Читать книгу Everything to Me - Simona Taylor - Страница 8

Chapter 1

Trent Walker. On her plane.

Shoot me now.

Dakota Merrick sank a little deeper into the plush upholstery of her seat and watched as Walker sauntered up the aisle of the first class cabin. He held a leather laptop case in one hand, and a long, camel-colored coat was slung over his arm. He was casually dressed in a deep green polo and dark jeans and oh, yes, they both fit him quite nicely. The rich fabric clinging to him allowed her to make out the imprint of toned pecs and biceps.

Not that she was admiring them or anything.

As he drew closer, Dakota became aware of an itch rising somewhere in her midsection and creeping upward, like an invasion of teeny baby spiders. Up, up, over her chest and throat, up into her hair, and…oh, ugh. Spider metaphors were so uncool. She was a better writer than that.

He was even closer now. Damn.

It was a six-hour flight from the small eastern seaboard city of Santa Amata. If she’d been granted three wishes by a genie, she was pretty sure that being trapped for so long in a flying potato-chip can with the great Trent Walker wouldn’t be one of them.

Especially since the last time they’d met, she’d almost got herself arrested.

He was not going to sit next to her. He was not… She’d rather sit next to a toddler with an ear infection. Anything would be better than being stuck with…

She was relieved to see that he was stopping two rows ahead. Dakota watched as he checked his ticket, his long face tilted down, his eyes hidden behind thin, expensive sunglasses. Then he lifted his head, verified his seat number and seemed satisfied.

Easily, he popped open the storage bin and stowed his haphazardly folded coat inside. He held on to the laptop. Sure he would, she thought. The music genius was probably going to work through the whole flight.

She looked down at the pile of magazines she’d brought with her, and tried not to feel competitive. There’d be more than enough work to keep her occupied once she got to Tobago, she reminded herself. She didn’t need to get all workaholic up in here.

A chubby-legged young girl in a too-short denim skirt—which looked more like a wide, clingy belt than anything else—squeezed past Walker, looked up into his face with a pardon-me smile, and stopped dead. Dakota could hear the squeal of recognition from where she sat.

Trying not to roll her eyes, she watched the two briefly exchange words. Walker was smiling nonchalantly, while the girl quivered like an overexcited rabbit and flipped her purple-streaked hair. He reached into his laptop pocket, pulled out a small card, wrote something on it and extended it to her between two fingers. She clasped it to her chest like it was Willy Wonka’s golden ticket, then did a little happy dance, chubby ankles tripping past each other in lace-up platform shoes.

Now Dakota really did roll her eyes.

Traffic in the aisle was backing up, so Walker excused himself with an incline of his head, and slid into his row. He smiled goodbye to the bunny rabbit and she jiggled down the aisle. She stopped, as luck would have it, right next to Dakota. Dakota rose and slid out, allowing her access to the window seat, glancing in Walker’s direction as she did so.

She was startled to discover that he was looking in hers.

His expression could have won him a prize at a lemon-sucking contest. Slowly, one long hand came up and removed the glasses, as if he needed more light to determine if it really was her. With that gesture, he revealed eyes that reminded her of the buttered toffee she used to make candy apples with as a kid. But in those eyes… There was no warmth there. The unsmiling set of his full mouth immediately squelched that happy memory.

Okay, so Walker was as thrilled to see her as she was to see him.

His momma must have raised him right, though, because he acknowledged her with a polite—if stiff—dip of the head. She responded with a dip of her own, and then hastened to get back into her seat. By the time she finished fussing with her seat belt, he was sitting in the aisle seat, and all she could see was his hand and the back of his head as he popped in his earbuds. Seemed the man liked to listen to music while he worked. Not surprising, considering his whole life revolved around it.

“Do you know who that is?” the bunny squealed in her ear as she clicked her seat belt shut.

“I’ve got a pretty good idea,” she answered dryly.

“That’s Trent Walker. You know, like, Outlandish Music, Trent Walker? The owner?”

Dakota looked past her seatmate onto the tarmac. April rain slashed at the windows. She hoped it wouldn’t delay their departure. Maybe if the engines started up, it would drown out the starstruck yipping. But if Walker’s momma had raised him well, hers had raised her better, so she smiled and said, “Sure is. Not a face you can miss.”

“Tell me about it! He’s off da hook, ain’t he? And I’m not just talking ’bout his face. He’s hotter than half the acts he produces. And we’re on the same plane. Can you believe it?” As the muted vibrations began humming through the cabin, her seatmate lifted her voice to be heard over the din. “And he’s going to the Tobago Jazz Festival, just like me. You going?”

Dakota nodded. She was pretty sure everyone on the plane was headed to Jazz. It was one of the most popular annual music events in the Caribbean, and music lovers from all over the world were streaming in for it. Although Tobago was a mere speck of an island, home to only sixty thousand people, music legends like Whitney Houston, Elton John, Smokey Robinson and James Ingram had set the festival stages on fire in years gone by.

The girl waved the piece of paper she was clutching. “He just wrote me a backstage pass. I can go back after any show and talk to the stars. Big stars, girl. Giants!” She clasped her hands in elaborate prayer and looked heavenward. “Oh, please, let Erykha be there! That would be sooo… You want a backstage pass? You should get one.” The girl prodded Dakota in the ribs. “Go ’head. Ask him. Fast, before we get airborne. Go on!”

The thought of her begging a favor off Trent Walker made her grin, but she explained gently, “Thanks, but I already have a pass. All access,” she couldn’t resist adding, and reprimanded herself for being childish.

“Really? What’re you, like… .” Large black eyes gave Dakota the once-over. “…a backup singer or something?”

Dakota wondered if she should be offended that the youngster hadn’t pegged her for a main act. She shook her head. “Nope. Can’t sing a note. It’s a press pass. I’m a writer. A music columnist.”

“Oh.” The interest faded, what with Dakota not being a famous entertainer or anything. “Well, Trent Walker’s got like, three acts performing at Jazz. Mango Mojo—the boy band, you know, with the sideburns guy? And Ryan Balthazar, and Shanique. She’s out of rehab, did you hear? First time back on stage.” She fluffed her purple-striped hair airily. “And I’m gonna get to meet them.”

You’ll meet them sooner than I will, Dakota thought, since Walker had shot down any hope of her ever interviewing his acts. The name Shanique tripped her up like a pothole on an otherwise smooth road. Yeah, she’d heard a little something about Shanique being out of rehab. Guiltily, her glance flew in Walker’s direction—and found he was looking back, over his seat, his steady eyes reflecting nothing.

Her seatmate clapped her hand over her mouth. “OMG! He’s looking at me!” She grabbed one of Dakota’s magazines and hastily opened it, pretending to read. “Is he still staring?”

Yeah, Dakota thought. But not at you. Walker shifted forward again, just as the plane lifted its nose and rose into the sky.

“It’s safe,” she informed Walker’s newfound groupie. “He’s turned back around.”

The girl clamped the magazine to her chest with a sigh. “Oh, man. Just think, a whole week in the hot Caribbean sun, rum parties all day, jazz all night, with dudes that look like him roaming around.” The youthful face turned mischievous. “A week’s a long time, and I’m sure he’s gonna be hanging out backstage.” She twirled the square of cardboard Walker had signed. “And something as fine-looking as that, you just gotta have a taste, ya know?” She flicked her tongue past her purple-painted lips, and Dakota tried not to be shocked, either by the suggestion or by the diamond that glinted at the tip of her tongue.

“How old are you?” she blurted.

“Old enough,” the girl said, and laughed.

* * *

The first thing to hit Dakota was the scent of the island. Even as she stood just outside Crown Point International, with passengers bustling by and taxis honking, a sweet perfume asserted itself. It was a smell that made her think of melting brown sugar, suntan oil, fishing nets and pounding waves. She craned her head in the direction of a row of coconut trees, trying to catch a glimpse of the softly undulating water beyond. She felt like dropping her suitcase and handbag, kicking off her shoes, and running toward that wonderful surging surf.

Fortunately, good sense prevailed. This was not a vacation. She wasn’t here to work on her tan or to snorkel. She was here to cover the jazz festival for her widely syndicated magazine entertainment column. That meant checking in at her hotel, getting some shut-eye and heading out to the main venue in the morning to start trawling for stories.

She held on tightly to the handle of her luggage, feeling a little ridiculous and overdressed in her close-fitting black leather skirt and knit top. They had kept her warm and dry on the other end of the trip, as foul weather prevailed on the East Coast. But here, in Tobago, even after six in the evening, cotton shorts and sandals would have been far more appropriate.

She turned her head, looking for her shuttle. Her assistant had booked her a suite in a hotel called the Sea Urchin, and they in turn had promised to send a ride for her when she landed. But she’d been waiting twenty minutes, and there was no sign of a vehicle with a blue-and-silver logo.

As she waited, Dakota idly took in her surroundings. The airport was tiny, a long building with a driveway running right through it, arrival and departure facilities on one side, and a series of small shops and booths on the other. Shop windows were jam-packed with tanning oils, brightly printed T-shirts, bikinis and sundresses. Women at vendors’ tables, wearing bright floral aprons, yelled at passersby to sample their homemade peppermint sticks and coconut candies.

She fished out the notebook she’d jotted down the hotel’s particulars in and consulted it, then squinted at the signs and buildings nearby. She was in the correct spot, all right. There were other hotel cars around, and a press of taxi drivers in neat white shirts and black trousers, all clamoring for attention. Every now and then one would approach her, dark face split with a grin, and flash an ID badge. “Taxi?” She shook her head, and kept waiting.

Sea Urchin, Sea Urchin! Where are you?

Something rolled through her, tingly enough to be uncomfortable. She recognized it at once: a danger signal. She spun around, bringing her hand unconsciously to the back of her neck to smooth down the fine hairs that were at full attention. Trent Walker was strolling in her direction with that fine, easy walk of his, hips loose, long legs scissoring past each other. She had to consciously restart her heart.

They’d met five or six times, mainly at industry events. The last time she’d spoken with him, they’d been at a big album launch in Manhattan, he as a guest, she as a member of the media. It could have been seven months, easily, although the details of their encounter had the immediacy of a recent memory. His star artiste, the dark and glorious Shanique, had still been in rehab, recovering from a drug and alcohol habit, when she should have been on a Mediterranean tour that would have put millions into her pocket—and Walker’s. And as for him, while his name wasn’t exactly mud in an industry that had seen far worse sins than the one he’d committed, he wasn’t exactly untouched by the scandal that ensued when Dakota’s story hit the papers.

Walker acted like it was all Dakota’s fault. But Dakota had simply broken the story of Shanique’s drug abuse—and the lengths Walker had gone to cover it up. She’d been lucky, and had a connection who led her to the right source. She’d caught it and run with it. The story had doubled the number of papers in which her column appeared. Who could blame her?

Walker could, that’s who.

He’d had a few choice words for her that night, and said things he shouldn’t have about her character. She’d responded in a way that would have been funny in a cartoon, but wasn’t appropriate in the middle of a cocktail party with the movers and shakers of the music world—not to mention the press—looking on.

She’d been a naughty girl.

He was coming closer still. Disappear, she willed herself, scrunching her eyes shut. She wished she could change color, like a tree frog or a chameleon, and blend in seamlessly with the background. Mutant style.

Unfortunately, she didn’t have a mutant gene in her body. She opened her eyes and saw his head turn toward her…and then he was making his way through the crowd. Adrenaline surged. She had the urge to turn and run.

But she was glued to the ground, partly a victim of indecision, and partly mesmerized by the sight of him as he walked. Confident, easy, relaxed. He carried his bag with the laptop case strapped to it, not dragging them as she did, but dangling them effortlessly at the end of his arm. And triple dammit to hell, he looked fine.

Walker was as blessed with good looks as any one of his singers, and almost as sought after by the tabloids. Yet he seemed to have an uncanny knack for staying below their radar. Other than the occasional Page 5 photo of him on the red carpet with some arm candy, and the persistent rumors that he and the legendary Shanique had a thing going on, nobody had ever gotten close enough to him to publish much more. He liked to keep it that way; he’d refused to grant Dakota an interview more than once—and that was before she’d broken the story that had rocked his business.

“Miss Merrick.” His tone was casual. Obviously, despite his reaction on the plane, seeing her hadn’t rattled him half as much as his presence rattled her. Not that it should bother him. Music was her business, just as it was his. Surely he should have expected her to be there. Everybody who knew anything about music came to Jazz!

Two could play the cool game. “Mr. Walker,” she replied smoothly. She turned and glared into the oncoming traffic.

He seemed to notice that all was not well with her world. “Problems?”

“You mean, apart from the fact that I’ve been standing here for half an hour waiting on my driver, and I don’t see anyone with my hotel logo, or with my name on a sign?” The stress was evident in her voice.

He considered her for a while, his deep amber eyes examining her face until she became downright uncomfortable. Then he looked around. With a sweep of his arm, he indicated the airport fence and the road that lay beyond. “Maybe you should walk out to the curb. The crowd’s a little thick in here. If you stand out there you might get a better idea of what’s going on.”

She looked in the direction he’d pointed. From what she could see through the chain-link fence, things didn’t seem any less chaotic.

Next thing she knew, he had her suitcase in his other hand and had already begun to walk, crossing the drop-off zone and moving past the shops. She snatched up her carry-on and ran after him, protesting. “I can carry my own bags!”

She might as well have been whistling in the wind.

Outside the main gates, he set their bags down. The concrete was sprinkled with a fine dusting of sand, crunching under her feet. She smelled that fragrance again, full of promise and invitation. She was too hungry and tired to answer its call. And after the cold, wet misery of her hometown, Santa Amata, the island heat was getting to her. Please, she prayed, all I want is a shower, a meal and a good night’s sleep.

“I can take it from here,” she told Walker, as politely but as firmly as possible.

“Hmm,” he responded, but didn’t move.

Suit yourself. She rummaged through her carry-on, found her phone, and poked at the numbers. Nothing. She tilted it so she could see the screen. Not a single measly bar. “Oh, just great.” She glared at him as though the aura of magnetism surrounding him was responsible for the technical failure.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew his phone and held it out to her. “Try mine.”

She gave it a suspicious look. Was it rigged to explode in her hand? “Why?”

He shrugged. “So you can get out of here, and I can go to my hotel with a clear conscience.”

“Am I on your conscience?”

He paused for a moment before he answered. “Only to the extent that we’re two American citizens landing on foreign soil, and one of us looks to be in trouble.” Then he added, “Am I on yours?”

To save herself from answering, she grabbed his phone. It was smooth and warm to the touch. Naturally, it was the kind of gadget that could pick up a signal from Mars.

She dialed. On about the 20th ring, someone at the Sea Urchin got around to picking up. The conversation didn’t last long.

“What do you mean, I’m not confirmed?” she blurted. “My assistant made that booking. Can you check again? Thank you. What? It’s Merrick. M-e-double-r…but it has to be there.” She realized she was squeezing the phone like a mamba with a rat. The voice on the other end was lilting and musical, but what it was saying was anything but gratifying.

“Can I make another booking, then?” She hated the sound of pleading in her tone, especially since Walker made no attempt to disguise the fact that he was listening. She nodded, groaned and clicked the phone off, teeth grinding.

“What’s the problem?” he asked, as though he hadn’t been overhearing every word.

“The problem is,” she explained tautly, “that my new assistant forgot to confirm my booking. And with all the people turning up for the Jazz Festival, they haven’t got any rooms. From what they’re telling me, there’s hardly a room left on the island.”

He contemplated her predicament soberly. “What’re you going to do?”

“Find another hotel,” she said, as though it was the world’s stupidest question. Hotel information wasn’t going to fall from the sky; she’d have to find some help. Back at the airport, she remembered seeing a tourist bureau. She spun around and started dragging her suitcase.

To her surprise, he fell into step. She stopped so hard her shoes squeaked. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Walking you to wherever you’re going for help.”

Did music impresarios get merit badges for being nice to stranded travelers? “Why? I’m a grown woman.”

Lazily, he let his eyes roam her body, something on his face telling her he was well aware she was a woman. “I told you—”

“I know,” Dakota interrupted. “Two Americans on foreign soil, and all that. Thanks for being so patriotic, but if I really get into deep trouble, I’ll take it to the embassy.”

When he smiled, his long face, the same color as the sand scattered at their feet, almost warmed…but his voice held a note of amused mockery. “Our nearest embassy is one island over, in Trinidad.”

“I’ll be fine anyway,” she said with dignity. “I can take care of myself.”

His shapely lips tautened, and she knew exactly what was going through his head. “Yes, I forgot. You’re very good at taking care of your own interests.” Carefully, he set down her bag, hefted his, and stepped away. “Good luck. I imagine I’ll be seeing you around at the festival?”

She shrugged. “I’m covering it, so I guess… ”

“Well,” he said, his voice dripping with irony. “I hope you find the stories you’re looking for.” His bag swung as he walked away.

Sure, you do, Dakota thought.

She didn’t step into the tourist office until he was out of sight.