Into the Flames (Perilous Connections: Book Two) Read online

  I stiffen at this totally foolish, not to mention dangerous intention.

  Tourists. It’s no wonder the islanders disliked them so much.

  She is waiting for my response and the disgust I feel must show in my eyes because some of the enthusiasm drains away from her flushed cheeks. “I mean, we’re not exactly going to try and go closer than they recommend but we may get lucky,” she finishes lamely.

  A pretty little liar.

  Daphne isn’t a liar. That is one thing I’m certain of and she would never put herself or her family in harm’s way. I had done that. Deliberately.

  Aimee looks up at me hopefully, bats her suspiciously ebony black eyelashes, totally at odds with her blond coloring. “I would love company besides my parents,” she pouts.

  It’s become even more of an effort to look through her while pretending to see her but its got to stop now. I shake my head sadly. “I’m afraid not. There are some plants I need to collect for my work.”

  Her eyes become beacons at this little bit of fabrication. “You’re a geologist?” she gushes. She’s up on her toes now, her body straining towards me, her breasts too visible beneath the white tank top are clearly outlined against the stretchy cotton. They’re not bad. Her mouth opens in a breathless little o of anticipation as if she expects it to be filled at any moment.

  There is zero interest from my body which is completely deadened to her well practiced and no doubt thoroughly sampled wares. Daphne had taken all my interest.

  Nonetheless I smile as if she’d just made an adorable mistake, “botanist,” I clarify humbly.

  She fairly simpers in excitement, flicking a moistened tongue over her parted lips, there’s nothing quite like bringing home a man with an important sounding job title. I repress a sigh of irritation.

  But then again I experience an unusual speck of empathy for her and I try to let her down softly. “Perhaps we’ll meet up somewhere on Montserrat. It’s only thirty square miles.” Not many places to hide unfortunately.

  Her face caves in with disappointment. “I guess …” She gives me another longing glance. “Well, I’ll be seeing you around.” She moves away with barely concealed reluctance.

  Relieved I face the sea again. Its damp air hits my face, tunnels into my nostrils. We are pulling into the dock and there is a stream of people waiting to board to go back to Antigua. The blue grey waves lap at the wooden feet of the pier.

  I look around for Daphne, Elaine and Aubrey. They are at the back of the crowd. I let the tide of people carry me along toward the exit and onto the pier. We are bustled through with barely a glance from the two immigration officials waiting, they are too busy laughing and gossiping with each other.

  I wait for Daphne in the small, strategically placed eating area several feet away. There is a restaurant right behind me, its counter is decorated with small jars of ketchup and mustard. The smell of bacon and scrambled eggs hangs heavy in the air, keeping the scent of the sea at bay. My stomach grumbles as I watch amusedly while several tourist rush past me to be the first ones in line to order a meal.

  I claim a table, and then finding Elaine and Aubrey in the crowd beckon them over. I feel guilty at the look of worry that has become plastered on Elaine’s face. But Aubrey is perky and happy, thanks no doubt to the chocolate he’d consumed and the boat ride.

  I’d forgotten that most children loved adventures, especially unexpected ones. Still Elaine doesn’t appear as such a shrew now, and instead of greed or hostility confusion dominates her face.

  I can’t blame her. They take a seat. I bend over to her. “Order something to eat. Then we’ll find out if those relatives of yours can point us in the right direction to rent a house for a few days."

  A well trained waitress immediately bustles over to our table. I excuse myself and make my way to Daphne who is standing by the rope which separates the sea from the pier. She is watching the ferry reload with its new passengers.

  I don’t have to be psychic to know what she’s thinking. That she should be on it.

  The roar of the ferry engine is beginning to split the air and it churns the water, sending up white islands in the waves. It is going within minutes, parting the sea like a lumbering dame determined to find its port.

  But the ferry does not long claim my attention. At my approach Daphne’s shoulders tense, and I see the stiffness overcome her entire body, particularly her hands which clench on the rope. She keeps her head straight, refusing to make eye contact with me.

  I want her to turn around and look at me. She is already in my blood, after just two days and two soul shattering experiences in her arms. That more than anything had been the reason for my harshness in the bathroom. I cannot allow myself to fall in love with her because I don’t intend to see her again after I leave. And that would be in a few days. First I have to make sure that she’s okay before I close that door.

  I want to touch her now and I reach out for her slender fingers bunched around the rope, but she hurriedly slides them away. My mouth thins. I expected this but it still rubs me raw.

  “I’m not the devil you know.” I force a crooked smile.

  She huffs, shoots me a golden glance, then her lashes sweep down immediately, and I miss whatever emotions she is trying to hide from me. “So you say.”

  I manage to laugh at that. I like her sharp wit, love it actually. It was one of the first things I saw in her face, keen intelligence and humor.

  I join her in contemplating the water. “Do you like the sea?”

  She draws in a little breath, and it sounds … sad. “My dad did.”

  “Really. Why?” Immediately I know it’s a stupid question. All Caribbean folks seem to feel something toward the sea, whether for its beauty or its healthful benefits. It was to them another extension of the land, a usually calm, liquid half that provided their weekly swim.

  She turns then and my heart softens as I take in her reddened eyes, and the trembling chin that she is fighting to control. The urge to reach out nearly overpowers me and I have to clench my hand until I can feel each of the bones in them.

  “My dad was a part-time fisherman.” Her voice breaks and with it my control snaps and I snatch her hand before she can pull it away. Her eyes search mine and I hold her look, cradling her hand securely in mine.

  The skin of her palms is roughened from maid work, but that doesn’t detract from the elegant lines of the bones in her fingers. I caress them and she stiffens beneath my touch but amazingly does not pull away.

  From earlier conversations I can sense how painful it is for her to talk about her father. Though I want to pursue it because it means that she would be reminiscing instead of savaging me with her tongue, I exert some decency and leave her to grieve for the loss of her father.

  “Can you swim?” I ask, hoping to dispel some of the gloom from her face.

  Her bottom lips quivers and for a moment I think she’s about to cry but instead an embarrassed laugh escapes her. “A little, though I tend to sink.”

  I chuckle, sharing her mirth. “How come? You’re not …” Oh no, my incredibly stupid tongue has done it again. An outraged gasp whooshes from between her lips and she shoots me a quelling look before she tugs her hand away from me.

  I cinch my lips together giving my mouth a deserved rest. I would kick my own ass if I were that flexible. How stupid can I be? Her weight is no enigma to me because less than an hour ago she’d been slung around my hips, my hands cupping her bottom as we’d rocked together against a wall.

  I open my mouth to apologize when something collides with me so hard I barely stop myself from tumbling backwards into the water below the pier. Daphne shrieks and reaches for me, with her assistance I quickly find my footing and we both swing around.

  And there is Stacy!

  I barely regain my balance before she flings herself into my arms, laughing, crying, rambling like a crazy lunatic.

  “Whoa … wait … wait just a minute,” I hold her out from me, “Stacy?
What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Oh Nate. You can’t know. It’s so good to see you. So good.” She breaks down and starts sobbing. I clasp her to me and hush her, even as she buries her face in my chest, a not unknown region of my body as she is a past lover. Even with my mind working a mile-a-minute I see Daphne retreat a few steps away from us. Distancing herself from me.

  “No. Don’t go,” I hold out my hand to her but she simply ignores me and walks away. I grit my teeth in frustration. I cannot chase her again, not now.

  Instead I tilt Stacy’s head back and stare down into her trusting green eyes. This close I see the fading yellow bruises on her cheek, and the cut in the middle of her bottom lip that is nearly healed and I know who has done this.

  Still I have to be certain. “What happened and what are you doing in Montserrat?” My voice is cold with anger and I try to smile to soften its effect on an obviously traumatized Stacy.

  She sniffs like a lost child, and her gaze darts around the wooden pier, towards the restaurant now filled with tourists, then over towards the taxi men patrolling the sides like vultures waiting for the feast.

  She shudders in my arms. “Emmanuel. He found me. He thought I knew where you were.”

  His name sucks the air from my lungs. I grasp her tighter to keep us both upright. This is also my fault. Another layer of guilt further weighs me down. “I’m so sorry Stacy.”

  She sighs, a pitiful sound. “It doesn’t matter now cause you’re here.”

  I close my eyes and rest my chin on her forehead. What on earth did she mean? Does she really think that I can save her from Emmanuel? That I even stand a chance at saving myself?

  The only real protection I had apart from my fists which are at best a weak comparison to Emmanuel’s is the cold, small weight of the single key that is secured underneath the sole of my left foot. The only proof that could stop Emmanuel from killing me if I can convince him to listen long enough and more importantly to report my words to his boss, my former employer, Pablo Guarez. The very man on whose orders I am being hunted to be killed.

  I gently detangle Stacy’s hands from around my waist. Her hold doesn’t feel right anymore. We are no longer lovers. I search around her shoulder but Daphne is nowhere in sight.

  My heart thunders with fast building apprehension and I frantically scan the crowd.

  Has she chosen this moment to sneak off and find someone to listen to her story? Then I see her, seated with Elaine and Aubrey at the table and my stress level plummets.

  I tug a reluctant Stacy over towards the table. There is no question in my mind that I have to protect Stacy, since I’m responsible for her mess and that means she must stay with us.

  It’s only minutes later as I begin the silted introductions and I sit to scarf down a plate of eggs, bacon and toast that my reaction to Daphne’s momentary disappearance hits me.

  After Stacy’s arrival and I’d lost sight of Daphne for those several seconds, my fear had had nothing to with her dashing off and informing immigration like she’d threatened to do on the ferry. Rather I see with sickening clarity that all of it, every ounce of fear that had rushed into my body as I’d searched for her had been because I was afraid I would never see her again.

  I take long, slow swallows of my warm coffee and contemplate this totally unexpected turn that this whole mess has taken and how best to rid myself of these dangerous feelings.

  At least I can try and solve one right away. “Elaine?”

  I’m not surprised to find Elaine watching me with reignited interest. I glance at her and she quickly rearranges her features into one of disinterest. “Yes, Nate?”

  “Is it possible that we can meet up with one of your relatives in town this morning right after we’re done here?”

  She nods. “I think so. But I need to make a call.” She looks at me, and it strikes me for the first time in several weeks that I’m not carrying a cell phone. Elaine obviously expects me to have one.

  “Don’t have one.” Holding her startled look, I dare her to question me about this shocking abnormality. She doesn’t but if I had thought her merely interested in all the crazy things which have happened since Daphne brought me home, that is nothing compared to the raging questions I see in her eyes now. She literally cannot credit the reality of my lack of a phone and my stubbornness in refusing to satisfy her unasked questions.

  I remain obstinately silent. Let her think whatever the hell she wants.

  She mumbles something about asking the restaurant owner to use their phone and disappears.

  I watch her go because the alternative is watching the two women at the table stare at me or each other. Thank God for Aubrey who is digging into this second helping of bacon oblivious to the storm building around the table.

  Chapter Five

  Daphne

  “Daphne? Right? Why are you guys travelling with Nate?” Stacy asks from beside me in the bus on the way to our newly rented house.

  My eyes narrow though I try to fix a friendly to my mouth. “Same reason you are. To get away from Emmanuel.”

  Her brows scrunch up. “But I don’t understand why Emmanuel would be after you?” She looks around at Elaine and Aubrey, “and your family.”

  I should not have savored the feel of the answer on my tongue but I did, “because Nate was sleeping over at my house.”

  Her witchy green eyes look honestly puzzled, instead of the spark of jealousy I had hoped to ignite. I need to cut this conversation short for both our sakes. I start to do just that when Nate gets up from the front of the bus where he’d been sitting with the driver and makes his way toward us.

  He’d been listening. There’s no doubt about that.

  Her face lights up at his approach. I turn away hurriedly to avoid seeing a similar response from him. He takes the only seat which is beside Stacy who is sitting at the end of the seat. Their bodies are molded together, his long muscled thigh dusted with short blond hair is smack against her slender, creamy looking one.

  A muscle jerks in my jaw.

  “Daphne is hedging because I conned her into marrying me.”

  “You what?” Stacy’s eyes look ready to pop from her head. “But how … why?” There is a world of hurt in that little sing-song voice she uses which has already started to get on my nerves.

  He rolls his shoulders in the too tight space, no doubt touching Stacy who I notice despite her shock at finding her lover wed does not have the willpower to move away from the intimate contact. “I needed a wife and … Daphne,” he stops and I feel his eyes burning lasers in the side of my cheek, “just wanted to be rid of me.” He finishes with a satisfied smirk.

  I reward his flippant tone with a sour look. “Thanks for nothing,” I huff and then give my complete attention to Stacy. “Nate abducted me from Sunset-”

  “Sunset Cove?” She supplies with a squeak.

  I blink, and now it’s my turn to be taken back. How did she know that? Then the answer becomes all too plain.

  Stacy turns like a condemned martyr to Nate. “You married her after you told me to leave the hotel?”

  The wicked part of me wants to laugh at the dramatic break in her voice but I can’t. Nate has also made me taste this pain all too recently.

  He is manipulative and dangerous.

  Trapped he can’t quite hide his irritation, whether at his own callousness or Stacy’s pain I can’t be sure, but I would bet it’s neither.

  He is staring at me again but I refuse to answer his silent challenge to look at him. “I married Daphne because I wanted to stay in the Caribbean, out of sight from Emmanuel.”

  Stacy’s brows draw together. “You never explained why Pablo-”

  “Stacy!” the curtness in his voice causes both Stacy and I to jump, he shoots Stacy a quelling look, “like I’d explained that was none of your concern. You should have returned to Michigan like you said.”

  Stacy sticks out kissable lips. “My vacation wasn’t over yet.”


  He raises a merciless eyebrow, “Yeah. Well it certainly is now.”

  Stacy subsides like a spoiled child.

  After staring at me with an intense look on his face, which I deliberately ignore, I return my eyes to the green hilly scenery flashing by outside the taxi window. He sighs, then gives up and returns to the front of the bus.

  If only Stacy would follow along. Why hadn’t she chosen a different seat? Preferably one closer to her knight-in-tarnished armor?

  I give up trying to be comfortable and fix my thoughts on the road ahead but I can’t because every winding turn of the bus up the hill causes Stacy’s thighs to brush against mine.

  I steal another glance at her legs and I grind my teeth as bitter, galling jealousy festers inside me.

  Her legs are like twins, perfectly matched, slender, firm and blemish less. The type of skin that you had to be born with because you could never get it from a bottle.

  And so runs the rest of her body. She is like a gazelle, elegant, beautifully proportioned. Willowy, mahogany waves and green eyes complete an already perfect picture. She appears totally unaware of my perusal. She closes her eyes and her long lashes drift down against her cheeks, highlighting the tiny lines of fatigue around the corners of her eyes. No doubt courtesy of being pursued by Emmanuel.

  I sag in defeat. Seeing her clasped protectively in Nate’s arms on the pier had been too much to take and I had made my escape as soon as I had regained the use of my faculties.

  I did not need to stretch my imagination to know that they were related in the biblical sense.

  I WILL NOT CRY!

  But the sting does not go away. He still cares for her. That was clear in the way he had held her, nuzzled the top of her head like a beloved pet!

  And she … loves him. The softness of her body as she’d pressed into him was enough proof of that.

  I focus intensely on the dark green of the trees which hug the roadside, the velvety looking grass swaying at their feet. The distant murmur of running water teases my senses. Montserrat is lushly forested and watered, typical of the volcanic regions in the Caribbean.