Alessandro curved his arm around her shoulders, gathering her against him. "It's a nice village," he said, drawing her attention to the line-up of businesses along the main street of Andros Town: a grocery, a liquor store, a bank, several restaurants touting Bahamian food, and numerous shops peddling local crafts and souvenirs, which they wandered through.
It was late afternoon, with the sun low on the horizon, by the time they left the main street for the special place Alessandria had in mind. They walked through a labyrinth of narrow lanes lined with pastel-painted houses, and as dusk faded into night, they turned down an unlit street bordered by buildings in various stages of renovation and decay.
And that was when Andrea felt her first twinge of apprehension.
She glanced at Alessandro's profile, almost masked by darkness. What did she really know about the man? He claimed he had a yacht and a villa, and Val reaffirmed it. But how credible is the word of a woman who was after Jerry for his money? In fact, Val and Alessandro could be a working team. She was on the verge of insisting that Alessandro take her back to the ship, when he announced, "Here we are."
Andrea stared at the weather-worn sign with the words, THE PIRATE'S COVE, scrawled in white paint by an imperfect hand. An overhead light mounted on a tall pole lit up the front of the building. An eclectic-looking structure made from weathered boards, The Pirate's Cove was anything but what Andrea was expecting.
Alessandro, seeing her uncertainty, tightened his arm around her, drawing her to him, and said, "Don't worry, the place might look like a pirate's den but the food is incomparable, and you won't find a tourist here. It's where the locals go."
Andrea glanced at Alessandro. He'd given her no reason to mistrust him. When she was drowsy from the effects of the drink he prepared in his stateroom the night before, he could have taken advantage of her, but he didn't, and he wasn't now. He was simply taking her to a place away from the mainstream, where islanders went to eat Bahamian food.
Inside was a noisy, smoky room smelling of bodies and old cooking grease, and packed with what were clearly islanders, though some looked disturbingly hard-faced. Andrea felt completely out of place in her Armani outfit, and she wondered why Alessandro hadn't told her to wear something less pretentious. Looking at him with apprehension, she said, "I really feel out of place here. I think we should leave."
"You look beautiful, and you are with me, Alessandro Cavallaro. No one will bother you. Besides, you dressed for me, not for those in this room, right?"
"If you put it that way, yes, I suppose." Yet, all around, Andrea felt eyes on her. Not friendly ones, she noted.
Alessandro seated her at a small table off to one side of the large crowded room then excused himself for a few minutes, leaving her sitting alone. Feeling edgy to the point of being frightened, she placed her handbag on her lap, beneath the tablecloth and out of sight.
Frommer's Guide warned of purse snatchers in the islands, and of muggers, and drug dealers trying to pedal their stuff. She was on the verge of panic, when she spotted Alessandro coming toward her. He gave her his irresistible smile, and said, "I'm sorry, cara mia, but I planned to meet a friend here. Someone you would enjoy knowing. But now we'll have drinks."
Andrea looked around for crisply-dressed waiters, or one or two couples peering across a table at each other, but all she saw were hard-faced men and loose-looking women. "I don't feel very comfortable here," she said. "It's not what I expected. Could we go to the feast and fire dance instead?"
"Of course if you wish," Alessandro said. "We'll take a taxi back if that makes you feel more comfortable."
"Well, yes it would," Andrea said, a sense of relief dispelling her earlier doubt.
"But first, my little South Carolina bird, I'd like you to have their special drink, along with a platter of authentic Bahamian conch fritters," Alessandro said, in a quiet, calming tone.
"One drink and fritters, then I want to leave," Andrea insisted. It came to her unexpectedly, that she wanted to be with Jerry. She had no idea why. Alessandro was an attractive man with charm, and money, and everything a woman should want, but, she wanted to be with Jerry.
Alessandro reached across the table and took her hand. Peering into her eyes, he said, "Andrea, trust me. You are safe here with me. I would not let anything happen to you. Now relax, and I'll get our drinks and order the fritters."
Andrea didn't like the idea of being left alone at the table again, but she knew she was being silly. Alessandro was a formidable-looking man, well over six feet tall, solidly built, broad shoulders, and he had a demeanor about him that not a man in the place would challenge. It was also clear, from the looks of those around her, that they considered her his woman. Alessandro Cavallaro's woman. A troubling thought. Somehow she felt he was known well here, and feared.
A long time ticked by before Alessandro returned to the table, followed by a man carrying a tray with two tall drinks and a platter of conch fritters.
Deciding to put something in her stomach before having the drink, Andrea sank her teeth into a conch fritter and was pleasantly surprised. Smiling at Alessandro, she said, "I'm sorry for doubting you, but I was expecting a much different place."
"A place for lovers?"
"Well, yes."
Alessandro reached across the table and took her hand again. Looking into her eyes, he said, in a voice that sent a chill rushing through her, though not a chill of pleasure, "A place for lovers is wherever two lovers can be together." He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, holding it tight enough that it would have been awkward to pull it away, yet she wanted to do just that. "I brought you here because it's away from tourists, away from our fellow passengers, away from your husband," he said, eyeing her steadily. "I want you all to myself, cara mia. Now relax and enjoy your drink." He nudged the glass toward her.
Andrea slipped her hand from his and took a sip of her drink. Sweet and citrusy and spiked with rum. But it also had a strange bitterness that made her lips purse.
Alessandro laughed. "It's the bitters you are tasting. They are used to cut the sweetness of the grenadine and crème de cassis, but it will help you relax. When you're finished, we'll go to the fire dance."
Andrea took another sip, rolled it around in her mouth and let it slip down her throat. It wasn't so bitter now. After another few fritters, she finished the drink and set the glass down. She started to eat one last fritter, but her stomach was beginning to feel a little queasy.
It crossed her mind that there could have been something bitter in the drink that had nothing to do with cutting the sweetness, but Alessandro was not a gigolo, so it was simply nerves brought on by the thought of going to the fire dance where Jerry would be watching them. Dismissing her earlier doubts, she smiled at Alessandro, whose face looked a little blurry.
He smiled back and placed another kiss on her palm.
***
Through a haze of smoke, while standing in a darkened corner of the Pirate's Cove, Jerry watched Andrea and Alessandro Cavallaro, who sat at a small table, heads bent toward each other, eyes locked. Cavallaro had Andrea's hand sandwiched between his, and whatever he was telling her, she was sucking it up. She also looked a little... stoned—swaying in her chair, bracing her free hand against the table. She rarely drank, and whenever she did, she always stopped when her nose felt tingly.
He was glad he'd followed them, which wasn't difficult. When the passengers began funneling off the ship, Andrea was so caught up in hanging onto Cavallaro's arm that she never looked back. He hadn't intended to follow them at all, but Andrea's oblique reference to having sex with the man hit him like an iron fist to the gut. He'd wanted to run his fist through Cavallaro's face. There had been a time when Andrea had been eager to warm his bed. The thought that she was working her magic on Cavallaro made him want to throw the man down one of those bottomless blue holes dotting the island.
He scanned the crowd. Everyone appeared to be islanders. Not very reputable ones either. But Andrea
didn't seem to notice the people, or that the room was so smoky it was hard to breathe, or that the din of voices was so loud you could barely think, as she sat gazing at Cavallaro, who was smiling into her eyes.
But something about Cavallaro wasn't right. He wasn't a gigolo. The man did own a villa in Majorca and a sixty-four foot yacht, information confirmed with a call to a contact in Italy. But there was no logical reason why a man with a luxury yacht would spend time on a cruise ship in the Bahamas when he could be cruising on his own vessel in the Mediterranean, or why a man with Cavallaro's wealth and looks would go after a woman ten years older, who was attractive enough, but no breathtaking beauty.
Jerry also noticed something about Cavallaro he was certain Andrea was not aware of. The man's gaze kept shifting beyond Andrea, as if he were looking for someone, and he frequently glanced at his watch. He was up to something, and Jerry intended to find out what it was, or at least see that Andrea returned to the ship safely. She'd been his wife for twenty-five years, she was the mother of his children, and he owed her that much.
When she put her hands to her temples, he edged his way toward them. He saw that her eyes were closed. Cavallaro leaned forward and studied her closely. Then he stood, touched her arm so she opened her eyes, then looked as if excusing himself, gesturing toward the door and placing his hand over his heart as if apologizing.
After Cavallaro left, Jerry waited, wondering if the man planned to return. Andrea placed her hands to her temples again while looking decidedly ill. Then abruptly, she rushed from the table, pushed her way through the crowd, and went into the ladies room. He waited a few minutes for Andrea to come out, at which time he intended to take her back to the ship, but when several more minutes ticked by and she still hadn't come out, he sent a woman in after her. Moments later, he heard a scream, and the woman came rushing out.
CHAPTER 9
When Andrea opened her eyes, everything was stationary. She knew she was in a medical clinic somewhere on the island because the hospital gown she wore had little pink and blue starfish on it. but she remembered little after Alessandro left the table at The Pirate's Cove to make a phone call. When the room started spinning and tilting she'd rushed into the restroom, feeling on the verge of getting rid of the contents of her stomach, then she felt like she was falling into a dark tunnel. After that, everything was jumbled... being moved around... opening her eyes and everything spinning... Alessandro's face coming in and out of focus... total darkness.
She raised her hand and felt a tender spot on the side of her head.
"Don't worry, Mrs. Porter," a woman's voice said. "You have a nasty bump on your head, but you'll be fine."
Andrea looked around and saw a woman dressed in a blue lab coat standing just inside the curtain-enclosed cubical, a disposable thermometer in her hand. As the thermometer came toward her, Andrea opened her mouth and the woman slipped it under her tongue. Andrea looked around the small area. On a line-up of metal hooks hung her crocodile-printed military jacket, black silk leggings, and black bikini panties and half-bra. The crystal-encrusted leather boots stood on the floor beneath. The word that came to mind was, hooker.
The nurse removed the thermometer. "No fever," she announced, then tossed the thermometer away. "You had a touch of tourista. We get a lot of that, usually from the water, but it also could have been the food. It said on your chart you were at The Pirate's Cove when you got sick. It's not too clean there, but you're fine now. Just go easy on the food today. The doctor will be in soon to talk to you about that."
"How long have I been here?" Andrea asked. The sun was well up, but she had no idea what time it was.
"About twelve hours," the nurse replied. "You were brought in last night around nine, but the doctor was at the clinic in Nicholl's Town delivering a baby and didn't get here until after midnight."
"My stomach feels sore," Andrea said.
"That's because it was pumped, but you were doing a pretty good job of getting rid of everything in it before then, which is probably why it's sore. The doctor will talk to you about it when he stops in to see you, and your husband said to tell you he went to find something to eat and will be back later."
"My husband?" Andrea said, confused. "Are you talking about a tall man with an Italian accent?"
The woman looked at her, puzzled. "He was tall, but no Italian accent. He insisted he was your husband. He talked to Dr. Soros about your condition, demanding blood be drawn for a blood test. Dr. Soros saw no need, but your husband got pretty insistent about it."
"Insistent? In what way?" Andrea asked. Jerry could be formidable when he wanted something, every bit as formidable as her father was when he wanted something. She'd often wondered what would happen if both men wanted the same thing. In fact, for twenty-five years she'd felt like she was sitting on a keg of dynamite, waiting for one of the men to light the fuse.
"When Dr. Soros assured your husband there was no need to draw blood, your husband slapped a one-hundred-dollar bill on the table and told the doctor he could either draw blood, or see his attorney in court. Dr. Soros refused the money, but had the blood drawn." The nurse filled a cup with water and set it on the tray beside the pitcher. "Your husband was very agitated. Worried, I suppose. He seemed to think there was more to it than just a case of food poisoning, but you can talk to him about it when he returns." The woman drew the curtain closed as she left.
Andrea stared at the black bikini panties and bra, humiliated to have them hanging in plain view, and wondering whatever possessed her to wear the things.
"So where's your lover now?" Jerry asked, while emerging from behind the curtain that was still swaying from the nurse's exit.
"I don't know," Andrea said. "He's not my lover."
Jerry walked over to where the underwear hung and toyed with the lacy edging of the bra. "Your Italian stud then."
Andrea drew in a long breath to stem a snide comeback. "I'm not interested in finding a stud, Jerry. It has to do with the fact that we can't seem to be in the same room without wanting to kill each other, and right now we're stuck on this island with no place to stay, and I have nothing to wear but an Armani outfit that makes me look like I want to get screwed, like you so tactfully pointed out."
Jerry looked at her, brows drawn, seeming to be digesting that, then he said in a more conciliatory tone, "I'll see what I can find. There are a few resorts up and down the beach. One is bound to sell clothes. I'll also find a place to stay for a couple of days and see about hiring a boat to intercept the ship later, but as far as I'm concerned, the less time aboard the ship, the better."
"Funny. I thought you wanted to get back to your sugar baby."
"Look, I'm not interested in a woman half my age, or any other woman aboard the damn boat. Like I said, this cruise has been hell." He walked out, sending the curtains swishing and swaying as he left.
Andrea stared at the Armani outfit, all sleek and glittery, like the wares of a streetwalker. Jerry was right. When she'd put it on and looked at herself in the mirror, with its skin-tight leggings, and tall crystal-encrusted boots, she did look like a woman who wanted to get screwed, but not by Alessandro. She just didn't want Jerry to know he was the only man who made her feel that way. Now, all she wanted was for Alessandro to be the man she thought him to be, smooth, charming, entranced with her, so she could explain to him that she enjoyed his company, and respected him as a man, but was not interested in him as a lover, and prove to Jerry she was not the naïve fool he'd pegged her to be.
He'd been so smug about it, so sure she could not attract a young good-looking man like Alessandro. But where was Alessandro last night when she needed him? He excused himself to make a phone call, assuring her he'd be right back. She remembered feeling apprehensive about him leaving her again. Then the room started spinning. But she remembered other things about the evening, things that troubled her now.
A place for lovers is wherever two lovers can be together.
The Pirate's Cove was
not that place. Noisy. Smoky. A place packed with hard-faced men and loose-looking women who stared at her, in her Armani outfit, with curiosity and awareness. The woman Alessandro Cavallaro was sleeping with, was what their faces told her. Not his lover. Lovers didn't go to The Pirate's Cove. Only a woman who wanted to get it on with a man who appeared to be known there, as his own words confirmed.
You are with me, Alessandro Cavallaro. No one will disturb you.
Why? Because he was known there? And feared? But she didn't fear Alessandro. Not once. Whenever she'd felt apprehensive, he smiled in a way that told her he was there to protect her, and spoke to her in his soft Italian accent while assuring her things were fine.
The place might look like a pirate's den, but the food is incomparable.
Another inconsistency. The conch fritters were good, but nothing special.
Alessandro also said he planned to meet someone, yet he didn't mention it until they got there. But where was Alessandro now? Back on the ship? Finding another woman?
I assure you, querida, what I have in mind for us after we return from the Pirate's Cove tonight will be anything but verbal sparring.
And she'd stood there, listening to him practically proposition her in front of Jerry, and she'd said nothing because she'd wanted Jerry to think she wanted to do the things with Alessandro she'd once done with him, and everything about her dress and her demeanor screamed that she was already Alessandro's woman, and they were the lovers he presented to Jerry they were.
But now she had no interest in Alessandro Cavallaro. All she wanted was to prove Jerry wrong about the man, if only to save face.
Her gaze returned to the Armani outfit and the scanty black lingerie and she had to suppress the almost uncontrollable urge to sweep off everything hanging there and throw it in the trash bin and leave the clinic in a hospital gown.
***
Two hours later, Jerry shrugged his way between the curtains, his arms filled with bags and packages, and said, "I picked these up at a batik outlet in one of the resorts. It's all they had."
Coming To Terms Page 7
