Rhianna was more than stunned. She was speechless. The very painting that she had gazed at for almost two months was actually hers. There were other paintings in Lance Manor, some even painted by the same artist, but none affected her quite like the one of the woman with the long red hair and deep green eyes.
"JT…I don't know what to say. You're too generous."
"That's what friends do," he said in mock sternness. "Now, just make an old man happy and say thank you."
She grinned at him. "Thank you."
Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around the dying man and hugged him fiercely. "You are an honorable friend, JT, and I am so glad you're in my life."
"I haven't always been honorable. I've done some things in my life that I'm not proud of. And I've hurt people too." He lowered his voice. "There are no guarantees in life. But any risk is worth taking when you love someone. Remember that, Rhianna."
Alarmed by the tremor in his voice, she pulled back and saw tears in his eyes. "What's wrong?"
He blinked twice.
"JT?"
He gave her a blank look. "Anna…"
She sighed. "It's past your bedtime."
"When did you get here, Anna? Did you bring the baby?"
Rhianna had asked Higginson about this Anna person JT always mistook her for. The butler didn't have a clue. And now it seemed this mystery woman had a baby.
It must be someone from his past.
Maybe his son's mother.
Escorting JT to his room, she tried not to think of what would happen once he was gone. In some ways he was already gone. It was emotionally draining to watch him flip-flop between bouts of memory loss and total comprehension. Witnessing this grand man's decline was devastatingly heartbreaking. Today, one would never know by looking at him that he had less than six months to live.
She blinked back tears, then pasted a smile on her face for the man who meant so much to her. He gave her more than a paycheck, more than a place to call home. He restored her sense of safety and belonging.
Yes, JT was one of a kind.
She scowled. Too bad his son hasn't realized that.
If she ever met the guy, she'd have a few things to say to him. And none of them would be polite.
Chapter 3
The airplane droned over cottony clouds and Rhianna was lulled into sleep. She dreamed of coming home to find JT lying in his bed, still and lifeless. Waking suddenly, she shook off an uneasy feeling.
It's just a nightmare.
She smiled, recalling JT's words before she left.
"I'll wait for your return before I go anywhere," he promised, "including Heaven's pearly gates—or that other place—whichever will take me."
God, please don't take him before I return. I'd never forgive myself.
She yawned and rested her head against the window.
Then restless dreams once again claimed her…
After being dumped off on Mrs. Emerson, a foster mother with very little money and too many mouths to feed, Rhianna had given up hope of finding a real family. She was a lost soul for a couple of years, until the "system" found her new foster parents when she was almost sixteen.
At first, Peter and Gwen Waverley seemed kind, but the honeymoon stage didn't last long. By the second week, Rhianna was making dinner, doing the dishes, vacuuming the house, and on weekends she did laundry. Sometimes her foster mother would ask her to dust too. Plus she had to keep her own bedroom spotless. Between school, chores and homework there wasn't much time left for a social life.
It didn't take her long to realize that the Waverleys were more interested in having a live-in housekeeper than a daughter. Later, she found out that her foster father saw her as anything but daughter material. In fact, he saw her more as a possession. A possession he had to have.
Peter's lecherous advances behind his wife's back made Rhianna so nervous that she remained in her room unless she had chores to do. At night, she'd lock her bedroom door, holding her breath as his footsteps slithered past her door.
Most of the time she was able to avoid being alone with him—until one evening when Gwen decided to go see Phantom of the Opera.
Rhianna saw the evil twinkle in Peter's eyes.
"Please don't go, Mrs. Waverley," she cried. "I don't want you to leave."
"Quit your whining," Peter snapped.
Sweat trickled down his brow as he waddled over to his wife and handed her a twenty dollar bill. "Have fun."
Gwen eyed Rhianna with disdain. "See to it that all your chores are done before you retire. I don't want to come home to a pile of dirty dishes and wrinkled laundry. And quit that sniffling."
"But Mrs. Waverley, I'd just feel much better if you were home. And I don't think the agency would like—"
Peter whipped around. "You don't think I can take care of you?"
"Now, Peter," Gwen said with a sigh. "The girl is just missing me, that's all. I'm sure you'll do a fine job looking after our…daughter." Her eyes narrowed. "And don't worry, she won't say anything to the agency. She knows there isn't another family for miles that would take her in."
Peter glared at Rhianna. In a cold voice he said, "It's a good thing your parents are dead. I don't think they'd be too proud of your behavior."
"Yes, you behave yourself," Gwen commanded. "And get those chores done while I'm gone. I'll be back around ten o'clock."
The door slammed shut behind her.
Rhianna watched as Peter flicked the lock.
When he turned around, his eyes were gleaming and his mouth was stretched into a sadistic smile. "Come to Daddy."
Her heart stopped beating.
"Miss?" a voice called from the blackness. "Wake up."
Rhianna opened her eyes and a face swam into view.
"Why, hello there," a flight attendant said, her accent placing her from Ireland. "Boy, that was one doozy of a nightmare, if I do say so. You better have a drink, and I don't mean water. Can I fetch you something?"
"No, thank you." Rhianna shook off the remnants of her dream. "When will we be landing?"
"In about twenty minutes, give or take. Course we have to make it through the Bahama Triangle first."
Rhianna's pulse raced. "The Bahama Triangle?"
The flight attendant grinned. "Just kidding. No such thing."
In the aisle seat across from Rhianna, a man in a business suit nodded. "I've taken this trip dozens of times, and they still use the old Bahama Triangle joke." He smiled. "Where you headed?"
"To a resort on Angelina's Isle. Have you been there before?"
The man frowned. "No, can't say I have."
Over the speaker, the captain asked everyone to fasten their seatbelts for their descent. The plane softly touched down and coasted down the runway.
Rhianna's heart raced with anticipation, mimicking the rumble of the plane's engine. Fifteen minutes later, she disembarked from the plane and followed the ant trail of tourists and residents down the narrow hall.
Once she passed through the airport, she hurried outside. A wall of heat and humidity hit her, and she sucked in a breath, grinned and hailed a cab.
"I need to get to Bayshore Marina," she said, checking the directions JT had written down.
A kaleidoscope of island colors and scenery rushed past the open taxi window. The seductive aroma of exotic flowers mingled with the fresh but humid scent of an earlier rain that had left evaporating puddles on the road. Between lush palm trees, she saw houses painted in tropical shades of orange, pink, yellow and green.
It was breathtaking, unspoiled. Like another world.
Almost too soon the taxi pulled up to Bayshore Marina. A small dock jutted out over the water and boats of various sizes and styles were moored there, while others dotted the water. In the distance, small islands appeared to float on the ocean's surface.
She wondered which one was Angelina's Isle.
Walking along the dock, she noticed two men arguing about the boxes they were loading into a bri
ghtly painted powerboat. Moving closer, she discovered that the paint job was meant to detract from the rickety shape the craft was in.
"There isn't enough room for all of them!" yelled the dark-skinned man.
"You'll have to make room, Roland," his older companion replied. "Tyler wants these supplies this month, not two months from now."
"I'm telling you, Denny, I can't transport them all. The boat'll sink."
The older man cursed. "Tyler pays you to make sure he's well stocked. You don't wanna get on his bad side. Remember what happened to Daniel O'Brien? Tyler just about took his head off when the poor kid forgot his brushes."
"Excuse me," Rhianna said.
Neither man noticed her.
"Hello there!" she hollered.
The two men looked up, their eyes widening in shock. Roland nearly dropped the box he carried. And Denny missed going for a swim by about six inches.
"I'm looking for a boat called Siren's Call," she said. "Can either of you tell me when it's supposed to arrive?"
"What do you want with the Siren?" Roland asked, white teeth gleaming as he smiled in her direction.
"The captain is supposed to take me to Angelina's Isle," she explained, backing up as the men jumped onto the dock. At their doubting looks, she said, "If you could just tell me when he'll arrive, I—"
"The captain won't be taking you anywhere," Denny said. "The Siren isn't taking passengers today."
"But I don't understand. I was told the captain would take me across." She shaded her eyes with one hand and surveyed the boats nearby. "Maybe I can take another boat."
"There aren't any others that dock there," Roland answered. "Lancelot's Landing is private property."
"Well, I'll just wait until the Siren's Call gets here," she said in a tight voice. "I'm sure once I've explained why I'm here, the captain will take me across."
Roland laughed. "Ma'am, this is the Siren's Call. At least it used to be, until the boss changed her name."
Denny let out a scornful snort. "Long overdue, if you ask me."
"Now she's Misty's Dream," Roland said with pride.
"So you're the captain?" she asked.
The young man nodded. "But like Denny told you, I can't take passengers today. I have enough on board already. Besides, the boss didn't say he was expecting anyone."
"Then the boss is in for a big surprise." Rhianna reached into her handbag and dug out the envelope addressed to 'Captain'. "This is for you. From my employer."
Roland suspiciously peered at the envelope. Ripping it open, he quickly read the note.
"Your employer paid me five hundred dollars," he said. "Looks like you're heading to Lancelot's Landing."
"Roland," Denny warned.
"I need the money. Leave the last two boxes on the dock. I'll run them out to Tyler in a couple of weeks."
Helping Rhianna aboard, Roland tucked her suitcase by her feet.
"You won't get in trouble for leaving supplies behind, will you?" she asked.
"Not enough to turn down the money you gave me."
With a wave to Denny, Roland pushed the throttle forward and the powerboat took off, leaving a frothy wake in its trail.
"I guess your boss forgot he had a new guest," she said, smiling as the wind caught at her hair.
"Tyler never forgets."
He did this time, she almost said.
She found herself wondering about the resort's boss. How could he not pay attention to his guests' arrival? And how would he feel when Roland explained that they had to leave two boxes behind in order for her to come on board?
Rhianna leaned back and closed her eyes while the boat raced across the water, the outboard purring like a kitten. The coolness of the breeze was a welcome change from the scorching heat she'd felt when she deplaned. Loosening her hair from the restraints of an elastic band, she ran her fingers through the wavy strands.
"You're definitely not in Maine anymore," she said beneath her breath.
Roland pointed at a small island. "That's Angelina's Isle."
"It's very isolated."
"You have no idea."
The way he said it made Rhianna's heart sink.
Minutes later, Roland slowed the engine and aimed the boat for a worn dock that jutted out into the water.
A weathered sign nailed to a post at the end of the dock read, Welcome to Lancelot's Landing, Angelina's Isle. Underneath, a second sign warned, PRIVATE PROPERTY. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.
It was an odd warning for a resort.
Rhianna squinted, searching the bushes for signs of life. There wasn't a building, road or person in sight.
Roland hefted the suitcase over the side and set it on the dock with the boxes he'd already unloaded. Then he opened a small mailbox under the warning sign.
"Tyler's next order," he explained. "He should be here any minute." Roland jumped into Misty's Dream and prepared to cast off.
"Wait! Where are you going? There's no one here yet."
"Don't worry. Tyler'll be here. He hardly ever misses his supply drop." He waved once, then steered the boat toward open water.
"What do you mean hardly ever?" she hollered.
There was no reply.
She moaned. "Where do I go if Tyler doesn't show?"
As she watched the powerboat speed away, anxiety crawled over her like fire ants at a picnic. There wasn't a soul in sight. Not even a proper path through the overgrown brush to show her the way.
"Wait until I get a hold of this Tyler," she muttered. "I've got a thing or two to tell him about customer service. Some kind of resort this is."
She grabbed the Gucci suitcase—a birthday present from Higginson—and dragged it in the direction she hoped would lead to the resort. Using her handbag to ward off errant tree branches, she gradually made her way through the dense foliage, although the grass was slippery and she came close to falling more than once.
"Where the heck is this place?"
After ten minutes of fighting an unforgiving jungle, she turned around and headed back to the beach.
When the boss comes for his supplies, I'll be waiting.
She would register a complaint with the front desk. Guests shouldn't be dumped off in the middle of God knows where and left to fend for themselves for God's knows how long.
She checked her watch. It was almost three o'clock.
Damn. How long is Tyler going to keep me waiting?
Mindful of slivers, Rhianna sat at the end of the dock and dangled her bare feet in the warm water. It had been a long trip, and worrying about JT definitely didn't help. She smiled, thinking of the old man's stubborn pride. He didn't like to be babied, especially by her.
Staring out at the glittering ocean, a sudden pain flared deep within. Her only taste of what family was like would end in less than six months.
She couldn't go back to Maine, not now.
Not ever.
Tears trailed down her cheeks, and for the first time in months, she broke down. If only she could have picked a father. She would have picked JT.
The shrill cry of an unseen bird reached out to her as loneliness enveloped her, wrapping her in exhaustion. She couldn't resist lying on her back, her toes skimming the ocean. Before drifting into a deep sleep, she had one last thought.
I'm like the Lady in the Mist. Waiting…
A misty dream pool beckoned, calling her name.
Rhianna…
She waited expectantly, observing the still surface. Warm water closed around her toes as she stood at the shore, her white nightgown fitting the curves of her body like a second skin.
A ripple disturbed the water, as if someone had dropped a stone from above. From its center a form arose, sleek and graceful.
It was him! She had found him at last.
This man of her dreams, all bronzed and muscular, brushed the water from his jet-black hair and waded to the shore. His muscles gleamed in the moonlight as he stepped, naked, from the pool. He moved toward her, his
eyes smoldering with passion. Arms outstretched, he reached for her and pulled her close.
She reached up, her fingertips gently tracing a path up his smooth chest. Winding her hands around his neck, she clung to him, barely daring to breathe.
He bent his head, those sapphire eyes mesmerizing her, drowning her. Not a word was said. He leaned forward, caressing her lips with his, lighting a fire that swept through her very soul.
His kiss deepened, growing more urgent.
Then he whispered her name…
You can read the rest of LANCELOT'S LADY at Amazon
Visit Cherish D'Angelo's site: http://www.cherishdangelo.com
Check out the novelette Remote Control,
but be careful what you wish for...
REMOTE CONTROL
by Cheryl Kaye Tardif
"Be careful what you wish for," they say, but for forty-four-year-old Harold Fielding, who unfortunately isn't one to listen to such good advice, those words will come back to haunt him.
Harold—Harry—always rebels against the norm. In fact, he says, "Wishes are like saying grace—something to be said before every meal." So he wishes at least five times a day, while growing exceedingly fat.
However, good ole Harry has an excuse.
"If I wish hard enough," he tells his wife Beatrice, "my wishes will eventually come true."
Harry's a TV fanatic and, surprisingly, fairly intelligent. He spends about ten hours a day parked in front of his ten-year-old Sanyo television with the remote control in hand, while watching shows on just about everything. The next day, he can tell you all about it; his recall is nearly perfect.
He never once contemplates actually working a forty-hour week and earning money. He's already maxed out the VISA and MasterCard, plus a small bank loan that Beatrice knows nothing about. And now he's waiting for his fortune to fall in his lap. Sadly, there's no room there, so whatever good luck finds him usually ends up in a puddle on the floor.
Harry's good with puddles. He's a plumber by trade, when he bothers to do a job. The truth is, he's been having trouble maneuvering under kitchen sinks; his stomach keeps getting in the way. Six months ago, he was depressed, which made him eat more. He'd almost lost faith that there is something better for him…somewhere…out there, and then fate stepped in.
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