Reap the Wind

by Iris Johansen

  “If you miss this picture, I guarantee your editor will cut off your balls.”

  Chelsea heard the liquid silken hiss of the water parted by the Rescuer as it edged even closer to the whaler. Now she could clearly see the bearded captain’s stunned expression. He shrieked with rage and shook his fist at her.

  “Mother, please.” Marisa’s voice was tense.

  “Quick. Give me some Icelandic curses,” Chelsea said over her shoulder to Captain Desquares. “Something obscene enough to make him testy.”

  “He’s already testy,” Tyndale said.

  Desquares murmured something in a foreign tongue.

  “Slower. I didn’t catch it.” Chelsea kept her eyes on the captain of the whaler, who was talking to the sailor manning the speargun. “Too many syllables.”

  The captain repeated the words more carefully.

  “I’ve got it.” Chelsea had always had an excellent ear for dialogue, but she had never thought she would put the talent to use in quite this way. Without looking at Tyndale she ordered, “Get ready. And if you don’t take this one, I’ll stick that camera where the sun doesn’t shine.”

  “You’re practically in the bastard’s lap. He can’t miss you.”

  “If he wants to hit me. I doubt if he’s that stupid.” She earnestly hoped he wasn’t that stupid. She took a deep breath, raised her voice, and shouted the obscenities Desquares had furnished her at the whaler captain.

  The next moments were a blur of noise and action.

  The outraged scream of the whaler captain.

  The soft explosion as the spear shot from the whaler’s gun.

  The whistle as the spear cleaved the air and catapulted toward Chelsea.

  Marisa’s low cry as she started across the deck toward Chelsea.

  The spear burying itself in the wooden mast two feet from Chelsea’s head with a solid thunk.

  Every muscle in Chelsea’s body vibrated with fear and rage as she whirled to glare at Tyndale. “Did you get the goddamn picture, you son of a bitch?”

  Tyndale’s face was pasty pale, his hands trembling on the camera. “I got it.”

  “Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Captain Desquares obeyed with desperate speed, twisting the wheel ninety degrees. “Cut that line or we won’t be going anywhere.”

  A sailor rushed forward and cut the line attached to the spear embedded in the mast.

  Chelsea took a last look at the deck of the whaler. Though the captain was still glaring at her, he seemed a little calmer and they weren’t reloading the speargun.

  Two minutes later the Rescuer chugged southward toward Reykjavik.

  Three minutes after the whaler was lost to view, Chelsea ran to the rail and was very, very sick.

  She stayed there a long time. Through a dark haze she could see chunks of white ice the size of her fist floating on the frigid green water. Christ, all she needed to make her day complete was to hit an iceberg.

  As soon as she lifted her head, Marisa was beside her, handing her a wet handkerchief. “Thanks, baby, I may live now.” She shot a suspicious glance at Tyndale. “Did he shoot any pictures while I was upchucking?”

  Marisa shook her head. “I think you’ve squelched him.” She pulled Chelsea closer and gently stroked her hair. “I didn’t mean to cause you all this trouble, Mother.”

  “You weren’t to blame. The whaler and Tyndale caused this brouhaha.” Chelsea made a face. “And my temper. I spoiled your peaceful confrontation, didn’t I?”

  “Maybe it’s time we got more warlike,” Marisa said. “No one seems to be listening to us.” Her wide brow creased in a troubled frown. “The whales and dolphins are still being killed in huge numbers. Why won’t anyone pay attention to us?”

  “Maybe they will this time.” Chelsea doubted if the confrontation would do any good, but she couldn’t say that to Marisa. Her daughter didn’t understand greed and was young enough to believe the world could still be changed if she worked hard enough at it. “Anyway, we’ll get enough publicity to shake some of them up.”

  Marisa chuckled. “You should have seen Tyndale’s face when that speargun went off.”

  “I hope he was scared witless.” Chelsea grabbed the rail of the ship as her stomach started doing flip-flops again. “Oh, Christ, I thought I was over it.” She closed her eyes and started to take deep breaths. “Marisa, you’ve got to promise me something.”

  Marisa took the handkerchief and dabbed at her mother’s temples. “What?”

  “That we’ll save the elephants next time.” Chelsea lurched forward and hung her head over the churning waves. “Lord, I hate being seasick.”

  The Rescuer was docking when Alex and Caitlin’s taxi drew up beside a large warehouse. Down the dock a uniformed chauffeur leaned on the bumper of a long black limousine, his gaze on the incoming ship.

  “Just in time,” Alex said as he handed the taxi driver a bill and motioned for him to wait. “Now to see what kind of humor the lady’s in and whether we should choose another time.”

  “You said she and her daughter were trying to stop the whalers?”

  Alex nodded. “Iceland and Japan still hunt whales commercially. Iceland is supposedly tapering off, but there are still whalers plying their trade, and they’re very hostile to outside interference.”

  “There she is. I recognize the hair.” Caitlin jumped out of the car before the taxi driver could open the passenger door and hurried across the dock and down the pier.

  The hair of the woman coming down the gangplank was a distinctive shade between rich honey and red and hung past her shoulders in a wild riot of curls that could only have been achieved by a master hairdresser. Chelsea Benedict looked small at first glance, but she moved with such swift, economical grace and vitality that an onlooker was conscious only of presence, not size. She was dressed in a white Irish fisherman’s sweater, a rust-colored suede jacket, and her green corduroy slacks were tucked into beige suede ankle boots.

  Alex and Caitlin stopped and waited at the bottom of the gangplank. Alex stepped forward as the actress reached the pier. “Ms. Benedict? I’m Alex Karazov and this is Caitlin Vasaro. I wonder if we could speak to you.”

  Chelsea lifted her head and Caitlin inhaled in surprise. She had not expected the actress to be this stunning in person. Chelsea Benedict wore no makeup, but her smooth olive complexion clearly didn’t need it. She possessed high cheekbones and deep-set sapphire-blue eyes. Her bold features lay no claim to classical beauty. It was a face that set its own standards and dared all comers to match it. “Hell, no.” She scowled. Her voice was throaty, almost hoarse. “I’m cold and I’m wet and seasick and that bastard behind me on deck has an exclusive. Sorry.”

  For the first time, Caitlin noticed the lines of strain beside Chelsea Benedict’s famous mouth. Alex drew Caitlin forward. “We’re not reporters, Ms. Benedict. We have a business proposition for you.”

  “I don’t know you from Adam. See my business manager.” Chelsea looked over her shoulder. “Marisa, let’s get out of here.”

  A young girl a full head taller than Chelsea and dressed in a yellow windbreaker and jeans hurried down the gangplank. “Sorry, Mother. Mr. Tyndale was asking me some questions.”

  Chelsea stiffened. “About the project?”

  Marisa avoided her mother’s gaze. “Partly.”

  “Go get in the limousine.” Chelsea muttered a curse. “I’ll talk to Tyndale.”

  “It’s all right, Mother. I didn’t mind.”

  “I mind.” Chelsea glanced past Marisa to the man coming down the gangplank. “Your story is about Project Rescue, not my daughter, Tyndale.”

  Paul Tyndale smiled slyly. “You wanted the additional coverage. The cover story has to be much more in-depth and your daughter is a part of it.” He looked at Marisa. “Maybe we’ll take a few pictures of her too. If not, I’m sure we have some film from the court case that we can dredge up.”

  “They’ll dredge you out of t
he Atlantic Ocean if you—”

  “It’s not important, Mother,” Marisa interrupted. “I don’t care what he writes about me. It’s the whales that matter.”

  “You see?” Tyndale asked. “Your daughter has her priorities in order.” He smiled mockingly at Chelsea. “Saving an endangered species is worth a little mud . . . if I choose to sling it.”

  He strolled past them down the pier toward the dock.

  Chelsea gazed after him and defined his character and heritage in explicit Anglo-Saxon phrasing.

  “I don’t believe he’s as bad as you think. He’s just angry because you made him look foolish.” Marisa put an arm around her mother. “Come on. A hot bath and a nap and you’ll be fine.”

  “But you won’t.” Chelsea reached out and touched Marisa’s cheek with her index finger. “I should have left it alone. What difference does one blasted cover make?”

  “You always have been an overachiever.” Marisa grinned. “And how can I complain when you did it for me?”

  Alex stepped forward again. “This doesn’t seem a good time to discuss our business. Could we meet you at your hotel this evening?”

  “We’ll be taking a flight back to New York tomorrow.” Chelsea started up the pier toward the black limousine. “Contact my business manager.”

  “We need a quick decision.” Alex and Caitlin fell into step with Chelsea and her daughter. “It will take only ten minutes for us to outline our offer.”

  “I don’t think I’d be—”

  “Please reconsider.” Alex paused. “My partner, Jonathan Andreas, will be very disappointed if you won’t even listen to our plans for you and the Wind Dancer.”

  Chelsea didn’t speak for a moment, her face averted and half hidden by her bright fall of hair. “The Wind Dancer?”

  They had reached the car and the chauffeur was opening the door.

  “Could we call on you at seven this evening?”

  Chelsea hesitated as Marisa got into the limousine. “Oh, what the hell? Why not? Come to my suite at the Kravitz for tea at four.”

  She climbed into the car, and the chauffeur slammed the door and quickly walked around the car to the driver’s seat.

  Alex and Caitlin watched the limousine glide away from them down the dock.

  “She’s certainly larger than life, isn’t she?” Caitlin jammed her hands down into her pockets of her fleece-lined coat. “How do you deal with someone like that?”

  “Like you do everyone else.” Alex took her arm and urged her toward the taxi several yards away. “You find out what they want and then give it to them.” He grinned. “In exchange for what you want.”

  Chelsea listened intently to Alex’s outline for their promotional campaign, her face without expression. She sat curled up on the cream-colored couch in her suite, dressed in loose silk lounging pajamas of a pale beige shade that made her wild, tousled hair shimmer in bright contrast. After Alex had finished, she was silent a moment, her long lashes lowered as she looked down into the amber depths of the tea in her cup. “I’ve never endorsed a product before. I’m an actress, not a huckster.”

  “An actress can always use the exposure.” Alex leaned forward in his chair. “And I can assure you, everything will be handled tastefully. It’s to our advantage to make sure the commercials and public appearances only enhance your popularity.”

  Chelsea didn’t look up from her cup. “Yes, I can see that.” She was silent a moment, and suddenly her head lifted and she shot a lightning glance at Caitlin sitting in the chair beside Alex. “Why the hell aren’t you talking? It’s your perfume, isn’t it?”

  Caitlin felt the color rise to her cheeks at the sudden attack. “Yes, it’s my perfume.”

  “Then why aren’t you trying to persuade me to pitch it?”

  “I don’t . . . I suppose I . . .” She stopped stammering and told the truth. “I guess you intimidate me a little.”

  Chelsea lifted a brow and shifted her glance to Alex. “And he doesn’t?”

  Chelsea was evidently a very shrewd judge of character. “I’ve never met a movie star before.” Caitlin’s lips were suddenly twitching as she added, “And the devil you know . . .”

  Alex chuckled. “Caitlin realizes we have common interests.”

  “And do we also have common interests?” Chelsea asked Alex.

  Alex met her gaze. “Close enough.”

  Chelsea turned back to Caitlin. “Do you have a sample of this perfume?”

  “Of course.” Caitlin opened her handbag and drew out a small vial. “I call it Vasaro.”

  Chelsea opened the vial and sniffed experimentally before rubbing a few drops on her wrists and then sniffing again. “God, that’s wonderful stuff.”

  “You like it?” Caitlin’s hopes soared as she eagerly leaned forward. “I created it. It’s my first perfume.”

  “With a perfume this good, you won’t have to create a second.” Chelsea sniffed at her left wrist again. “Why Vasaro?”

  “Vasaro is my home. We grow flowers for the perfume trade.”

  “Hmm.” Chelsea returned the vial to Caitlin. “Where is it?”

  “The South of France, near Grasse.”

  “We intend to shoot the television commercials at Vasaro,” Alex told Chelsea. “The countryside is unbelievably beautiful.”

  “Touristy?”

  “No, very secluded.”

  Chelsea sniffed her wrist again. “You say you’d want me in Paris in a month?”

  Caitlin stifled a sigh of relief. The actress had to be interested or she wouldn’t be asking questions.

  Alex nodded. “We’ll introduce you as the spokesperson, make a big fanfare about the Wind Dancer returning to its homeland, and announce the date of the launch of the perfume.”

  “And take a zillion pictures of me with the Wind Dancer.” Chelsea made a face. “I’ve never been upstaged by a statue before.”

  “But what a statue,” Alex said softly. “And what a woman. Together you’ll rock the world.”

  Chelsea threw back her head and laughed. “Lord, you’re persistent.”

  “Will you do it?”

  Chelsea’s lashes lowered to veil the glitter of her sapphire eyes again. “If we can come to an agreement.”

  Caitlin’s hand nervously tightened on the vial of perfume.

  “You haven’t talked money,” Chelsea said. “I hate to be crass, but—”

  “Two million dollars,” Alex said.

  Caitlin inhaled sharply. She hadn’t dreamed they would have to pay so much for a mere endorsement.

  “Not enough,” Chelsea said.

  “It’s more than you get for a picture.”

  “I’m asking three million next time.”

  “We’re talking about commercials and a few personal appearances. It isn’t as if you’ll have to work hard.”

  “But I’m endorsing the product. It’s a responsibility.”

  Alex was silent a moment. “Three million.”

  Chelsea’s gaze narrowed. “I would have taken two million seven. You were too easy.”

  “Yes.” He smiled. “But you would have made conditions. I don’t have time for conditions.”

  Chelsea nodded slowly. “But I still have conditions.” She nodded at the vial of perfume in Caitlin’s hand. “I want my name on the bottle. We’ll call the perfume Chelsea.”

  “No!” Caitlin, shocked, blurted out.

  Chelsea’s jaw set stubbornly. “I want it. It’s built-in publicity for me to have my name on that bottle. Some perfumes stay popular for a half century. Look at Chanel No. 5.”

  Alex was silent.

  “Tell her she can’t have it.” Caitlin whirled to face Alex. “Dammit, she can’t change the name.”

  “I’ll go down to two million seven,” Chelsea said, “if you put my name on the bottle. Otherwise it’s no deal.”

  “Alex.” Caitlin’s hand desperately clutched his arm. “Tell her.”

  “We need her.”

&nbs
p; “Not that much.”

  “Dammit, yes, that much.” Alex’s voice rang with intensity.

  Despair made Caitlin’s throat tighten with tears. Why hadn’t she put a clause into that contract guaranteeing she would retain control of the name? It hadn’t seemed necessary after Alex had told her he had no problem with calling the perfume Vasaro. “You said I could have my name. You said it didn’t matter.”

  She could feel the muscles of Alex’s forearm tighten through the tweed of his jacket. “You don’t understand. Every part has to work together. One piece missing and I’d have to start over.”

  “But it’s not right.” She turned to Chelsea and said fiercely, “You can’t have your name on my perfume. The perfume belongs to Vasaro. It is Vasaro.”

  Chelsea smiled and looked at Alex, waiting.

  Alex’s gaze moved to Caitlin’s tense face. He didn’t speak for a moment. “Okay.” He turned back to Chelsea. “No deal. You can’t have the name.”

  Caitlin went limp with relief.

  Chelsea’s eyes widened in surprise. “You’re sure?”

  “We’ll find someone else for the job.”

  Chelsea smiled curiously. “You’re not as hard as I thought you were, Mr. Karazov. I was almost sure you’d sell her down the river.”

  Alex stood up. “I’m sorry we’ve wasted your time. Let’s go, Caitlin.”

  Chelsea gracefully unwound herself and rose from the couch in a slither of gleaming silk. “It hasn’t been wasted. I find you both very interesting.” She turned to Caitlin. “Your Vasaro must mean a great deal to you.”

  Caitlin nodded as she stood up. “There’s no place on earth like it.”

  Chelsea laughed. “No place like home.” She wrinkled her nose. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve really never had one.” Her smile faded. “And neither has Marisa.” She suddenly turned again to Alex. “Three million,” she said briskly. “And you keep the name.”

  Alex went still. “Agreed.”

  Stunned, Caitlin stared at Chelsea.

  “But I still have a condition,” Chelsea said to Caitlin. “I don’t think you’ll find this one particularly difficult to meet. I’d like you to accept my daughter, Marisa, as a houseguest at Vasaro until after the official launch of the perfume.” She smiled. “She’s only sixteen, but she won’t cause you any trouble. She usually gets along with everyone. She’s very quiet . . . not like me at all.”