Free Volcano by Patricia Rice Page A

wasn’t the entire reason for her silence.
    Warm salt water lapped at her bare toes. A slice of silver moon cut a swath across the black sand, breaking it into dancing diamonds. Palm trees dipped and swayed to the ocean breeze. And from somewhere amid the lights on the hill, calypso music drifted with a lilting tune she recognized but couldn’t name.
    She was standing in the midst of every woman’s fantasy. Alone.
    She discounted the football player slogging through the sand beside her, beer in hand. She’d had her fill of football players and their egos long ago. If she’d envisioned any man at all in this fantasy, it would be a tall, sophisticated gentleman, one who would whisper romantic words and offer a lover’s toast with his champagne glass. Not an ox who bellowed orders, cursed under his breath, and preferred beer.
    But she wasn’t angry with Charlie. She was just—soppy sentimental, she supposed. She’d avoided dreams of marriage and kids in favor of a career. All her life she’d craved respect for her brains and education, instead of her looks. She’d achieved that respect, sort of. She was well aware that men with half her abilities had been promoted to positions ahead of her. But she’d taken up golf—she hated golf—networked with the partners, and finally garnered this chance to earn the position she deserved. And she stood here now, in this exotic setting, wondering if it wouldn’t be better dancing in the moonlight than worrying about corporate tax structures.
    Stupid of her. The ocean and the trees would be here tomorrow, and next year, and the years after that. Beth’s operation couldn’t wait that long. Beth would never see an island beach beneath the moonlight. Even the operation wouldn’t guarantee that much. It offered only hope that her eyes wouldn’t deteriorate and the pain wouldn’t worsen. Conceivably, someday, she might be healthy enough to dance to the island music.
    â€œWe need to rent a car.”
    The masculine voice startled Penelope as abruptly as if he’d awakened her. She glanced up at Charlie’s broad silhouette, backlit by the moon as they reached the steps. Primitive of her to enjoy the view. His words jerked her fantasy back to reality.
    Charlie caught her elbow and steered her up the stairs. She yanked her arm from his grasp.
    â€œI need a car to get into the interior,” he explained carefully, as if to a two-year-old. “I don’t want to show my license or use my credit card. They rent jeeps here. We can stop at the lobby and you can—”
    â€œPut a jeep in my name so you can disappear with it? Don’t tempt me. If I could afford it, I’d almost be willing to pay the price. But I can’t, so forget it.”
    â€œLook, I have money. I’ll leave you all my credit cards, if that will make you happy. If I don’t return, you can use them to cruise the Mediterranean. Or get a cash advance to pay for the jeep. Just don’t use them in St. Lucia. Someone might recognize the name, and you may find yourself in more trouble than you can handle. I’m not certain what I’ve gotten myself into here.”
    â€œHow very reassuring.” Although tired, Penelope increased her pace up the hill. She wondered if weariness accounted for her lack of terror toward a man who hot-wired boats, needed someone like her for cover, and had murdering muggers after him.
    He grabbed her arm and pulled her into the shadows of a bougainvillea spilling over a retaining wall. “Look, a man’s life is at stake. Do you think I enjoy begging?”
    â€œIf you’re trying to instill guilt here,” she said conversationally, “you might as well know I’m impervious to it.”
    Another couple descended the stone stairs carrying drinks and laughing. Penelope envied them their carefree gaiety. Why did she have to be the one tormented with other people’s