CHAPTER THREE

      HANNAH WAVERED between wanting to strangle Buck Shanahan, and wanting to like him. He was as prickly as a pear cactus and seemed to have taken her in instant dislike. Other than ruining his poker hand (and she still did not believe that so many people could be insane enough to determine the fate of their island with a poker game) during her landing, she couldn’t imagine why. Well, she had been a little…upset when she deplaned, but any person with a half-ounce of common sense would understand what she’d just been through. Adrenaline tended to make you that way.

      Still, he fed her. He didn’t invite her into the inner sanctum behind his office, nor did she especially want to go there, but when he emerged a half hour later he offered her cold potato salad, cold fried chicken and a healthy serving of steamed broccoli. All of it was savory. She gave him marks as a cook, if not as a mechanic or human being.

      “That was wonderful,” she said when she’d sucked the last bit of meat off the bone. If it hadn’t been rude, she’d have licked the plate, too.

      “Thanks.” He sounded gruff. Then he took their plates into the back, leaving her alone to look out at what was now getting to be a very dark night. She could see a portion of the earth’s shadow on the highest clouds, an arc of darkness moving toward zenith now, the red winking out behind it.

      She supposed she ought to go out to the plane before it got any darker, but she felt strangely reluctant to move. So instead, she helped herself to another cup of coffee, and settled back in the chair.

      She expected Buck to remain in his hermitage, but to her surprise he returned and sat on the far side of the counter from her. She could just see his head above the countertop.

      She decided to try being sociable. “How long have you had this airport?”

      “About eight years.”

      “And before that?”

      He looked at her. “Top Gun.”

      She sat up straighter. “Really?”

      He scowled at her. “Why would I lie about that?”

      “I can’t believe you could give that up!”

      That made him smile for the first time since she’d met him, and oh, what a smile it was. It transformed him completely.

      “Eventually my back had enough of the g-forces. And I had enough of the Navy.”

      “But you must miss it.”

      “Yeah,” he admitted reluctantly. “Once in a while.”

      “This must sometimes seem pretty tame.”

      He cocked a brow at her. “Not when people try to take my head off with their wings. It reminds me of that Samuel Johnson quote. ‘Nothing concentrates the mind like the imminent prospect of being hanged.’”

      She nodded, wondering if there was more to a man who could quote Samuel Johnson, but said only, “I wondered if I’d have to ditch her.”

      He shook his head. “Not a good thing, ditching. Planes tend to fall apart in all the wrong ways.”

      “So I’ve heard.”

      Silence fell between them for a few moments. Then she asked, “Where did I land, anyway? There are so many small islands out here, and while I have a general idea where I am, I’m not sure which lump of rock I’m sitting on.”

      He rotated his cigar to the other side of his mouth. “This lump is called Treasure Island.”

      “You’re kidding.”

      “Nope. The first person known to have settled here was One Hand Hank Hanratty about eighty years ago. He was a fan of Robert Louis Stevenson, I hear.” The cigar bobbed as he resettled it. “Rumor has it the alligator bit off his hand.”

      “The alligator?”

      “Yeah. Apparently Hanratty brought him as a pet. Says something about the guy’s character. Anyway, Buster, the gator, is still around. Hanratty isn’t.”

      “Well, if he brought only one gator, I can understand why the thing bit off his hand. Buster must be lonely.”

      Buck shrugged. “He goes to Bridal Falls sometimes and scares the tourists when they’re having a tropical wedding. Mostly he just keeps to himself. Nobody wants to get him a mate, though. This isn’t his native habitat, and we don’t want the place crawling with gators, either. It’d scare the tourists.”

      Hannah nodded. “What do tourists come here for?”

      Apparently she’d asked exactly the right question, because Buck suddenly grew expansive. “Well, now, there are really cheap cruise lines. They like to pull into harbor here and let their passengers gamble at the casino. They market it as tropical charm, but what it really is is a bunch of big tiki huts with games, slots and a couple of bars. I guess it impresses people who come from way up north.”

      Hannah nodded, envisioning it. “It would have a certain kind of charm, I guess.”

      “If you’ve never been to Vegas or Reno, yeah. Anyway, they pull in for a day of gambling, and sometimes passengers will get married by the captain at Bridal Falls. I don’t reckon anyone knows who was the first person to do that, but it’s become a bit of tradition in these parts. Townfolk will attend to make it festive.”

      “That’s nice.”

      “It’s downright stupid, if you ask me.”

      She felt herself bristling at his attitude, but tamped it down. She needed this idiot to repair the plane. She also needed to use his radio or phone or something to let her buyer know she would be late. Although after this he might not want the jet at all. She smothered a sigh. “What about the mountain? It looks like a volcanic cone.”

      “It is.”

      “Active?”

      “That’s the story.”

      Gloom began to settle over her. Could it get any worse? “How active?”

      “It shrugs from time to time. Been awhile since the last eruption, though. Maybe five hundred years.”

      “How often is it supposed to erupt?”

      He suddenly grinned at her over the countertop. “Getting nervous, Sticks?”

      “Absolutely not!” She had the worst urge to bean him with his cigar. Purposefully irritating, that was what he was. “Do you ever light that thing?”

      He took the cigar from his mouth and studied it. “Why would I want to do something that stupid?”

      “Then what is it doing in your mouth?”

      He grinned again as he looked at her. “I have this oral fixation.”

      To her horror, she blushed beet red. Quickly she looked away, out the window, hoping the last bit of red light would hide the blush.

      “I’m going to bed,” she announced, rising quickly and putting her mug on the counter.

      “Good idea,” he agreed. “You want to get some sleep before the storm hits.”

      That froze her in her tracks. “Can we check the