Lethal Affair. Jean Pichon Thomas
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think so.”
“No?” He lifted those broad shoulders of his in a little shrug. “Of course, there is an alternative. You could always hire a taxi for the day. A cab driver should be impersonal enough for you. Providing, that is, you don’t mind the expense or the reckless speed these guys down here travel on questionable roads.”
“I’ve experienced enough of that already, thank you.”
“There you go then. You either abandon your intention or choose me, a safe driver.”
“You’ve covered it all, haven’t you?”
“Come on, Brenna. What’s holding you back? I promise to behave myself.”
“I seem to remember some occasions when you didn’t.”
“But not today. Guaranteed.” He opened the passenger door of the Toyota, holding it for her temptingly. Here she was about to make a mistake with a stubborn, take-charge agent determined to safeguard her.
Oh, hell, she thought, harmless or not, either way she wasn’t going to be able to lose him.
“You win.”
Settling herself into the passenger seat, she placed her tote and purse on the floor at her feet. Casey was about to close the door after her when he realized something.
“No painting gear?”
“Not this time.”
“Why is that?”
She launched into a brief art lesson. “Painting on location is great. It can lend a kind of immediacy to a canvas you don’t get in a studio. It can also be a nuisance having to transport all your materials to the site, or ending up with the kind of weather that decides to shift its mood.”
“Does that mean you’re playing truant today, Rembrandt?”
“Not really.” She reached a hand down to pat the side of her tote. “I’ve got my camera and sketchbook to record the subject I’m considering for another painting. What I capture might be enough to justify a studio picture. Your eyes are beginning to glaze over. You’re excused from class.”
Laughing, he slammed the door, rounded the car and climbed in behind the wheel. After buckling his belt and putting his sunglasses back on, he turned to her. “Okay, what is this mysterious destination we’re headed for?”
“A place called Braided Falls up in the highlands. It’s supposed to be spectacular. That’s what the guidebook says, anyway. Hey, what are we waiting for?”
* * *
She could be damned exasperating, Casey thought as he swung the Toyota around and headed them back toward Georgetown, which she’d indicated was the route they needed to go.
On the other hand, she could also be bewitching with that flaming copper hair, amber-colored eyes known to spark with anger when she was provoked to it and a lush, seductive mouth. Not to mention those long, elegant legs, which were on full view in a pair of pale green shorts paired with a matching green-and-white-striped tee.
There was something else he could tell with his sneaky, sidelong glance. With the free spirit of a true artist, she wasn’t wearing a bra under the tee. Damn, how was he supposed to deal with that and not lose control of the wheel?
He’d promised Brenna to behave himself, but with her assets so close like this in the confinement of the car, Casey wasn’t so sure now he could restrain himself.
Try, he ordered himself.
They were approaching the city when, to his relief, he was distracted by a glimpse of her guidebook open on her lap.
“What are you doing?”
“Unfolding the map provided inside.”
“What for?”
“We’ll need it to get to the falls.”
“Uh, both the car and our phones are equipped with GPS.”
“Not reliable functions here on St. Sebastian, says the guide,” she informed him. “A paper map is a safer bet. You’ll have to go straight through Georgetown to reach the shore road on the other side. That’ll take us to the highlands road.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Casey concentrated on weaving through the dense traffic of the city. After passing a cricket field, which Brenna reported was the favorite sport here on the island—another gem from the guidebook, Casey assumed—they found themselves on the open shore highway with the broad, blue Caribbean on their right and on their left an unbroken expanse of vegetation.
“What are you doing?” he challenged Brenna when he glanced over and saw her lowering the passenger window. “We’ve got air-conditioning operating in here.”
“I know, but I’d rather breathe the warm, outside air.”
“Why?”
“Because,” she explained, her head practically hanging out the window, “it carries such wonderful scents. Can you smell them? The cinnamon, the nutmeg and that sweet fragrance...that’s frangipani. I saw it growing at the villa. They’re enough to make you drunk on them.”
“If you say so,” Casey said. Personally, he’d much rather be inhaling Brenna’s own faint, flowery scent, which he’d been enjoying with a sensual freedom before she’d opened the window.
Maybe she was drunk. That might explain why, after traveling another mile down the road, she cried out, “Pull over!”
God Almighty, was he about to hit a goat? The nuisances seemed to be wandering everywhere on the island, often in the road. Casey dutifully parked at the side of the highway, where he was reminded that scents weren’t enough for Brenna.
“What now?”
“The flamboyant tree over there! Isn’t it magnificent?”
“Yeah,” he agreed. The tree was in full bloom, like a crimson torch. Why hadn’t he remembered that scents alone wouldn’t satisfy her? Brenna lived for color. It was a heady wine for her.
Casey recalled how she never wore drab colors if she could help it. And even on those rare, formal occasions, like her gallery showings, when she wore a form-fitting black dress that emphasized her hips and breasts, she’d always managed to accent it with a bright neck scarf or a carefully selected piece of jewelry.
You remember too much about her, McBride. Not healthy. Not when you’re no longer a couple.
He needed to stop being aware of her beside him. Needed to stop thinking about her and Bradley. He had no right to any jealousy. Concern, yes. Because, like her brother, he didn’t trust Marcus Bradley and Brenna’s living arrangement with him. Just that. Nothing else, he ordered himself.
They moved on up the highway, Brenna switching from flowers to birds. Scarlet ibises, a blue tanager, jeweled hummingbirds. They were as plentiful as the flowers.
Or they were until she instructed him to leave the highway for the road that would take them up into the highlands.
“Where are they?” she wondered. “All the flowers and birds?”
She was right. There was suddenly none of them in evidence. The contrast between the shore highway behind them and the road here was startling, with its dark, shadowed green growth close on either side of them. Like an impenetrable jungle, Casey thought.
Brenna was silent now as they traveled along the gloomy tunnel. Even the engine seemed quieter to him.
“It’s...weird, isn’t it?” she finally remarked. “Not the same St. Sebastian at all.”
“Another one, anyhow. Ah, here we go. Sunshine up ahead again.”
The Toyota emerged from the dim passage that was the road into the open. The change should have been encouraging, cheerful even. Somehow, it wasn’t.
The