What Men Want (10 page)

“He was coming after me,” he said to no one in particular. “I think he was getting ready to chew me up alive.”

We swam around to the boat and boarded, giving Alex a chance to calm down before the others joined us. The captain offered us cold drinks, and Alex sat alone, taking small sips of soda while staring out at the water. Eventually the color came back into his face. Obviously whatever he saw had triggered some kind of primal fear or memory of something frightening that had happened during childhood. He sat looking out, shaking his head back and forth as though he was reliving it.

“I panicked. I couldn't have gotten back without you,” he said to Reilly.

“You were okay,” Reilly said, belittling his heroism. “You were just a little shaken up. He probably wouldn't have done anything as long as you backed off.”

“I don't know what I would have done if you didn't swim out to get me,” he said. “I don't think I would have been able to get away. I just froze up. The last time I felt that way I was ten years old and camping in Pennsylvania. We heard a bear or some animal outside our tent.”

I looked at Alex and cynic that I am, all I kept thinking was not only had Reilly saved him, but also his heroism would buy him Alex's loyalty, not to mention favorite treatment for the duration. It was a multimillion-dollar rescue. Never mind the pristine beach, my fingers were itching to get back to the keyboard.

Finally, everyone was on board, they took a head
count, and the boat started back to St. Croix. We sat on the padded seats, out in the sunshine, as the rhythm of the water rocked us back and forth. I had always heard that catamarans are notorious for causing seasickness. Now I knew why. Reilly reached for my hand and I couldn't think of a reason not to let him hold it. It was the first time that I had ever held hands with someone who I was investigating. A little voice in my head was admonishing me, but I wasn't sure whose it was—my boyfriend's, my editor's, my own or a Greek chorus of all three.

O
n the pretext of needing to use their computer and go online, I spent a couple of days in the hotel's business office, actually a separate cubicle off the main office. I usually got there at close to twelve o'clock, lunchtime, when I hoped that the office staff would take off not only for lunch but also a siesta. The blond guy I had seen seemed to be in charge of things, but there was another person, a young woman who I guessed was a bookkeeper. As I worked, I noticed that he seemed to go to lunch just after twelve, and she usually left later, closer to twelve-thirty or one. Sometimes she waited for him to come back. I got the hotel's password so that I could log on to the Internet, but I wondered whether there was a way that I could call up the list of guests. I tried various methods of entry, always
to be turned down. It was obvious that the machine that I was on didn't allow access to internal hotel information.

But on the third day of my lunchtime visits the blonde went out to lunch and a few minutes later, the young woman picked up her purse and went out too. I looked around. I seemed to be all alone. Did I dare sit in front of her console and try to get into the list of guests? I walked outside. No one seemed to be coming so I slowly walked back in and over to her computer. I studied what was on the computer desktop. There was an icon that said Registration. I clicked on it. It opened to a listing, in alphabetical order, of what looked like the guest list. I scrolled down until I reached the G's and came to my name. There I was. Bingo, I had the guest list. I started to go to the R's to see if Reilly was there too, when suddenly I heard a noise. I closed out the screen and started heading back to the guests' computer.

“Can I help you?” It was the young woman who worked in the office. My heart started to pound.

“I was having trouble with my computer, it just froze,” I said quickly. “I thought maybe I could switch over to yours. I was just in the middle of something and I'd hate to have to stop.”

She looked at me questioningly for a moment, then shook her head.

“That's the hotel's computer, it's not for guests,” she said, shaking her head definitively. “If you want
to come back later I can call Robert,” she said. “He handles computer problems.”

“Mmm, maybe I will,” I said. I looked at her and smiled. “Half of these things just seem to resolve themselves if you wait, or just reboot, you know?” She smiled at me politely. I laughed and made my way out the door.

I walked out, aware of my heart beating wildly in my chest. Had she seen me looking at the guest list? I imagined hotel security being called and removing me, handcuffed, from the premises. I hated to do things like that, but what was the alternative? Now I'd have to find some time when they were both finished for the day and the office might be left unguarded. I made my way down to the pool and ordered lunch. I sat outside, watching various guests. None of the film crew turned up, so after lunch, I walked down to the beach, strolling along to see if I could find someone who looked familiar. There was a game of volleyball going on and I asked if I could join.

“Sure,” a young man, no more than thirty, said. He was obviously a guest. I played with the group and after a while others joined in. One of them was a member of the mayor's film office who had stopped by when Reilly and I were having dinner. He introduced himself as Tom. I knew that he was Thomas Connelly, the number-two man in the film office. He was on my team, and he was playing the position just
behind me. At one point, I ran to hit the ball, and inadvertently fell back, into him.

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” I said, just about falling on top of him as we both went down.

I got up first and he struggled to his feet.

“I hope you haven't broken anything,” I said, offering my hand, and he got up.

“You're pretty serious about the game,” he said, massaging his knee.

We both walked to the sidelines as the game went on without us.

“Can I get you some ice?” I said.

“No, I'll be fine,” he said. Then he glanced at me. “You look familiar,” he said. “Weren't you sitting with Jack Reilly the other night?”

I nodded.

“How do you know him?”

“We met here,” I said. “How do you know him?”

“I work in the film world in New York,” Tom said. “Jack's a producer.”

“So you're here on business too?”

He nodded. “In a way.”

“In a way?” I laughed. “What kind of way?”

“He films in New York and it's my job to help his crew get settled in.”

“Oh, give me a job?” I said, pretending to be high on something. “I wish that my company would send me to places like this.”

“Who do you work for?”

“Oh, I'm just in publishing,” I said.

At that moment, Alex made his way down toward us. Tom waved. “I've got to catch up with my partner,” he said. “I hope we see you later.”

“Good,” I said. “Take care.”

 

Instead of showing up for the Christmas Eve dinner and running into Reilly, I decided to order room service, and then wait until it was dark to go back to the office. The phone rang and I decided not to answer it. When the light went on, indicating there was a message, I dialed the operator to get it. It was Reilly, asking what my plans were for dinner. I didn't call him back. I went out and took a walk on the beach after dinner and thought of how the night would have played out if I were home with Chris, presents under the tree. I put those thoughts aside and when it was close to nine made my way over to the office, avoiding the main area of the hotel lobby. Fortunately the business office was open and I settled in at the guests' computer until I was sure that no one else was around. Close to ten, I got up and tried the door to the rest of the office. It was unlocked and I started to walk in. I hesitated for a moment.

Would my going in set off some kind of silent alarm? I waited for a minute and looked around. It didn't look as though anyone was coming, so I walked in and went to the hotel computer. I clicked
on the registration icon and went to the guest listing, calling up Jack Reilly and then Alex Ryan. Then I went to my own listing and saw my American Express number next to my name. But interesting that neither Jack nor Alex had numbers next to theirs. Did they pay cash? That would be pretty unlikely. Who travels with several thousand dollars in cash? I clicked on the information under Reilly's name. It listed his room number and several others. I assumed that meant that he was responsible for all of them. I studied the rest of the icons but none of them indicated that they would offer information about guests. I closed the screen and started to leave the office.

Just as I shut the door, I heard a sound behind me. Was someone watching me? Was it just someone passing by? I held my breath for a moment and waited. No one appeared. It was a balmy night and the air seemed to be perfumed with jasmine. I let out my breath and slowly headed for the bar.

But just as I was about to turn the corner, I heard someone behind me. Then a hand reached out and grasped my upper arm.

“Oh,” I said, jumping back in surprise.

“Jen?”

I whirled around. “Jack,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

He looked at me, surprised. “Just walking by. What are you doing here? I tried to reach you.”

“I know,” I said, hoping he couldn't hear the way
my heart was pounding. “I had a headache, so I stayed in for a while.”

“Better now?” He gazed at me with a questioning look in his eyes.

“Actually, I was just heading back. I guess I had too much sun.”

“In the office?”

I looked at him and smiled slightly. Did he see me there? There was no way I could tell.

“I'm obsessed with checking e-mail,” I said, wriggling out of his grip. “I'll see you in the morning.” I headed toward my room, listening behind me for sounds of him following me. But it was quiet, almost too quiet, and I got into the elevator, relieved when the doors closed behind me. I had my key card in my hand and quickly opened the door, locking it behind me.

 

The next morning it was Christmas Day and I woke up to a different sky. Hurricane season runs from June through November. So why, in December, was a troubling tropical storm gaining strength at sea and heading our way? The day before, there was only a breeze and the sky was a brilliant blue. Except for the fact that the breeze seemed to be gaining in strength, it was hard to imagine that anything could change. But within twenty-four hours, the blue sky turned charred and overcast.

Reilly called to have breakfast with me but I put
him off. Since I was leaving later in the afternoon, I promised to meet him at the bar to say goodbye before I left for the airport. But now, looking at the sky, I didn't feel like venturing out. I called his room, and fortunately he was there.

“I'm running late,” I said. “I have to cancel.” He didn't say anything for a minute.

“Stay there, I'll come down,” he said.

I hadn't heard from the airline telling me that my flight was canceled, so I packed up quickly, hoping that I could get out before the weather worsened. Years before I had learned that flights in the Caribbean, and the airlines that serve the islands, have their own whimsical way of operating. (Need I remind you that this is the land of, “Don't worry, be happy.”?)

I looked out the window and saw flashes of lightning. A horrendous crash followed, as though a building had been knocked to the ground. I went into the bathroom and began fitting every toiletry item I owned into my carry-on bag, as if they were puzzle pieces and each had a particular position where it belonged. I wasn't thrilled about flying on a sunny day, but now with this weather, I tried to steady my hands.

A knock at the door startled me, and then I remembered who it was. I flung it open and went toward Reilly, ready to fall into his arms for protection. But I stopped when I saw him holding out two flutes of champagne. In the midst of this horrendous storm, the image was almost comic.

“The heavens are about to come down and you stroll in to celebrate?”

“This is drinking weather,” Reilly said, “not flying weather. Change your plans, for Christ's sake.” He handed me a glass and glanced briefly at the sky and then over at the bed. I took a sip and shook my head, placing the drink down on the end table. He leaned over and kissed my cheek and then moved his lips around so that they covered my mouth. I knew I had no more than a second to decide. After that, he'd have me pinned underneath him on the bed. Part of me was ready to abandon myself. Chris didn't want me anymore. No one else did. I was angry and frustrated. I couldn't imagine when I would next get into a situation where basic, raw, uninhibited sex would be in the offing.

Something in me reacted viscerally, however, as though an alarm had been set off to hold me back. In my head there was a vision of Marty sitting in his office with his thick arms folded across his chest, leaning back in his chair like the Lord looking down at me in judgment. I pulled back as though I had picked up some electrical impulse from the office. The Pavlovian journalist learning right from wrong.

“I can't,” I said. “You're married and I'm…” I said, letting my voice drop.

“You're what?” he said, shaking his head, obviously growing impatient.

“Involved,” I said. He stared at me for a minute.

“Jen…” he started, as if I had made a bad call.

“My cab will be here any minute,” I said, stepping farther back from him and looking at my watch. “I've got to go.”

“To lost opportunities,” he said, reaching for his glass. I couldn't tell if he was high or just acting that way. I toasted back.

“Give me your business card,” I said, changing hats. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a white card from his wallet.

“Call me,” he said. “I'm in the city all the time.”

I nodded. He started for the door and there was another crash of thunder. Outside, I watched the palm fronds bob back and forth as the wind slapped against them.

“You're not going to get out of here,” he said before closing the door. “If the airport closes down, I'll buy you dinner.”

“Let's see,” I said. Then I put the last few things in my bag, checked out at the front desk and ventured out in the rain, holding my handbag over my head as an umbrella. The cab was waiting, and I settled into the back seat. Rain was pelting the windshield and cars around us were pulling off the road to wait out the downpour.

“The airport?” he said, unsure.

I nodded. “Ummm.” He started driving, swerving to avoid flooded areas of the road, and then turned back to look at me.

“Don't think that they can take off in weather like this, miss,” he said, shaking his head. As we drove, I watched people on the side of the road. Two young women in loose, flowered dresses and sandals were walking with a large banana leaf that they were holding over their heads. It looked like a scene out of a nineteenth-century photo.

“Wait for me,” I said when he pulled up to the airport gate. I gave him an enormous tip. “If they're not taking off, I'll be back in five.” I pulled my suitcase out of the open trunk and made my way into the terminal. There was a line of bedraggled-looking travelers in wet clothes up at the front desk. Their dismayed expressions said it all. I waited my turn anyway.

“There's one more flight coming in and then we're closing the airport,” the airline rep said.

“Any idea when flights will resume?” I asked.

He held out his hands helplessly. “Listen to the weather report.”

I wheeled my bag in the opposite direction and went back outside for another soaking. My cabdriver was waiting with a self-satisfied smile on his face.

“You were right,” I said, sinking into the backseat.

 

I checked back in, but this time I didn't dwell on the size of the bed or the decor. I set up my laptop and tried to connect to do some preliminary research for the story. No luck, of course. Instead, I
quickly sketched out a rough outline of what I knew, but there were too many unanswered questions and I turned off the computer, frustrated at how much work was ahead of me. Did I want to go out and run into Reilly again? Where would that lead? Instead, I got into a bathrobe, took a nap, then showered and put on dry clothes. When I finally headed out, it was to the informal café where my chances of running into him were more remote.