For lovers only...

When she jets down to the Caribbean, Dakota Merrick doesn’t expect to spend the night with Trent Walker at his luxurious island hideaway. The bad blood between the music columnist and the ultra-charming jazz producer vanishes with their first kiss. Dakota’s enchanted by the erotic atmosphere of the world-class resort and the passionate music she and Trent are making together.

Trent knows he shouldn’t trust the ambitious reporter. But living out his most sensual fantasies with Dakota is a temptation no man can refuse. Until a breaking scandal threatens their tropical idyll. Will Dakota choose ambition over a future with him? Or can Trent find the right notes to play a love riff straight into her heart?

“Magic,” he murmured.

“Huh?”

“Those bottles and chimes. Charms. You see them in different parts of the world. Some for the evil eye, some for good luck…”

“Love charms?”

He laughed softly. “Considering where we are, I’m betting on it.”

She lifted her eyes to the jangling chimes, wary but curious. He wondered if she believed in them. He knew that luck was what you made it. And so was love. Dammit, he thought. It’s now or never. Her face, still tilted toward the chimes, was open to him. He knew exactly what she would taste like seconds before his lips landed on hers. Red wine and mangoes. A warm sweetness all her own.

Immediately, her lips parted and softened, opening for him. When the tips of their tongues touched, he felt as if someone had tossed a transistor radio into his bathtub. The jolt was so sharp it almost singed his hair. He felt her sigh softly into his mouth.

He let one hand rise to cup her pointed chin, but was reminded of her injury by the roughness of the bandage.

“Sorry,” he murmured, taking his hand away.

She grasped it and rested it lightly against her cheek, nestling into it.

SIMONA TAYLOR

lives on her native Caribbean island of Trinidad—a fertile place for dreaming up scorching, sun-drenched romance novels. She balances a career in public relations with a family of two small children and one very patient man, while feeding her obsession with writing.

She has also published three works of women’s literary fiction under her real name, Roslyn Carrington, but it is her passion for romance that most consumes her. When not dreaming up drool-worthy heroes, she updates her website, www.scribble-scribble.com.

Everything to Me
Simona Taylor

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Dear Sister in Romance,

I hope you enjoy Everything to Me. This is the second novel I’ve set in Tobago, where my grandmother was born. We vacationed there every year, and I have many memories of my childhood there: sailing from Trinidad on a rickety overnight ferry—and once on my grandfather’s tiny, open fishing boat, and watching crab and goat races on the beach. I’m always glad to share my pride and delight with you. Better yet, why not come see for yourself? I’ll take you to this great place I know where we can eat right on the beach...

Even if you can’t hop on a plane, pass by my website, www.scribble-scribble.com. There’s always a breath of fresh Caribbean air waiting there for you. You can also reach me at roslyn@scribble-scribble.com, or on Facebook, Shelfari, or on my author pages at Harlequin.com or Amazon.

Keep reading!

Simona

Contents

Chapter-1

Chapter-2

Chapter-3

Chapter-4

Chapter-5

Chapter-6

Chapter-7

Chapter-8

Chapter-9

Chapter-10

Chapter-11

Chapter-12

Chapter-13

Chapter-14

Chapter-15

Chapter-16

Chapter 1

Trent Walker. On her plane.

Shoot me now.

Dakota Merrick sank a little deeper into the plush upholstery of her seat and watched as Walker sauntered up the aisle of the first class cabin. He held a leather laptop case in one hand, and a long, camel-colored coat was slung over his arm. He was casually dressed in a deep green polo and dark jeans and oh, yes, they both fit him quite nicely. The rich fabric clinging to him allowed her to make out the imprint of toned pecs and biceps.

Not that she was admiring them or anything.

As he drew closer, Dakota became aware of an itch rising somewhere in her midsection and creeping upward, like an invasion of teeny baby spiders. Up, up, over her chest and throat, up into her hair, and…oh, ugh. Spider metaphors were so uncool. She was a better writer than that.

He was even closer now. Damn.

It was a six-hour flight from the small eastern seaboard city of Santa Amata. If she’d been granted three wishes by a genie, she was pretty sure that being trapped for so long in a flying potato-chip can with the great Trent Walker wouldn’t be one of them.

Especially since the last time they’d met, she’d almost got herself arrested.

He was not going to sit next to her. He was not… She’d rather sit next to a toddler with an ear infection. Anything would be better than being stuck with…

She was relieved to see that he was stopping two rows ahead. Dakota watched as he checked his ticket, his long face tilted down, his eyes hidden behind thin, expensive sunglasses. Then he lifted his head, verified his seat number and seemed satisfied.

Easily, he popped open the storage bin and stowed his haphazardly folded coat inside. He held on to the laptop. Sure he would, she thought. The music genius was probably going to work through the whole flight.

She looked down at the pile of magazines she’d brought with her, and tried not to feel competitive. There’d be more than enough work to keep her occupied once she got to Tobago, she reminded herself. She didn’t need to get all workaholic up in here.

A chubby-legged young girl in a too-short denim skirt—which looked more like a wide, clingy belt than anything else—squeezed past Walker, looked up into his face with a pardon-me smile, and stopped dead. Dakota could hear the squeal of recognition from where she sat.

Trying not to roll her eyes, she watched the two briefly exchange words. Walker was smiling nonchalantly, while the girl quivered like an overexcited rabbit and flipped her purple-streaked hair. He reached into his laptop pocket, pulled out a small card, wrote something on it and extended it to her between two fingers. She clasped it to her chest like it was Willy Wonka’s golden ticket, then did a little happy dance, chubby ankles tripping past each other in lace-up platform shoes.

Now Dakota really did roll her eyes.

Traffic in the aisle was backing up, so Walker excused himself with an incline of his head, and slid into his row. He smiled goodbye to the bunny rabbit and she jiggled down the aisle. She stopped, as luck would have it, right next to Dakota. Dakota rose and slid out, allowing her access to the window seat, glancing in Walker’s direction as she did so.

She was startled to discover that he was looking in hers.

His expression could have won him a prize at a lemon-sucking contest. Slowly, one long hand came up and removed the glasses, as if he needed more light to determine if it really was her. With that gesture, he revealed eyes that reminded her of the buttered toffee she used to make candy apples with as a kid. But in those eyes… There was no warmth there. The unsmiling set of his full mouth immediately squelched that happy memory.

Okay, so Walker was as thrilled to see her as she was to see him.

His momma must have raised him right, though, because he acknowledged her with a polite—if stiff—dip of the head. She responded with a dip of her own, and then hastened to get back into her seat. By the time she finished fussing with her seat belt, he was sitting in the aisle seat, and all she could see was his hand and the back of his head as he popped in his earbuds. Seemed the man liked to listen to music while he worked. Not surprising, considering his whole life revolved around it.

“Do you know who that is?” the bunny squealed in her ear as she clicked her seat belt shut.

“I’ve got a pretty good idea,” she answered dryly.

“That’s Trent Walker. You know, like, Outlandish Music, Trent Walker? The owner?”

Dakota looked past her seatmate onto the tarmac. April rain slashed at the windows. She hoped it wouldn’t delay their departure. Maybe if the engines started up, it would drown out the starstruck yipping. But if Walker’s momma had raised him well, hers had raised her better, so she smiled and said, “Sure is. Not a face you can miss.”

“Tell me about it! He’s off da hook, ain’t he? And I’m not just talking ’bout his face. He’s hotter than half the acts he produces. And we’re on the same plane. Can you believe it?” As the muted vibrations began humming through the cabin, her seatmate lifted her voice to be heard over the din. “And he’s going to the Tobago Jazz Festival, just like me. You going?”

Dakota nodded. She was pretty sure everyone on the plane was headed to Jazz. It was one of the most popular annual music events in the Caribbean, and music lovers from all over the world were streaming in for it. Although Tobago was a mere speck of an island, home to only sixty thousand people, music legends like Whitney Houston, Elton John, Smokey Robinson and James Ingram had set the festival stages on fire in years gone by.

The girl waved the piece of paper she was clutching. “He just wrote me a backstage pass. I can go back after any show and talk to the stars. Big stars, girl. Giants!” She clasped her hands in elaborate prayer and looked heavenward. “Oh, please, let Erykha be there! That would be sooo… You want a backstage pass? You should get one.” The girl prodded Dakota in the ribs. “Go ’head. Ask him. Fast, before we get airborne. Go on!”

The thought of her begging a favor off Trent Walker made her grin, but she explained gently, “Thanks, but I already have a pass. All access,” she couldn’t resist adding, and reprimanded herself for being childish.

“Really? What’re you, like… .” Large black eyes gave Dakota the once-over. “…a backup singer or something?”

Dakota wondered if she should be offended that the youngster hadn’t pegged her for a main act. She shook her head. “Nope. Can’t sing a note. It’s a press pass. I’m a writer. A music columnist.”

“Oh.” The interest faded, what with Dakota not being a famous entertainer or anything. “Well, Trent Walker’s got like, three acts performing at Jazz. Mango Mojo—the boy band, you know, with the sideburns guy? And Ryan Balthazar, and Shanique. She’s out of rehab, did you hear? First time back on stage.” She fluffed her purple-striped hair airily. “And I’m gonna get to meet them.”

You’ll meet them sooner than I will, Dakota thought, since Walker had shot down any hope of her ever interviewing his acts. The name Shanique tripped her up like a pothole on an otherwise smooth road. Yeah, she’d heard a little something about Shanique being out of rehab. Guiltily, her glance flew in Walker’s direction—and found he was looking back, over his seat, his steady eyes reflecting nothing.

Her seatmate clapped her hand over her mouth. “OMG! He’s looking at me!” She grabbed one of Dakota’s magazines and hastily opened it, pretending to read. “Is he still staring?”

Yeah, Dakota thought. But not at you. Walker shifted forward again, just as the plane lifted its nose and rose into the sky.

“It’s safe,” she informed Walker’s newfound groupie. “He’s turned back around.”

The girl clamped the magazine to her chest with a sigh. “Oh, man. Just think, a whole week in the hot Caribbean sun, rum parties all day, jazz all night, with dudes that look like him roaming around.” The youthful face turned mischievous. “A week’s a long time, and I’m sure he’s gonna be hanging out backstage.” She twirled the square of cardboard Walker had signed. “And something as fine-looking as that, you just gotta have a taste, ya know?” She flicked her tongue past her purple-painted lips, and Dakota tried not to be shocked, either by the suggestion or by the diamond that glinted at the tip of her tongue.

“How old are you?” she blurted.

“Old enough,” the girl said, and laughed.

* * *

The first thing to hit Dakota was the scent of the island. Even as she stood just outside Crown Point International, with passengers bustling by and taxis honking, a sweet perfume asserted itself. It was a smell that made her think of melting brown sugar, suntan oil, fishing nets and pounding waves. She craned her head in the direction of a row of coconut trees, trying to catch a glimpse of the softly undulating water beyond. She felt like dropping her suitcase and handbag, kicking off her shoes, and running toward that wonderful surging surf.

Fortunately, good sense prevailed. This was not a vacation. She wasn’t here to work on her tan or to snorkel. She was here to cover the jazz festival for her widely syndicated magazine entertainment column. That meant checking in at her hotel, getting some shut-eye and heading out to the main venue in the morning to start trawling for stories.

She held on tightly to the handle of her luggage, feeling a little ridiculous and overdressed in her close-fitting black leather skirt and knit top. They had kept her warm and dry on the other end of the trip, as foul weather prevailed on the East Coast. But here, in Tobago, even after six in the evening, cotton shorts and sandals would have been far more appropriate.

She turned her head, looking for her shuttle. Her assistant had booked her a suite in a hotel called the Sea Urchin, and they in turn had promised to send a ride for her when she landed. But she’d been waiting twenty minutes, and there was no sign of a vehicle with a blue-and-silver logo.

As she waited, Dakota idly took in her surroundings. The airport was tiny, a long building with a driveway running right through it, arrival and departure facilities on one side, and a series of small shops and booths on the other. Shop windows were jam-packed with tanning oils, brightly printed T-shirts, bikinis and sundresses. Women at vendors’ tables, wearing bright floral aprons, yelled at passersby to sample their homemade peppermint sticks and coconut candies.

She fished out the notebook she’d jotted down the hotel’s particulars in and consulted it, then squinted at the signs and buildings nearby. She was in the correct spot, all right. There were other hotel cars around, and a press of taxi drivers in neat white shirts and black trousers, all clamoring for attention. Every now and then one would approach her, dark face split with a grin, and flash an ID badge. “Taxi?” She shook her head, and kept waiting.

Sea Urchin, Sea Urchin! Where are you?

Something rolled through her, tingly enough to be uncomfortable. She recognized it at once: a danger signal. She spun around, bringing her hand unconsciously to the back of her neck to smooth down the fine hairs that were at full attention. Trent Walker was strolling in her direction with that fine, easy walk of his, hips loose, long legs scissoring past each other. She had to consciously restart her heart.

They’d met five or six times, mainly at industry events. The last time she’d spoken with him, they’d been at a big album launch in Manhattan, he as a guest, she as a member of the media. It could have been seven months, easily, although the details of their encounter had the immediacy of a recent memory. His star artiste, the dark and glorious Shanique, had still been in rehab, recovering from a drug and alcohol habit, when she should have been on a Mediterranean tour that would have put millions into her pocket—and Walker’s. And as for him, while his name wasn’t exactly mud in an industry that had seen far worse sins than the one he’d committed, he wasn’t exactly untouched by the scandal that ensued when Dakota’s story hit the papers.

Walker acted like it was all Dakota’s fault. But Dakota had simply broken the story of Shanique’s drug abuse—and the lengths Walker had gone to cover it up. She’d been lucky, and had a connection who led her to the right source. She’d caught it and run with it. The story had doubled the number of papers in which her column appeared. Who could blame her?

Walker could, that’s who.

He’d had a few choice words for her that night, and said things he shouldn’t have about her character. She’d responded in a way that would have been funny in a cartoon, but wasn’t appropriate in the middle of a cocktail party with the movers and shakers of the music world—not to mention the press—looking on.

She’d been a naughty girl.

He was coming closer still. Disappear, she willed herself, scrunching her eyes shut. She wished she could change color, like a tree frog or a chameleon, and blend in seamlessly with the background. Mutant style.

Unfortunately, she didn’t have a mutant gene in her body. She opened her eyes and saw his head turn toward her…and then he was making his way through the crowd. Adrenaline surged. She had the urge to turn and run.

But she was glued to the ground, partly a victim of indecision, and partly mesmerized by the sight of him as he walked. Confident, easy, relaxed. He carried his bag with the laptop case strapped to it, not dragging them as she did, but dangling them effortlessly at the end of his arm. And triple dammit to hell, he looked fine.

Walker was as blessed with good looks as any one of his singers, and almost as sought after by the tabloids. Yet he seemed to have an uncanny knack for staying below their radar. Other than the occasional Page 5 photo of him on the red carpet with some arm candy, and the persistent rumors that he and the legendary Shanique had a thing going on, nobody had ever gotten close enough to him to publish much more. He liked to keep it that way; he’d refused to grant Dakota an interview more than once—and that was before she’d broken the story that had rocked his business.

“Miss Merrick.” His tone was casual. Obviously, despite his reaction on the plane, seeing her hadn’t rattled him half as much as his presence rattled her. Not that it should bother him. Music was her business, just as it was his. Surely he should have expected her to be there. Everybody who knew anything about music came to Jazz!

Two could play the cool game. “Mr. Walker,” she replied smoothly. She turned and glared into the oncoming traffic.

He seemed to notice that all was not well with her world. “Problems?”

“You mean, apart from the fact that I’ve been standing here for half an hour waiting on my driver, and I don’t see anyone with my hotel logo, or with my name on a sign?” The stress was evident in her voice.

He considered her for a while, his deep amber eyes examining her face until she became downright uncomfortable. Then he looked around. With a sweep of his arm, he indicated the airport fence and the road that lay beyond. “Maybe you should walk out to the curb. The crowd’s a little thick in here. If you stand out there you might get a better idea of what’s going on.”

She looked in the direction he’d pointed. From what she could see through the chain-link fence, things didn’t seem any less chaotic.

Next thing she knew, he had her suitcase in his other hand and had already begun to walk, crossing the drop-off zone and moving past the shops. She snatched up her carry-on and ran after him, protesting. “I can carry my own bags!”

She might as well have been whistling in the wind.

Outside the main gates, he set their bags down. The concrete was sprinkled with a fine dusting of sand, crunching under her feet. She smelled that fragrance again, full of promise and invitation. She was too hungry and tired to answer its call. And after the cold, wet misery of her hometown, Santa Amata, the island heat was getting to her. Please, she prayed, all I want is a shower, a meal and a good night’s sleep.

“I can take it from here,” she told Walker, as politely but as firmly as possible.

“Hmm,” he responded, but didn’t move.

Suit yourself. She rummaged through her carry-on, found her phone, and poked at the numbers. Nothing. She tilted it so she could see the screen. Not a single measly bar. “Oh, just great.” She glared at him as though the aura of magnetism surrounding him was responsible for the technical failure.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew his phone and held it out to her. “Try mine.”

She gave it a suspicious look. Was it rigged to explode in her hand? “Why?”

He shrugged. “So you can get out of here, and I can go to my hotel with a clear conscience.”

“Am I on your conscience?”

He paused for a moment before he answered. “Only to the extent that we’re two American citizens landing on foreign soil, and one of us looks to be in trouble.” Then he added, “Am I on yours?”

To save herself from answering, she grabbed his phone. It was smooth and warm to the touch. Naturally, it was the kind of gadget that could pick up a signal from Mars.

She dialed. On about the 20th ring, someone at the Sea Urchin got around to picking up. The conversation didn’t last long.

“What do you mean, I’m not confirmed?” she blurted. “My assistant made that booking. Can you check again? Thank you. What? It’s Merrick. M-e-double-r…but it has to be there.” She realized she was squeezing the phone like a mamba with a rat. The voice on the other end was lilting and musical, but what it was saying was anything but gratifying.

“Can I make another booking, then?” She hated the sound of pleading in her tone, especially since Walker made no attempt to disguise the fact that he was listening. She nodded, groaned and clicked the phone off, teeth grinding.

“What’s the problem?” he asked, as though he hadn’t been overhearing every word.

“The problem is,” she explained tautly, “that my new assistant forgot to confirm my booking. And with all the people turning up for the Jazz Festival, they haven’t got any rooms. From what they’re telling me, there’s hardly a room left on the island.”

He contemplated her predicament soberly. “What’re you going to do?”

“Find another hotel,” she said, as though it was the world’s stupidest question. Hotel information wasn’t going to fall from the sky; she’d have to find some help. Back at the airport, she remembered seeing a tourist bureau. She spun around and started dragging her suitcase.

To her surprise, he fell into step. She stopped so hard her shoes squeaked. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Walking you to wherever you’re going for help.”

Did music impresarios get merit badges for being nice to stranded travelers? “Why? I’m a grown woman.”

Lazily, he let his eyes roam her body, something on his face telling her he was well aware she was a woman. “I told you—”

“I know,” Dakota interrupted. “Two Americans on foreign soil, and all that. Thanks for being so patriotic, but if I really get into deep trouble, I’ll take it to the embassy.”

When he smiled, his long face, the same color as the sand scattered at their feet, almost warmed…but his voice held a note of amused mockery. “Our nearest embassy is one island over, in Trinidad.”

“I’ll be fine anyway,” she said with dignity. “I can take care of myself.”

His shapely lips tautened, and she knew exactly what was going through his head. “Yes, I forgot. You’re very good at taking care of your own interests.” Carefully, he set down her bag, hefted his, and stepped away. “Good luck. I imagine I’ll be seeing you around at the festival?”

She shrugged. “I’m covering it, so I guess… ”

“Well,” he said, his voice dripping with irony. “I hope you find the stories you’re looking for.” His bag swung as he walked away.

Sure, you do, Dakota thought.

She didn’t step into the tourist office until he was out of sight.

Chapter 2

Island time, Walker thought. No matter how often he traveled through the Caribbean, he never ceased to marvel at the slow, easy pace of everything and everyone around him. Coffee shop attendants stopped to chat in the middle of pouring him a cup, porters took their own sweet time crossing the road… Car rental companies moved with the speed of honey dripping off a spoon.

The previous client—no doubt an islander, he thought wryly—had returned the rental car he ordered more than an hour late, whereupon smiling employees had informed him in their musical accent that they’d clean the car up for him “just now.” Suspecting that “just now” in island-speak meant a good chunk of time, he’d bought himself a local paper and settled in for the wait.

By the time they’d handed over the keys to the pearl gray BMW sedan, it was fully dark outside. He eased past the airport, noticing that traffic had thinned significantly. The flight they were on was probably the last international arrival of the evening. Everyone had already gone home.

At least, those who had a home to go to.

In the yellow glow of a streetlamp, a hunched shape sat on a bench, two small bags propped up beside her. Merrick, he knew at once. The curve of her shoulders, her mere presence, in fact, told him she hadn’t found a place to sleep. He wondered idly how she planned on dealing with her assistant when she got back to New York. From his brief experiences, Merrick had quite a tongue on her; he was half-sorry for her assistant once Merrick could rustle up a few bars of signal on her phone.

As he rolled past, struggling to remember to drive on the left rather than the right, he turned his head—and their eyes locked. Hers were wide and dark against her tan skin, Japanese anime-huge, and in a flash he read anxiety and fear. One hand clutched the collar of her leather jacket to her throat. It was still warm out, so it couldn’t have been to ward off the cold. In his rearview mirror, he saw her slap at her neck and wince.

In the darkness, the mosquitoes had come out.

The gods were having a laugh at her expense. Poetic justice, given the mess she’d almost made of his career.… Well, technically she’d made a mess of Shanique’s career; he’d survived virtually unscathed. But still… Feeling guilty at the meanness of the thought, he comforted himself. She’d get lucky; it was mathematically impossible for every single bed on the island to be filled. She’d try again in a while, and at the very least find a dive where the all-night bar would keep her up and the bedbugs wouldn’t give her a moment’s rest. Then maybe she’d be too tired in the morning to do any more muck-raking for her damn column.

In the rearview mirror, he saw the light above her head flicker, and she tilted her face upward in panic.

Walker eased his foot off the accelerator.

The woman was alone and possibly in danger. Who knew what kind of creatures, two-legged or otherwise, came crawling out of their holes after dark? What if something happened to her out there? A feeling of dread, mingled with a vague sense of responsibility, ran through him. If you saw someone standing on the tracks and a train was bearing down, only they couldn’t hear it coming, would you push them out of the way?

Would you yank them out of harm’s reach even if they’d done you wrong?

Naw, the voice in his head chided, you’re not thinking… .

With a squeal of tires, he made a U-turn, and headed back to where she sat. As he slammed on the brakes, her face was the picture of confusion and alarm.

“Get in, Merrick,” he ordered.

“What?”

He hopped out, walked around, and grabbed her bags. “You can’t stay here.”

“I wouldn’t be the first traveler to spend the night at an airport,” she said stubbornly. “There’s security all over the place. I’ll be safe.”

“It’s a dinky country airport—an open air airport—on one of the smallest islands on the planet. And in case you haven’t noticed, most everyone’s gone home. What were you planning to do? Sleep on the bench?”

“I was planning to stay awake on the bench,” she countered, and slapped at the back of her neck again. “I hear the sun rises early in the West Indies.”

“There are mosquitoes dancing around your head. Can you imagine what you’ll look like by morning?”

“What’s it to you?” she responded suspiciously.

“Refer to my previous statement about leaving fellow citizens stranded.” He could have added a comment about damsels in distress, but he knew he’d be an idiot to go there. Merrick looked unlikely to be amused by his chivalry.

“I’ll be sure the president’s notified.” She folded her arms, but didn’t make a move.

As he threw her bags into the back, next to his, her dark eyes rounded. “What are you…?”

“Far as I know, my place is confirmed and waiting for me. You’re welcome to come along.”

She gasped. “Stay with you? In your room?”

He laughed, delighted by her horrified reaction. “Don’t be ridiculous. I wasn’t suggesting we share a bed.…” He stopped, and his tongue flicked against his lower lip. “Not even one of those chaste little arrangements where one of us sleeps on top of the sheets and the other sleeps beneath them. This isn’t a teen sitcom.”

She looked relieved to hear it. “But how…?”

He explained. “I’ve rented a cabin. It’s a fully equipped unit.” Then he added meaningfully, “It has two separate bedrooms.”

All the while he was talking, that self-preserving voice at the back of his head was calling him a lunatic. Look at her, the voice warned, with her heart-shaped little face and pointed chin. Plus, under that outfit—was she crazy, wearing leather here?—he knew she was more than a handful up top, and everything a brother could ask for down below.

Oh, yeah, he taunted himself. You’ve noticed her over the months. Just how small is this cabin, he wondered. Would he be able to stay out of her range?

He’d better.

She was frowning. Thinking. Tempted. She glanced at her stuff, sitting in the trunk of the Beemer. “I don’t…”

He sighed; his patience was giving out. “It’s late, Merrick. We’ve flown all day, and we’re in a strange country. Stop fighting it. You need a meal and rest as much as I do. Come with me, just for tonight. You can call around for a hotel again in the morning.”

“There’ll be something for me tomorrow,” she wavered.

“Definitely,” he agreed, although he wasn’t betting on it.

It was futile trying to resist the onslaught of logic. Slowly, doubtfully, she nodded. “We split the tab,” she insisted.

“Deal.” He patted her lightly on the shoulder, the first time he’d intentionally touched her. He felt something shift deep inside. “Let’s go.”

She climbed into his car like it was a paddy wagon carting her off to jail. As she buckled up, he noticed her hands were shaking. He wanted to say something to put her at ease, but for the life of him, he couldn’t think of what.

He levered his long body into the driver’s seat next to her and unfolded a small map, clicking on the overhead lights with one hand.

“Know where you’re going?” Dakota asked.

He ran his finger along a fat blue line, tilting the map toward her so she could see as well. “It’s fairly straightforward. Just got to stick to the coastal road ’til we get to Speyside.”

“Is it far?”

Meaning how long would she be stuck with him, he thought. “The island’s about 25 miles long. I don’t expect anything’s far from anything else.” He gave her an amused look. “Don’t worry about it. You don’t even have to talk to me if you don’t want to. Just lean back and listen to the music.” He clicked on the radio and scrolled through the stations until he found one that suited him. Jazz, naturally.

“We’ll be there in no time,” he promised.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“My pleasure.” The word pleasure rolled off his tongue.

Mistake, the voice in his head harped. Big, big mistake.

* * *

Dakota had the distinct impression Walker was driving with a lighter foot than he would have if he were alone. Even so, less than an hour later the car turned onto a narrow, sand-swept driveway and slowed to a halt. She stole a look out of the window, while trying not to be too obvious about it.

The property rolled over low foothills to the dark sea. Moonlight glittered on the surface, breaking into a dozen pieces with the movement of the waves, until each piece danced to its own rhythm.

The softly lit estate was lined with greenery. She could just make out the silhouettes of tall, curving coconut trees that arched toward the sky, flanked by shorter, fan-shaped palms.

He helped her out, then yanked their bags from the trunk, holding one in each hand. “Come,” was all he said.

She followed him, clutching her carry-on. In the back of her head, a mantra had struck up: bad idea, bad idea, bad idea… . She shouldn’t have let him talk her into this. She should have made a few more calls. Tried more hotels…

Beyond the trees, a pair of spotlights illuminated an arched gateway of wrought iron, shaped like rambling vines curling and intertwining around each other. The word Rapture spanned the two supporting posts.

Dakota stopped short. “Tell me that’s not the name of the hotel!”

“I believe that’s the name of the hotel.” He seemed to be enjoying the shock in her voice. “Relax. It’s an adults-only resort. They’re all over the Caribbean: Hedonism, Sandals… It can’t be much different.”

“But why’d you pick this one?” she asked suspiciously. Maybe he was planning to take full advantage of all the delights available to a man of his stature at a festival like Jazz. She thought of the dizzy little groupie on the plane, with her diamond-studded tongue. Was Walker the kind of guy to choose the best of what was on offer at a concert and head back to his hotel to continue the party in private?

“By the time my assistant got around to booking, I didn’t have much to choose from. My travel agent said they had an opening, and I took it.” Then he reminded her, “It’s better than your alternative, correct?”

She conceded both his point and her rudeness. “Sorry. I’m very grateful—”

He cut her off. “So relax and enjoy it.” As he continued toward the entrance, his back turned to her, she heard him add, “You don’t have to swim in the nude pool if you don’t want to.”

“What?” she gasped, but all she got in reply was a soft, throaty chuckle.

At the end of a stone walkway they came upon a brightly lit building. Its doors were open, and the entrance was flanked by tall torches, their ends rammed into the ground. The air was filled with the scent of citronella.

As Walker began to climb the four or five steps leading to the entrance, Dakota lagged behind, overwhelmed by growing panic.

He sensed her reluctance and stopped abruptly, turning slightly to look back at her. Since he didn’t signal he was slowing down, she almost ran into him. His amusement at her discomfiture was all gone. He was just one step above, looking down into her face, his eyes searching hers for something. Maybe he found it, because he said, very gently, “Don’t worry.”

Instead of shooting back a skeptical response, she wet her lips and looked away. Nights were short on the islands, and things would look better in the morning. Plus, they weren’t exactly enemies; it wasn’t as if he’d sworn a blood oath to erase her and her kin from the earth. His business and her duty just weren’t in sync. It wasn’t personal.

Well, all right, it was a little personal. Like that evening at the album launch when he’d called her a bottom-feeding scavenger for ratting out his precious diva—and him. And she’d responded by decorating the front of his white shirt with a glass of ’03 Chilean red.

A movement in the doorway saved her from whatever he was going to say next. The apparition was enough to jolt all thoughts of Walker from her mind, and that was saying something.

The man standing in the glowing lamplight at the entrance was so tall that he dwarfed Walker, and his skin was so black he seemed to belong to the night, rather than simply inhabit it. Impeccably twisted dreadlocks cascaded from his head, a Medusa’s nest of snakes. He wore a tan suit made of a light fabric, with a cream-

colored shirt and a tie of deep garnet. He was so striking, so physically perfect, that Dakota almost believed he was supernatural. This was the Caribbean, after all. A place populated by the ghosts of African princes, forest deities and enchanted apparitions.

As they approached, onyx eyes gleamed behind thin glasses, and his dark face split in a welcoming smile. His large, perfect teeth all but glowed. “Mr. Walker! So good to meet you. Welcome to Tobago.” His deep voice floated on the wave of the graceful and enchanting accent they’d heard everywhere since they’d touched down.

Walker and the handsome devil clasped hands warmly, equally white grins on their faces. “Trent, please. And it’s good to be here.”

The big man turned his cave-dark eyes in Dakota’s direction. His grin grew even wider. “I wasn’t aware you were bringing a guest, Trent, but we’re perfectly happy to have her.” Then he addressed Dakota directly. “Welcome. I’m Dr. Declan Hayes, part owner of this establishment. But once you check in, there’s a penalty for using last names here at Rapture.” He cocked his head in the direction of the reception area. “We’ve got a clay jar in there, sort of like your American swear jar. If you call me Dr. Anything, you owe me a dollar. Deal?”

She couldn’t help but smile. “Deal…Declan.” She threw a glance at Walker. Damned if she was calling him by his first name. She’d drop a buck in Declan’s jar every twenty minutes, if she had to.

Walker laughed, as if he knew what she was thinking. Then, realizing the introductions had been one-sided, said, “Declan, forgive my rudeness. This is Dakota Merrick. My…er…” He searched for several long seconds for a suitable description, and then finished up weakly “…colleague.”

Declan caught his hesitation—and misunderstood. He lowered his voice, his face somber, radiating trustworthiness. “Don’t worry, Trent, Dakota, here at Rapture, we’re extremely discreet. Rapture was built for lovers, and confidentiality is our top priority. We have a wide range of indulgences to offer, and I promise you you’ll be very happy together here.”

Dakota choked on a mouthful of shock. “But I…but we…we’re not…” She shot Walker an exasperated look.

Declan had already snatched up Dakota’s bag and was moving. “Follow me to your quarters. You were lucky enough to get one of the largest and most luxurious cabins. It’s the farthest from the communal areas, for enhanced privacy.” He twinkled back at Dakota. “And the outdoor Jacuzzi tub is completely screened off from the other cabins.”

Jacuzzi, Dakota huffed to herself. Adults only, built for lovers…

The two men fell into step, as though they were old friends. Dakota kept up with them, seething. She wanted to grab this sleek gorgeous apparition, spin him around and make it abundantly clear that she and Trent Walker were not, not, not here for an illicit liaison. It was an accident they were even together.

They passed through a side door and descended a few steps into a garden that Dakota could only describe as magical. Even through the thick soles of her shoes she could feel the springiness of the dense, spiky grass. Under soft outdoor lights, a chaotic array of bushes, flowers and trees slumbered. Flagstone paths twisted and twined, going off into arbitrary directions. Down each path, she could see a faint halo of light, leading her to believe that each one led to a cabin.

“The pool’s in that direction,” Declan volunteered.

The nude pool, she remembered.

“It’s right next to the spa, where you can enjoy a variety of services: hot-cupping, Swedish massage, Shiatsu, acupressure. My business partner, Anke, is in charge of that. My office is on the other end of the property, if you’d like to have an appointment.”

She just had to ask. “Appointment? For…?”

“Counseling. I started off as a general medical practitioner, but then went back to study psychiatry. Now I’m a sex and relationship therapist,” Declan answered calmly.

Sex and relationship therapist. Huh. She distracted herself from the incongruity of the situation by focusing on her surroundings. She wished desperately that it was still daylight so she could enjoy the sights as well as the smells. What a long way from Santa Amata, with its endless rain and slush. She was in the warm and wonderful Caribbean, so close to the sea she could hear it whisper in and whoosh out. The sky was so bright and clear she wanted to reach up, snatch down stars and make herself a sparkling necklace.

She didn’t realize she was smiling until she heard Walker murmur, “I know. Makes you tingle all over, doesn’t it?”

The last thing she wanted to discuss with Walker was any part of her body tingling. With a nervous hand, she twisted a curly lock of hair around her ear.

The path dipped sharply and they came upon an exquisite cabin. It was made of wood and painted a mellow tangerine, except for the carved white adornments that graced the small porch, doors and windows, and ran around the edge of the roofing like spider webs.

Wood thudded dully under their feet as they climbed the three steps leading to the entrance. Declan withdrew a key from his pocket, and slid it into the lock. He eased the door open and preceded them into the cabin, flicking on lights as he did so.

He led them through the sitting area toward the farthest bedroom and flooded it with light. Its walls were a soothing shade of avocado set off by white jalousies. A large painting hung on one wall, an oil rendition of a dark-skinned woman, completely naked, rising out of a tropical stream, water dripping from her long, woolly hair. Water rose just to her pubis, seeming to caress her there, like a cool, intimate hand. The thick-lashed, heavy-lidded eyes were half closed, and her smile spoke of the pleasures of swimming naked. It was the most erotic painting Dakota had ever seen. She tore her eyes away.

She was vaguely aware of the other furniture. The rest of her mind was swamped by the image of the big, luxurious bed.

“This is the master bedroom.…” Declan was saying.

The king-size bed was covered with a cheerful quilt. It was strewn with huge pillows and stood high off the floor.

“Bathroom’s over there,” he continued.

The bed stood firmly on polished brass legs. The mattress was thick. Bouncy, she guessed. Strong. She caught sight of what was on the bedside table. Other hotels kept a copy of the Bible next to the bed. Rapture had a leather-bound copy of the Kama Sutra. She rolled her eyes.

“I’m sure you two will be very comfortable here.” Declan set Dakota’s bag down against a wall.

She sputtered, trying to drag her gaze—and her thoughts—away from that big, big bed and the ancient Indian instruction manual lying beside it. “Oh, but we…”

Walker still held on to his bag. Unruffled by the insinuation, he said calmly, “Dakota can take this one.”

Her ears pricked up at his use of her first name. Just to avoid tossing a buck into Declan’s jar?

He continued. “I’ll be fine in the room next door.” He cocked his head at her, as though amused by her discomfort, and gave her half a wink.

Declan’s bushy brows flicked upward for a fraction of a second and then, with a nod toward Dakota, he followed Walker. She stood with her back to the door, surveying the room, thoughts tumbling.

Chapter 3

The men exchanged muffled goodbyes and there was the sound of the front door closing. Then, a presence in the doorway. She spun around.

Trent stood just a few feet before her, hands on hips, contemplating. The forced intimacy of shared quarters made it hard for her to breathe.

“Traveling’s a real bitch,” he finally said, sounding sympathetic. “You must be tired.”

She was way too keyed up to be tired. “I’m…fine, thank you.” She was carefully polite: as tense as the situation was, she couldn’t forget she was here due only to his kindness.

“Good. Why don’t we take twenty to freshen up? Then we can head out to the dining room and see what they’re offering.”

Eat. With him?

Her hesitation was just shy of being damn rude.

“Hey,” he said reasonably, with that same easy smile that made him as much of a star as his singers, “if the Pilgrims and the Indians could call a truce long enough to eat…”

She could have countered with a sharp rejoinder about smallpox-infected blankets, but good manners forced her simply to nod in mute, weary gratitude.

He accepted her concession with the satisfaction of a man used to winning. “Twenty minutes, then.” He headed back to his room.

* * *

“Anything you don’t eat?” Trent asked as he studied the menu. All around them, guests were already dining in the gorgeously decorated hall. The meals were included in the price of the stay, so most of the hotel guests stayed on the grounds for dinner. The vaulted ceiling was bright white, and the glow from small lamps on each table danced along its surface like a light show.

Dakota sat in the comfortable polished teak chair, several degrees cooler now that she’d showered and changed into a light linen sleeveless dress with a square-cut neckline. She could have sworn for a second that, upon first seeing her, Trent’s eyes had lingered briefly at her bare collarbone before sliding downward and away, but she could be mistaken.

The air was filled with the dizzying scent of hot food, an opulent blend of roasted meats, baked yams and potatoes, and vegetables drizzled with olive oil. A sharp pang of hunger stabbed at her, reminding her it had been hours since she’d had anything.

“I’m not normally fussy, but I hope the soup of the day isn’t goat liver or something weird like that.” She was startled to find her sense of humor hadn’t abandoned her.

In response, the rigid squareness of his shoulders softened a little, letting her know she wasn’t the only one anxious over their arrangements. “Well, they cater to Americans and Europeans, so I’m sure they’ll have something less exotic for the guests. And I think that soup you’re talking about is called mannish water. It’s Jamaican, not Tobagonian.”

“Well, if I ever go there, I’m not having any.” She ran her finger around the top of her water glass, glad for something to focus on. Anything to keep her eyes off him.

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” He seemed as relieved as she was to have something safe to talk about. As if food could be a safe topic in a place like Rapture. From what she’d seen so far, she’d be grateful if the coconut mousse wasn’t molded in the shape of a penis.

As for her sense of adventure? She was having dinner in the least likely of places with the least likely of people. This was enough adventure for her.

At the next table, a movement caught her eye. A long-haired young man with deep blue eyes reached across the table to his companion, a champagne flute in his hand, and slowly drew the chilled glass over her left nipple. The woman laughed, and her physical reaction to the icy contact was instantly obvious as the small, hardened bump poked through the thin satin of her blouse. That simple gesture was so outrageously erotic that Dakota sucked in a lungful of air, shocked at herself for watching.

She exhaled through pursed lips, commanding her body to be still. Many dangers lurked in this place. One night, she reminded herself. It’s just for one night.

She could tell Trent was studying her reaction. The low light made long feathery shadows of his lashes. She noticed for the first time that a tiny mole perched near the corner of his lower lip. On a woman, it would have been a beauty mark. On a man, it was…something else. His smile was lazy, his gaze assessing. “I’ve never met a reporter who was a prude,” he remarked.

“I’m a columnist, not a reporter,” she answered, dragging her gaze away from the most erotic sight she’d seen in a long time. Upon deeper thought, it would have been a very long time since she’d even experienced something so erotic.

“I stand corrected.” He tilted his head in the direction of the couple, who were about five minutes from getting it on right there at the table. “This really bothers you.” It was a statement, not a question.

“No, it doesn’t,” she lied, and felt her face flush. “I’m not opposed to PDA, per se,” she added, hating the primness in her voice.

“Just in my presence?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

A waitress arrived just in time to save her from his response. Trent asked the waitress to surprise them with their meals, which shocked the hell out of Dakota.

“Adventure,” she noted dryly.

“I embrace it whenever it presents itself,” he shot back smartly. Then his brow furrowed a bit. “Although maybe I should stop short of ordering red wine with the meal?”

She knew at once what he was referring to: her wine-pouring escapade at the cocktail party seven months ago. He’d deserved it, she reminded herself, for his behavior. Rather than be embarrassed, she felt a grin break out. “I think your odds are good tonight.”

“They’d better be. Don’t want to lose another shirt.”

“I sent you a replacement. Didn’t it fit?”

“Perfectly,” he conceded. “You have a very good eye.”

A clear implication that she’d been looking at him long and hard enough to correctly guess his size. She debunked that at once. “It was a wild guess.”

He gracefully let the matter drop, and they settled on cashew wine. The waitress floated away, promising them she’d be back with their dinner “just now.” At that, Trent’s lip twitched.

“What?”

“Nothing, but maybe you ought to fill in the cracks with a few breadsticks while we wait.”

She’d heard enough about island service to think that was a good idea. As she broke off a crumbly piece of bread and slipped it into her mouth, she hoped they’d be too busy nibbling to make much small talk. No such luck.

“What’re your plans for tomorrow?” he asked.

“Find a hotel,” popped out of her before she could restrain it.

“I’m sure that’ll be a priority,” he agreed. “I meant, apart from that.”

“Oh,” she said with deliberate casualness. “I think I’ll go down to the festival site and get started on my interviews.”

He tautened visibly, but his voice was steady. “Do you already have appointments booked?”

“Of course, a few,” she said noncommittally, and couldn’t stop herself from adding, “but none with your people.”

He smiled like a wolf. “Did they all turn you down? Even Mango Mojo? Those youngsters would grant an interview with a supermarket rag if they thought it would give them more exposure.”

The comparison between her nationally syndicated column and a write-up in a tabloid stung like blazes. She worked hard on her craft and was well respected in many entertainment circles for her writing. The fact that Trent seemed stubbornly intent on not acknowledging her successes rankled. But instead of defending her work, she retorted, “Yeah, they all turned down my requests. And why wouldn’t they? You obviously told them to avoid me like I’ve got leprosy.”

His face didn’t even twitch. “I gave no such instruction.”

“Oh, don’t ask me to believe—”

“I’m their producer, not their publicist. I don’t decide who they talk to and who they don’t—”

“But you must have let on how you feel about me,” she argued.

He shrugged. “I’ve never made my feelings a secret. Anyone who knows anything about the industry knows what went down last year, and what happened after your column hit the newsstands.”

What went down last year…as if she needed a reminder. Shanique was enjoying a meteoric rise up music’s A-list, was on the second album of a four-disc deal with Trent’s Outlandish Music and had celebrity endorsements piled up to her impressively sculpted butt. Those who’d noted a few cracks appearing in her stunning facade had chosen to overlook the growing problems. There was talk of her losing her voice, her edge. She’d denied it, claiming that her album and concert sales were proof enough that she was still on top of her game. Until Dakota’s story broke that instead of singing live at her sold-out concerts, Shanique, due to her overindulgent drug use, had been lip-synching to the voice of another singer, hidden backstage.

Dakota’s solid connection with the right person… She stopped midthought. Truth be told, she could hardly call her source the right person, considering how much pain he’d caused her. Deliberately, carefully, she rephrased, even if it was only inside her head. Her solid, well-connected source had gotten her the exclusive and all the proof the doubters needed. It was the exposé of Dakota’s career. Shanique had denied it until she was purple, sobbing to anyone who would listen that she’d been set up, and the whole thing was a ruse to make her look bad. While some of her fans took it in stride—stuff like that did happen in the music business, after all—others were outraged at spending their hard-earned money on tickets to hear someone else sing. Websites and Facebook pages sprang up overnight, boycotting her concerts and demanding their ticket money back. Parodies of her fraudulent performance went viral on YouTube. The sponsors took notice. Endorsement deals dried up like a creek in Death Valley.

Trent’s reputation also took a hit. Questions rolled in. As Shanique’s producer—and rumored lover—had he known about her subterfuge? Did he willfully aid and abet? Had it been his idea all along? His publicist had released a statement expressing concern for Shanique’s well-being, while stopping short of admitting any involvement in the lip-synching debacle. Nonetheless, the damage was done.

Their waitress arrived with steaming bowls of dark green soup, just in time to stop Dakota from getting further sucked into the depths of Trent’s accusing gaze. He seemed glad for the distraction. “Callaloo soup,” he informed her, reading off a small card that came with the meal. “It’s like spinach.”

She’d have eaten warmed-up tar if it meant they could change the subject. She sipped experimentally and discovered it was pretty good.

That could have put an end to the conversation, but the man had a one-track mind. “I never banned them from giving you an interview, Dakota.”

There: he was using her name again. She swallowed a mouthful of hot liquid. “But they won’t.”

He shrugged eloquently.

“And neither will you,” she couldn’t resist pointing out.

“Did you expect me to?” The thought seemed to amuse him.

“Not since…my story, sure. I understand that. But you turned me down well before—”

“I’m not very good with the media,” he responded offhandedly.

“Then you’re in the wrong field.”

He gave her a slow smile, one that had a curious effect on her stomach. “Oh, I’m pretty sure I’m in the right field. Music is my life, and my life is music. I’m just lucky I can afford to hire people to handle stuff I’d rather not do.”

“Such as interviews with bottom-feeding scavengers like myself.” She quoted one of the last things he’d said to her at the cocktail party months ago. Even to her own ears, she still sounded hurt.

He must have heard it, too, because he leaned forward, and his self-satisfied smile faded. “I apologize if my words were a little…harsh. I’m not normally that uncouth. I was a bit ruffled at the time.”

He had been ruffled? Just thinking about the way he’d repeatedly dismissed her made her feathers curl. “You’re prejudiced,” she told him bluntly.

He looked shocked. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t know who I am or what I’m capable of. You treat me like I’m nothing more than a tabloid hack—”

“Your story on Shanique had all the hallmarks of a hack job—”

“It did not,” she defended herself hotly. She counted her points off on her fingers. “It was well researched, well substantiated and it turned out to be one hundred percent true. And yet you made a decision about me, and that’s the end of that,” Dakota said with finality. “You call yourself a businessman, but you don’t have the guts to change your mind once it’s made up. I’d have thought someone in your position would be more flexible.”

She went on, too upset to care if she was treading on his toes. “And furthermore, all you care about is how my column affected you and your precious goldmine. But Shanique needed to be reined in and helped, and nobody around her, none of you who knew her, did anything about it. I know that these days, the music business is more about image than substance—”

“Shanique has true talent,” he interrupted at once. “She has perfect pitch. Her vocal range spans almost four octaves.”

“It certainly didn’t last year,” Dakota shot back. “Or she wouldn’t have had to get help from an out-of-work R&B singer called Michelle.” She was surprised at how upset she was getting at his instinctive defense of his superstar. She slapped her hand on the table to make her point. “Shanique’s fans didn’t deserve to be cheated out of their hard-earned money. What she did to her fans and to her body was wrong, and somebody had to say something.”

“And secure their own writing career while they’re at it,” he countered scornfully.

She ignored the assault on her motives. “I know I did the right thing. Did you?”

From the way he flinched, she could tell her barb had struck a nerve. She pressed home her advantage. “Not only that, but you compounded the appearance of guilt by saying precious little. You’ve consistently glossed over every single question aimed at you about the whole affair.”

“I believe it’s my constitutional right to—”

“Oh, please,” she scoffed. “You know the music business better than that. If there’s a void in information, people will fill it with whatever suits their fancy. Not facing it head-on only makes you look worse.”

“Worse?”

“That you were complicit in the drug use. That you were a party to—or even the mastermind behind—the whole lip-synching scam.”

“Operational issues such as her concert performances are the responsibility of her manager, not her producer,” he protested.

“You work closely with all your acts. You had to have known.”

His light skin took on a mottled hue; he was mighty irritated but struggling to hide it. Take that, she thought.

The waitress glided back into view, whisked away their soup bowls, and set down aromatic, steaming dishes. Like their appetizer, the meal came with a little menu card, which listed the featured food: spit-roasted chicken, herbed grouper and tomatoes stuffed with saffron rice. Glasses of amber-colored cashew wine were placed next to each plate.

When Dakota lifted her glass, her hand shook slightly. “Cheers,” she said, clinging to her cool.

“The same.” He lifted his glass to her.

Silence followed as they ate. Then, halfway through their meal, “Go ahead. Shoot.”

She frowned. “What?”

“You wanted to interview me? Ask me a question.”

Her little potshots had worked? Seriously? A man’s ego really was his weakness. She looked around, flustered. “But I haven’t prepared. I need notes…a recorder…”

“I’ll bet you have an excellent memory.”

She did, but still… “Here? Now?”

“Now or never.” He was challenging her, testing to see what she was made of.

But her triumph had fizzled. He’d thrown her off balance with his acquiescence, and all she could manage was a weak, “How old are you?”

“Thirty-four, but everybody knows that. That all you got?” His toffee-colored eyes were taunting.

She wished she had a paper napkin, anything to scribble a few notes on. What she really needed was a minute to clear her head. “What made you get into the music business?”

He opened his hands in an expansive gesture. “Are you writing for the school paper?”

He was right; she was handling this like a cub reporter. She bought herself a moment by taking a bite of the delicious chicken, asking herself what it was about him that so unnerved her. She was a writer, and a good one, and had done interviews with subjects far tougher than he. She needed to find her mettle.

She set her knife and fork down, straightened her spine, and nailed him to his chair with a look. “Mr. Walker,” she demanded, “Did you have anything to do with Shanique’s lip-synching scandal? When she stopped singing live at her concerts, and started using a voice double…when she started cheating her fans…did you know?”

He set down his cutlery as well, finished his cashew wine, and steepled his fingers. “You used my last name, you know. You owe Declan a buck.”

She reached into her bag, extracted a dollar between two fingers, and laid it on the table before him. “Toss it into the jar next time you pass. Now answer the question.”

He sighed heavily. “I knew. I was dead set against it. When Shanique’s voice started to go, because of the…” He paused.

“Drug abuse,” she added helpfully.

He nodded. “I considered canceling the last few concerts. She almost lost her mind…and so did the backers. My financiers.”

“You’d have lost millions.”

“Correct.”

“So you decided the show had to go on.”

“As I said, I didn’t decide. The music director, her voice coach and other…interested parties…thought it would be best for all involved. Shanique just had a few more shows to go before her tour ended, and then she could get some rest. And some…”

“Help.”

“Correct,” he said tautly.

She took one more step onto dangerous ground, and behind her, the path to safety faded in the distance. “Did you know she was using?”

The answer was curt. “I knew.”

“And you did nothing?”

His expression darkened. “I know you don’t think much of me, but no, not even a dipstick like me would sit by and watch a woman destroy herself. I tried talking to her. I scheduled appointments with a therapist. She missed all of them. I was setting things in place for an intervention when…” A disgusted huff escaped his clenched teeth. “When your unnamed friend slipped you the details of this story. And the rest, as they say…” He trailed off.

The wine went sour in her mouth. When her column first hit, she’d received a furious call from Trent himself, demanding that she tell him how she’d gotten her hands on the information, but she’d remained professionally silent. She followed the first rule of journalism: protect your source. And in her case, she had more than one good reason to do so. She wondered what he’d say if he only knew exactly who that friend was.

She couldn’t…could not look at him. Her gaze dropped to her plate, and she discovered that the sight and smell of the meal she’d been enjoying so much had become overpowering. Her stomach rolled.

“Shanique made her own choices,” Dakota reminded him. “When you look at the bare bones of the case, she only has herself to blame.”

“She did make her own choices,” Trent agreed softly, much to her surprise. “Bad ones.”

Dakota couldn’t help but notice the tenderness with which Trent spoke of Shanique and her problem. Realization dawned. “It was you who made her go into rehab after…you know.”

He nodded.

A memory resurfaced of Shanique outside the doors of an expensive rehab clinic, flashbulbs popping, a forest of microphones in her face as the newshounds, having caught wind of her presence, had converged on the scene. Tearfully apologizing for her actions, begging her fans to forgive her, promising she’d be back on stage once she was clean again. Trent had stood stoically by her side, his face a mask, eyes hidden behind dark glasses. One arm around her shoulders, the other urging the media back when they got too close. He was a silent, solid rock.

His protective body language, the way he positioned himself between Shanique and the aggressive slew of reporters, had spoken volumes. Only a man who loved a woman took that stance. Even as she asked the question, she knew there was no way he could deny it.

“You and Shanique really are romantically involved.”

He looked directly into her eyes. “Are we involved? No.”

She gasped. He was lying to her face! “How can you sit there and deny—”

“I’m not denying,” he said crisply. “I’m being precise. Shanique and I aren’t romantically involved, as you so delicately put it. Not now. We were. Past tense.”

She tried to conceal her satisfaction, tried to put a lid on her rising excitement, but it was difficult. To her knowledge, Trent Walker had never publicly discussed his personal relationship with his biggest star, and here he was, admitting it to her. The next question was obvious. “What happened?”

“Rehab happened. Shanique’s career taking a nosedive happened.”

So the relationship had fallen apart in tandem with Shanique’s career. His glittering singing star had gone supernova, and he’d bailed. Trent must have blamed Dakota for both catastrophes.

“You…broke up with her when she went into rehab.”

His brows shot up, shock resonating in his voice. “I…? You must really think I’m a son of a bitch, huh?”

She was too confused by the passion in his response to speak.

She didn’t have to. He continued, his words like acid rain. “I would never abandon a woman at the darkest point of her life. As much as it would surprise you, she broke up with me.” The mole at the corner of his mouth was like a period at the end of an abrupt sentence.

He sat back, his rigid body going limp, the eyes that held hers losing focus as he gazed off into mid-

distance. To Dakota’s horror, a cloud of hurt and sadness drifted across his face. She was looking at a man who’d been burned, and who was tasting grief and rejection warmed over.

Then she understood. Dakota’s story had led to Shanique’s humiliation, which, in turn, had caused Shanique to push Trent away. No wonder Trent hated her.

To ask was to bring fire raining down onto her head, but she did so anyway. “Are you still in love with her?”

The warm eyes went cold. His chair scraped as he got abruptly to his feet. “Interview’s over, Merrick,” he told her.

He threw a dollar onto the table.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

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