by Sandra Field
A man was entitled to his secrets.
Tension had pulled tight the muscles in Brant’s neck and shoulders; he was aware of his heartbeat thin and high in his chest. But those weren’t feelings, of course. They were just physiological reactions caused by adrenaline, fight or flight, a very useful mechanism that had gotten him out of trouble more times than he cared to count. The airplane was looking after the flight part, he thought semihumorously. Which left fight.
Rowan would no doubt take care of that. She’d never been one to bite her tongue if she disagreed with him or disliked what he was doing; it was one of the reasons he’d married her, for the tilt of her chin and the defiant toss of her curly red hair.
Maybe she didn’t care about him enough now to think him worth a good fight.
He didn’t like that conclusion at all. With an impatient sigh Brant spread out the list of bird species and opened the book at page one, forcing himself to concentrate. After all, he didn’t want to disgrace himself by not knowing one end of a bird from the other. Especially in front of his ex-wife.
Rowan could have done without the connecting flight from Antigua being four hours late. Rick Williams from Toronto was the last of her group to arrive: the only other Canadian besides herself on the trip. The delay seemed like a bad omen, because it was the second hitch of the day; she and the rest of the group had had an unexpected five hours of birding in Antigua already today when their Grenada flight had also been late.
Rick’s flight should have landed in Grenada at six-thirty, in time for dinner with everyone else at the hotel. Instead it was now nearly ten forty-five and Rick still hadn’t come through customs.
His luggage, she thought gloomily. They’ve lost his luggage.
She checked with the security guard and was allowed into the customs area. Four people were standing at the desk which dealt with lost bags. The elderly woman she discounted immediately, and ran her eyes over the three men. The gray-haired gentleman was out; Rick Williams was thirty-two years old. Which left...her heart sprang into her throat like a grouse leaping from the undergrowth. The man addressing the clerk was the image of Brant.
She swallowed hard and briefly closed her eyes. She was tired, yes, but not that tired.
But when she looked again, the man had straightened to his full height, his backpack pulling his blue cotton shirt taut across his shoulders. His narrow hips and long legs were clad in well-worn jeans. There was a dusting of gray in the thick dark hair over his ears. That was new, she thought numbly. He’d never had any gray in his hair when they’d been married.
It wasn’t Brant. It couldn’t be.
But then the man turned to say something to the younger man standing beside him, and she saw the imperious line of his jaw, shadowed with a day’s dark beard, and the jut of his nose. It was Brant. Brant Curtis had turned up in the Grenada airport just as she was supposed to meet a member of one of her tours. Bad joke, she thought sickly, lousy coincidence, and dragged her gaze to the younger man. He must be Rick Williams.
Her eyes darted around the room. These was nowhere she could hide in the hopes that Brant would leave before Rick, and therefore wouldn’t see her. She couldn’t very well scuttle back through customs; they’d think she was losing her mind. Anyway, Rick was one of her clients, and she owed him whatever help she could give him if his bags were lost.
At least she’d had a bit of warning. She was exceedingly grateful for that, because she’d hate Brant to have seen all the shock and disbelief that must have been written large on her face in the last few moments; the harsh fluorescent lighting would have hidden none of it. Taking a deep breath, schooling her features to impassivity, Rowan walked toward the desk.
As if he’d sensed her presence Brant turned around, and for the first time in months she saw the piercing blue of his eyes, the blue of a desert sky. As they fastened themselves on her, not even the slightest trace of emotion crossed his face. Of course not, she thought savagely. He’d always been a master at hiding his feelings. It was one of the many things that had driven them apart, although he would never have acknowledged the fact. Rowan forced a smile to her lips and was fiercely proud that she sounded as impassive as he looked, “Well...what a surprise. Hello, Brant.”
“What the devil have you done to your hair?”
Nearly three years since he’d seen her and all he could talk about was her hair? “I had it cut.”
“For Pete’s sake, what for?”
A small part of her was wickedly pleased that she’d managed to disrupt his composure; it had never been easy to knock Brant off balance, his self-control was too formidable for that. Rowan ran her fingers through her short, ruffled curls. “Because I wanted to. And now you must excuse me...I’m supposed to be meeting someone.”
She turned to the younger man and said pleasantly, “You must be Rick Williams?”
The man glanced up from the form he was filling in; he smelled rather strongly of rum. “Nope. Sorry.” Doing a double take, he looked her up and down. “Extremely sorry.”
Rowan gritted her teeth. She rarely bothered with makeup on her tours, and her jeans and sport shirt were quite unexceptional. Why did men think that she could possibly be complimented when they eyed her like a specimen laid out on a tray? And where the heck was Rick Williams? If he’d missed the plane, why hadn’t he phoned her?
Brant said, “Rick couldn’t come. So I came in his place.”
“What?”
“Rick has a form of pneumonia and the doctors wouldn’t let him come,” Brant repeated patiently. “It was all rather at the last minute, so I didn’t bother letting you know.”
She sputtered, “You knew if you let me know I wouldn’t have let you come!”
“That’s true enough,” he said.
So that was why he hadn’t looked surprised to see her, he’d known all along she’d be there to meet him. Once again, he’d had the advantage of her. “Were you bored and thought you’d stir up a little trouble?” she spat. “From reading the newspapers, I’d have thought there were more than enough wars and famines in the world to get your attention without having to turn yourself into an ordinary tourist in the Caribbean.”
So she did care enough to fight, thought Brant. Interesting. Very interesting. He said blandly, “If we’re going to have a—er, disagreement, don’t you think we should at least go outside where there’s a semblance of privacy?”
Rowan looked around her. The young man who wasn’t Rick Williams was leering at her heaving chest; the customs officer was grinning at her. Trying to smother another uprush of pure rage, she managed, with a huge effort, to modulate her voice. “Is your baggage missing?”
Brant nodded. “They figure it’s gone on to Trinidad—should be here tomorrow. No big deal.”
“Have you finished filling in the forms?”
Another nod. “I’m ready to go anytime you are.”
“I’ll phone the airlines on the way out,” she said crisply, “and get you on the first flight back to Toronto. A birding trip is definitely not your thing.”
“No, you won’t. I’ve paid my money and I’m staying.”
She’d forgotten how much taller he was than her five feet nine. How big he was. “Brant, let’s not—”
He jerked his head at the door. “Outside. Not in here.”
He was right, of course. Her company would fire her on the spot if it could see how she was greeting a client. She pivoted, stalked through the glass doors into the open part of the terminal and then out into the dusky heat of a tropical night. The van was parked by the curb. She swung herself into the driver’s seat and took the key from the pocket of her jeans, shoving it into the ignition. Brant had climbed into the passenger seat. Turning to face him, Rowan said tautly, “So what’s going on here?”
Brant took his time to answer. He was still getting used to her haircut, to that moment of outrage by the baggage counter when he’d realized she’d changed something about herself that he’d loved, change
d it without asking him—and if that wasn’t the height of irrationality he didn’t know what was. The new haircut, he decided reluctantly, suited her, emphasizing the slim line of her throat and the exquisite angles of her cheekbones. Her eyes, a rich brown in daylight, now matched the velvety darkness of the sky. Eyes to drown in...
He said equably, “I needed a vacation. Through the friend of a friend I heard about Rick’s pneumonia and thought I’d take his place. Don’t make such a big deal of it, Rowan.”
“If it’s no big deal, why don’t you just go home? Where you belong.”
You don’t belong with me, that’s what she was saying. A statement that truly riled him. “You used to say—fairly frequently, as I recall—that I never took time to smell the roses. Or, in this case, to watch the birds...you should be pleased I’m finally doing so.”
“Brant, let’s get something straight. What you do or don’t do is no longer my concern. Go watch the birds by all means. But don’t do it on my turf.”
“You’ve lost weight.”
Her exasperated hiss of breath sounded very loud in the confines of the van. Brant watched her fight for composure, her knuckles gripping the steering wheel as if she were throttling him, and discovered to his amazement that he was enjoying himself. Enjoying himself? Was that why he’d come to Grenada?
To Rowan’s nostrils drifted the faint tang of aftershave, the same one Brant had used during the four tempestuous years they’d been married. It brought with it a host of memories she didn’t dare bring to the surface; she’d be lost if she did. Nevertheless, she let her eyes wander with a lazy and reckless intimacy down his flat belly. “You’ve lost weight, as well,” she said and saw that, briefly, she’d stopped him in his tracks. “Am I right?” she added sweetly.
Brant glared at her in impotent fury. He knew exactly what was wrong. He wanted to kiss her. So badly that he could taste the soft yielding of her lips and the silken slide of her cheek, and feel the first stirring of his groin. But kissing Rowan wasn’t part of the plan.
Not that he’d had a plan. He’d acted on impulse in a way rare to him, and now he was faced—literally—with the consequences. Rowan. His ex-wife. His former wife. His divorced wife.
His wife.
He said levelly, knowing he was backing off from something he should have anticipated and hadn’t, “Look, it’s been a long day and I’m tired. Please, could we go to the hotel so I can catch up on some sleep?”
“Certainly,” she said. “But let me make something clear first. I’m doing my job in the next two weeks, Brant. A job I love and do well. You’re just another client to me. Because I’m not going to allow you to be anything else—do you understand?”
“I haven’t said I want to be anything else,” he remarked, and watched her lips tighten.
“Good,” she said viciously, and jammed the clutch into gear. The engine roared to life. She checked in the rearview mirror and pulled away from the curb.
Rowan was an excellent driver, and knew it; and she’d had the last twelve hours to get used to driving on the left. She whipped along the narrow streets, took the roundabout in fine style, and within fifteen minutes turned into the hotel, where she parked next to the rooms that were partway up the hill. “This is the only place we stay that isn’t in close vicinity of a beach,” she said, breaking a silence that to her, at least, had swarmed with things unsaid. “You’re in Room Nine—Rick had requested a single room.” She fished around in the little pack strapped to her waist “Here’s your key.”
She was holding it in her fingertips. To test his immunity, Brant deliberately closed his hand over hers; and as soon as he’d done so, knew he’d made a very bad mistake. Her skin was warm and smooth, her fingers with that supple strength he’d never forgotten. But they were as still in his grip as a trapped bird, and when his glance flew to her face he saw in it a reflection of his own dismay. Dismay? Who was he kidding? It wasn’t dismay. It was outright terror.
He snatched the key from her, its cool metal digging into his flesh. “What time do we get going in the morning?”
“Breakfast at six on the patio,” she babbled, “but you can sleep in if you want, there’s a really nice beach about fifteen minutes from the hotel and you’d probably rather have a day to yourself to rest up.”
“I’ll see you at six,” he announced and got out of the van as fast as he could. Room Eight was in darkness. A small light shone from Room Ten. Then Rowan hurried past him, unlocked the patio door to Room Ten and shut it with rather more force than was necessary. He watched as she pulled the curtains tight over the glass.
Brant stood very still under the burgeoning yellow moon. Frogs chirped in the undergrowth; palm fronds were etched against the star-strewn night sky in a way that at any other time he might have found beautiful.
But palm trees weren’t a priority right now. How could they be when his whole body was a raw ache of hunger? Sexual hunger. He wanted Rowan now, in his bed, in his arms, where she belonged...and to hell with the divorce. How was he going to get a minute’s sleep, knowing she was on the other side of the wall from him?
He’d been a fool to come here, to let Gabrielle talk him into an escapade worthy of an adolescent. If he were smart he’d take Rowan’s advice and get on the first plane home. Tomorrow.
Soft-footed, Brant walked over to his own door and inserted the key. The door opened smoothly. He closed it behind him, and heard the smallest of creaks from the room next to his. Rowan. Getting into bed. Did she still sleep naked?
He sat down on the wicker chair, banging his fists rhythmically on his knees. What kind of an idiot was he that he’d neglected to take into account the effect Rowan had had on him from the first time he’d ever seen her, arguing with a customs officer in the Toronto airport seven years ago? He’d engineered a conversation with her that day, had touched her wrist and had seen the instant flare of awareness in her face, the primitive recognition of female to male, of mate to mate. Would he ever forget how her pulse had leaped beneath his fingertip? That all-revealing signal had engraved itself on his flesh within five minutes of meeting her, and would probably remain with him as long as he lived.
Two days later they’d fallen into bed in his condo; three weeks later they were married. A month after that he’d left for Rwanda, and the fights between them had started, fights every bit as passionate as their ardent and imperative couplings.
Another tiny creak came from the room next door. He wanted to kick the wall in, gather her in his arms, make love to her the whole night through.
But this wasn’t Myanmar or Afghanistan or Liberia. He couldn’t bash his way into the next room. Rowan wasn’t an arms smuggler or a drug dealer; she was his ex-wife.
How he hated that word! Almost as much as he hated the prospect, now almost a certainty, that he was in for one of his nights of insomnia, nights when too many of the nightmare images he usually kept at bay would crowd through his defenses, attacking him from every angle like an army of fanatic rebels.
Normally it took every bit of his strength and integrity to hold himself together during those nights; which were, fortunately, rare. Tonight he had the added, overwhelming torment of Rowan’s presence on the other side of the wall. Would he ever forget the first time they’d made love? Her entrancing mixture of shyness and boldness, her astonishing generosity, her heart-catching beauty...he could remember every detail of that afternoon, which had blended into a night equally and wondrously passionate.
Brant buried his face in his hands, his back curved like a bow, a host of memories stabbing him like arrows.
CHAPTER TWO
ROWAN lay ramrod still in her double bed. The numbers of the digital alarm clock on the night table announced that it was 2:06. If she moved at all, the springs creaked. If she tossed and turned, sooner or later her elbow or her head thumped the wall. The wall that lay between her and Brant.
Her eyes ached. Her body twitched. Her nerves were singing as loudly as the frogs. And all the wh
ile her brain seethed with the knowledge that Brant was lying less than a foot away from her, separated from her by a thin barrier of stucco and plaster.
Separated from her by too many fights, too many angry words, too many long months of worrying about him and waiting for him, all the while trying to keep her own life on track. That last departure for Colombia had been, classically, the straw to break the back of their marriage. That and the woman called Gabrielle Doucette.
She had no idea how she was going to get through the next two weeks. No idea whatsoever.
2:09. She had to get some sleep. Tomorrow was a full day, although thank goodness she’d hired a driver and wouldn’t have to negotiate roads that could be hair-raising at the best of times. Why had Brant come here? What stupidity had impelled him to seek her out just when she was beginning to hope that one day soon she might heal, that hovering somewhere on the horizon there was the possibility, however faint, of putting the past behind her and looking for a new relationship? One that would give her everything Brant had refused her.
How dare he interfere with her life, he who had damaged it so badly? How dare he?
Somewhere between two-thirty and quarter to three Rowan fell asleep as suddenly as if she’d been hit on the head. She woke sharp at 5:20; during the years she’d spent guiding tours, she’d trained herself to beat the alarm by ten minutes to give herself that space to think over the day ahead. As so often happened, everything seemed crystal clear to her now that it was morning.
She’d overreacted last night. Big time. And why not? It had been late at night. Her ex-husband had appeared totally unexpectedly and had thrown her for a loop. And again, why not? In all her thirty-one years he was the only man she’d ever fallen in love with; so she’d fallen in a major way. No holding back. No keeping part of herself for herself. She’d thrown herself into their relationship with passion, enthusiasm and a deep joy; and when, all too soon, rifts had appeared, she’d worked with all her heart to mend them. In consequence, the final and utter failure of their marriage had devastated her.
