What kind of place was this island?

Several seconds passed before Hannah’s brain registered what her eyes were seeing. Pushing through the door was Buster the alligator, his mouth full of wildflowers.

Like a bouquet, she thought wildly as Buster took a step toward her.

That was it. Hannah leaped onto the counter and scrambled over it, landing in a surprised Buck Shanahan’s arms.

“Oh, my God,” Hannah whispered.

“Shh,” he said. He didn’t put her down.

Moving slowly, Buster edged his huge body into the office. His gaze never left Hannah as he made a relatively quiet groan and dropped the flowers on the floor.

“I don’t believe this,” Buck whispered.

Then, slowly, with great reluctance, Buster backed his huge length out of the office. Outside, he offered another mating roar.

“Wow!” Buck said. “Buster just brought you a bouquet.”

Hannah stared at him, seeking balance. “I’m underwhelmed.”

Also by Sue Civil-Brown

The Prince Next Door

Breaking All the Rules

Next Stop, Paradise

Tempting Mr. Wright

Catching Kelly

Chasing Rainbow

Letting Loose

Carried Away

Hurricane Hannah
Sue Civil-Brown

www.millsandboon.co.uk

AUTHOR NOTE

NO ALLIGATORS WERE harmed in the writing of this book. No humans were harmed by alligators in the writing of this book.

Poker is not advocated as a way to settle disputes or make money, except on Treasure Island.

Flights to Treasure Island depart regularly. Return flights are unpredictable.

Buster will meet you at the airport. Bring a chicken.

To the survivors of Katrina,

from survivors of Charlie, Frances and Jean.

Our prayers are with you all.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER ONE

HANNAH LAMONT DIDN’T have a whole lot of choices left, and she busied herself debating who she was going to skin alive: her mechanic, or the jerk who’d sold her this piece of junk claiming it was in A-one condition.

Because right now, she and the corporate jet she was ferrying were in serious trouble. Evening dimmed the sky, the clouds reddened with warning, the islands below looked too small and unpopulated, and her fuel was running low thanks to something that had blown about fifteen minutes ago. Her radio had quit, so she couldn’t call for help or direction, and her hands gripped the yoke as if they were throttling someone.

She bought and sold used corporate jets for a living. Never before had she ferried one in this kind of condition. Paranoid thoughts of sabotage began to swirl around the back of her brain.

She couldn’t imagine how Len, her mechanic, could have missed anything essential when he checked out this plane. She knew he’d spent four weeks bringing it up to snuff. And bringing these used jets up to snuff kept her in business. She took pride in delivering planes that were as good as new, even though they might have already been flown for a decade or more.

So what had gone wrong this time? Some kind of metal fatigue? Something that there was no way Len could possibly have noticed? Or just plain crazy bad luck?

But what the hell. She could always go out in a so-called blaze of glory.

Then she spied salvation. On an island that was mostly a volcanic cone, she saw not only signs of civilization, but, also, on a plateau, she made out an unmistakable airport. It was a small airport, and she could only hope she would have enough gas for the reverse thrust, because those landing strips looked awfully short.

But what choice did she have at this point? She couldn’t even warn them she was coming in. She just had to go. Dipping down low, she circled in and said a quick prayer. This or nothing.

As she descended to one hundred feet and circled the field in the standard oval approach pattern, she passed over the heads of a gaggle of people who looked at her like she was crazy.

Well, she was crazy. If she hadn’t been crazy she never would have taken over her dad’s business in the first place. No, she’d have found some sane job in an office somewhere where she didn’t have to put her life on the line on a routine basis. Because she couldn’t escape the fact that flying the Caribbean skies was asking for trouble, what with countries that wouldn’t let you land, smugglers who were trying to fly off the radar, commercial flights that thought they owned the airways and small, private planes piloted by people who shouldn’t be allowed to get both feet off the ground at the same time.

And of course, always the risk of being mistaken for a drug runner herself. But her luck there had been pretty good, when all was said and done. She’d only been shot at once, and held at gunpoint twice. So far the local police had been fairly decent to her. Once they ran their drug dogs all over her plane, that was.

And in some airports, she was even left alone.

This flight to Aruba should have been a piece of cake. She hadn’t even had to fly into the Bermuda Triangle, which always gave her the willies, wondering if this was the time some bubble of methane would decide to thaw and rise from the sea floor, thus depriving her plane of all lift.

But what should have been, wasn’t, and as soon as her wheels touched the runway, she threw on the reverse thrust for all it was worth. At least that worked. The shields immediately dropped behind her engines, redirecting the push forward.

But still the end of the runway raced toward her too fast. This was an airport meant mostly for small planes, and older prop jobs, not jets that had to come in faster in order to maintain lift. She had the brakes on for all they were worth, the flaps were at full, and all her hopes hung on the fact that she was light, having lost almost all her fuel.

She heard her tires screaming, and expected to hear them blow. The runway wasn’t smooth either, forcing her to jolt so hard her teeth banged together.

Oh, God! The runway disappeared almost right in front of her!

She wanted to close her eyes against her coming demise, when she realized that her plane was slowing so fast that her safety harness cut into her shoulders and lap like a knife.

Thank God!

Moments later, she and her plane came to a shuddering halt with only a few feet to spare.

For a long moment, she sat perfectly still, trying to catch her breath. Then the adrenaline turned to fury, and she wanted to kill someone. Now.

And anyone would do.

ON THE TARMAC below, Buck Shanahan’s adrenaline was also surging. He peeked at his hole cards again, though he didn’t need to. The two black Sevens were right where they’d been last time. Coupled with the Seven of Hearts on the table and the two Jacks on the table, that gave him a full house—three Sevens and two Jacks—and a chance to even things with the man who sat across the table from him.

Bill Anstin had become Buck’s nemesis. Treasure Island had been so perfect before Anstin moved here with his high-stakes dreams about turning the island into a major casino resort. Buck liked it just the way it was: sleepy, peaceful, an ideal place to hide from the world.

Each had a constituency. The old islanders, offspring of castoffs from neighboring islands and the earliest white settlers, tended to side with Buck. Anstin’s backers were the new arrivals, most of them Wall Street wizards on the run from the SEC and their investors, looking for a place to hide and launder their ill-gotten gains.

As with every controversy on Treasure Island, it was litigated at the poker table, the “Court of the Green Felt.” Buck versus Anstin, heads-up, no-limit Hold’Em, best two out of three games. Last week, at his casino, Anstin had hit a lucky flush to win the first match. This week they were playing on Buck’s turf, at the island’s small airport. And Buck was about to take him down and even the match.

When the jet came screaming in over the airport, Buck and Anstin and their audience instinctively ducked low and covered their ears. It passed right over their heads, the jet wash sending cards flying all over the tarmac, before the pilot circled back around and hit the runway with a screech of rubber and the roar of twin jet engines on full reverse thrust.

Craig, Buck’s mechanic, stared wide-eyed at the plane as it screeched and roared farther down the runway. “What the hell?”

Buck stood up and bit on the end of his unlit cigar tight enough to make his jaw hurt. “Idiot. Flying jackass!” He watched, somewhere between fury and fear as the pilot of the jet struggled for control, the tail fishtailing a bit as if the reverse thrust weren’t distributed evenly between the engines. In his heart of hearts he believed his runway wasn’t long enough.

“Get the fire fighting equipment,” he barked at Craig Thomas, and started trotting down the runway. “This is one pilot I want to save so I can strangle him.”

The list of offenses was long. Not radioing ahead to request permission, not checking landing conditions, not being sure the runway was long enough…. Not to mention scaring the hell out of him. And—by far the worst of the violations—scattering Buck’s winning cards.

The jet finally rolled to a stop, within twenty feet of the end of the runway. Behind him, Craig caught up in the golf cart that was their only fire engine. It wasn’t like they were a major airport. Buck caught the rail and bounded up, standing on one foot as they drew close to the plane.

The engines were winding down. Then, with an awful choke, one of them just stopped. Moments later the other choked, too.

Buck heard that sound and felt his heart slam. Okay, so maybe he wouldn’t kill the pilot. The guy had come in on fumes. But then his anger surged again. What the hell was he doing flying on fumes anyway?

What if he hadn’t found Buck’s airfield?

Worse yet, what if that jet had rolled off the runway and over the lip of the plateau?

And why couldn’t he have waited until Buck finished the hand?

HANNAH LAMONT SAT at the controls, her hands still frozen on the yoke. Ahead of her, just a few feet from the end of the runway she had almost run out of, spread a beautiful view. All of it sharply downhill. All of its tropical glory shouting: “Death!”

She actually wasn’t sure she was alive until she realized her hands hurt from gripping the yoke. Prying her right hand free, she reached for the throttles and pulled them back, shutting down the already silent engines.

Then she started shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. Adrenaline, which had carried her this far, fled like a rat off a sinking ship, leaving her all too mortal and filled with aftershocks.

It wasn’t that her life had never been on the line before. When you flew smaller aircraft, you often had a lot of near-misses. But this one was different somehow.

Different, she realized suddenly, because it never, ever, should have happened.

Anger sparked in her again, renewing the strength in her limbs. Unclasping her harness, she rose and stomped back behind the pilot’s cabin and hit the button that opened the door and dropped the steps. The hydraulics, working like a charm, hissed as the door opened from the top and descended, turning the steps right-side up.

She was just about to step on the first one when a golf cart carrying two men raced up.

She didn’t like the look of the guy who was standing on one foot and hanging onto the rail. He looked like an afternoon thunderstorm that had sprouted the stub of an unlit cigar. Handsome, yes, but angrier than an alligator that had missed dinner.

“What the hell,” he shouted, “did you think you were doing?”

“Choosing life,” she shouted back. “I suppose you’d have preferred I ditched it?”

“Radio,” he said. “You have heard of the concept?”

By this time he was off the cart and standing at the foot of the stairs, glaring up at her.

“It went out on me. Half an hour ago. Then I started losing fuel.”

“And you were idiotic enough to take this piece of crap into the air?”

That did it. The rats returned to the sinking ship and brought more adrenaline along with them. She stomped down the stairs, stopping on the bottom one so she could look this jerk in the eye.

“It wasn’t a piece of crap when I left. You got a problem, take it up with my mechanic. I sure intend to.”

Then she pushed past him and started striding back up the runway, going she knew not where, just needing to be away from this idiot until she had sorted through the last half-hour and decided just how she was going to kill Len, her mechanic.

“Where do you think you’re going?” the guy demanded. “This is my airport and you can’t leave this garbage on my runway.”

She turned and faced him, hands on her hips. “Just how do you propose I move it? There’s a leak in the fuel line somewhere, and there aren’t enough fumes left to taxi her. Maybe, Mr. I-own-the-airport, you can tow it? I’ll pay.”

Buck watched her storm away, and the funny thing was, all he noticed was the beautiful red hair and the way her rear end swayed. A beautifully shaped rear end, cased snugly in her green flight suit.

“Dammit!” he swore.

“Come on, Buck,” Craig said reasonably. “Let’s get the trash off the runway before someone else tries to land. Then you can argue with her some more, ’cuz she sure as hell ain’t going anywhere.”

Buck was in no mood to listen to reason. He bit down so hard on the end of the unlit cigar that his teeth cut through it. Swearing, he spit the pieces out and glared toward the woman’s retreating back as if she had caused it to happen.

Hell, she had caused it. If he weren’t so damn mad at her…. And who the hell did she think she was anyway? The Queen of England?

“Come on, Buck,” Craig said impatiently. “We gotta get this thing off the runway. It’s a hazard.”

Grunting, Buck hopped up on the golf cart and the two of them zoomed—well, as fast as they could in a golf cart, anyway—back toward the hangar.

She was a woman, he reminded himself sourly. A woman. God had put women on this earth to make life hell for men. They were trouble on two feet. Headache and heartache and every other kind of ache. He should have known there was a female at the yoke of that plane. It should have been obvious from the moment she zoomed over his head.

Craig spoke as they neared the hangar. The woman pilot was approaching one very angry crowd. “Whatever you’re thinking, Buck, just put it aside for now. This is business.”

“Yeah. Like my cards weren’t business?” Business. That’s all it was. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have to deal with idiots on a regular basis. Just because she’d scared the bejesus out of him didn’t make her a worse idiot than the rest.

But she had cost him a critical win. Now he’d have to play another match against Anstin to save the island, and he didn’t like having all of that riding on his shoulders. Another match. He swore savagely.

He felt his breast pocket and realized he didn’t have another cigar on him. Hell’s bells. Glumly he folded his arms and decided he could grind his teeth for a while instead. He wasn’t all that anxious to face that wasp again, and certainly not just for a cigar.

No, he’d rather take the whole thing on the chin at once.

HANNAH THOUGHT she had lost her mind, run over the edge of the cliff and landed in hell. H—E—Double-hockey-sticks, hell.

Because, as she approached the crowd that had been gathered around a small table, cards wafted on the breeze and people started yelling at her and each other.

“You idiot!” one man shouted. “He was gonna win!”

“I saw it,” yelled another. “He had a full house.”

“Yeah, right,” said a woman. “Like I believe your lying mouth.”

Then they all turned and glared at Hannah.

“You,” said a short, stubby man with the face of a bulldog, “may have just cost us our island!”

Well, someone was insane, she thought. Not knowing what else to do, she fled into the office beside the hangar before they could gather a lynch mob.

THE OFFICE was tiny but it was surprisingly neat. Hannah found a coffeemaker with a pot on the hot plate that looked freshly brewed. She sniffed it warily and realized that not only was it fresh, it was Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee. Her favorite. She inspected one of the dozen ceramic mugs hanging on hooks from the wall, found it apparently clean, and poured herself a cup.

She sat on one of the plastic chairs before a window that gave her a view of the entire runway. Her blood was still boiling, and she could hardly wait to find a way to phone Len and tell him what she thought of him.

Then her hands started shaking violently. She had to put the mug down on a dusty table as shudders began to run through her. The adrenaline was letting up and reality was sinking in. She had come that close to dying. That close. Those engines had quit at the end of the runway. Too close.

Then the tug drove past the front window, and Mr. I-own-the-airport gave her a mocking salute. Anger flooded her again, saving her from her momentary weakness. It took a lot of effort not to flip him the bird in return.

That shocked her. She didn’t do stuff like that. She didn’t use those words or gestures. Maybe she was a little…crazy right now?

The anger had done her good, though. Her hands were no longer shaking, and she picked up her mug, determined to look as if she made emergency landings on a regular basis. As if not a single one of her feathers had been ruffled. She wouldn’t give that idiot male the satisfaction of knowing that she had, for even a few seconds, been terrified out of her mind.

The coffee was delicious.

CHAPTER TWO

BUCK AND CRAIG MANAGED to coax the dead jet back down the runway and into the already crowded hangar without so much as scratching the paint. They greased the job with some colorful language, but, at last, the shiny but dead Learjet 36 was parked next to Buck’s pride and joy: a fully refurbished, heavily pampered and polished DC-3 he used to ferry supplies to the island.

Unfortunately for Buck, the DC-3 didn’t have quite the charm when viewed beside the sleek, self-important jet.

“She’s a beaut, ain’t she?” Craig remarked as he came to stand beside Buck.

“She can’t fly, that’s the kind of beaut she is.”

“Aw, Buck, can the crap, will ya? The woman had no choice about landing. You heard those engines die. She’s a damn good pilot for pulling it off in one piece.”

That was the part Buck wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge. He wanted to stay mad for a while, especially when his mind insisted on resurrecting the image of her bottom as she walked away. He didn’t have room in his life for that kind of stuff. At least not the kind of stuff she was probably handing out with all the usual emotional strings as the price tag.

In fact, he’d moved to this godforsaken island to get away from all the Delilahs of the world. Last thing he needed was to get the hots for one who was not only beautiful, but a pilot, as well. Dangerous territory there.

“Let’s close up,” he said, refusing to respond directly to Craig. The daily afternoon thunderstorm was rolling in, and while he’d built this hangar to withstand almost anything, you never knew. But one thing was for sure, the reinforced steel doors had to be closed and barred for maximum security. He didn’t care about much, but he cared about his planes.

Outside again, with the hangar securely buttoned down, he paused to take in the golden glow of the late evening, and the reflection of it on the arcs of cloud that were approaching. Tropical Storm Hannah was edging toward hurricane force, last he’d heard. There was still a chance she would miss the island, but that chance was shrinking steadily.

From his aerie, Buck saw that the cruise ships had already vanished from their moorings, sailing off to friendlier, safer climes. Anstin’s casino, a series of huge tiki huts that sheltered the machines, tables and bars, was probably already moving everything into storage. The fishing town itself, of late containing more casino employees than fishermen, had started battening the hatches that morning.

But Hannah might pass them by. Even if she hit, the storm shouldn’t be too bad.

Shaking his head, he realized he couldn’t find an excuse to stand out here any longer. He was going to have to go into his office and work out the business details with the Valkyrie.

He still believed that Eve was the biggest joke God had ever played on mankind.

THERE SHE WAS, sitting on one of his plastic chairs, looking like she owned the universe, holding a cup of his finest Jamaican. Had he offered her coffee? He was sure he hadn’t. But then, a redhead who looked like that was probably used to having the world at her feet, used to having her own way. Delilah.

He wiped his hand on his pants, just to make a point of it, then extended it. “Sticks, I’m Buck Shanahan,” he said, adding nothing that might illuminate her.

“Hannah Lamont.” She shook his hand a little too firmly, as if she were used to the world of men and the handshake. Maybe to make a point.

“So what the hell happened, Sticks?” he asked as he rounded the counter and opened his humidor, seeking further dental protection in the form of a cigar to chew on. It was better than grinding his teeth.

“I don’t know. My mechanic signed off on that plane before I left. I was on my way to Aruba to drop her off for her new owner. All of a sudden I was leaking fuel like a hose. Then my radio went out. And while we’re talking, my name is Hannah, not ‘Sticks.’”

“Seems like you might need a new mechanic. And until I decide otherwise, you’re ‘Sticks,’ because that’s what I was holding, ready to even things up with that bastard Anstin, when you tore in here like a bat out of hell and killed the hand.”

“Pocket Sevens?” she asked.

“Damn right. I made Sevens full of Jacks on the turn and was about to get all of his chips. Instead….”

She held a hand up. “I’m sorry I messed up your little game for something as silly as trying to survive.”

“Little game?” He took a slow breath, willing himself not to tell her exactly what he thought of her. “That was no little game. It was a heads-up match to determine the future of this island! Or did you think those people you passed on the way in here were joking?”

“You’re not serious,” she said.

“I’m dead serious, Sticks. That’s how we decide things around here. Only fair way to do it, and a damn sight fairer than U.S. elections lately. And it saves us from being overrun with lawyers.” He let out a huff. “Little game. You know about as much about life as your mechanic knows about jet engines.”

She didn’t even smile. “He’s certainly going to be dead once I get back to Houston.”

He wanted to like her then. He really did. But he decided he didn’t need the headache.

“We’ll take a look at her,” he heard himself volunteering, then wanted to kick his own butt.

“Thanks. My company will pay, of course.”

“Of course.” Then something struck him. “Your company?” She bristled a bit, as if expecting a comment about how it was rare to see a woman who owned an aircraft company. It would never have crossed his mind if she hadn’t bristled. Now he needed to bite back the urge to tick her off.

“I own it.” Her voice was sterner than it needed to be, a sort of tacit offer of a duel at dawn. “Lamont Aircraft. We buy and refurbish private planes.”

“Looks like this one didn’t get refurbished enough.”

“Do tell.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

He unwrapped his cigar and stuck it between his teeth, deciding it was safer to bite tobacco than bite her head off. God should never have invented women. Or if he had to, then maybe he should have made them more like men: uncomplicated.

And now he found himself feeling almost sorry for her mechanic. Damn! “How long you had that mechanic?”

“He’s been with the company fifteen years.”

“You don’t look that old.” He was almost delighted when he saw her grind her teeth.

“I’m old enough. It’s my company. And I want to know what went wrong with that aircraft.”

“We’ll get to the bottom of it,” he promised, which he shouldn’t have done, but when Delilah was in the room, men were known to do stupid, stupid things. “Craig and I are pretty good mechanics.”

Instead of saying something snappy, she merely said, “Thank you.”

Well hell. Now she was going to get nice on him? No thank you!

He rolled his cigar to the other side of his mouth and clamped down on it. “It’ll take a while, of course.”

Her eyes widened. “How long?”

“Well, I don’t exactly carry a parts store for Learjets. In fact, this’ll be one of maybe three or four times I’ve worked on one.”

“Oh, great.”

He grinned, enjoying her discomfiture. “So I’ll have to figure out what’s wrong, then fly out to get parts. And I can’t do that until after the storm passes.”

“Storm?” She looked even more unhappy.

“Don’t you pay attention to the weather reports?” That would be a mortal sin for any pilot.

She snapped. “Of course I do!”

“Then you can’t have missed the fact that we have a tropical storm headed our way. It might even be a hurricane by the time it gets here.”

“I was flying around that,” she said.

“Well, Hannah, get ready to meet Hannah, because you sure as hell flew right into her path.”

“THAT WOMAN IS a piece of work,” Buck told Craig as they stood staring up at the Learjet while waiting for the shop computer to download schematics of the plane.

“Yeah. All women are,” Craig agreed. And he was married and had three kids.

“Why do you suppose that is?”

“I dunno. I just know we can’t live without ’em.”

“I’m working on it.”

Craig snorted. “That woman volcanologist—Edna, isn’t it?—she’s got her snare set for you.”

Buck looked at him, and Craig finally shrugged. “Okay. Have it your way, boss.”

“Believe me, I intend to.”

Craig rolled his eyes. Buck chewed a little harder on his unlit cigar and wondered why it was that men who were married wanted every other man on the planet to be married, as well. It was almost like some kind of brainwashing.

“That Mary Jo must’ve really been something.”

For an instant, Buck froze. He couldn’t believe Craig had mentioned that woman. His former wife in his former life. The woman who had screwed around with all the available navy guys while her husband, Buck, was at sea as a carrier pilot.

“I told you not to mention that name.”

“Sorry, boss.”

That would teach him to have one too many beers. A slip like that and he was hearing about it for the rest of his life. He glared at Craig who held up both his hands.

“Sorry,” Craig said again.

“You better be.” He returned his attention to the jet, thinking he wouldn’t mind sitting in the left hand seat and taking her out for a spin. It had been a while since he’d flown anything that fast, and sometimes he still yearned for his fighter-jock days. The speed, the g-forces…they got into a man’s blood.

He sighed and went over to the computer to see how far along they were on printing out the fuel-line schematics. Sheesh, the thing was as slow as molasses at the North Pole.

“It’s the satellite uplink,” Craig said knowingly.

“Yeah? Then fix it.”

“Damn, boss, you don’t want much!”

“Then tell me why the satellite uplink should be so slow.” He rotated his unlit cigar to the other side of his mouth.

“Do I look like a psychic? Probably because of the approaching storm. Traffic is likely heavier than usual. I dunno. Maybe it’s not the satellite uplink at all. Maybe it’s the printer.”

Buck was acting like an ass and he knew it. Admitting it didn’t make him feel any better. But the truth was, it was getting late in the day, and the probability they would have those schematics in time to work on the plane today was highly unlikely.

And worse, his win against Anstin, his prime opportunity to save the island, had fluttered away in a blast of jet winds.

“Why don’t you just go home?” he suggested. “Unless the storm hits, we’ll start in the morning. And take the woman with you.”

“To that motel? No way. I wouldn’t put my worst enemy in that cockroach pit.”

“Then what am I supposed to do with her?”

Craig shrugged. “She can sleep on her plane.” He jerked his thumb toward it. “It looks posh enough for a sultan.”

“Except a real sultan would be buying a new one.”

“Quibble, quibble, quibble. You need to get laid, man. Then maybe you wouldn’t have all that energy to waste on stupidity.”

With that, Craig stalked out the side door, a man-sized door, that hadn’t been locked up yet. Buck stood alone in his hangar with two large planes and a couple of small ones that belonged to island residents, and wondered why he put up with Craig.

Of course, Craig was a natural-born mechanic. That helped. In front of him, the computer still hummed, a bar showing that the download had progressed eleven percent. Beside it, the big printer was busy drawing schematics. How complicated could it be?

Complicated enough. A plane, any plane, was a complex beast, and the newer they were, the more that complexity had been magnified.

So he had two choices. One of them involved going back to his office and facing the redheaded Valkyrie. The other meant sleeping out here on a battered recliner in the small parts office.

He decided the Valkyrie presented the lesser of two evils. He’d shoo her off to sleep on her plane, then peace would prevail, at least until morning.

He opened the door to the outside, rather than the one farther to the rear that joined with his living quarters behind the front office. Whenever he could, he preferred to walk outdoors.

But this time he froze on the threshold. Red sunsets weren’t unusual in the tropics, but this one blazed like fire, and it raged in the east, rather than the west, high in the sky because of the clouds of the approaching storm.

Magnificent. He soaked it up, filling his heart, mind and soul with the beauty. That was why he’d moved to this godforsaken island with its loony inhabitants and crazy casino. Because here he could live halfway up the side of a volcanic cone and be left pretty much alone while still running an adequate business.

Stepping out, he worked the mechanism that safely reinforced the door from the inside, then walked around to the front of the hangar to look west.

The sun was riding the rim of the Caribbean like an angry red eye. The water, usually a soothing Caribbean blue-green, was dappled in red and purple, and beginning to look choppy.

There was nothing in the world, he thought, like the sunset before a tropical storm.

Then, without warning, a different red filled his vision. It was silky, redder than red in the evening light, a fluffy cloud around a perfect face with challenging green eyes.

“Did you find out what was wrong?”

He might have sighed, except he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. Instead he clamped down on his cigar. “Nope.”

“Why not? I thought you said you’d find out what was wrong?”

Now he bit down hard. “Actually,” he said between his teeth, “I’m printing out the fuel line schematics right now. At the rate it’s going, it’ll probably take all night. You can thank the manufacturer for that.”

Her eyes flashed. In that instant, they looked like lightning reflected off the stormy gray-green shallows of the Caribbean Sea. But then, as if something flicked a switch in her, the flare quieted.

She nodded acknowledgement to him. “Thanks.”

To his surprise, it didn’t look as if she had to force the word out. Temperamental but in control. Despite himself, he was piqued.

At that moment, Craig roared by on his way down to his home in town. His Jeep kicked up a little loose gravel as he went by, waving at them.

Hannah Lamont waved back, then returned her attention to Buck. “I’ll sleep on the plane then.”

“Sure. No problem.” He pointed to the door. “Bar it when you get inside. No telling when that storm is going to hit.”

She nodded, but this time a flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. “See you in the morning, then.”

She started to brush past him, but then he had to deal with the fact that not only was he being a jerk, he was being a rude jerk. There were some courtesies he couldn’t ignore even in an attempt to avoid Delilah. “You got anything to eat on that plane?”

“I was supposed to be in Aruba shortly.”

Mentally kicking his own butt, he said, “Come on back to the office. If I have to make dinner for myself, I might as well cook for two.”

“You cook?”

He wasn’t sure if that was an intentional insult or just genuine surprise. So he opted for surprise. “Yes.” He rolled the cigar a little before adding, “Not all men are helpless without women.”

Her eyebrows arched. “I didn’t mean that. I don’t cook.”

No! He didn’t want to like her. No way. Instead of responding, he stalked past her toward the office and soothed himself with the reminder that she would vanish from his island the very instant he repaired her plane.

There was security and safety in that. A promise of the uncomplicated future he really wanted.

CHAPTER THREE

HANNAH WAVERED between wanting to strangle Buck Shanahan, and wanting to like him. He was as prickly as a pear cactus and seemed to have taken her in instant dislike. Other than ruining his poker hand (and she still did not believe that so many people could be insane enough to determine the fate of their island with a poker game) during her landing, she couldn’t imagine why. Well, she had been a little…upset when she deplaned, but any person with a half-ounce of common sense would understand what she’d just been through. Adrenaline tended to make you that way.

Still, he fed her. He didn’t invite her into the inner sanctum behind his office, nor did she especially want to go there, but when he emerged a half hour later he offered her cold potato salad, cold fried chicken and a healthy serving of steamed broccoli. All of it was savory. She gave him marks as a cook, if not as a mechanic or human being.

“That was wonderful,” she said when she’d sucked the last bit of meat off the bone. If it hadn’t been rude, she’d have licked the plate, too.

“Thanks.” He sounded gruff. Then he took their plates into the back, leaving her alone to look out at what was now getting to be a very dark night. She could see a portion of the earth’s shadow on the highest clouds, an arc of darkness moving toward zenith now, the red winking out behind it.

She supposed she ought to go out to the plane before it got any darker, but she felt strangely reluctant to move. So instead, she helped herself to another cup of coffee, and settled back in the chair.

She expected Buck to remain in his hermitage, but to her surprise he returned and sat on the far side of the counter from her. She could just see his head above the countertop.

She decided to try being sociable. “How long have you had this airport?”

“About eight years.”

“And before that?”

He looked at her. “Top Gun.”

She sat up straighter. “Really?”

He scowled at her. “Why would I lie about that?”

“I can’t believe you could give that up!”

That made him smile for the first time since she’d met him, and oh, what a smile it was. It transformed him completely.

“Eventually my back had enough of the g-forces. And I had enough of the Navy.”

“But you must miss it.”

“Yeah,” he admitted reluctantly. “Once in a while.”

“This must sometimes seem pretty tame.”

He cocked a brow at her. “Not when people try to take my head off with their wings. It reminds me of that Samuel Johnson quote. ‘Nothing concentrates the mind like the imminent prospect of being hanged.’”

She nodded, wondering if there was more to a man who could quote Samuel Johnson, but said only, “I wondered if I’d have to ditch her.”

He shook his head. “Not a good thing, ditching. Planes tend to fall apart in all the wrong ways.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Silence fell between them for a few moments. Then she asked, “Where did I land, anyway? There are so many small islands out here, and while I have a general idea where I am, I’m not sure which lump of rock I’m sitting on.”

He rotated his cigar to the other side of his mouth. “This lump is called Treasure Island.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. The first person known to have settled here was One Hand Hank Hanratty about eighty years ago. He was a fan of Robert Louis Stevenson, I hear.” The cigar bobbed as he resettled it. “Rumor has it the alligator bit off his hand.”

“The alligator?”

“Yeah. Apparently Hanratty brought him as a pet. Says something about the guy’s character. Anyway, Buster, the gator, is still around. Hanratty isn’t.”

“Well, if he brought only one gator, I can understand why the thing bit off his hand. Buster must be lonely.”

Buck shrugged. “He goes to Bridal Falls sometimes and scares the tourists when they’re having a tropical wedding. Mostly he just keeps to himself. Nobody wants to get him a mate, though. This isn’t his native habitat, and we don’t want the place crawling with gators, either. It’d scare the tourists.”

Hannah nodded. “What do tourists come here for?”

Apparently she’d asked exactly the right question, because Buck suddenly grew expansive. “Well, now, there are really cheap cruise lines. They like to pull into harbor here and let their passengers gamble at the casino. They market it as tropical charm, but what it really is is a bunch of big tiki huts with games, slots and a couple of bars. I guess it impresses people who come from way up north.”

Hannah nodded, envisioning it. “It would have a certain kind of charm, I guess.”

“If you’ve never been to Vegas or Reno, yeah. Anyway, they pull in for a day of gambling, and sometimes passengers will get married by the captain at Bridal Falls. I don’t reckon anyone knows who was the first person to do that, but it’s become a bit of tradition in these parts. Townfolk will attend to make it festive.”

“That’s nice.”

“It’s downright stupid, if you ask me.”

She felt herself bristling at his attitude, but tamped it down. She needed this idiot to repair the plane. She also needed to use his radio or phone or something to let her buyer know she would be late. Although after this he might not want the jet at all. She smothered a sigh. “What about the mountain? It looks like a volcanic cone.”

“It is.”

“Active?”

“That’s the story.”

Gloom began to settle over her. Could it get any worse? “How active?”

“It shrugs from time to time. Been awhile since the last eruption, though. Maybe five hundred years.”

“How often is it supposed to erupt?”

He suddenly grinned at her over the countertop. “Getting nervous, Sticks?”

“Absolutely not!” She had the worst urge to bean him with his cigar. Purposefully irritating, that was what he was. “Do you ever light that thing?”

He took the cigar from his mouth and studied it. “Why would I want to do something that stupid?”

“Then what is it doing in your mouth?”

He grinned again as he looked at her. “I have this oral fixation.”

To her horror, she blushed beet red. Quickly she looked away, out the window, hoping the last bit of red light would hide the blush.

“I’m going to bed,” she announced, rising quickly and putting her mug on the counter.

“Good idea,” he agreed. “You want to get some sleep before the storm hits.”

That froze her in her tracks. “Can we check the weather?”

“Sure. I’ve got a feed.”

She was relieved to hear it. At least this godforsaken airport had moved that far into the twenty-first century.

He turned behind the counter and flipped a dial. Soon a mechanized voice was reading the forecast. Then he flipped another switch and a fax machine began to print out a weather map.

Interested, as all aviators were interested in the weather, Hannah forgot her embarrassment and leaned over the counter, listening and watching.

“Tropical Storm Hannah has developed wind speeds in excess of sixty-five miles per hour. The storm has stalled at its current location and appears to be strengthening, with the barometer steadily falling….”

“Hell,” Buck said. Moments later he ripped the fax off the machine and stood up, putting it on the counter so they could both look at it. Their heads came close to knocking.

“Cripes,” he said, “look at those isobars. It’s tightening up.”

“Do you have an earlier map?”

He turned and pulled a sheet of paper off a shelf. “Here, see?”

Indeed the lines that measured barometric pressure were drawing closer together, around a circle that could swiftly become the eye of a hurricane.

“It doesn’t look good,” she said reluctantly.

“No, it doesn’t.” He took the cigar from his mouth and tossed it in the trashcan. “If she’d just kept moving, we’d have had a tropical storm. No big deal except for the casino. But if she stalls out there long enough, she could become a real beast.”

Hannah nodded and met his blue eyes. “I don’t like this.”

“Me neither. You might be here awhile, Sticks.”

“Is this place safe?”

“I built it to be. I didn’t want to lose everything every couple of years.”

“Well,” she said hopefully, “maybe even if it becomes a hurricane it won’t go past Category One.”

“We can hope.” He sighed. “Come on, I’ll walk you out to your plane. I forgot you don’t know your way around.”

The late evening was perfectly still, and growing darker by the second. The land had not yet cooled below the temperature of the surrounding water, so nothing moved. Later there would be a breeze, but right now the night was quiet and balmy. The air, full of moisture, felt soft to the skin. Hannah thought prosaically that in a climate like this, there’d be no need for moisturizers.

Buck opened the door to the hangar, letting her pass through first. He’d left a light on near the computer, so the cavernous space wasn’t completely dark. The printer was still humming, although the computer had gone into screensaver mode. Reaching out, he threw the switch that turned on the lights above Hannah’s plane. Then he went to look at the progress on the schematics.

He moved the mouse, and the progress bar appeared. “Nineteen percent. This is unreal.”

Hannah looked at the long stream of paper that was folding up on the floor. “No kidding. That’s my fuel system?”

“One and the same. And that’s less than twenty percent. We’re going to have our work cut out for us unless we find something obvious.”

“Well, it had to be some place the fuel could leak from fast. I didn’t have a whole lot of time.”

He nodded. “We’ll find it. In the meantime…”

“Yeah, get some sleep. You’ll wake me if things start to get worse?”

“Sure, why not? Worrying is a useful thing to do.”

She scowled at him. “I don’t want to worry. I want to enjoy the storm.”

“Enjoy?” He looked at her like she was crazy. “You’re kidding.”

“I love storms. Always have. I’d like to be awake for this one.”

“Well, if it decides to move this way,” he said almost sarcastically, “I doubt you’ll miss it.”

She cocked her head and put her hands on her hips. “Were you born a boor?” Then with a toss of her long red hair, she strode away through the dimly lit hangar to her plane.

“Wait a minute,” he called after her. “You have to lock the bar on the inside of this door after I leave.”

Annoyed that her high-dudgeon exit had been interrupted, she stomped back to him. He went to the door and pointed to a lever. “Throw this to the right. The bar will lock in place. Even Buster won’t be able to get in.”

Then he was gone, leaving her to fume. She threw the lever, glad to lock him out, then started back to her plane.

Not even Buster would be able to get in? All of a sudden she felt creeped-out. Why would he even mention it? Did that alligator actually sometimes come into this hangar?

Nervously she looked around as she hurried toward her plane. It was a relief to ascend the stairs, then pull them up behind her. Alone at last, she tumbled onto the bed in the tail without even pulling off her flight suit.

Enough was enough.

CHAPTER FOUR

HANNAH AWOKE in the morning to find herself eyeball-to-eyeball with a huge pair of reptilian eyes. For a few seconds, she was absolutely certain she was imagining them. Then the hair stood up on the back of her neck.

The alligator seemed to be grinning at her, his mouth hanging open. She froze as still as a statue, hoping he would think she was dead, not sure if that would work for an alligator, wondering how the heck he’d gotten on her plane, wondering how the heck she was going to get off her plane.

Then the alligator lifted his head and let out a deep, inhuman roar that seemed to bounce off the walls of the small cabin and shake her eardrums so hard it hurt.

Oh, Lord, was that a threat? Did alligators roar before they attacked? She felt the most childish urge to pull the covers over her head and convince herself she was hallucinating this.

Despite her best efforts not to move, a whimper escaped her and she pulled back. But, to her amazement, the gator didn’t leap at her in attack. No.

Buster looked wounded.

She shook her head, convinced her eyes were deceiving her, but nothing changed. The alligator looked hangdog. Hurt.

“Buster?” she said cautiously.

The gator’s head came up, and he eyed her with something that seemed like hope.

Astounded, Hannah considered the possibility that this relic of the dinosaur era had learned something about human behavior. What other kind of behavior would he know, never having had another alligator to talk to?

Cripes, she was losing her mind. Reptilian brains didn’t have emotions.

Did they?

Slowly, taking care not to startle the beast by moving too quickly, she pushed back the blanket she had pulled over herself sometime during the night. Buster watched, but made no move.

Slowly, she stood on the bed, which had replaced a row of seats against the rear bulkhead, wondering if she could leap across him to the aisle before he could turn in the confined space.

The option failed to excite her. She’d never been any good at the long jump, never mind jumping from a dead start.

Buster cocked his head, watching her from one eye, then let out another deafening roar. At once she rediscovered her ability to jump…backward. Pressed against the rear bulkhead, she studied her nemesis while wondering what it would feel like to be devoured alive. Not pleasant, certainly.

But once again Buster looked hurt, as if her moving away was not what he wanted. Well, of course he didn’t want it. The farther away she was, the harder she would be to catch and eat.

Then he did something she would have thought impossible, something that nearly curdled the blood in her veins. He reared up and got his front legs on the bed.

“Oh, God!” The prayerful words escaped her lips, and all thought of not being able to jump disappeared in a wash of adrenaline. Before she had another coherent thought, she ran across the bed and leapt over the gator, reaching the floor—and his tail—in a flash. She kept running up the aisle toward the door, hoping the hydraulics would open the hatch before Buster caught up.

Another roar followed her, this one almost a groan. She could hear scraping as scaly skin began to slide around on the industrial carpeting.

She slammed her hand on the emergency button and watched the hatch begin to lower. Hurry! Hurry!

The sound of scraping alligator skin was growing closer. Afraid to wait any longer, the instant the stairs were halfway lowered, she climbed out onto them and then jumped.

Her ankles stung as her feet hit the concrete floor. She wanted to keep running, but now that she was no longer confined, she couldn’t help but turn curiously to see what happened.

Moments later, Buster’s head appeared in the hatch. If an alligator could have sad puppy-dog eyes, this one did. The sound that escaped him now was nothing like his earlier roar. It was, she thought wildly, the alligator equivalent of a whimper.

Hardly reassured, she backed up. Lumbering as if stairs were unfamiliar, Buster began to descend the now fully opened gangway.

Hannah backed up. Swiftly. If she had an ounce of common sense, she’d flee at once from this hangar and send that annoying Buck Shanahan in here to deal with Buster.

Which, she decided, much as it might wound her pride, she was going to do.

Then she remembered from countless TV shows that alligators could move very fast. Faster than one might think.

That did it. She turned and ran for the door, her feet barely touching the floor. Behind her, scaly scrapes followed quickly. Buster apparently had no intention of letting her out of his sight.

She reached the door, but of course it was barred. She worked the lever as quickly as she could with sweaty palms, and at last managed to throw it back. She could hear Buster right behind her, but she refused to look back. That would only waste valuable escape time.

With a mighty shove, she pushed the door outward and darted through it.

The heat and humidity of the tropical morning felt like a punch in the face. She hardly noticed it as another growl propelled her away from the hangar, toward the office. As she ran, she vaguely noticed that the clouds had come no closer, but appeared darker than yesterday. Heat waves shimmered above the runway in the heavy air.

And scales still scraped behind her.

All of a sudden, Buck Shanahan appeared around the corner of the office. He was dressed in the same khaki as yesterday, though the clothing looked fresher.

“What the hell—?”

She ran right past him, saying, “Get rid of that prehistoric beast. Now!”

It didn’t help to hear his laugh as she flew toward the office door. Once inside the air-conditioned building, she collapsed on a chair and put her head between her knees, feeling as if she were on the edge of fainting…or vomiting, either of which would embarrass her to death.

Closing her eyes, she clung to self-control.

A few moments later, Buck sauntered into the office and closed the door behind him.

“Did you kill him?” she demanded.

“Hell, no. He’s an island icon. They’d lynch me.”

She lifted her head and waited a moment for the world to stop swimming in the adrenaline sea. “He was on my plane! He tried to get on my bed! And he was roaring at me….”

“Roaring?”

“Roaring.”

He started laughing.

She managed a glare and resisted the urge to throttle him. “What’s so funny?”

“Well, Sticks, alligators roar for only one reason.”

“What? They want to eat what they see?”

“Nope.” He grinned around the ever-present cigar. “It’s a mating call.”

Hannah’s jaw dropped. It was entirely possible that it dropped all the way to the floor, but she didn’t bother checking. “What?” she asked finally, hoarsely.

“I guess he thinks you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.”

“Oh. My. God.” Hannah put her head in her hands.

“Hey, it’s a compliment.”

“What? That he thinks I look like an alligator?”

Buck chuckled. “Relax. I’ll get you some coffee and breakfast. He’ll hang around for a while, then wander off to a cool pond before he overheats.”

“He was on my plane!”

“So you said.”

She really, really wanted to draw and quarter this guy. No sympathy. No human feeling. Laughing at her fright. Wasn’t she entitled to be frightened when a huge alligator appeared beside her bed? Only a fool would be sanguine about that!

“You’re crazy!” she declared finally, a wimp-out when compared to strangling him.

“Probably.” He didn’t appear at all disturbed. “Blame it on the tropical air.”

“You must have blacked out one too many times.”

That got his attention and he glared at her. “I was a Top Gun, Sticks. I never blacked out.”

“Maybe you just didn’t know it.”

“Flying what I was flying, I’d have known it.” He scowled at her. “What’s with you, anyway? I told you Buster’s a fixture around here.”

“Not on my plane, he isn’t.”

All of a sudden, Buck’s frown slipped into a cockeyed grin. “You must smell real good to him.”

That was the point at which, if some weapon had been handy, she would have landed herself in prison for life. The only alternative was to storm out, but before she lifted her rump from her seat, Buster’s roar sounded outside.

Buck shook his head. “He’s really determined.”

“Tell him I’m not interested in his species.”

Buck, still grinning, asked, “What species are you interested in?”

“Nothing from Mars,” she shot back.

“Ho! You read that stuff?”

“Shut your mouth, Shanahan, before I shut it for you.”

“You know something, Sticks? My mouth is usually shut. It would help if you would stop provoking me.”

“What? Now it’s my fault you’re an idiot?”

He put his hands on his hips, and now she could no longer read his face. The tip of his cigar bobbed up and down as if he were chomping rapidly on it.

“You,” he said finally, “are walking proof of why I avoid Venusians.”

“If I’m lucky, the mother ship will rescue me soon.”

“It won’t be soon enough for me.” With that he walked out of the office, leaving her alone to stew in her own juices.

The last of the adrenaline washed out of her system, and she crumpled like a deflated balloon.

She didn’t need this.

AS BUCK STRODE toward the hangar, hoping that the schematics would reveal some kind of quick fix for Hannah Lamont’s plane so he could get her out of here as swiftly as possible, Buster was shambling away into the shade of the tropical foliage in the direction of the nearest pond. He’d spend the rest of the day there, keeping cool and dining on the occasional fish or too-slow bird.

Damn woman, he thought. She even had Buster confused. Whatever had made the gator board her plane? Or go into the hangar to begin with? Buster was far too canny a beast to box himself in like that.

Shaking his head, Buck entered the hangar and marched over to the computer. Sometime during the night, the download had finished, leaving him with a heap of schematics to run over.

He sighed as he looked at the printout. Personally, he preferred the older planes. Simpler. Easier to repair. He could even machine parts himself for his DC-3. That stack of printout was nothing but an indictment of modern complexity.

Then he felt like a hypocrite. After all, he’d flown some of the most complex machines in the world, and had loved it. He just didn’t think he could repair one with the facilities at hand.

Bending, he lifted the stack from the basket on the floor and carried it over to the metal desk, where he dropped it. Switching on the desk lamp, he sat and began to pore over the schematics, checking for the likeliest point of failure before he started tracing the system.

Craig arrived on the dot of eight as he always did. He was probably the only person on this island, apart from Buck, who believed in being prompt. Everyone else seemed to suffer from a “whenever” mentality.

Which was fine for everyone else. It would have driven Buck up the wall in an employee, however. Sometimes he thought he just ought to give up and live on mañana time like the rest of the world. It would probably be better for his general health, not to mention his teeth.

“You’re looking uptight, boss,” Craig said, the first words out of his mouth.

“You’d be uptight if you had to deal with that vixen.”

“Yeah?” Craig grinned. “Got you on your toes, huh?”

“She’s got me p.o.’d is what she’s got me. And while I’m on the subject, can you tell me what the hell Buster was doing in the hangar?”

“In here?”

“Yeah. What’s more, he was on the Lear this morning. In fact, he was Hannah’s alarm clock.”

Craig’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not kidding. Big as life, there he was, and what’s more, he was making his mating call.”

Craig’s eyes widened, then he started to laugh. Much as he wanted to stay annoyed, Buck started to laugh, too.

“The gator has the hots for her?” Craig choked out as he laughed. “Nobody’s going to believe this!”

“Well, I saw it.”

Craig chuckled. “Hey, did you hear on the radio? Tom Regan dropped thirteen hundred to Bill Anstin last night.”

“You’re kidding,” Buck said. “Tom’s not great, but he ought to be able to clean Anstin’s clock. What happened?”

“Anstin was feeling cocky after playing here yesterday, so he and Tom Regan were playing five-ten-limit at the casino until the tourists left. Regan challenged Anstin to a heads-up match. Five-ten, no-limit. Thousand dollar buy-in. Regan was down three hundred and decided to rebuy, then two hands later he’s holding King-Queen on a flop of King-King-Nine. He pushes it all in—”

“And the other guy had pocket Nines,” Hannah said.

Buck hadn’t heard her approach, and turned. “What’re you doing here?”

“I heard him come in,” she said, angling her head toward Craig, “and heard the two of you laughing. I thought I’d check and see if y’all have made any progress on my jet.”

“Ah,” Buck said, pointing to the stack of schematics. “Not yet.”

“But I’m right, aren’t I?” she said, turning to Craig.

He nodded. “Yeah, Anstin had nines full.”

Buck couldn’t resist a smile. As much as he hated to see Bill Anstin win, it was even better to hear that Tom Regan’s three kings had cost him a thousand dollars against Anstin’s full house of three nines and two kings. Regan was the island’s mayor, and Anstin owned the casino. The two of them were, in Buck’s view, trying to ruin Treasure Island by turning it into a major tourist resort. And that was what yesterday’s card game had been about.

Just as bad, Regan and Anstin kept hounding Buck to waive the landing fees for the tourist charter planes that Anstin booked. And Buck simply couldn’t afford to do that. It was a long-running bone of contention, and anything that made either of them miserable was just fine with Buck.

“So this was on the radio?” Hannah asked.

“Yeah,” Buck said. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Wait,” she said, holding up a hand. “Is that Bill Anstin? The World Series bracelet winner?”

Damn, Buck thought. Beautiful, a pilot, and she knew poker. A trifecta of danger. “Yeah, that’s him. Took his winnings and built the casino here. Lords over it like he’s God’s gift to gambling.”

Hannah laughed. “As if! He’d never have made the final table if he hadn’t rivered that straight flush against Chris Ferguson. Ferguson flopped the nut flush, and Anstin hit runner-runner.”

Buck couldn’t resist a smile. Everyone on the island knew the story of the final table, where Anstin was dealt one monster hand after another, taking down two previous world series winners en route to the championship.

But few people remembered that hand against Ferguson, a hand that Anstin should never have played to begin with, and certainly not the way he had. Holding the Queen of Spades and the Four of Hearts, he pushed in all of his chips, trying to bluff on a flop of Jack-Six-Three, all Hearts. Former World Series winner Chris Ferguson called him holding the Ace and Queen of Hearts, an Ace-high flush. Anstin caught the Deuce of Hearts on the Turn, and the Five of Hearts on the river, giving him a straight flush, Deuce-Three-Four-Five-Six of Hearts.

Anstin’s odds of hitting the cards he needed to win were one-in-five-hundred. It was one of the legendary bad beats in World Series history, but it had happened on an outer table, away from the television cameras, and it was largely forgotten outside of poker circles.

If Hannah Lamont remembered it, she must be a serious player. And since she was also a business owner, she might be good pickings.

“So you like poker?” he asked.

“I’m from Texas,” she replied, as if that said all that needed to be said.

He nodded. “We have a game here, a couple of nights a week. If you’re interested.”

“Buck….” Craig said cautiously, as if sensing what Buck had in mind.

“Just a few friends,” Buck added, ignoring him. “We play three-six, no-limit.”

“Sure,” she said with a casual shrug. “I’ll give it a try. It’s not like I have much else to do.”

“Tomorrow night at seven,” Buck said. “Back of the hangar.”

“I’ll be there.”

As if she could be anywhere else.

CHAPTER FIVE

BUCK COULDN’T help it. As the vixen walked away toward the door, all he could see was the gentle sway of her hips. And of course she couldn’t leave without another word.

All of a sudden, she stopped and turned. “Is there anywhere I can get a shower?”

The idea of her in a shower filled his mind with all sorts of images that belonged in a men’s magazine. For a few seconds his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth.

“Sure,” said Craig, drawling. He pointed to the emergency gravity shower over in the corner of the hangar, a defense against caustic spills and burns.

Hannah put her hands on those luscious hips. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“You can use mine,” Buck heard himself say, another one of those Delilah-induced moments. It was like being under an evil spell.

“You don’t mind?”

He shook his head. Mind? He’d have to be out of his mind to mind. “Go through the back door of the office. The bathroom is off to the right.”

“Thanks.”

She shifted directions and headed back to her plane, prolonging his agony. When she re-emerged from the Lear, she was carrying a duffel.

“I thought,” she said as she passed him, “that I’d be vacationing in Aruba. I guess it’ll be here instead.”

Vacationing here? Running up the side of the volcano and jumping into the crater was beginning to sound like a pleasant alternative. Certainly a safer one. But then he remembered Edna. Nope. No running up the side of a volcano for him.

Then, thanks to all powers that be, Hannah disappeared through the door. All of a sudden the air lost its thickness and he could breathe again. He ignored the strange look Craig was giving him.

“Let’s take a look at these schematics.”

“Wouldn’t it just be easier to look for signs of the spilled fuel?”

Buck gave him a look. “Sure, go ahead. Be my guest. In the meantime, I’m going to find out exactly what we’re getting into here so I don’t mess it up.”

Craig sighed and pulled over a stool, the metal legs scraping on concrete. “No seat of the pants, huh?”

“Not with this one. I want that woman off this island in one piece just as soon as I can manage.”

“Yeah, right.”

Buck glared at him, and Craig wisely shut his yap.

BUCK’S APARTMENT behind the office was pin-neat, although darkened by a shortage of windows…probably deliberate because of storms.

Hannah couldn’t resist looking around a little out of curiosity. The man had apparently brought Navy habits with him into civilian life. Every bit of furnishing was utilitarian. Nothing appeared to be out of place. A check of the refrigerator showed it was spotless, and also offered the bounty of some fresh fruit. Grabbing a pear, mindful that it was probably terribly expensive given how far it must have come, she ate it, loving the way the juice trickled down her chin.

Having seen everything else, she was no longer afraid to look in his bathroom. It, too, was spotless, and the shower stall gleamed. The hot water felt like heaven and she took longer than she might have otherwise. When she at last emerged, she was pink from the heat and her fingers were beginning to prune.

When she had toweled off she decided that since she wasn’t going to be spending the expected time in Aruba, she might as well wear some of the nicer clothing she had brought.

Like the sarong she’d bought years ago in Jamaica, a lovely combination of blues and greens. Sandals…and a barrette in her hair that was decorated with a small but colorful flower.

A glance in the mirror told her she looked okay, so off she went to find a ride to town, because if she had to spend all day with Buck Shanahan, there was going to be blood on the floor.

Then she returned to the hangar and said, “Can someone give me a ride to town? I need some necessities.”

Buck glared. Craig jumped to his feet. “Sure,” he said.

AS THE JEEP bounced along, rounding one tight switchback after another on their way down the mountain, Craig glanced over at Hannah, obviously trying to decide whether to say something. Finally, he spoke.

“You really ought to find a way to bow out of Buck’s poker game tomorrow night,” he said.

“Why?” she asked. “I like poker. It’s fun, and I’m going to be bored beyond belief if I don’t find something to do.”

“I understand that, Ma’am, but….”

“First, it’s Hannah, not Ma’am. ‘Ma’am’ is my mother, or my grandmother. Second, I’m not going to be offended if you guys smoke cigars and tell bawdy jokes, if that’s what you’re worried about. I have three brothers. I think I’ve probably heard it all.”

“It’s not that,” he said. “Look, if you’re bored, I’ll give you a ride to the casino tonight. They’ll still have the poker tables open in the restaurant. Play there. Don’t play in Buck’s game. Buck’s game is the toughest on the island, bar none. He says it’s just a few friends, but they play hard and they’re all damn good. I don’t play in Buck’s game. My wife would kill me if I did.”

“I don’t feel much like being stranded away from my plane if the hurricane should happen to pick up speed,” she said. “And I never gamble with money that I can’t afford to lose.”

“Well, that’s what you’ll do if you sit at Buck’s table,” he said. “Take my word for it.”

“You never know, maybe I’ll get lucky,” she said.

By this time they were riding along a dusty street framed on either side by small, colorful shops. Not many people seemed to be out and about, however. Maybe they were all working. Or maybe they were battening down for the storm.

“You’ll need to, Ma’am…Hannah. Well, here’s the island grocery. Do you need me to show you around?”

She smiled. “I woke up with an alligator staring at me. I think I can navigate the wilds of a grocery. But thanks anyway. Meet back here in an hour?”

“Sure thing,” he said as she climbed out.

So this was going to be a major tourist resort? she wondered as she looked around. It looked more like a Caribbean version of Shantytown, U.S.A. Across the street from the grocery was the requisite tourist T-shirt shop, and a few other shops appeared to specialize in island-themed knickknacks, but by and large the town center looked tired and more than a bit run-down.

The grocery itself was a small shop, more the type she commonly saw in Europe than the big box supermarkets she was accustomed to in the U.S. The shelves were plywood on two-by-four frames, closely packed with what seemed to be a hodgepodge of items in no discernible organization. But she was able to find the few staples she needed—bread, some cold cuts, milk, juice, mustard, coffee, cream and sugar—and the prices were not much higher than she’d have paid in Houston. Considering that everything had to be flown or shipped in, that surprised her.

The grocer, an elderly man who introduced himself as Horace, the sole surviving descendant of Hank Hanratty, leaned over the counter to chat as she set her selections down. “So you’re the fruitcake who ruined last night’s game. I hear Buck had sevens full.”

At first surprised, then a little irritated, Hannah answered, “I had to make an emergency landing, yes.”

The old eyes, a faded blue, smiled at her. “Does him good to get shook up once in a while. You’ll have a run for your money, though.”

“A run for my money? Over what?”

“Buck. That volcanologist has her cap set for him.”

Hannah bristled. “I can assure you, I don’t have my cap set for anyone. I just want to be on my way to Aruba.”

He nodded as if he didn’t believe her. Now he was definitely smirking. “Maybe not,” he said doubtfully. “Casino’s damn near shut down now, you know. Are you sure that’s all you want for getting through the hurricane?”

“It’s a hurricane now?”

The old man nodded. “Just hit Cat One a couple of hours ago. I thought you pilots paid attention to the weather. You ought to buy some water. That’s the first thing to muck up every time one of these things blows through.”

“I have no place to put it.”

“I’ll stack it for you,” he said agreeably enough. “Craig can load it in that Jeep of his for you when he gets back. You need three gallons per person per day. So that’s you and Buck, figure four days…twelve gallons.”

“Umm,” Hannah said, but the old man was already stacking cases of bottled water by the door.

“Next is non-perishable food,” he said. “Canned food is better, but we want to avoid the salty stuff. That would increase your water consumption. So let me see…two people for four days….”

A cardboard pallet of assorted canned meats and vegetables grew beside the cases of water.

“You keep saying ‘two people,’ Horace. Why do you assume I am buying for Buck, too?”

“Least you can do for costing him the game,” he said, without looking up, still stacking cans. “Plus, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

“But I don’t want to get to his heart!” she objected.

“Yeah, whatever,” he replied. “Now, what kind of flashlights do the two of you have?”

“I,” Hannah said, emphasizing the word, “have an emergency flashlight in the aircraft, and my own in my travel kit. I’ve no idea what Buck has, though I’m sure he is more than adequately prepared.”

“Need two good six-volt area lanterns, and two hand-helds,” he said, fetching them. “And spare batteries for each. And candles, just in case.”

“Mr. Hanratty….” she began.

“Horace,” he said, still working feverishly. “You’ll also want things to do, in case you get bored. A couple of decks of cards, some dice. I’m sure Buck has poker chips but just in case I’ll toss in a set.”

“I like to read,” Hannah said, feeling as if she was being sold the entire store.

“I’ve got just the thing for you,” he said. “I’ve got the complete series of David Sklansky books on poker, as well as Mason Malmuth’s Essays on Gambling. And I guess I should throw in Doyle Brunson’s Super System 2 as well.”

“I like to read novels,” she said.

“I have The Cincinnati Kid,” he said.

“Saw the movie,” she said, wondering if Horace had any leisure activities in his store that did not involve poker or gambling.

“And I have another one here, Wildcard.”

“Let me guess,” she said. “Another poker novel?”

“Nope,” he said, smiling proudly. “It’s an international conspiracy thriller, but people see the title and I can’t keep it in stock.”

“I’ll take it,” Hannah said. “Anything’s better than nothing.”

“Hey,” he said, looking wounded. “A lot of folks said this was a damn good book.”

“I’m sure it will be,” she replied.

“Okay, so that totals four hundred fifty three dollars,” he said.

“What?” Hannah shouted, blanching.

“I’ll round it down to four-fifty, since you’re with Buck.”

“I am not with Buck!”

“You will be when this hurricane hits,” Horace said. “Cash or charge? I take all of the major cards.”

“Mr. Hanratty—Horace—I don’t want this stuff and I’m not going to pay for it!”

His watery blue eyes lit up. “Great. But it’s already on the pallet. So you pay me or we play for it.”

“What?” She was floored.

“Yeah. I’m always up for a good game. Best two hands out of three.”

“You’re joking.”

He scowled at her. “I don’t joke about poker. Nobody on this island jokes about it. If you’re smart, you’ll take a tip and remember that.”

“But…I don’t want this stuff!”

“It’s a package. All or nothing. Stud. Best two out of three.”

Hannah felt the competitive urge overtaking her. “Who will deal? I want an impartial dealer.”

“Hah! I knew you were the right type of gal!” He cackled gleefully and pulled a brand new set of cards from behind the counter and began to peel the wrapper off. “Just step outside and grab the first person you see.”

“While you’re opening the deck? What kind of fool do you think I am? Dealer opens the deck.”

He laughed again, apparently delighted. “Fair enough, Sticks.”

“Sticks? Who told you that?”

“No secrets around here. Okay, fresh unopened deck. Now go get your dealer.”

It didn’t help her confidence any that he was rubbing his hands together.

It was easy to find a dealer. The first woman she ran into on the street was more than ready. She introduced herself as Gerda Miller, and confided she was a part-time dealer at Bill Anstin’s casino. A woman of about forty with an impressive bust, she was already rolling up her sleeves as they walked into the grocery.

Horace Hanratty had set up a card table and two chairs near a front window where the light was best. An unopened pack of cards waited, as did some chips.

“Wait a minute,” Hannah said. “I agreed to the best two out of three.”

The old shopkeeper grinned at her. “What fun is it if you can’t bet and bluff?”

Hannah hesitated, then decided he was right. “But only three hands. I don’t have all day.”

“Three hands. I hope you know how to bluff, Sticks.”

“Oh!” said Gerda Miller, “this is the Sticks who caused Buck’s full house to blow away last night?”

Hanratty looked at her. “Who did you think she was?”

“Just some tourist.”

“Well, she’s not. And after what she did to Buck last night, I think this game might help square things.”

Hannah wanted to roll her eyes but refrained.

But Gerda took issue with that remark herself. “I’m glad Buck’s cards got blown away. If we don’t get that casino, I may be out of a job.”

“Don’t be foolish, woman. You already have a job at the casino.”

“But how long do you think that tiki hut charm is going to keep drawing boats?”

“As long as there are cheap people who want to take the cheapest cruises in the world.”

“I’d get paid more if we had a better casino.”

Hanratty snorted. “You’d get paid more if someone besides Bill Anstin was running the operation. Now deal, dammit.”

Gerda snorted but opened the pack, pulled out the jokers and instruction cards and began to shuffle with all the aplomb of a professional. “Ante up,” she said.

Hannah looked at Horace. “We didn’t agree how much the antes would be.”

Horace picked up a red chip, casino quality clay. “Ten. We’ve each got fifty of these things. Short game.”

“That’s what I wanted.” Somehow she suspected she’d just been told they weren’t going to play only three hands. But she loved poker, any kind, and found it both relaxing and challenging. A slightly longer game would only keep her away from Buck Shanahan that much longer, and she couldn’t find anything in that to be upset about.

She riffled her chips, waiting as Gerda dealt the first three cards, two face-down, one face-up.

She was looking at a seven of clubs face up. Somehow, since Buck had started everyone calling her Sticks because of his sevens, she thought that was a sign of good luck.

She wasn’t superstitious. Of course not. No way.

When she peeked at her hole cards, the two that were face down, her heart began to hammer. Two more sevens. She had trips. An excellent hand, and right off the top with four more cards to come.

Horace shoved in a stack of chips. “Two hundred.”

Hannah, able to see only the four of diamonds he had face up tried to imagine what hand he could be betting so much on. A flush draw? A straight draw? She pursed her lips, then called him.

Another card, this time a Queen of Hearts, more betting, and again, until all the cards were on the table and the last two hole cards were dealt. Hannah looked at the two diamonds on the table, one of them part of Hanratty’s hand, and one of them part of the board cards, then considered that in her hand she already held two diamonds. The likelihood that he had a flush was…small, she decided, and called his final bet. They were both all in.

She lost. Hanratty held a flush after all. He spread out his five winning cards and smiled beatifically. Then he looked at her trip sevens and said, “Oh, bad beat, Sticks.”

“Yeah, right. Well, I guess I have to pay you, because I don’t have any more chips.”

“Oh, I can take care of that. I did say two best out of three.”

“You did.” She agreed reluctantly, sure this old schemer had something up his sleeve. He rose and went to the stack of bottled water. Putting his hand atop it, he said, “Each of these twelve packs buys you…” he paused, thinking about it.

She could almost see the wheels spinning, as if he were deciding how much he thought he could take her for. She was just about ready to get up from the table and pay the four hundred and fifty dollar bill, when he said, “Tell you what. Three of these buys you another five hundred.”

Despite every instinct to the contrary, she settled back in her chair. “How much do they cost?”

“Six bucks apiece.”

“You’re on.”

So he carried the three cases of water to the already overloaded cart, then returned to the table. Hannah reminded herself she really wasn’t risking anything. After all, she’d either pay for the groceries or get them for free. And she could well afford the groceries, little though she wanted them.

Hanratty counted out another fifty red chips and shoved them her way. He smiled. “Ante up, Sticks.”

Two hands later, having added twelve more cases of water to the pile by the door, Hannah decided enough was enough. “Okay, Horace,” she said, walking to the door. “I’ll get it back next time.”

“Nah,” Hanratty said. “Get it from Buck instead, when you sit in his game tomorrow night.”

She turned. “How did you—”

He smiled. “No secrets, remember?”

She shook her head and walked out into the tropical heat. Then froze in her tracks as a woman planted herself directly in front of her. The woman scowled at her.

“Why are you trying to take my man?”

CHAPTER SIX

HANNAH STARED at the woman who confronted her, taking in details swiftly. She appeared to be about Hannah’s age or slightly older, though it was hard to tell since the woman’s skin showed signs of long-term sun exposure. She was athletically built, wearing a blue work shirt, khaki shorts and hiking boots with thick socks rolled over the top. In her hand was a tool that looked like the perfect murder weapon…a strange hammer-like thing with a huge, curved ice-pick in place of the claw.

Hannah instinctively stepped back. “Who are you?”

“Edna Harkin. Volcanologist. And where do you get off going after my man?”

“I’m not going after anyone.”

“Yeah, right. I’ve been hearing stories.”

“Stories?” All of a sudden, Hannah was fed up with this island. “If you’ve been hearing stories they must be coming from the voices in your head!”

Edna waved her hammer. “I’ve been hearing them from everyone in town!”

“Well everyone in town could hardly know what they’re talking about since I only got here last night!”

“And stayed at Buck’s place.”

“And stayed in the hangar in my own plane, sleeping with a freaking alligator!”

Edna nodded. “Right, but Buster didn’t hurt you.”

“Does everyone know everything about everyone on this island?” Hannah asked in exasperation.

“Only about you,” Edna said, matter-of-factly.

“So what are your plans for that hammer?” Hannah asked.

It was as if Edna Harkin suddenly realized the thing was in her hand. She gaped at it, then swiftly tucked it in a leather holster attached to her belt. “Sorry.”

“You should be sorry! Where do you get off waving deadly weapons at total strangers?”

“I forgot I was holding it! And who the hell are you to tell me what I can do?”

“Just a passing stranger who feels as if she’s fallen down Alice’s rabbit hole. What is it with you people? Is there something in the water? In the air? Or were you all sent here by a mental hospital that had had enough?”

“Hey, you don’t have to be insulting!”

“Why not? I’ve been accused of things by people I don’t know, roped into buying supplies I don’t need, and yelled at by a mad woman waving a hammer.”

“I’m not mad!”

“No, but you are furious,” drawled a deep voice.

Hannah spun about and found herself looking into the exceedingly handsome face of Bill Anstin. In that instant, she totally forgot Edna. “Bill Anstin!” she said, feeling a little amazed. “I was at the rail when you won the World Series of Poker.”

He smiled, a wide, winning smile. No wonder his nickname in the poker world was Handsome Anstin. His looks were too good to be true. Unfortunately, he seemed to know it.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, giving her the kind of once-over that always made her skin crawl. “You must be that pilot who blew away our game last night. Sticks, isn’t it?”

“Umm, no. Hannah Lamont.” She shook his hand, wishing she didn’t feel impressed in spite of herself. Luck might have won him the World Series, but he was still a winner. He still owned the coveted bracelet—which, she noticed, he was wearing.

“Hi, Edna,” Anstin said to the volcanologist. “Come down from the mountain for the storm?”

Edna gave a short nod. “Time to hole up. I also need to get some more people out here. I think the mountain is starting to get active again.”

“Well, nobody’s going to get in here till after the storm.”

“I know that. But I still need to make some calls.” Edna looked at Anstin as if she wished he’d drop from the face of the earth.

Anstin gave Hannah another once-over. “Buy you a drink, Sticks?”

“No, thanks. I’ve got to get back to my plane.”

“Maybe you’ll come play at the casino when the storm has passed. I can give you some tips on your game.”

“Thanks. Nice meeting you.”

Anstin strolled away looking as if he owned the place. Edna sidled up beside Hannah. “Look out for that guy. He never tells the truth when a lie will do. I swear, he lives life on a bluff.”

Hannah nodded. “He seems…oily.”

“Greasy. Globs and globs of emotional grease.”

Hannah looked at her. “Are you really worried about the volcano?”

Edna shrugged. “Prediction is pretty much a guessing game. I need a team out here.”

Hannah hesitated. “This is not making me happy.”

Edna shrugged. “It’s thrilling the heck out of me. But I’m a volcanologist. We’re not wimps.”

Hannah chose to ignore the insult. “What if it erupts during the storm?”

“Then….” Edna shrugged again. “How much trouble we’ll be in depends on the kind of eruption. I mean, this mountain is sometimes explosive, like Mount St. Helens, and sometimes more like the volcanoes in Hawaii…just slow lava flows. You can outwalk those if you need to. But honestly?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t think anything’s going to happen immediately.”

“Thank God. I like excitement, but not that kind.”

“You better not like the Buck kind of excitement either,” Edna said, frowning at her in a way that suggested to Hannah the hammer had not been in Edna’s hands by accident. She took a step back.

Edna left, tossing one more warning glare over her shoulder.

Craig looked at the pallet of supplies when he pulled up in his Jeep a few seconds later. “Are you planning on moving in?”

“It’s hurricane stuff.” Hannah felt embarrassed. “Horace said we’d need it.”

“Oh.” Craig looked dubiously at it. “Buck already has supplies. And he has a couple of cisterns to catch rain water. The town never ran water up to the airport. It was too far.”

Hannah now felt supremely annoyed. “I’m going to go back in and strangle Horace. Wait for me, will you?”

Craig reached out and touched Hannah’s arm. “Don’t do that. We’ll take the stuff up with us. Whatever we don’t use, we can get Horace to take back for credit. Other folks will probably need it after the storm.”

And that’s how Hannah came to be loading a bunch of food, water and paper products onto Craig’s Jeep, muttering under her breath at the lunatics on this island.

“What did you think of Edna?” Craig asked as they drove back up the winding mountain road.

“After she got past wanting to kill me, she merely made me nervous.”

“She’s a weird one, all right. She’s a fruitcake who’s been trying to say for the last five years that the mountain shows signs of erupting. So far the thing hasn’t even vented steam. And Buck hates her.”

“Buck hates everyone.”

“No, he doesn’t. But Edna keeps coming on to him and he’s tired of it.”

Hannah cocked her eye his way. “Doesn’t he like women?”

“Not since his divorce.”

“That explains a lot. What happened?”

“I’m sworn to silence,” Craig said, drawing his thumb and forefinger across his lips as if zipping them. “But get a couple of extra beers in him sometime and he’ll probably tell you.”

Hannah didn’t like the sound of that. “Does he drink a lot?”

“Actually, no. But once in a while…well, sometimes a guy has to howl at the moon.”

BACK AT THE HANGAR, relieved—or so he told himself—to have everyone out of his hair, Buck waded through the schematics of the fuel system for Hannah’s jet and soon had some ideas of what might have gone wrong. There were things even the best mechanic might not spot before they happened, especially if he was working on a plane for the first time, and if maintenance logs had been, well, doctored.

He suspected Hannah had been taken for a ride on this particular plane, insofar as whether routine maintenance had been properly and completely performed all along. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had cut a corner. She was damn lucky not to have ditched.

Of course, he wasn’t going to tell her that. Give Delilah an inch, and she’d take a mile.

But now that he had some ideas, he was itching to get at it. Where the hell was Craig? Was he planning to take Hannah on a complete sightseeing tour of this ugly piece of rock or what?

Rising from the desk, he stretched and headed outside to take a look at the sky. Over in the east it wasn’t pretty at all. Frowning, he went to the office to get a weather update. On his way, even from this altitude, he could see that the Caribbean was probably pushing twenty-foot waves or higher, with heavy chop. Today would not be a good day to be at sea.

Soon enough he was looking at isobars again, noting how they had tightened up. Noting that Tropical Storm Hannah had finally pushed up to hurricane status. Hurricane hunters were posting winds near the center at over eighty miles an hour. Glancing at the clock, he saw he’d have to wait another two hours for the latest update.

Not pretty. Not terribly ugly yet, but not pretty. He sat back in his chair and plucked a fresh cigar from the humidor, tucking it between his teeth. He loved a good hurricane. He just didn’t love a bad hurricane. At this point Hannah was a minor threat in terms of the island. Folks here had been battening the hatches for this kind of stuff for a long time.

And sitting on a volcanic cone like this limited the problems of flooding. The rivers would get high, the pools and ponds would overflow, but there’d be no serious mudslides, and the water wouldn’t stay on the island long enough to cause real damage. Well, except for storm surge. That would depend on how Hannah hit and where her cyclone was strongest when she hit.

Storm surge might wipe out the casino. That almost made him grin, the vision of all those tiki huts washing away.

You’re evil, Buck, he told himself. Shouldn’t wish ill on anyone. But Bill Anstin drove him nuts, as did the mayor, especially since they were determined to turn this island into another carbon-copy Caribbean casino resort. A Vegas-type operation. Complete with has-been headliners.

Hence the poker game he had been playing last evening against Anstin. Everything of import on this island was decided by poker. So the city council (all of whom held their positions by virtue of their final positions in the last island-wide tournament) had dictated that the decision about a new casino would be decided by a tournament. Finally, after several weeks of play, it had gotten down to Anstin and Buck, heads-up. The rules at that point said the winner would be decided by best out of three heads-up matches. The idea was to reward skill over luck.

Luck. Yeah. He’d had some and then that damn woman had come roaring in over his head on a wing and barely enough gas fumes to cause a person to cough.

But if that new casino ever came to pass, Buck was determined to find a different volcano to park himself and his airport on. Too much civilization would run him off faster than an eruption.

Not that they were going to have one. Edna had been trying to conjure an eruption for five years now. The mountain failed to cooperate. Her constant alarms had not only resulted in folks on the island utterly ignoring her for crying wolf, but the entire volcanology community apparently had written her off.

At last he heard Craig’s Jeep roar up and pull to a stop beside the building. Rolling his cigar around in his mouth, Buck moseyed outside, looking for all the world as if he hadn’t felt a wisp of impatience.

One look at the contents of Craig’s Jeep transformed him.

“What the hell is all of that?”

Craig, who was just climbing out answered laconically, “Hurricane supplies.”

“Hurricane supplies? We don’t need any hurricane supplies.”

“Horace took Hannah for a ride.”

Hannah, her head suddenly popping up as she climbed out, said, “Actually, I didn’t want to be a burden.”

Buck saw Craig roll his eyes in a yeah, right sort of way. He debated whether to push the issue or let it go. He knew Horace Hanratty; the man could sell snow to Eskimos. If he smelled a valid credit card, there was no stopping him. Hannah had to be excused from the label of idiot simply because she didn’t know Horace.

Or so he tried to tell himself. He snorted and rolled his cigar over to the other side of his mouth. Finally he said, “I’ve got so much water in my cisterns that if the storm knocks out the water system in town, folks are going to be coming to me for the stuff.”

“That’s what I said,” Craig offered, stepping into what he apparently viewed as a brewing storm. “But Hannah didn’t know that. And I told her whatever we didn’t need, someone would need after the storm, if it hits.”

Buck squashed the cigar between his teeth, reminding himself that a little civility was a good thing. Sometimes. “Okay, let’s get it into the hangar. Hannah is getting wound up tight out there. We’ll be lucky if she doesn’t blow up to a Cat 4.”

“Really?” The other Hannah’s eyes widened. Caribbean green. Gawd.

“Really. Isobar lines near the eye are showing a rapid drop in pressure. This is going to be a wicked one.”

Craig spoke. “I guess this will put paid to the poker game, huh?”

“Not on your life.”

Craig gave Hannah a pitying look, but didn’t say any more.

Buck went to get the big flat-bed hand truck he sometimes used to cart engines around, and together he and Craig loaded the supplies onto it. Hannah stood to one side, her hands in her pockets. Staying out of the way. Good. The last thing he needed was her getting any part of herself in his way. Especially those hips. Or those breasts he was just now noticing.

He didn’t think he’d ever seen a better package climb out of a flight suit.

Things were stirring in him, things he preferred to be in control of, not controlled by. Feelings. Needs. Wants. Sheee-it!

Tugging the heavy cart into the hangar and tucking it out of the way proved a welcome bit of exercise for him, taming the beast within. At least he thought of it as a beast; it was the kind of thing that got him into trouble, and seemed to have a mind of its own.

Once the supplies were out of the way, Hannah-the-pilot was right there asking about her plane.

“I got some ideas,” Buck said. He took the cigar from his mouth and tossed it in a trash can. “Things that could’ve happened that your mechanic wouldn’t have known could happen…especially if the maintenance logs were doctored.”

Hannah’s face darkened. “I had a feeling.”

“Before you bought that thing?”

“After,” she said sharply, taking his question as a criticism. Which he supposed it was, however oblique. “Afterward. Do you know how few people really do all the maintenance? I would have expected to find some oversights. Just a few. But there weren’t any.”

“Well, some of us do it all, but I agree, a lot of private planes don’t get all the attention they should. Either because the owner is a cheapskate or the mechanics cut corners.”

She nodded, for once agreeing with him. “Look at the major airlines.”

“Exactly. There’s a lot of reasons people run close to the edge. Anyway, I went through the schematics while you were out wasting your money, and found a few things to check out.”

“Are you going to check it out?”

“Now?” He arched a brow. “Not likely, Sticks. Craig needs to get home to look after his family before Hannah hits, and I need to go down the mountain to help out. My neighbors are more important than your fuel line.”

“Did I say they weren’t?” Fire sparked in her eyes. A hot-tempered redhead. So what else was new?

“No. But I’m giving the reason before you ask. Some of the older folks are going to need help boarding up. So if you’ll excuse me….”

“I’m going with you.”

His jaw dropped. He didn’t need this. “Now look….”

“I know how to use a hammer,” she argued stubbornly. “And I’m in decent shape. If people need help, I’m going to help.”

Buck looked at Craig, as if he might find help there, but the coward just shrugged.

Which was how Buck came to be driving down the mountain behind Craig, with Hannah Lamont perched firmly in the passenger seat of his pickup truck…resisting every urge to acknowledge her generosity.

CHAPTER SEVEN

HANNAH CHANGED back into her flight suit, it being the most rugged piece of clothing she’d brought with her, and endured the lumpy, bumpy ride back into town.

“Doesn’t anyone work on the roads around here?” she finally asked.

He gave her a look that said she was being a pain. “You try living on an island where storms keep washing them away. Fixing roads takes time and money.”

“With a casino….”

He glared at her and rotated his unlit cigar to half-mast. “The only person making money off that casino is Anstin. He doesn’t care about anything that doesn’t help the casino.”

She blinked. “What about taxes?”

“Who pays taxes?”

Truly she had fallen through the rabbit hole. “But how does anything get done?”

“We get together and decide we need to do it. That’s how we built the school that doubles as a storm shelter. By our own sweat and people supplying the materials they could afford to buy.”

Hannah thought about that. “Rock soup.”

“Basically. It works. But these aren’t the kind of people who want a government or taxes. Except Anstin, anyway. He seems all kind of interested in having a government. Mainly because he doesn’t want anyone gambling outside his casino. So we’ve got a mayor now. What a joke.”

“Why is it a joke?”

“Because the guy couldn’t organize falling out of a tree, let alone run a government. He doesn’t have any power because nobody’s stupid enough to listen to him.”

“Oh.” She peered at him curiously. “You don’t think a little bit of government could help?”

“Why? Most of us here came to get away from all that crap.”

“But…but what about police? Fire department?”

“We have a volunteer fire brigade, and who needs police?”

Most everyone, she thought, wondering if she had flown into total anarchy. But before she could pursue the subject, they were in town, driving down a residential lane, swerving to avoid potholes.

“Look,” he said, “when something needs doing, we have a referendum.”

“Oh, so you vote?”

“Hell, no. We play poker. That’s what I was doing last night. The island is pretty much split on whether Anstin should be able to build his fancy high-rise casino. So the council said it should be decided by a poker tournament.”

Hannah blinked. “Okay. But you vote for a city council, right?”

“No. We have a tournament for that, too. Top six finishers get the job.”

“That hardly sounds like winning.” She turned in her seat to look at him. “I hear you’re a pretty good player. So why aren’t you on the council?”

“Because that’s one tournament I’m not stupid enough to play in.”

Hannah faced forward again. An island where everything was decided by poker. Now she was certain she’d landed in an asylum. On the other hand…. She smiled to herself. It would be kind of fun.

Buck changed the subject. Pointedly, she thought.

“These older homes,” he said, waving out the window at white-painted clapboard-sided houses with green shutters already closed against the coming storm, “were built shortly after Hanratty came here. Men who knew a lot about ship-building put them up, and they’ve withstood everything nature has thrown at this island. The strongest winds just make them bend and creak. It’s the newer homes we have to worry about.”

She could see why. Even low cinder-block structures, of which there were few enough, didn’t look especially strong. Other homes appeared to have been built on the cheap, and it was into that neighborhood that Buck steered the truck. People were out, trying to board their windows with plywood that had obviously been used before. Some appeared to be getting on in years, and it was these people Buck stopped to help.

They greeted him warmly. It was obvious everyone knew him and liked him. Hannah wondered just what it was about him that they liked. She certainly hadn’t seen much to recommend him, other than rugged good looks and a set of narrow hips that awoke something primal in her.

Funny, she thought, that she had never before noticed how sexy a man’s hips could be.

Buck introduced her as a pilot who was laying over for the duration, and called her Sticks. Not that it mattered. Everyone on the island seemed to already know that she was “with Buck,” that she’d awakened with Buster, and that she’d fallen for Horace’s slick patter at the grocery. It was as if she were living in a fish bowl.

The third elderly couple they helped were Joyce and Dil Fenster. Hannah judged them to be in their eighties, and only too glad to allow Buck and Hannah to lug plywood and screw it over windows.

“Been here forty years,” Dil said as he “supervised.” He apparently wanted Hannah to know all about him and Joyce. “I worked as a shrimper out of Destin, Florida, but me and Joyce got tired of me being away for six weeks at a time. So we saved up to buy our own boat we could live on and fish from at the same time.”

“Yeah,” said Joyce, who still looked as if she could haul in a net. “Then we found this place. Been stuck here ever since.” She laughed, as if it were an old joke. “Now our son runs the boat and our grandkids turned coat and went to work at the casino. What kind of job is that, I ask you? Taking hard-earned money away from other people.”

“Now, now,” Dil said to her as if he’d said it a thousand times, “those people come to the casino knowing what the odds are.”

“Still don’t think it’s right,” Joyce said. “It’s not fair like our poker games. I just can’t imagine them taking a rake out of every hand. It’s pure thievery if you ask me.”

Hannah, already perspiring in the humidity and heat, drove screws with a drill while Buck balanced the plywood.

“It’d be better,” Dil said, “if Anstin were on the up and up, though. Now if he transported private jets for people like you do…that would be an honorable calling.”

Hannah almost dropped the drill. Cussing under her breath, she reseated the screw and started again.

“Hurry up,” Buck said. “I’m not Superman. This thing is heavy.”

“Quit your complaining.” She turned to Dil, knowing better than to ask how he knew her business. Instead, she asked, “What do you mean Anstin isn’t on the up and up?”

“No regulations,” Dil said as if it were self-evident. “If he gets his way and builds that big hotel and casino, we’re going to have to get a gubmint. Now won’t that be a hairy shame.”

“Yeah,” Joyce agreed. “All this time we ain’t needed anybody sticking a nose into our business. This Anstin is going to change all that.”

Buck spoke. “We ought to tar and feather him and ride him off the island.”

Dil laughed wheezily and Joyce emitted a belly laugh. “You put tar on him,” Joyce said, “and he won’t sink!”

“You got a point there,” Buck agreed.

“Done,” said Hannah, climbing down the ladder.

“Thank God.” Buck let go of the plywood and shook his arms. “You ever hear of lactic acid build-up?”

She smiled sweetly. “Maybe you should do heavy work more often.”

He glared at her. For once there was no cigar. He must have lost it somewhere.

While they stood in this eyeball-to-eyeball contest, neither of them willing to blink first, Joyce let out a little shriek.

“Oh, my word, Buster, what are you doing here?”

Hannah blinked first. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up and she whirled, looking for the alligator. Yup, there he was, crawling his scaly way across the thin grass toward her.

She was never quite sure how she got there, but in an instant she was on top of the ladder, saying, “Get that thing away from me!”

Buck laughed. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“No? Then what does he eat?”

“Mostly people food,” Joyce confided. “Everyone feeds Buster.”

Hannah glared at the three people and then the alligator. “That’s a mistake. Some day when you don’t give him food, he’ll bite off your hand the way he did Hanratty’s.”

Joyce looked at Dil. “You don’t think he’d really do that, do you?”

“Nah. We been here forty years, girl. Don’t you go taking strange notions just ’cuz Sticks here is frightened of poor old Buster.”

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