Island Promises (16 page)

That’s when the fight had begun in earnest. She had slammed out of the bunk and turned on him.
How dare he call her manipulative?
Maybe what he really thought of her was finally coming out.

“You’re doing it right now,” he’d accused. His eyes blazed and his body, when he stood and turned to square off against her, was as rigid as a soldier’s on parade. “Trying to get me off the topic. Trying to turn the conversation away from the fact you look like death warmed over. All because you don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m not doing that.” There she went again with that schoolyard attitude. It infuriated her even more than this man with his golden tan, his sandy hair and his trim, muscular abs. His very presence could reduce her to an idiot unable to string a sentence together beyond fifth grade rhetoric. “This was work, if you want to know.”

“Work?” He looked puzzled for a moment. “Don’t tell me you’re doing that damn pirate story.”

“Okay. I won’t tell you.” Riley tried to flip her hair back in a defiant gesture but it had become so long and unruly it fought back and stayed in a lump where it was.

Joe stepped forward in the small cabin and took her by the arm. She had no choice but to look up at him. This close she could feel his power, his determination. He was the captain of his ship, a consultant for the Island Guard. He was used to making his wishes known and having those wishes carried out. He was definitely not used to being defied.

“You are not to do that story,” Joe pronounced every word as he pinned her with a determined gaze.

Riley shook off his hand and forced herself not to rub her arm where one of the cuts hurt from his hold.

“You can’t tell me what to do,” she shot back in her best fifth grade tone.

“I damn well can if I’m the one you expect to pull you out when you get in over your head.”

“Then I officially relieve you of that duty.”

Exasperated, he tried another tactic. “This is too dangerous. You could get hurt.” He picked up her arm to underscore his point. The swelling and black and blue marks were prominent in the gentle morning light.

“Oh, and what you do isn’t dangerous?”

“That’s different.”

“No, it’s not.”

“I can’t do what I do and hold your hand, too.”

That remark had cut her to the bone. “I can handle myself. I don’t need a babysitter.” There was a lump in her throat and she knew if she stayed one more moment, so close to him, wanting him to put those strong arms around her, pat her hair, and keep her safe, she would cry. All of her bravado would be gone and she would crumple like a little girl, not an experienced reporter. Retrieving her arm away once again, she marched into the head, started the shower, and stood under it until she was certain he was gone. The water tank for
Reprieve
would need refilling after all these onboard showers but she didn’t care.

After he left, Riley felt a little lonely and remorseful so she’d gone to Rosalee’s for a mid-morning pick-me-up. Only one waitress was lazily wiping tables after the breakfast rush and before the lunch set arrived.

Rosa, Stanley, Millie, and Henri had all gone off to look at an art exhibit on another island for the day. There were no cruise ships scheduled to dock, the waitress had said, and so they had decided to take the day and leave the chef who’d been with them for years in charge. Her early lunch was slow and lazy and left her feeling sluggish and a little down.

Back on
Reprieve
, she forced herself out of the sunshine on deck and below to look at the video. Emil had definitely been off his game. The footage was so bad that Riley let it run on the computer tucked into the nav station while she got herself a cup of coffee to shake off the afternoon slump.

Looked like they had gone through all of that for nothing. So far no frame on this film would back up her story or her claim that Scully, Candy, and Mikah were modern day pirates, taking their plunder from those monstrous cruise ships that pulled into these islands. From what she could piece together, the three of them had started out small: pick pocketing, purse snatching, and poaching anything that wasn’t nailed down. Somewhere along the way, they’d hooked up with crewmembers on the immense ships, and that’s when the operation had gone big-time. Instead of netting $500 out of the wallet of a middle-aged American who’d made the mistake of not paying attention while bartering for trinkets in the local market, now they were taking in $50,000 by filching computers, ship parts, and high-end electronics, all of which could be sold easily and moved off the islands quickly.

To prove her case, she needed pictures. No one was willing to step forward and be quoted about the pirates. The video she was watching had out-of-focus shots of the jungle and one enormous, embarrassing picture of her butt, complete with a huge dirt spot on her pants as she crouched her way through the jungle.

Now mid-afternoon, she’d had her lunch at Rosalee’s and was viewing the video. What she saw on the screen buoyed her spirits and made her shove the fight with Joe to the back of her mind. Before he had crawled in beside them on the ground overlooking the sunken cove, Emil had been busy shooting some good footage. No, make that great footage.

Scully came into clear focus.

Riley set her cup down and moved forward in her chair as she watched for about fifteen more minutes.

“I take back everything I ever said about you, Emil.” She slapped her hands together in joy, then stood and did a little jig around the cabin.

“Back to work, girl,” she told herself as she shimmied from the saloon to the nav station. She drew the heavy cotton curtains that hung in the portholes so the reflection didn’t distort the computer images. The first thing she did was burn a back-up CD.

“This one’s for you,” she said in silent thanks to the burly, gruff editor at her first TV station who didn’t trust any kind of technology and kept repeating, as though it were a prayer, “Always back up your work. Always back up your work. Always . . . ”

This would make her story and maybe remake her career. Again and again, she ran the video. Apparently she had been too frightened and distracted to notice what was there. The fact she couldn’t see well didn’t help, either.

The tree stump Scully sat on was actually a barrel-shaped stool. Entwined in the design were a crown and a star. The Royal Star Cruise Line’s famous emblem. The knife Mikah had tossed so casually had a leaping porpoise carved into the long handle. No doubt a pricey souvenir from the
Dolphin of the Islands
, one of the most majestic ships in this part of the world. The crates and boxes strewn around haphazardly all bore the labels of a cruise ship or tourist business.

Emil had hit the bull’s eye. Excited, Riley grabbed her cell phone to call Millie. But this was one of those times when it had decided not to work. Here in the islands, reception was always a crapshoot but no one seemed to care enough to force the cell companies to do something about it. The attitude was that if the call didn’t go through now, it would go through later. Not to worry. Eventually it would happen when it was meant to.

Riley climbed up to the deck, crossed to the bow, hooked one arm around the jib line, and leaned forward to try the call again. This time she got Millie’s voice mail. She tried Emil. The chirpy, crackly voice of one of his children urged her to leave a message. Joe was out of the question. He was only to be disturbed for a real, bleeding emergency. And even if she could get him, he would be angry that she was following through with a story he considered to be dangerous. But she had to tell someone.

“Well, well, darlin’. My little girl finally decide to check in?” RK laid it on thick when he heard her voice. “Thought you’d fallen off the face of the earth into one of those large sugary island drinks.” In the background, there was giggling. He was showing off for an office full of people just as he’d done many times when she’d been sitting on that long, leather couch thinking him so witty and charming. Now that she was on the receiving end she found him rude and dull.

“Funny, I thought the same thing about you the first week I was here. Only I figured it was an oversized Scotch on the rocks.”

“What can I do for you, Riley? We’ve got a deadline here, probably a distant memory for you in the land where time doesn’t matter.”

Riley couldn’t help but smile to herself. Of all the things he hated, to be shown up, especially in front of the new, young reporters who still thought he was a legend in the business, was at the top of the list.

“The pirate story. I wanted to tell you we got some terrific footage. It should wrap the end of this week and be on its way to you.”

“Pirate story?” Pirate story? I don’t have any pirate story on the budget.”

Papers rustled. Voices conferred. Funny how clear the connection could be when you least expected it. Riley took the phone away from her ear momentarily to shake out her hand and readjust her grip on the rigging.

“It’s not on the budget. You don’t have it yet.” She was drawing out every word to try and get through to him. It wasn’t static on the line but the static in his brain that was making the conversation difficult. “I’m still editing. But, RK, let me tell you, I think it’s some of the best work I’ve ever done. I’m really proud of it—”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah. I remember now. Something that ties in with the movie and the craze that’s going on right now. Are there any modern day pirates and are they as sexy as that guy in the movies?” There was more giggling that came down the wire from chilly Chicago.

“No, it’s about real pirates. Who rob and aren’t at all romantic—”

“Hold on a minute.”

She could hear him talking about how to cut a piece, his voice strong and authoritative, spiced with mild expletives just to show he was manly enough and passionate enough about his work to swear.

“OK, where were we then?”

“The pirate story. I was telling you I’d have it. I also need to know what’s going on with the congress—”

“Sorry, baby. It’s the governor’s office on the other line. I’ve got to take this. It’s the quote we’ve been waiting for and he’ll only speak to me. But you send that story up here and I’ll take a look at it. Let you know what I think.” With that he hung up.

Furious and frustrated, Riley gripped the phone hard, staring at it as though it were the phone’s fault RK was such a jerk, both personally and professionally. How could she have not noticed that before? How could she not have seen what an egotistical, infuriating, irritating son of a you-know-what he could be?

Deciding she needed a tension release, she turned into the wind and screamed. It was really more of a low, angry growl. Stepping onto the safety of the deck, she jumped up and down on the bow, hanging onto the halyard for support.

Out of breath and feeling foolish, panting for air, she stopped jumping and screaming and looked out to sea. There was a little wind, just ruffling and surface of the bay, just enough to make interesting wave patterns in the water. Very high, very white clouds skittered along, not at all threatening. Beyond the harbor entrance a huge cruise ship passed by, heading for its dock on the other side of the island. The sun was hot and strong but had its usual island friendly face on.

“To hell with him.” She would send her story straight to the network and bypass RK. And she would make sure that the people who had stood by her when she needed help were a part of it. Picking up her phone again and praying the reception would be good enough and the battery wouldn’t die from too much humidity and salt water, she put in a call to some of her contacts at the network in New York.

“Tell me again how I cook this stupid thing.” Riley stood in the galley eyeing a large silvery fish she swore was eyeing her back.

Mitchell slapped his forehead. “Girlfriend, if you want to eat tonight, you’d better haul it on up to Rosalee’s. Because there is no way you’re cooking this baby.” He looked TV-ready cute. Since she’d last seen him, he’d put highlights in his hair and obviously had a facial because his skin was glowing. He wore pressed white pants, an electric blue shirt untucked with ¾ sleeves and scuffed boat shoes.

As always, he made Riley feel dumpy standing there in a pair of gym shorts, way too big cinched with a piece of rope, and a stained T-shirt that said ‘Sailors Do It In Ebbs and Flows.’ Riley had chopped off the darker ends of her hair which left her with a nearly white shoulder-length halo that had a wild, free mind of its own and waved like an ex-beauty queen.

“No. Don’t go.” She grabbed his arm. “Mitchell, you’re my last hope. Without you, I can’t cook this.” He put one hand on his hip, cocked his head, and gave her a look. “Tell you what,” she rushed on while she still had his attention. “We’ll trade. You cook it and I’ll . . . let me think . . . I’ll wash your clothes.”

He blew on his fingernails and hummed.

“All right then,” she said. “I’ll sort out all your stuff in your bunk, have it nice and neat so when you get here you don’t have to do a thing.”

“Already done,” he said in a singsong voice. “Besides, I’ve seen how you organize. I’m not letting you anywhere near my stuff.”

“Damn. All right. I give. What do you want?”

“Now that you mention it.” Mitchell came alive. “I want you to hook me up.”

“Mitchell,” she said in a sharp tone. “I am a real fan of Anthony’s. I won’t be any part of hooking you up with someone else.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Riley. I’m talking about hooking me up with Chef Jorgege of Chicago’s famed Jorgege Bistro. I want to be at his cooking show.”

“You’ve been out in the sun too long, boy. Chicago’s a long, cold, expensive way away.”

“No. Chef Jorgege is coming here.” Mitchell’s face was an animated as a boy’s on Christmas morning. “He’s doing seminars on a cruise ship and they’re stopping in the harbor here while he demonstrates how to use some of the local delicacies. It will be part of his series on the Yummy Food Channel. But it’s been sold out for months.”

“So, let me get this straight. If I get you tickets to this cooking show, you’ll cook this fish? And maybe some side dishes.”

“That’s it.”

“And pretend like I cooked it?”

“You didn’t cook it with your own little hands? That’s news to me.”

“What makes you think I can get those tickets?”

“Big City Chicago reporter. Big City Chicago Chef. It’s a no-brainer.”

Riley considered. She picked up the nail polish bottle closest to her—Emperor Red—and pried at the label with her thumbnail. Later, she was planning to paint her nails this showy color. The bottle said it glowed in the dark. That could be interesting if what she planned after dinner came together.