Читать книгу Everything to Me - Simona Taylor - Страница 11

Chapter 4

There was a certain quality about Tobago that soothed Dakota. Everything moved in slow motion. People didn’t rush; they ambled. They didn’t yell; they sang their words. Nonchalant groups of men sat outside bars playing cards and drinking beer in the sunshine, and herds of goats and shorthaired sheep roamed untended along the beaches. A seductive peace permeated her bones, even though she was here to work…and was sitting beside a man who should still be pissed off at her after last night, but who was instead cordial and calm.

By the time she’d returned to the cabin—and, yeah, she’d dragged her feet a little—his bedroom door had been closed and there was no light shining from beneath. She’d spent the night marooned atop the huge brass bed in the master bedroom, listening for signs of activity in the next room, finally falling into a tense, exhausted sleep.

Although he’d politely offered to wait while she had breakfast, pointing out that he rarely had more than a cup of coffee himself, she’d rather go hungry than inconvenience him more than she already had. She’d grabbed a cup of locally grown coffee, pocketed an orange and a banana, and dragged her suitcase out to his car, a pointed reminder that after her day at the concert site, she was seeking her own accommodations.

As Trent drove, her entire body was aware of him next to her. She’d dreaded being stuck in the car with him, almost as anxious as the night before when she’d accepted his offer of a place to stay. Though he seemed more moodily introspective than angry, the pool of silence between them made her uncomfortable.

She filled the silence with babble, commenting on everything she saw including how tall the coconut trees were, how colorful the little houses, and how salty the sea breeze. She marveled at the bright piles of fruit sold at the side of the road by old women or young children. Trent responded to her conversational efforts, but didn’t seem willing to start any of his own.

In the glare of the morning sun, she could see that the capital city, Scarborough, was an odd blend of old and new, with British forts and cannons as the backdrop for American fast-food joints and cybercafes. And the sea. The sea was everywhere. No matter which direction they turned, she could smell, see or hear it. Locals and tourists alike walked aimlessly along the roadside, towels tossed nonchalantly over their shoulders, swinging cotton totes filled with necessities.

At a traffic light, a dark, hulking man, with his thick dreads bleached orange by the salt water, thrust a live lobster at her. She shrieked. Trent declined the offer to buy, and as he peeled away from the light, Dakota caught a glimpse of the lobster, waving its banded claws goodbye—or beckoning for help.

With two days to the start of the festival, Immortelle Park was a beehive. Trucks and cars were parked haphazardly for a hundred yards, workers moving in equipment, designers erecting banners, decorations and signage. Sound people unrolled cables and yelled at each other. They were forced to park some distance away, even though Trent’s rental sported a temporary VIP pass.

“Here we are,” he said unnecessarily. He hopped out, walked around and opened the door for her.

She passed her hand through her hair. They each had work to do. He’d go off to see about his performers’ affairs, and she’d start poking around for stories and keeping the appointments she’d made. “Um, well, thank you.”

He regarded her quizzically. “For…?”

“For giving me a place to stay last night. You didn’t have to do that.”

He dismissed the thought with a gesture. “Anyone would have.”

Not anyone. She wasn’t sure she’d have been as noble if she’d been in his position. She pressed on anyhow. “Well, I was in touch with my assistant this morning.”

“So your phone decided to give you a break?”

“I gave it a very stern talking to.”

The twitch of a smile around his mouth surprised her. “And does your assistant still have a job?”

She couldn’t stop her wry laugh. “For the time being. She got me a place she found on the internet. It’s just outside Scarborough, so I’ll be going over there when I’m done here.” She fished a bit of notepaper out of her bag and waved it at him as proof. “The Sugar Apple Inn, and I am confirmed this time.”

“Sounds quaint.”

By quaint, she guessed, he meant basic. She’d thought so, too. “So long as the bed’s clean and dry,” she said with a shrug. “I’m not picky.”

“Glad you got that sorted out. I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable on your own.”

His unspoken words, far away from me, rang loud and clear. She glanced at the trunk. “If I can just have my bags…?”

He cocked his head to one side. “Where’re you going to store them? How are you getting to the hotel?”

“I’ll call a cab. The bags aren’t that heavy. I could probably…” She trailed off. Probably what? Drag them behind her from interview to interview?

He pointed the key fob at the car and locked the doors with a decisive click. “Don’t be ridiculous. Your bags are safe here. I’ll drive you over when you’re ready.”

She opened her mouth to protest, and then common sense made her shut it again. He was right. They weren’t in Santa Amata. Hailing a cab wouldn’t be the easiest of tasks. She accepted his offer with grace. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” With a sweep of his arm, he invited her to walk with him. They picked their way through the crowd of workers, ducking to avoid two men carrying a sheet of plyboard on their shoulders. Near the entrance, a huddle of six or eight young boys gaped at the goings-on, enthralled by the excitement. They were dressed in ragged shorts, most of them barefoot and shirtless. A few of them clutched jam jars with small brown fish, obviously the bounty from a fishing expedition in a nearby stream.

As they passed the boys, the youngest, who couldn’t have been more than four or so, waved at Dakota. He had a single, cheeky dimple. As she lifted her hand to wave back, a bull-necked man in a security guard’s uniform charged out of the gate, yelling and cursing. The boys scampered off, laughing, the water sloshing out of the jars, imperiling the fish.

Dakota watched in astonishment as the man continued to hurl a barrage of obscene language at the kids. He waved his arms, threatening them with dire consequences if they came back to his park. Trent stopped beside Dakota, folded his arms and caught the guard’s eye, putting an immediate end to the vituperative stream with a hard, unflinching glare.

The security guard looked momentarily embarrassed. “Nasty little good-for-nuttens,” he muttered, as if that excused his abuse. “Bothering decent people.”

The boys were standing a safe distance from the guard, and seemed to have caught on to the fact that with Trent and Dakota there, they weren’t likely to get the threatened licking. They laughed and jeered. The littlest one waved at Dakota again, and this time, she waved back.

The guard huffed off, and Trent got Dakota walking again. She looked over her shoulder to catch one last look at the boys, who seemed no worse for wear. “So young,” she murmured. “The little one… What’s a kid like that doing out unsupervised?”

“His mom probably works, and one of the others has to watch him.”

“There’s nobody in the group over ten,” she responded. “Who’s watching them?”

He stopped, his face serious, his eyes searching out something in hers. She wasn’t sure what that was, or whether he’d found it. “It’s their way, Dakota,” he said mildly.

She nodded, and didn’t argue any further. As they ventured deeper into the chaos, he put one hand at her elbow, as if they were, if not friends, at least companions. She wondered why she didn’t draw away from his touch.

They stopped at the main stage. This was where they would part company.

“Busy day?” he asked.

“Lots of interviews lined up. Gonna case the joint, too, chat a bit with the stagehands…” Stagehands were a goldmine of celebrity gossip. Of course, it was the kind of gossip that got people like Trent, and his clients, into deep trouble, should a writer have a mind to use it. She was definitely not comfortable discussing the details of her job with him.

“Writing up our little interview last night, too?” he probed.

She wasn’t sure if he really cared or if he was just trying to needle her. “You didn’t give me much to go on. Not enough for a responsible journalistic story, anyway.” Take that, she thought.

He didn’t seem in the least disturbed. Or, if he was, he didn’t show it. “When will you be through?”