Outside the air-conditioned office, the late afternoon air hit him like a blast furnace and sweat prickled across his neck. The heat brought out the loamy smell of the tropical soil and the sweet scent of wild ginger and plumeria. He didn’t see Lucky but he knew where she was, because Dodger was beside the pool with the shark.
“Nomo!” Greg yelled.
Lucky was in full diving gear at the bottom of the tank, walking the shark in endless circles. Dodger kept pacing, more concerned than Greg had ever seen him, staring down into the water at Lucky. He wasn’t the only one. Nearby stood a group of gawking summer interns—all male.
“Yeah, boss?” Nomo said, trotting over from the sheds.
“What’s Lucky doing in there?”
“She wanted to help the shark.” Nomo checked his watch. “It’s time for her to come out.” He leaned down and tapped
twice on the side of the pool to get Lucky’s attention, then motioned for one of the volunteers to take her place.
“How is it that she remembers how to dive but doesn’t know her name?” Rachel asked.
Greg hadn’t noticed Rachel come up beside him because he had been watching Lucky. It was hard to tell what was going on through the water, which distorted the two bodies exchanging the shark, but it was taking a helluva lot longer than it should have. He imagined the kid with his hands all over Lucky.
He forced himself to face Rachel. “Memorizing dive tables is a learned activity, like studying a foreign language. Lucky still has those memories. What’s missing is the episodic memory bank
…
the recall of single events from the past.”
Rachel stared at him, her brown eyes filled with some emotion that defied description. “I’m going out on the
Atlantis,”
she said quietly.
The
Atlantis
was a glass bottom boat that took tourists over the magnificent coral beds where tropical fish gathered along the reefs. Once a week someone from the institute, usually Rachel, went out and gave a lecture. It helped raise funds to keep the institute’s projects going. Greg watched her walk away, asking himself why couldn’t he fall for her, a good woman, someone who shared his interests. But the feeling just wasn’t there, and wishing wasn’t going to make it happen.
He turned just in time to see Lucky wading toward the shallow end of the pool. Aw, shit. The standard-issue black tank suit they kept around for volunteers didn’t begin to fit her properly. It was two sizes too small on top and the wet fabric clung to every provocative curve. Water sluiced off her shoulders, running in steady rivulets down the slope of her breasts and a
cross her erect nipples. A half-
dozen leering summer interns were waiting, anxious to help Lucky remove her air tank.
Even Nomo was standing by with a towel for Lucky. In four angry strides, Greg was at the shallow end, and he yanked the towel from the older man’s hand. He had it around Lucky two
seconds after she handed her tank to a guy who couldn’t keep his eyes off her cleavage.
Lucky was oblivious to the men, gazing at Greg with those alluring green eyes. “The shark’s name is Rudy,” she informed him with the most adorable smile he’d ever seen. “He was swimming along the reef with his mother when he was caught.
”
Astonished silence greeted this announcement. Christ, the woman was a menace to society. Now all those snot-nosed interns would be worrying even more about a shark who was nothing more than an eating machine.
He hustled her to the bamboo annex that housed the changing rooms. Lucky stopped at the freshwater shower. She tossed him the towel, then turned on the water. Man, oh, man. He tried to look away, he honestly did, but Greg kept remembering the previous night and her gorgeous body trembling with need—for him.
“You know, Rudy’s given up hope,” Lucky said from under the spray. “He doesn’t think he’ll ever find his family.”
“
That so?” he managed to say. The guys by the pool might find her damned near irresistible, but all he saw was
…
trouble. Especially since she kept lifting her face to the fine spray, thrusting her breasts upward until they threatened to spill out of the suit.
“That’s enough.” With an angry twist of his hand, he turned off the water.
“Okay.” Lucky gave him an impish little smile, and Greg suspected she knew all about the traitorous throb in his groin. She swung her sopping wet braid over her shoulder and wrung it out. “I have an idea.”
So did he, but he doubted they were on the same wavelength. In that suit, she might as well be buck naked. Who did she think he was—the Pope?
“Don’t you want to hear my idea?”
He jammed his fists in his pockets to keep himself from hauling her into the darkness of the shed and taking her standing
up. “Get dressed and come up to my office. I want to talk to you.”
Greg was halfway to the stairs when Nomo stopped him. “Pele was always good with animals—especially sharks.”
“You can’t believe that crap,” Greg told him. Pele was the goddess of fire who had given birth to the islands, and according to legend, her brother was a shark. Nomo reminded him of his sister-in-law, Sarah. Both were native Hawaiians, and both loved island lore and could “talk story” by the hour, retelling age-old tales. What a crock!
“Get outta here,” Nomo said. “Can’t you see that Lucky’s a natural with sharks—just like Pele.”
“She’s nothing but trouble.” The sooner he dumped her on someone else, the happier he would be.
11
“
Y
o, Nomo, there’s some reporter out front asking questions about Lucky,” called one of the volunteers.
“Let me handle him,” Greg told the older man. “You get Lucky up to my office where that bastard can’t find her.” Greg recognized Fenton Bewley immediately from Cody’s description. And hated him on sight. Bewley was lolling against the hibiscus planter in front of the building, a toothpick between his teeth.
“You Greg Braxton?” Fenton asked without removing the toothpick, and Greg nodded. “Any relation to the chief of police?”
“Who’s asking?”
Bewley pulled a tattered press card out of his wallet, and Greg inspected it. “I heard you posted bail for Pele’s ghost. Know where I can find her?”
“She’ll be in court next week for her trial.”
Bewley’s eyes narrowed, and he worked the toothpick back and forth beneath a mustache that was as stiff as a whisk broom. “How much is this gonna cost me?”
Pocketbook journalism. Greg hated it, but he knew that was how the tabloids worked. “You haven’t got enough money. If I catch you trespassing on the institute’s property again, I’ll have you arrested.”
“I can find her,” Bewley said. “I can find anyone.”
Greg had no doubt he could do it and cursed the smallness of the island, where everyone knew each other’s business. He didn’t want Bewley to plaster Lucky’s picture beside yet another grainy photo of an alien who’d abducted some female and had his way with her extraterrestrial style, cashing in on America’s libido.
Lucky was waiting in his office, wearing the shorts again— thank God. The conservative outfit emphasized a body that wouldn’t quit, but it wasn’t as revealing as the skimpy swimsuit.
“Want to hear my idea?” she asked before he could warn her about Bewley.
“I’m dying to hear it.” He sat at his desk and shuffled the papers he’d already sorted. Common sense said not looking at her was his best bet. “Shoot.”
“The institute doesn’t work with sharks, right? Well, somewhere in the world someone does,
and they’ll know how to help Rudy. All we have to do is get on the Internet and ask.”
“It’s not that simple. You have to know what you’re doing. Most people are roadkill on the information superhighway.”
“Let me try.”
The enthusiasm in her voice forced him to look up. She was sitting at Rachel’s computer. “Don’t touch a thing! Jesus H. Christ! You could delete months of research if you’re not careful.”
Wide-eyed, she gazed at him. “I’ll be careful, Greg. You’ve got to let me try. Rudy is counting on me.”
Wow! She was a world-class fruitcake. He’d never met anyone like her, and if his luck held, he never would again.
“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”
“Now that you mention it, yes.”
His sarcastic tone didn’t faze her. “The Internet will come through for me, you’ll see. Let me use your computer.” She
was across the room and pulling a chair up to his computer before he could tell her to stay away from him. “What’s the password?”
“Knom. Monk spelled backward, for the monk seals we’re researching,
”
he answered, watching to see if she actually knew what she was doing.
She did. Minutes later she was wailing on the Web, surfing through cyberspace. He relied on
Internet for Dummies
to help him negotiate the net, but not Lucky.
“
I’ll be damned,” he said, watching her out of the co
rn
er of his eye while he stroked Dodger’s head and prioritized requisitions, knowing the budget couldn’t fund them all. Dodger responded by putting his head on Greg’s knee. His eyes were on Lucky as she typed with the kind of speed that came only from spending hours at a keyboard. “What’s missing from this picture?”
Unless prostitution had gone high-tech, hookers did not wail on the Web. Okay, so maybe he’d been too quick to evaluate Lucky. Perhaps
hooker
had been a bit harsh. Could be she was just a “free spirit,” like Jessica. The way Lucky had come on to him that night in the tent had led him to believe she was a pro.
“
I
’ve got someone on the scene,” the Orchid King informed his partner as they sat at the bank of computers in their office. “We’ll find out what she’s up to.”
“You sent someone to Maui?”
“Sine. Money talks. I hired the best. Don’t worry.”
“
I would feel better if we just tracked her with a computer.”
The Orchid King frowned at him. “Even I can’t find out what we need to know with a computer. Someone has to go there. It can’t be either of us, now, can it?”
He tried to joke, but it feel flat. Lately he hadn’t been able to make his partner crack up or even smile. How could he think of anything funny when he kept seeing the woman he loved
in Greg Braxton’s arms? He knew his partner was thinking the same thing, too.
“We’re going to have to start warehousing orchids here,” his partner said, abruptly changing the subject. “I’ve found several buildings that will work. They’re all in Chinatown, near the docks. Why don’t you come with me so we can make a decision?”
“I don’t like having the orchids so close to home. It’s too risky.”
“It’s a foolproof plan. If we’re going to move into the big leagues, we have to do it now. Do you want the gangs from Hong Kong homing in on our territory?”
“You’re right. Let’s go for it,” the king said with more enthusiasm than he felt. He followed his partner out of the office and down the stairs. “What are we going to do if we find out
she doesn’t remember a thing?”
“Leave her with that Braxton guy. See if he can handle her.”
“That’s not an option, and you know it.”
“So then we’ll play the ace, right?”
Yes, play the ace.
T
he next morning Greg sat in his office, conscious of the tension pulsing through the room. Lucky was beside him at his computer, poring over the responses to Rudy’s condition that had come in from experts all over the world. Rachel was at her desk, tabulating another set of high frequency sounds, her back rigid.
To say Rachel resented having Lucky on her turf was like saying the Pope would be thrilled to share his pulpit with Satan. Rachel was so angry that Greg was concerned she might quit. It was a miracle she hadn’t done so already. With her credentials, she could get a job at a dozen facilities for a much higher salary. She stayed here, he had told himself, because their
research on whales was different, important. Now he suspected she had other reasons for remaining.
The sooner he was rid of Lucky the better.
How many times had he uttered those words? Too many. He smiled inwardly, finding some satisfaction in recalling that last night he had been able to ignore her. After dinner he’d gone to his bedroom and locked the door. It had been harder than hell to sleep, but he’d finally managed. And nothing had awakened him. No crying.
Where Lucky had spent the night he could only guess. She had certainly
looked
rested, her eyes clear and bright as she scrolled through the messages from other marine facilities more experienced in dealing with sharks. He was probably the one who looked like a piece of shit after a rainstorm, having spent most of the night tossing.
“This is it!” Lucky cried. “A researcher in Australia has the solution to Rudy’s problem.”
Greg ignored Rachel’s dismissive sn
iff and leaned toward Lucky. “
Okay, I give up.
What should we be doing with…
Rudy?”
She turned to him, her green eyes fired with such enthusiasm that it took a supreme effort not to respond. “We take a staple gun—you know, the kind surgeons use—and reattach his fins. By the time the tissue mends, the staples will dissolve and Rudy will be able to swim on his own.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Rachel vaulted to her feet. If looks could have killed, Lucky would be pushing up daisies. “A shark’s skin is cartilage. It doesn’t mend the same way a human’s does.”
Lucky responded to Rachel’s attack with a thoughtful nod. “Yes, I know, but a shark’s cartilage may be different.”
Rachel rolled her eyeballs, then looked at Greg. “Pul-eeze. Cartilage is cartilage. It doesn’t regenerate like skin.”
“There’s a lot we don’t know about sharks,” Lucky argued. “There’s no explanation for why sharks don’t get cancer like other livi
ng creatures, but they don’t.”
For a moment, the only sound was the whir of the air conditioner and the chink-chink of Dodger’s collar as he nuzzled Lucky’s hand.
“You picked that up off the Internet?” Greg asked. The ca
ncer angle was one of the newer
developments in marine studies, one that had generated enviable amounts of research funding.
“No. I just knew it. I’m not sure how. Is it important?”
“Not really.” But it was. Lucky knew too much, remembered too much. He had the disturbing feeling that Cody would be proven right again. Lucky would go to the hypnotist but conveniently not remember her name. He would never get rid of her. Greg seriously doubted he could make it through another night with her just down the hall.
“Can we try it?” Lucky wanted to know.
Her expression was so earnest, so adorable, that he had to steel himself against it. Rachel chose this moment to stomp out of the office, which brought him back to his senses.
“Look, Rudy is a tiger shark. He may look docile, but in an instant those teeth can tear you in half.” He paused for a breath, seeing
he hadn’t changed her mind. “
Walking him isn’t risky, but holding him and positioning the fin to staple it is another thing. All he has to do is get pissed off, and one of us is without a hand—or worse.”
“Rudy would never hurt me.”
“You’ve flipped! Sharks don’t think like people. He doesn’t know you’re trying to help him.” Greg stood up and turned off his computer. “Let’s go. It’ll take twenty minutes or so to get to the clinic. Since Dr. Forenski has made a special trip to see you, we don’t want to be late.”
L
ucky rode through the peaceful countryside filled with a sense of anticipation. In an hour or so she would know her name. Maybe then she could prove to Greg that she was telling the truth. So far her past had been a mirage, shimmering in the distance, out of focus. Out of reach.
Never forget. I love you.
Those words kept echoing through the empty corridors of her mind, but she had no idea who might have said them. Had there been another man before Greg? Someone who had loved her? An ache of loneliness constantly bombarded her, an ache so intense she would gladly have traded it for physical pain.
“Good boy,” Lucky said as Dodger leaned over from the backseat and put his muzzle on her shoulder. She ventured a glance at Greg. He was staring at the road, his elbow resting on the open window ledge, his wrist casually draped over the steering wheel. He downshifted to let a truck loaded with sugar cane cross the road.
“This is the up-country,” Greg explained without looking at her. “Farming, ranching. Few tourists make it to this part of the island.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said, truly meaning it. In every direction were fields of sugar cane that looked a lot like co
rn
, their stalks rustling in the trade winds, and miles of terraced red earth spiked with the bright green tops of young pineapples. Along the road were clumps of wild ginger dancing on the breeze like graceful ballerinas.
They drove on, climbing higher on the Haleakala highway until the cane and pineapple fields became lush green pastures bordered by whitewashed fences. Cattle and horses grazed on the dense grass, oblivious to the sun-dappled sea visible like a mirage on the distant horizon. Thickets of fe
rn
s banked the road at times, shielding the pastures from her view. Above, towering over the island like a godfather, was Haleakala, its summit obscured by a skirt of clouds.
They pulled into a town with wooden sidewalks, hitching posts, and water troughs. They drove past Hibner’s Livery and Yamaguchi’s General Store, stopping for a trio of horsemen who crossed the road, laughing and waving cowboy hats with flower
leis
on the crown. Something wasn’t right.
“It’s the mongoose.”
“What?” Greg asked.
“There’s something I don’t understand. This place looks familiar, but it doesn’t look anything like Hawaii—”
“This is Makawao. Cowboy country Hawaiian style. It looks a
lot like Texas, doesn’t it?”
Lucky realized he was trying to trap her, and she didn’t know how to respond. Somehow she had known this place was different from the rest of the
island. Yet she couldn’t have
come up with Texas if her life depended on it.
On that skeptical note, they pulled into the Up-country Clinic, which looked like a mountain chalet of some kind. They parked and walked silently across a lot filled with
pickup trucks and
Jeeps, Dodger at their heels. T
he receptionist led them to a
private office.