Prelude and Promises

by Barbara Baldwin

  Chapter 2

  Cheyenne hurried out of the bar, looking both ways but could find no one wearing a blue polo hurrying away.

  “Quick,” she said as she flagged down a bicycle taxi, climbing onto the small rickshaw seat. “I’m looking for a man who just left that bar.”

  “Honey, aren’t we all?” The girl swung her leg over the seat and began pedaling. “What’s he look like?” she called over her shoulder.

  Not even thinking, she said, “It’s Joseph Donovan.”

  Cheyenne grabbed the side handle to keep from tumbling out as the girl slammed on the brakes.

  “What?” She turned on the seat to stare at her. “He’s here on the island? I love his music. I love him! What a hunk.”

  Cheyenne shook her head. She was beginning to understand why Joseph wasn’t using his real name. “Blue polo and cargo shorts, shaggy blonde streaked hair.”

  The girl scrunched her brow. “That doesn’t sound like Joseph Donovan. I saw him in concert last year and he was—”

  “Yes, yes, I know. Maybe it wasn’t him. Can we just go? You drive, I’ll look.”

  An hour later, after riding up and down all the back streets and narrow alleys of the small town, Cheyenne gave the taxi driver all the cash she had in her purse when she dropped her off at the Bed & Breakfast.

  “You owe me another twenty dollars.”

  Cheyenne had to admire her entrepreneurial spirit; after all, she was getting paid to exercise all day. “That’s all the cash I have. I’ll have to find an ATM.” She handed the girl her business card. “If you’ll trust me, come back in the morning and I’ll hire you for the day.”

  “Deal.” The girl stuck out her hand. “I’m Lindsay, by the way. Here’s my card with my number. I’m independent so you can’t request me from any of the regular taxi services.”

  Definitely a woman after her own heart, Cheyenne thought, as she stood on the boardwalk and watched Lindsay pedal away. Not the exercise part, though. She silently laughed as she went up the steps. She had wondered how she would get around when the port authority in Red Haven told her she couldn’t drive her car onto the island. Apparently only residents could own vehicles, and from what she had seen, they were all small, antiquated cars with rust around the wheel wells and license plates held on with wire. Tourists relied on bicycle rentals or the rickshaw bicycle taxis for hire. Since she had never learned to ride a bike, she had been walking or taking a taxi.

  Speaking of walking, she doubted she could do any more today. She dropped into the brocade chair in her room and removed her shoes, rubbing the soles of her feet. She hadn’t expected to spend more than a day, three at the most, finding Joseph and had not packed quite right. She stared at the four inch heels now tossed carelessly on the carpet. The red patent exactly matched her purse and the pinstripe in her suit. It was one of her favorite work outfits, but she had chosen it for sitting professionally at a desk and walking in air conditioned comfort, not trudging around in the heat on wooden sidewalks.

  Her stomach growled, reminding her how long ago breakfast had been. She reached down for her shoes and her feet automatically tucked under as though they had minds of their own. The thought of putting her shoes back on, much less walking very far in them, was just not an option. She had a pair of low heels, but they were meant for trousers. Her stomach rumbled louder. There was no help for it. She would have to change her clothes in order to eat.

  Damn Joseph Donovan anyway. This was all his fault, and when she caught up with him, she would certainly give him a piece of her mind.

  The street in front of the Inn was bustling with tourists and normally, Cheyenne would have enjoyed people watching. Tonight the bumping and jostling irritated her. One more thing to lie at Donovan’s door. She stopped at the closest restaurant and managed to get a seat at the bar since apparently the tables were reserved for groups of more than one. Unfortunately a single woman sitting at a bar, even if it was in a restaurant, invited unwanted company. Between her salad and main course, she had to deflect the advances of three different men.

  Her list of grievances just kept growing.

  Upon finishing her meal, she inquired as to the location of the nearest ATM, and was heading back to the Inn when her cell rang. It was after ten, too late for her sister to be calling unless there was an emergency. Cheyenne’s hand shook as she dug through her purse, but when she looked at the readout, it was an unidentified number.

  She dropped the phone into her purse and finished her walk back to her room. She never answered numbers not in her contact list. If someone needed to get in touch, they would leave a voice mail. If not, it wasn’t important.

  Mrs. Godfrey, the owner of the Bed & Breakfast, usually left out wine and tea for the evening and Cheyenne poured a glass of Merlot to take upstairs to her room. It wasn’t until she plugged in her phone to charge that she noticed the voice mail light blinking.

  “So, unknown contact, are you someone wanting to extend the warranty on the car I don’t own, or a scammer wanting my credit card number?” she muttered as she punched play.

  “Miss Tucker, this is Jake Smith,” a deep voice rumbled over the line.

  “I don’t know any Jake Smith.” Cheyenne started to jab the delete button but paused. “Jake?” Her jabbering made her miss part of his message. She quickly hit repeat.

  “Miss Tucker, this is Jake Smith.” There was a pause and a heavy sigh before he continued. “I sincerely apologize for running out on you today. You caught me by surprise, but I hope you’ll let me make it up to you. I live out at Crystal Bay if you would come out tomorrow so we can talk.” Another pause, then a short, “Please,” before a click ended the message.

  She smiled. Tomorrow was certainly looking up.

  * * *

  The morning dawned clear with the promise of hot, but Cheyenne dressed in her best suit and heels. If she was to convince Joseph to return to Chicago, she needed all the confidence her professional attire gave her. She called Lindsay as she went down to breakfast, and the rickshaw was waiting when she exited the Inn.

  “Do you know where Crystal Bay is?” she asked as she climbed onto the seat.

  “There’s no place on the island I don’t know, but that area isn’t very inhabited. Are you sure that’s where you want to go?” Even as she asked, she started pedaling down the narrow street.

  “That’s the name he…my client gave me.”

  Lindsay grinned over her shoulder. “That’s definitely a very nice, isolated spot to meet a…client.”

  Cheyenne’s look of distain was lost on the girl. She certainly had no designs on this particular client. As they flew along what appeared to be the only road out of town, she thought about what she knew of Joseph Donovan. Her job was executive assistant to Mr. Sebastian Donovan, who was a composer in his own right but also gave private music lessons and ran a music academy in downtown Chicago. She had rarely seen Joseph as he was constantly on tour and had his own staff but when she had, he had been reserved and aloof. She knew the trust money that ran the Academy had come from Joseph’s winning the coveted Camelot Award for Excellence in Musical Composition when he was just eighteen, then again two years ago at the age of twenty-eight. He had a distinguished recording career and his concerts were sold out months in advance. Yet all that was the public Joseph Donovan, adored by millions and worth billions. She realized she didn’t know the man behind the tuxedo at all.

  “This is about the only cottage along this side of the island,” Lindsay said as she came to a halt in front of a ramshackle structure that Cheyenne was sure a strong wind would blow out to sea. The porch sloped to one side and the shutters, faded to the palest blue, hung by one hinge or were missing altogether. Weeds had overtaken any flowers that may once have graced the front yard.

  She warily climbed the steps and knocked on the door but no one answered.

  “Want me to hang around?” Lindsay was swigging a bottle of water and Cheyenne wished she had thought to provision her
self. A noise caught her attention and she carefully picked her way to the side of the cottage. Down a grassy knoll, a dock projected out into the water. A man, whom she presumed was Donovan, sat in a boat tied to the dock.

  “You really should get some different shoes,” Lindsay called as Cheyenne stumbled on loose gravel. She caught herself, straightened and adjusted her suit jacket. One didn’t approach a famous icon and expect to be heard in flip flops and cut offs.

  “Thank you for your assistance getting here,” she said drily. “I’ll call you when I’m ready to return.”

  The girl grinned, eyeing her over the top of her sunglasses. “Right. I’ll just keep a tab.”

  “That’s not a very wise way to do business,” Cheyenne started, but Lindsay had already turned around and was heading back to the road.

  Gingerly she picked her way over the grass to the edge of a dock. She eyed it guardedly and tested its sturdiness with one foot.

  “It’ll hold you,” he called.

  “I’m not worried about that.” She still hesitated, then carefully stepped on the first plank, making sure her heels were on the wood and not the spaces between.

  “Thanks for coming.” He continued his work without looking up.

  “How did you know my phone number?”

  “I’ve always had your number.” He did look up then, cocked a brow and grinned at her.

  “I sincerely doubt that.” She straightened her shoulders, determined to get right to the business at hand.

  “I…” It suddenly dawned on her what he was doing. “Dear God, your hands!”

  He held up his hands, greasy from working on the motor. “Yeah, I’m a mess.”

  “You can’t be doing that!” Even as she spoke, he turned a wrench the wrong way and his hand slammed against the motor cover.

  “Son of a bitch.” He shook it off and repositioned the wrench.

  “Stop! Good Lord, are you crazy?” His hands were insured by Lloyd’s of London and here he was playing mechanic.

  He did stop. Hoisting himself onto the dock, he spun to face her.

  “Exactly why are you here, Miss Tucker?” Although the question was asked with no intonation, she had the feeling he was judging her. She carefully chose her next words.

  “You need to return to Chicago. You’ve had your little holiday and the staff is waiting to set the dates for the next concert season.”

  “There won’t be a next season.” He wasn’t looking at her now, but was busily wiping grease from his hands on an equally dirty rag.

  “You have a responsibility.” Her voice rose with determination.

  “To who? My uncle? As though he has ever done anything but take. His name on the Academy? He gave nothing but his name to that endeavor. He wasn’t even at the dedication.”

  “You owe it to your audiences, to everyone who has ever bought an album or downloaded a single or gone to a concert. To all those taking piano lessons so they can be like you.”

  “I don’t want anyone to be like me!” He threw the rag down on the dock and stood towering over her. “No one should be like me!”

  She had had enough. He was still the arrogant, egotistical yet brilliant man she had first met six years ago. They would both have to cool down before he would see reason. She turned on her heel and started to storm away just as he yelled.

  It was too late.

  Her heels tangled in a rope on the dock and she went plunging into the water, only to surface to deep, male laughter.

  “You, you maniac!” she screeched, struggling to her feet. The water was only three feet deep but she had gone completely under. Her hair dripped in her eyes and she swore she felt something creeping up her leg. She splashed to the dock and slapped her hands onto the wood to pull herself up but had no leverage.

  “You could offer your assistance.” She glared up at him.

  He knelt before her, strong brown hands spread across his thighs. And he was still laughing. She couldn’t recall hearing him laugh before. He had always been somber and studious. Laughter turned him even more handsome. His eyes twinkled and his even white teeth gleamed in the sunlight. In that moment she both loathed him and ached for him.

  “Forget it.” She turned and tried to wade toward the shore but her heels, somehow still attached to her feet, sank into the sand. She floundered, her footing threatening to drag her down, when she was grabbed beneath the arms and bodily lifted out of the water. Wobbling on the wooden planks, she grabbed his shoulders to keep herself upright.

  “Crap,” he muttered. Moving his hands down her leg, he lifted one foot then the other and yanked off her heels, unceremoniously throwing them back into the water.

  She was almost beyond speech. “Those are very, very expensive shoes!”

  “Were. And probably the most stupid excuse for footwear ever created.”

  She stood there, barefoot and dripping wet, watching as his gaze slid down the sodden lines of her linen suit. His eyes lit and a slow smile curved his lips. He reached for her jacket buttons.

  She felt her eyes widen and quickly stepped back, only to have him grab her arms to keep her from dropping back into the water.

  “Don’t even think it.” She slapped at his hands.

  “Seaweed,” he said, holding up a piece of green slime he had plucked off her jacket. “Are you intent on drowning yourself rather than telling my uncle you couldn’t persuade me to go home?”

  His uncle was the absolute last person she was thinking about. Instead she was wondering how those slender fingers would feel against her wet skin and that would never do. She shivered at the thought.

  He sighed and shook his head, moving past her to the edge of the dock. She watched him turn and tilt his head. “Come along, Miss Tucker. We can’t send you back to my uncle all wet and wrinkled.”

  She had no recourse except to follow him up the grassy slope to the back deck.

  Given the dilapidated outside of the cottage, Cheyenne was surprised when she stepped inside. The furniture was old and a little faded but everything was clean and neat. Several bright throw pillows added color to the brown couch. There was a small table and two chairs positioned between that and the efficiency kitchen. Most of the walls were simply banks of windows which gave its occupants the appearance of being outside. She didn’t understand how Joseph could live in such small confines, let alone make do for himself, when he came from such an entitled background.

  He disappeared through a door and returned, tossing clothes at her. “The bathroom is the door on the right. Help yourself while I make some coffee.”

  She was shivering too much to come up with a retort to his curtness. The hot water felt good as she stood under the spray, but when she recalled that only a thin, unlocked door stood between them, she hurriedly finished and briskly rubbed her hair dry. Only when she reached for the clothes he had given her did she realize what they were—a faded pair of sweatpants and a ratty tee-shirt with a huge fish printed on the front.

  An unbidden memory of her childhood with hand-me-down clothes she was often lucky to have surfaced and she quickly squelched it. She had worn nothing but designer suits, tailored pants and cashmere sweaters since her first paycheck. But she had no choice at the moment if she didn’t want to wear the extra-large bath towel which now covered her.

  Jake watched Cheyenne emerge from the bathroom and his heart stopped. Gone was the prickly, straitlaced Miss Tucker and in her place was a woman. His sweats were too large for her shapely hips and his tee shirt too small for her generous bust. The bass across the front looked entirely too happy. Her hair had begun curling around her shoulders and he wondered why she always wore it tightly up in some matronly bun. But it was her face, devoid of makeup, that drew him closer. Long lashes blinked over bright blue eyes, pink lips looked lush and kissable and there was just a touch of natural color across her cheeks.

  “You look…clean,” he finished lamely, not sure exactly how to approach this new, totally different version of his uncle’
s executive assistant. He had rarely thought of her back in Chicago; she had simply been his uncle’s efficient employee. Now she stood looking hesitant and vulnerable, and he had the insane desire to pull her close and hug her.

  She looked down, and he followed her gaze to see her curl her brightly painted toes. It would appear Miss Tucker had a sexy side. Those toes made him want to do something more than give her a brotherly hug. He cleared his throat. For all his sophistication on stage, in private he never knew exactly how to behave around people, especially women.

  He relaxed as she said, “Are you using the name Jake Smith to appear incognito?”

  “That’s my real name.” At her quizzical expression, he added, “A long story for another time. Lunch is ready.” He turned back to the oven and pulled out the metal pan he had put in to bake before going to the dock.

  “You cook?” She raised a brow in question.

  “I used to sneak into the kitchen and watch Mrs. Miller.” He shrugged. “I never had the chance to actually do it. I’ve found I enjoy it.”

  “I really should go back to town.”

  “Your clothes aren’t dry. The least I can do is feed you.” He turned back holding two plates he’d taken from the cupboard. “Besides, you don’t have a ride.”

  “I can call Lindsay. She said she would come back when I was ready. I didn’t think it would take long to explain why I was here.”

  “The explanation didn’t take long.” He grinned. “It was the arguing when I refused and you falling in the water that’s extended your stay.” When she opened her mouth to speak, he held up a hand. “Do not even attempt to blame that on me.”

  “And you shouldn’t attempt to know what I’m thinking,” she retorted, hands on hips.

  His grin turned to a laugh. He liked this feisty version of Miss Tucker. “Touché.” He pulled out a chair and waved her to it. “Sit.”

  Instead, she moved to the small kitchen. “I should help. You don’t have to wait on me.”