Island of Flowers

by Nora Roberts

  her, feeling alone and unsure. Like a ghost of the past, his voice reached out, booming through an open doorway. Approaching the sound, Laine watched as her father talked on the phone at his desk.

  She could see the alterations which age had made on his face, but her memory had been accurate. The sun had darkened his skin and laid its lines upon it, but his features were no stranger to her. His thick brows were gray now, but still prominent over his brown eyes. The nose was still strong and straight over the long, thin mouth. His hair remained full, though as gray as his brows, and she watched as he reached up in a well-remembered gesture and tugged his fingers through it.

  She pressed her lips together as he replaced the receiver, then swallowing, Laine spoke in soft memory. “Hello, Cap.”

  He twisted his head, and she watched surprise flood his face. His eyes ran a quick gamut of emotions, and somewhere between the beginning and the end she saw the pain. He stood, and she noted with a small sense of shock that he was shorter than her child’s perspective had made him.

  “Laine?” The question was hesitant, colored by a reserve which crushed her impulse to rush toward him. She sensed immediately that his arms would not be open to receive her, and this rejection threatened to destroy her tentative smile.

  “It’s good to see you.” Hating the inanity, she stepped into the room and held out her hand.

  After a moment, he accepted it. He held her hand briefly, then released it. “You’ve grown up.” His survey was slow, his smile touching only his mouth. “You’ve the look of your mother. No more pigtails?”

  The smile illuminated her face with such swift impact, her father’s expression warmed. “Not for some time. There was no one to pull them.” Reserve settled over him again. Feeling the chill, Laine fumbled for some new line of conversation. “You’ve got your airport; you must be very happy. I’d like to see more of it.”

  “We’ll arrange it.” His tone was polite and impersonal, whipping across her face like the sting of a lash.

  Laine wandered to a window and stared out through a mist of tears. “It’s very impressive.”

  “Thank you, we’re pretty proud of it.” He cleared his throat and studied her back. “How long will you be in Hawaii?”

  She gripped the windowsill and tried to match his tone. Even at their worst, her fears had not prepared her for this degree of pain. “A few weeks perhaps, I have no definite plans. I came … I came straight here.” Turning, Laine began to fill the void with chatter. “I’m sure there are things I should see since I’m here. The pilot who flew me over said Kauai was beautiful, gardens and …” She tried and failed to remember the specifics of Dillon’s speech. “And parks.” She settled on a generality, keeping her smile fixed. “Perhaps you could recommend a hotel?”

  He was searching her face, and Laine struggled to keep her smile from dissolving. “You’re welcome to stay with me while you’re here.”

  Burying her pride, she agreed. She knew she could not afford to stay anywhere else. “That’s kind of you. I should like that.”

  He nodded and shuffled some papers on his desk. “How’s your mother?”

  “She died,” Laine murmured. “Three months ago.”

  Cap glanced up sharply. Laine watched the pain flicker over his face. He sat down. “I’m sorry, Laine. Was she ill?”

  “There was …” She swallowed. “There was a car accident.”

  “I see.” He cleared his throat, and his tone was again impersonal. “If you had written, I would have flown over and helped you.”

  “Would you?” She shook her head and turned back to the window. She remembered the panic, the numbness, the mountain of debts, the auction of every valuable. “I managed well enough.”

  “Laine, why did you come?” Though his voice had softened, he remained behind the barrier of his desk.

  “To see my father.” Her words were devoid of emotion.

  “Cap.” At the voice Laine turned, watching as Dillon’s form filled the doorway. His glance scanned her before returning to Cap. “Chambers is leaving for the mainland. He wants to see you before he takes off.”

  “All right. Laine,” Cap turned and gestured awkwardly, “this is Dillon O’Brian, my partner. Dillon, this is my daughter.”

  “We’ve met.” Dillon smiled briefly.

  Laine managed a nod. “Yes, Mr. O’Brian was kind enough to fly me from Oahu. It was a most … fascinating journey.”

  “That’s fine then.” Cap moved to Dillon and clasped a hand to his shoulder. “Run Laine to the house, will you, and see she settles in? I’m sure she must be tired.”

  Laine watched, excluded from the mystery of masculine understanding as looks were exchanged. Dillon nodded. “My pleasure.”

  “I’ll be home in a couple of hours.” Cap turned and regarded Laine in awkward silence.

  “All right.” Her smile was beginning to hurt her cheeks, so Laine let it die. “Thank you.” Cap hesitated, then walked through the door leaving her staring at emptiness. I will not cry, she ordered herself. Not in front of this man. If she had nothing else left, she had her pride.

  “Whenever you’re ready, Miss Simmons.”

  Brushing past Dillon, Laine glanced back over her shoulder. “I hope you drive a car with more discretion than you fly a plane, Mr. O’Brian.”

  He gave an enigmatic shrug. “Why don’t we find out?”

  Her bags were sitting outside. She glanced down at them, then up at Dillon. “You seem to have anticipated me.”

  “I had hoped,” he began as he tossed the bags into the rear of a sleek compact, “to pack both them and you back to where you came from, but that is obviously impossible now.” He opened his door, slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Laine slipped in beside him, unaided. Releasing the brake, he shot forward with a speed which jerked her against the cushions.

  “What did you say to him?” Dillon demanded, not bothering with preliminaries as he maneuvered skillfully through the airport traffic.

  “Being my father’s business partner does not entitle you to an account of his personal conversations with me,” Laine answered. Her voice was clipped and resentful.

  “Listen, Duchess, I’m not about to stand by while you drop into Cap’s life and stir up trouble. I didn’t like the way he looked when I walked in on you. I gave you ten minutes, and you managed to hurt him. Don’t make me stop the car and persuade you to tell me.” He paused and lowered his voice. “You’d find my methods unrefined.” The threat vibrated in his softly spoken words.

  Suddenly Laine found herself too tired to banter. Nights with only patches of sleep, days crowded with pressures and anxiety, and the long, tedious journey had taken their toll. With a weary gesture, she pulled off her hat. Resting her head against the seat, she closed her eyes. “Mr. O’Brian, it was not my intention to hurt my father. In the ten minutes you allowed, we said remarkably little. Perhaps it was the news that my mother had died which upset him, but that is something he would have learned eventually at any rate.” Her tone was hollow, and he glanced at her, surprised by the sudden frailty of her unframed face. Her hair was soft and pale against her ivory skin. For the first time, he saw the smudges of mauve haunting her eyes.

  “How long ago?”

  Laine opened her eyes in confusion as she detected a whisper of sympathy in his voice. “Three months.” She sighed and turned to face Dillon more directly. “She ran her car into a telephone pole. They tell me she died instantly.” And painlessly, she added to herself, anesthetized with several quarts of vintage champagne.

  Dillon lapsed into silence, and she was grateful that he ignored the need for any trite words of sympathy. She had had enough of those already and found his silence more comforting. She studied his profile, the bronzed chiseled lines and unyielding mouth, before she turned her attention back to the scenery.

  The scent of the Pacific lingered in the air. The water was a sparkling blue against the crystal beaches. Screw pines rose from the
sand and accepted the lazy breeze, and monkeypods, wide and domelike, spread their shade in invitation. As they drove inland, Laine caught only brief glimpses of the sea. The landscape was a myriad of colors against a rich velvet green. Sun fell in waves of light, offering its warmth so that flowers did not strain to it, but rather basked lazily in its glory.

  Dillon turned up a drive which was flanked by two sturdy palms. As they approached the house, Laine felt the first stir of pleasure. It was simple, its lines basic and clean, its walls cool and white. It stood two stories square, sturdy despite its large expanses of glass. Watching the windows wink in the sun, Laine felt her first welcoming.

  “It’s lovely.”

  “Not as fancy as you might have expected,” Dillon countered as he halted at the end of the drive, “but Cap likes it.” The brief truce was obviously at an end. He eased from the car and gave his attention to her luggage.

  Without comment, Laine opened her door and slipped out. Shading her eyes from the sun, she stood for a moment and studied her father’s home. A set of stairs led to a circling porch. Dillon climbed them, nudged the front door open and strode into the house. Laine entered unescorted.

  “Close my door; flies are not welcome.”

  Laine glanced up and saw, with stunned admiration, an enormous woman step as lightly down the staircase as a young girl. Her girth was wrapped in a colorful, flowing muumuu. Her glossy black hair was pulled tight and secured at the back of her head. Her skin was unlined, the color of dark honey. Her eyes were jet, set deep and widely spaced. Her age might have been anywhere from thirty to sixty. The image of an island priestess, she took a long, uninhibited survey of Laine when she reached the foot of the stairs.

  “Who is this?” she asked Dillon as she folded her thick arms over a tumbling bosom.

  “This is Cap’s daughter.” Setting down the bags, he leaned on the banister and watched the exchange.

  “Cap Simmons’s daughter.” Her mouth pursed and her eyes narrowed. “Pretty thing, but too pale and skinny. Don’t you eat?” She circled Laine’s arm between her thumb and forefinger.

  “Why, yes, I …”

  “Not enough,” she interrupted and fingered a sunlit curl with interest. “Mmm, very nice, very pretty. Why do you wear it so short?”

  “I …”

  “You should have come years ago, but you are here now.” Nodding, she patted Laine’s cheek. “You are tired. I will fix your room.”

  “Thank you. I …”

  “Then you eat,” she ordered, and hefted Laine’s two cases up the stairs.

  “That was Miri,” Dillon volunteered and tucked his hands in his pockets. “She runs the house.”

  “Yes, I see.” Unable to prevent herself, Laine lifted her hand to her hair and wondered over the length. “Shouldn’t you have taken the bags up for her?”

  “Miri could carry me up the stairs without breaking stride. Besides, I know better than to interfere with what she considers her duties. Come on.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her down the hall. “I’ll fix you a drink.”

  With casual familiarity, Dillon moved to a double-doored cabinet. Laine flexed her arm and surveyed the cream-walled room. Simplicity reigned here as its outer shell had indicated, and she appreciated Miri’s obvious diligence with polish and broom. There was, she noted with a sigh, no room for a woman here. The furnishings shouted with masculinity, a masculinity which was well established and comfortable in its solitary state.

  “What’ll you have?” Dillon’s question brought Laine back from her musings. She shook her head and dropped her hat on a small table. It looked frivolous and totally out of place.

  “Nothing, thank you.”

  “Suit yourself.” He poured a measure of liquor into a glass and dropped down on a chair. “We’re not given to formalities around here, Duchess. While you’re in residence, you’ll have to cope with a more basic form of existence.”

  She inclined her head, laying her purse beside her hat. “Perhaps one may still wash one’s hands before dinner?”

  “Sure,” he returned, ignoring the sarcasm. “We’re big on water.”

  “And where, Mr. O’Brian, do you live?”

  “Here.” He stretched his legs and gave a satisfied smile at her frown. “For a week or two. I’m having some repairs done to my house.”

  “How unfortunate,” Laine commented and wandered the room. “For both of us.”

  “You’ll survive, Duchess.” He toasted her with his glass. “I’m sure you’ve had plenty of experience in surviving.”

  “Yes, I have, Mr. O’Brian, but I have a feeling you know nothing about it.”

  “You’ve got guts, lady, I’ll give you that.” He tossed back his drink and scowled as she turned to face him.

  “Your opinion is duly noted and filed.”

  “Did you come for more money? Is it possible you’re that greedy?” He rose in one smooth motion and crossed the room, grabbing her shoulders before she could back away from his mercurial temper. “Haven’t you squeezed enough out of him? Never giving anything in return. Never even disturbing yourself to answer one of his letters. Letting the years pile up without any acknowledgement. What the devil do you want from him now?”

  Dillon stopped abruptly. The color had drained from her face, leaving it like white marble. Her eyes were dazed with shock. She swayed as though her joints had melted, and he held her upright, staring at her in sudden confusion. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I … Mr. O’Brian, I think I would like that drink now, if you don’t mind.”

  His frown deepened, and he led her to a chair before moving off to pour her a drink. Laine accepted with a murmured thanks, then shuddered at the unfamiliar burn of brandy. The room steadied, and she felt the mists clearing.

  “Mr. O’Brian, I … am I to understand …” She stopped and shut her eyes a moment. “Are you saying my father wrote to me?”

  “You know very well he did.” The retort was both swift and annoyed. “He came to the islands right after you and your mother left him, and he wrote you regularly until five years ago when he gave up. He still sent money,” Dillon added, flicking on his lighter. “Oh yes, the money kept right on coming until you turned twenty-one last year.”

  “You’re lying!”

  Dillon looked over in astonishment as she rose from her chair. Her cheeks were flaming, her eyes flashing. “Well, well, it appears the ice maiden has melted.” He blew out a stream of smoke and spoke mildly. “I never lie, Duchess. I find the truth more interesting.”

  “He never wrote to me. Never!” She walked to where Dillon sat. “Not once in all those years. All the letters I sent came back because he had moved away without even telling me where.”

  Slowly, Dillon crushed out his cigarette and rose to face her. “Do you expect me to buy that? You’re selling to the wrong person, Miss Simmons. I saw the letters Cap sent, and the checks every month.” He ran a finger down the lapel of her suit. “You seem to have put them to good use.”

  “I tell you I never received any letters.” Laine knocked his hand away and tilted her head back to meet his eyes. “I have not had one word from my father since I was seven years old.”

  “Miss Simmons, I mailed more than one letter myself, though I was tempted to chuck them into the Pacific. Presents, too; dolls in the early years. You must have quite a collection of porcelain dolls. Then there was the jewelry. I remember the eighteenth birthday present very clearly. Opal earrings shaped like flowers.”

  “Earrings,” Laine whispered. Feeling the room tilt again, she dug her teeth into her lip and shook her head.

  “That’s right.” His voice was rough as he moved to pour himself another drink. “And they all went to the same place: 17 rue de la Concorde, Paris.”

  Her color ebbed again, and she lifted a hand to her temple. “My mother’s address,” she murmured, and turned away to sit before her legs gave way. “I was in school; my mother lived there.”

  “Yes.�
� Dillon took a quick sip and settled on the sofa again. “Your education was both lengthy and expensive.”

  Laine thought for a moment of the boarding school with its plain, wholesome food, cotton sheets and leaking roof. She pressed her fingers to her eyes. “I was not aware that my father was paying for my schooling.”

  “Just who did you think was paying for your French pinafores and art lessons?”

  She sighed, stung by the sharpness of his tone. Her hands fluttered briefly before she dropped them into her lap. “Vanessa … my mother said she had an income. I never questioned her. She must have kept my father’s letters from me.”

  Laine’s voice was dull, and Dillon moved with sudden impatience. “Is that the tune you’re going to play to Cap? You make it very convincing.”

  “No, Mr. O’Brian. It hardly matters at this point, does it? In any case, I doubt that he would believe me any more than you do. I will keep my visit brief, then return to France.” She lifted her brandy and stared into the amber liquid, wondering if it was responsible for her numbness. “I would like a week or two. I would appreciate it if you would not mention this discussion to my father; it would only complicate matters.”

  Dillon gave a short laugh and sipped from his drink. “I have no intention of telling him any part of this little fairy tale.”

  “Your word, Mr. O’Brian.” Surprised by the anxiety in her voice, Dillon glanced up. “I want your word.” She met his eyes without wavering.

  “My word, Miss Simmons,” he agreed at length.

  Nodding, she rose and lifted her hat and bag from the table. “I