Eden's Dream (8 page)

Noel rubbed his eyes wearily. “No one's debating that. Still, there's no hard evidence to attribute the crash to engine failure.”

“And there's no hard evidence to support pilot error,” Eden countered.

“All right. I concede. We're both tired. Let's give this a rest for today.” He snapped his folder shut. “We'll review the spreadsheet and our collective newspaper articles tomorrow and…” He paused, seemingly choosing words carefully, “talk about why the flight was delayed. Did you know about that?”

Nodding, Eden spoke over the lump in her throat. “Rod called me from the airport.”

“How come you never mentioned it before?”

“What? The call or the delay?”

“Both.”

“It didn't seem that important.”

It had been important to her. Their last conversation was still crystal clear in her memory. Rod had called during that delay to plead with her not to postpone their wedding. When she'd remained resolute, they'd argued.

“I'd like to discuss your phone call tomorrow, and the delay,” Noel said, his eyes burning a hole through her. “Now, what are we doing about dinner?”

Dinner? She'd been so caught up she'd forgotten all about eating. Again, she'd let the time get away. Wasn't it she who'd promised him take-out food. She pulled out the nearest drawer in search of menus and fanned them out on the counter. “Chinese, Mexican, Thai, Indian? You pick. I have to go to the bathroom,” she said.

The phone rang just as Eden returned.

“Can you get that?” she asked.

“Sure thing.”

Seconds later, Noel set the receiver down, a strange expression on his face.

“Who was it?” she asked, keeping a respectable distance between them.

“Haven't a clue. The person hung up.'

Eden shrugged. “It's good that you answered then. Saved me from being rude to an obnoxious salesperson.”

It was a safe assumption that it was just another nuisance call. People selling everything from time shares to vacuum cleaners were always calling around dinnertime.

“Have you had more of those phone calls?” Noel asked, deliberately switching the conversation. His eyes remained fixed on the menus.

She knew exactly what he was asking. Truth was, in the last week she'd had a number of hangups and quite a bit of deep breathing, but no more threats. She refused to give voice to her fear. “No. I would have told you.”

“Would you?”

Across the room, their eyes caught and held. She knew he knew she hadn't told him the whole truth.

“So did you decide what you're ordering?” Eden asked, changing the tenor of the conversation.

“Yup, I have.” Noel folded his arms and slanted a look designed to melt the coldest of hearts her way. “A beautiful woman in a little black dress and three-inch heels.”

“But Noel I don't…” The back door slid closed on her words. “Have a black dress.”

A
n hour
later they were seated in a dim club with the hypnotic music of George Benson weaving its seductive magic. For the first time in a long while Noel felt totally relaxed. Tonight he would go with the flow, let his defenses down and see what happened. He'd perused the phone book, found this tiny rhythm-and-blues club in nearby Tacoma, where they were just faces in the weekend crowd.

Surreptitiously, he glanced at the tiny dance floor where a handful of couples swayed. His fingers drummed a beat against the table while his feet tapped out a melody. Soon George's tune faded, and Natalie Cole's sultry voice warmed him. He was in seventh heaven. “Unforgettable” was an all-time favorite.

“Let's dance,” he said, pushing his chair back and taking Eden's hand.

Eden's eyes sparkled as she silently acquiesced. Noel could tell by the subtle dip and sway of her shoulders she would be a good dancer. Placing his hand on the small of her back, he maneuvered her through the crowd.

While Eden hadn't exactly accommodated his request for a little black dress, the red mini she'd chosen made his pulse quicken. The slinky number had a generous scoop neck and was almost backless. It sent a provocative message. Somehow he had the distinct feeling she'd chosen it deliberately, knowing it would drive him crazy.

On the dance floor, she fit comfortably into his arms. Her tiny pout acknowledged her discomfort when he wrapped his arms around her waist, forcing her to link her hands around his neck. Her body fit snuggly against his. It felt like it belonged there.

A bewitching odor of wildflowers and vanilla tickled his nostrils. The scent was familiar and intoxicating. Gayle, his ex-wife, a flight attendant, used to wear that same perfume. He wouldn't think about Gayle now. Couldn't. She was ancient history. He hoped she was happy with the pilot she'd replaced him with.

The tempo picked up, and Noel loosened his hold on Eden. As he twirled her around, he got an eyeful of shapely legs. He inhaled audibly when her dress hiked up even further, giving him a glimpse of golden thighs. What he wouldn't give to have those legs wrapped around his waist. The thought made him miss a step and caused her to stumble.

“Are you ok?” she asked.

Pulling himself together, Noel twirled her again. “Yes. Everything's perfect except for my two left feet. I like this song, don't you?”

“Umm hmm.”

He closed his eyes and tightened his hold on her waist. A mistake. He could feel the smooth skin of her back and every lean inch of her body molded against his. Her ample breasts grazed his chest, producing an ache in his loins. His slacks suddenly felt too tight. To hell with reason, he wanted to possess her body and mind. But common sense kicked in. Business and pleasure were not a good mix.

Reluctant to break the mood, he held on to her even after the melody had ended. Songs and singers soon became meaningless blurs as they danced through one tune and then another. Eventually, Eden raised her head from his shoulder to ask, “What time is it?”

He hadn't kept track. Not when he had no place to be except in her arms. Angling his wrist, he squinted at the illuminated face of his watch and reluctantly released his hold. “It's past one. I guess we'd better head back.”

“Do we have to?”

Her answer surprised him. He took it as evidence she was beginning to trust him. It scared him that he was beginning to develop feelings. “I'd like to stay, but I'm afraid I have an early commitment,” he lied.

No further argument on her end. Hand in hand, they returned to the table to pick up her purse and collect his jacket.

Conversation was almost nonexistent the whole way home. Noel attributed it to the lateness of the hour and fatigue that had set in. He ran a hand across the escaping wisps of her hair and focused on the road ahead.

As the silence continued, he found an Anita Baker song, adjusting the volume low. Big mistake that was. Anita's melancholy crooning only served to make the memories surface. God, how he and his ex-wife had loved to listen to her music. The attraction between them had been instantaneous. He'd met her on a flight during one of the rare times he'd managed to snag a first-class seat. She'd been intelligent, articulate, and gorgeous. A lethal combination. He'd wanted her immediately and had fallen in love almost overnight. But that was a long time ago. Back then he believed in love. He'd been young, in lust, and gullible. Too gullible. He'd wised up quickly though, after returning from a job in St. Thomas to find his house empty and his wife gone. After that he'd vowed never to get emotionally attached. He'd adopted a “love 'em and leave 'em” attitude, and stayed clear of all globe-trotting females. Home and hearth were not in the plan; at least not with these types.

Noel glanced in Eden's direction. She was asleep, her head resting on his shoulder. When he pulled up in front of her house, she was still dead to the world. Leaning over, he nuzzled her neck, stage-whispering, “Wake up, sleeping beauty.”

“Where am I?”

Even groggy, she was totally beguiling. His fingers sought her cheekbones, outlined the tip of her nose, and traced the fullness of her bottom lip. She reminded him of Kahlua, soft and purring to his touch. He cupped her chin, tilted her head back, and forced her to look him in the eye. Guileless brown orbs reflected gut-wrenching emotion before shutting down. Taking advantage of what he thought he'd seen reflected in those eyes, he claimed her lips.

Eden kissed him back with an intensity he'd never guessed she possessed. Such undisguised feelings made him bold. He masterfully used his tongue to begin a slow exploration of her mouth. His hand sought the neckline of her dress, fingers plunging below to caress full breasts. Sweet Jesus, she wasn't wearing a bra. He would never be able to say good night now.

A thud on the bumper of the Land Rover jolted them forward.

“Holy…” Noel cut the colorful expletive short and turned in time to see a white Buick zoom by.

“Son of a—” he yelled, jumping from the car to watch the Buick disappear amid a screech of tires and burning rubber. It was too dark to read the license plate.

“What happened?” Eden asked, joining him. She touched his arm.

“Someone clipped us.”

“We were parked.” Her voice sounded skeptical.

“My guess is it's a bunch of drunk teens.”

She tightened her hold on his arm and inquired. “Aren't you going to inspect the damage?”

“I suppose I better.”

Eden followed him to the rear of the car. An ugly dent ran the length of the Land Rover's rear bumper. As calmly as she could, she asked, “Were you able to get a good look at the car that hit us?”

Noel's hands slid across the rear bumper, fingering the damage. “It was a white, late-model Buick,” he said tersely.

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“Positive. Why?” He straightened. There was something about the sound of her voice that he didn't like. What was it she wasn't saying? “It had tinted windows.”

“Noel,” Eden said, her voice strident, “call the police. This isn't an ordinary hit-and-run accident. That car's been following us.”

N
oel held
the cellular phone in one hand and punched in the numbers. He knew he would probably wake Gary up, but the way he looked at it, he could have called earlier this morning, right after the white car had hit them.

Gary's voice, still husky with sleep, growled, “This better be good.”

Noel heard the phlegm in his boss' throat. It signified a long, hard night of boozing and smoking. He glanced at his watch, verifying the time. Seven o'clock would be an obscene hour for a man who partied on the weekends.

He could hear Gary's latest conquest shouting in the background, “Hang up and come back to bed, honey.”

Immediately, Noel pictured the woman. Probably another one of those identical blondes Gary liked so much. A statuesque creature with a bra cup that overflowed, and not much else upstairs. Even so, he was envious. At least his boss had a warm body to share his bed. Damn that white Buick.

“Hi,” Noel said, drumming his fingers against his coffee mug and focusing on the present.

“Hey, bud. Like I said, this better be good.”

Noel sipped his Starbucks coffee and set the mug down. He tugged on the elastic band of his jogging shorts, settling it comfortably around his middle. “Hey, yourself.” Without preamble he said, “You wouldn't have a clue why a white Buick would slam into me?”

“Nope, not a clue. You okay?”

“Fine. My bumper isn't though. The Sommers woman thinks that car's been following us.”

“Gimme a license plate number, and I'll run a check.”

It was a logical response and one he'd anticipated. “Sorry, didn't get one. It was dark and the driver didn't stick around.”

Gary groaned. “Too bad. I can't help you then, bud.” Noel had pretty much known that without a license plate number, he wouldn't have a shot. But he'd hoped that his boss would know if someone was after him again.

“Look, whoever hit me meant business. I've got at least two thousand dollars in damage on the Land Rover. I was forced to make up a story about why I couldn't call the cops. I had to tell Eden Sommers that my insurance wasn't paid up. She already thinks I'm an unsavory character, that really put icing on the cake.”

Gary guffawed loudly, hawking to clear his throat. Noel pictured Bambi in bed listening to her lover's vile sounds. He grimaced, not envying the woman one bit.

Gary came back on the line. “Gimme a break, man. What do you really care? It's not like you're involved with the woman. At least you better not be. You more than anyone should know romance leads to heartbreak.” He lowered his voice, and Noel clamped the phone closer to his ear. “Just boink the Sommers wench and get it out of your system, man.”

“It's not like that with us.” Noel bit back the words he really wanted to say. No point in getting into a heated argument with Gary. Nothing would change his boss' opinion of women.

“Look, I'll call you back at a more civilized hour. Together we'll figure this out. Until then, try to stay out of trouble.” He hung up before Noel could say another word.

E
den peered
over a gigantic Scotch Broom and watched Noel jog by. Drops of rain trickled from the rapidly graying sky and he'd succumbed to the heat, shed his long-sleeve T-shirt, and tied the sleeves around his neck. Sucking in a breath, she focused on the sweat and rain glistening against his mahogany skin. She moistened her lips and took several more composing breaths. How could the sight of one man's bare chest throw her into such a tizzy? It didn't make sense.

She'd never based her attraction on mere physical attributes. She'd always liked brain and brawn, a little voice reminded her. She continued to stare, following the progress of Noel's flapping shirt until it disappeared into his driveway. Only then did she return to her weeding.

The incident with the white car still troubled her. Why would someone follow them and deliberately ram into Noel's bumper? His rear bumper had been severely damaged, yet he was willing to let a hit-and-run driver go free? He'd refused to call the cops, reinforcing all she'd initially believed. The man was in some kind of trouble.

Nibbling on her lower lip, Eden plunged her trowel into a hard patch of dirt, hacked away, and unearthed a monstrous weed. Noel really must think her a fool, giving her a story about not paying his car insurance. “Hmmmph.”

How could he be so utterly irresponsible?
But he was so sweet last evening. And we did have a good time,
the irrational voice in her head piped up.
No. He was utterly adorable
. Now how to explain this business about not paying his bills.

“Stop dwelling on Noel Robinson. Stop thinking about him,” she admonished out loud. Squeezing her eyes closed, she focused on the weeds. After a halfhearted attempt to get the better of one resistant shrub, she gave up, glanced at a sky heavy with clouds, and anticipating the deluge soon to follow, scooped up her tools, and raced back to the house. She avoided the rain by seconds.

On the kitchen table, yesterday's mail remained unopened. Eden shuffled through the pile, discarded circulars and obvious junk and dumped the vast majority into the garbage. Slowly, she reviewed the three remaining items: a card from her mother, a manila envelope from work, and a magazine with a yellow forwarding label.

She chose to read her mother's card first, delighting in the thought that her brother, Bill, his wife, and kids would be visiting the United States shortly. Next she scrutinized the magazine with the yellow forwarding label, muttering when she realized it wasn't even hers. It belonged to 4907. The mail carrier had made a mistake.

Eden struggled to remember whether the numbers went up or down. She was 4905. Her elderly neighbors lived in 4903. That would make 4907 Noel's house. A thorough perusal of the magazine's cover confirmed her suspicions. It was his all right. Two senior citizens would hardly be interested in
Flight International
magazine.

Intrigued, Eden scrutinized the yellow label closely. The name Noah Robbins came clearly into focus. She repeated the name out loud. It was so familiar. Too bad her brain wouldn't cooperate. “Noel Robinson. Noah Robbins,” she mumbled. “Coincidence?”

To satisfy her curiosity, Eden inserted a thumbnail under the edge of the label. She peeled it back, revealing the original white label. She grabbed a pen and quickly jotted down the Maryland address. It would be a place to start. A dab of Super Glue took care of affixing the yellow label back in place.

She looked out floor-to-ceiling glass walls, noting the rain had eased; the downpour now reduced to a steady drip.

Acting on impulse, she grabbed her grandmother's bright yellow oilskin from the closet, slipped the hood over her head, and buttoned the coat. Picking up the magazine, she headed out. Time to confront Noel Robinson or whoever he was.

In a matter of minutes, she was at Noel's front door.

Hand balled into a fist, she paused before knocking. In a purposeful delaying tactic, she dropped her hand to the snaps of the oilskin, and peeled the coat off.

A myriad of thoughts converged. What now? What would she say when he answered? How could she explain why his identity mattered? And what if he replied that none of it was any of her business? He could well accuse her of snooping, and he would be right.

Taking a deep breath, Eden banged on his door.

N
oel squinted into the peephole
, waited for the face to come into focus, and then threw the door wide.

“Eden, what brings you here?”

“Nice welcome,” she said, shaking a bright yellow slicker in front of his face, showering him with raindrops. “Aren't you going to invite me in?”

“Of course.” He took the raincoat and stood aside to let her pass.

As she headed for the sofa, he noticed that she carried a rolled-up magazine in one hand.

Jutting his chin in the direction of the periodical, he asked, “Are you trying to train Kahlua or me?”

She flashed a teasing smile, crossed one long leg over the other, and made herself comfortable on his couch. “Do you need training?”

“Some think I do.”

Another smile transformed her face. Given time, he could lose himself in those huge brown eyes. The crazy thought surfaced. He wanted this woman forever and ever. Obviously he'd lost his mind. Years ago, he'd made that costly mistake, marrying someone who looked like her, acted like her too. You'd think he'd know better than to get involved with wild, perpetually restless airline types. Travel to exotic locales made them think they were special. A mere man couldn't possibly satisfy their needs, not when they were on a constant quest for bigger thrills. He shook his head to clear it, dismissing the vision of Eden's perfectly toned body beneath his, her tousled mane of hair on his pillow. The smell of wildflowers in his nostrils.

“Noel.” Eden said, waving the magazine to get his attention.

That motion snapped him back to the present. “Sorry, can I get you something to drink?”

She shook her head. “No thanks. If I have another glass of anything, I'll float away.” She clutched the rolled-up magazine in one hand, twisted a lock of hair with the other, and changed the direction of the conversation. “What did you decide to do about last night?”

Noel flopped onto the couch beside her. He draped an arm around her shoulder and nuzzled her neck. “Last night? Did I miss an invitation?” The comment was followed by a mock leer.

Eden shifted her position, and his mouth grazed her shoulder. “That wasn't a proposition.” Her tone grew serious. “Last night your vehicle was almost destroyed, either one of us could easily have been hurt. The driver of that car slammed into us intentionally. I don't understand how you can sit idly by and let a hit-and-run driver go free.”

Noel decided not to address the last part of her tirade. Hoping to distract her, he wove his fingers through her mass of wild curls, and bought time. He yawned. “The hit was probably intentional. This close call has at least made me resolve to pay my insurance tomorrow.”

Eden jabbed his middle with a pointy elbow. “Don't you dare patronize me. I'm not some little moron you can give a trumped-up story to. You're intentionally letting this person get away. I want to know why.”

Even if her eyes weren't flashing dangerously, he would have known by her tone she was spitting mad.

“Eden, be reasonable,” he pleaded. “We never saw the driver, nor were we able to get a license plate. Even if my insurance were current, what would we say to the police?”

“You could say…”

“Yes?”

She remained silent, but he could see the wheels turning. Eventually she tossed the magazine on the coffee table, slapped her hands against his chest and conceded. “All right, already. You win.”

He seized that opportunity to take possession of her hands, flip them over and kiss her soft palms. “Anyone ever tell you you're one foxy mama when you're mad.”

“Puh-lease.” She pulled her hands away and jammed them into the pockets of her jeans.

It was time to steer the conversation in another direction. Flattery wouldn't get him anyplace, except in trouble. He'd have to try another ploy. Anything to divert her line of questioning. He hated to lie, but if it came down to it, he had no choice. He couldn't tell her who he worked for and why he was in Washington State. The last thing he needed were the boys involved, strutting their stuff, alerting everyone he was hiding out in Seattle.

“Talk to me about Flight 757's delay,” he said instead.

“Why is it so important to you?” she countered.

His arm circled the back of the couch, centimeters from the nape of her neck and all that lustrous hair. “I told you why. I'm just following another unexplored avenue.”

He could tell a cutting remark was on the tip of her tongue, but somehow she refrained from voicing it. “What more would you like to know?”