men didn't
do
that. Not with her, anyway.

She didn't think the combination of raw male sexuality and stimulating discussion healthy for her state of mind, yet talk was better than glaring silences that left her with nothing to do but worry. “I like my creature comforts. And I suspect ninety-nine percent of the people with the wealth to travel here want the same. Doesn't the island have any other economy besides tourism? I should think it would be simpler to preserve the island's natural state if they could keep tourists out.”

“Farming is the only other economy, and it doesn't support them. If you've ever lived on a farm, you know the uncertainty of weather and markets. St. Lucia will have to develop industries to supplement the tourist trade, but industries rely on transportation and utilities, and they're just not available yet.”

Turning to stare at him, Penelope caught her own reflection in his mirrored sunglasses—a reminder of just how little she knew about this man.

Feeling anxious and awkward all over again, she forced her attention back to the incredible vistas of sea on one side and mountains in the distance. She had never seen such magnificent scenery, and rather than argue with her accidental escort, she admired the explosion of flowers along the hillside, hoping they might distract her.

But in the unair-conditioned van, Charlie Smith's expensive fragrance combined with his healthy male musk into a heady odor she couldn't ignore. “It's like driving through a natural conservatory,” she said, controlling her nervousness with speech. Clasping her hands, she nodded at the window. “Look at the philodendron climbing that tree. And that looks like an anthurium growing in front of that house. And bromeliads growing wild. I can't even grow those things in my apartment.”

“Well, they'd have to build climate-controlled buildings here to grow apple trees and lilacs,” he said dryly. “This is a tropical climate, after all. I never saw the point of houseplants anyway.”

“Men don't generally see the point of picking up dirty clothes until they need something to wear either,” she replied, irritation prevailing over fear. “It's the difference between the species.” Ignoring the big brute, Penelope focused on enjoying her first Caribbean experience.

Except that experience included a bag of white powder, police, and a glaringly male jock in a red muscle shirt and mustache. The incident in the airport had thoroughly shaken her. If she failed at this assignment, she could lose everything she'd worked so hard to gain these last years. And she would fail Beth.

Beth, the obedient twin. Blind Beth. Penelope uttered a mental groan and closed her eyes tighter against the image of her beautiful, kindhearted sister wearing scars and dark glasses. The accident hadn't just destroyed Beth's eyes, it had destroyed her marriage, her home, everything. John hadn't been able to cope with the disaster. He'd taken the kids and left, not even thinking of how that would affect Beth. He'd called it making things easier for her, and the court had agreed—a blind unemployed mother could scarcely take care of herself, and certainly not two rambunctious preschoolers. John had robbed Beth of what few expectations she'd had left.

Despite her twin's brave efforts to build a new life, she was wasting away before Penelope's eyes. The new doctor with his experimental procedures had returned hope. Penelope knew her twin thought if she could see even partially again, get rid of the mind-bending pain, she could have her old life back. It wasn't a reasonable hope, but Penelope couldn't deny it to her. She just needed to provide money for the operation, and this job would do it. John certainly couldn't.

In any case, her sister's ex had finished the job that Zack and her father had begun of lowering Penelope's expectations of men.

Remembering her promises, she set her chin firmly. She would make partner and double her income. Maybe she couldn't save the world, but she could save her twin. She would have traveled to darkest Africa if that was what it took to get that money. She could certainly endure the man beside her for a little longer.

“I don't think different species can procreate,” her companion said thoughtfully in response to her earlier remark. “I don't think a difference in priorities creates different species.”

Penelope regarded him with hostility. “You'd argue over anything, wouldn't you?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he replied cheerfully. “Especially when it makes your eyes get all glittery like that. I like the touch of color in your cheeks too. We'll get along just fine.”

“We're not going to get along at all. You'll get out at Soufriere and we'll never see each other again. I appreciate your help back at the airport, but I don't owe you any more than that.”

He tugged at his thick mustache as he looked down at her. “You don't really think those soldiers let you go scot-free, do you? They think you smuggled drugs. Just because I bribed old Alonzo doesn't mean they'll forget the whole incident. They've probably already called ahead. What do you think will happen if you let me off in town and waltz off on your own to an unprotected port where anyone could drop off drugs?”

Penelope stared at him in horror, all the reassuring platitudes she'd whispered to herself crumbling into dust, whipped by gusts of panic. “You should have let me go to the American consulate. They would have fixed things.”

“There's no consulate in Vieux Fort or Soufriere. You're on your own out here. There's scarcely even any Americans out here. Anse Chastenet is a European hangout. Face it, lady, you're stuck with me.”

“I most certainly am not!” she replied in horrified tones, struggling for control of her emotions as well as the situation. “I have business to conduct here. I can't have a two-hundred- pound gorilla trailing behind me. Who in heck do you think you are?”

“Two-twenty, actually,” he replied with more cheer than she thought warranted. “I have business here too, but we're both better off if we pretend we're married. We can be Mr. and Mrs. Smith-Albright, if you prefer. Or we can stay with your name. I'd prefer not using my own.”

His suggestion was too absurd to take seriously. Penelope twisted until her back rested against the window, restoring the distance between them. “You're obviously known here. Why bother with the charade?” she asked coldly.

Did his presence have something to do with her? Maybe he was the police and he thought that white stuff was real! With a vigorous mental effort, she shoved that thought down. She had done nothing wrong.

“I'm only known if I make myself known,” he replied, not retreating. “I was a kid when I was here last.”

“Who the devil are you, then? What are you doing here that you can't use your own name?”

Charlie leaned forward and tipped up her chin with his finger. “Just a businessman. Honest. And if word got out that I was here, it would lead to all manner of rumors. It's no big deal. Trust me.”

Liar, con artist, thief, smuggler, or—maybe he was telling the truth. For all she knew, he was an eccentric millionaire interested in buying the island. She was no better at guessing games than at haggling. She had no more energy left for puzzles of any kind.

Jerking her head away, she shook her head in denial. “It's out of the question,” she replied, choosing to view this logically, without the childish speculation of a bad TV movie. “I'm not some twenty-year-old fresh off the turnip truck. You can go to Soufriere or check in at Anse Chastenet or whatever you like, but not with me. I'll report you to the hotel management if you even so much as suggest it again.”

“Darling, you're a hard nut to crack.” He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest, giving her some breathing room. “But I got caught with an unexpected change of plans at the height of tourist season. There's no room at the inn. The cottages at Anse Chastenet are big enough for both of us.”

Penelope gazed at the stranger's implacable expression with horror. “You're insane,” she murmured. The nightmare hadn't ended, then; it had just taken on a new aspect, one hidden behind mirrored glasses.

“I can be very cooperative if you play the game.” He shrugged. “Or I can report you to the authorities as a drug smuggler as soon as we arrive. Which would you prefer?”

“They wouldn't believe you,” she said, but fear shivered down her spine. Bad TV movies flickered through her mind again. It was terribly convenient that the plastic bag had shown up when he was around to “rescue” her.

“Oh, but they will,” he countered. “You see, if I introduce myself, the authorities here will know who I am, but they don't know you. If I tell them I've learned you're meeting a drug shipment, who do you think they'll believe? How do you think I got you past Alonzo?”

Not only the partnership, but her entire career would be no more than a gleam in her eye if she ended up in a jail cell. Beth needed hope right now, and Penelope could give it to her only if she had money. The money depended on this job. And this job depended on her staying out of jail and getting her work done.

Still, she didn't submit willingly. “You're the one who doesn't want your name on the register,” she reminded him. “Are you certain the authorities will like hearing you're in town?”