Bird of Paradise

  Gemma was right! She had snapped!

  “I’m sorry, Miss . . . er . . .”

  “Hero,” she answered, trying to get a grip on herself. It was worse than she’d imagined, this snapping. “Hero North.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss North, but when my cat gets bored, he has a habit of grabbing at passing items. He doesn’t really mean any harm. I’ll have your wrap free in just a minute.”

  Hero nodded, not trusting herself to look at him. She’d never had this sort of reaction to anyone before; why on earth did she have to have it now! And with an American man, of all things! One who, a few minutes before, was probably drooling over all of the tanned, fit women around him. She had to get hold of herself before the horrible snapping did any more damage. Taking a deep breath to calm her wildly beating heart, she tugged gently on the fringe until a gray paw came into view in one of the carrier holes.

  “Excellent. If you hold him like that, I’ll unsnag his claws from your dress.”

  Even his voice was sexy! It was low and sensual and rumbled around, striking a chord deep within her. She watched his long fingers carefully unhook the tangled fringe from the cat’s claws. Maybe she hadn’t really snapped after all. Maybe she was just so lonely that any man was starting to look good. Maybe there was nothing special about this one, other than his drop-dead-sexy voice and really nice fingers. Maybe thinking about all those sex fiends had triggered a hormonal moment. Surely she was better now. Surely this man was nothing special.

  “There you go. I don’t think any damage is done, but if there is let me know and I’ll pay for your dress.”

  She glanced at him as he released her fringe from the claw. Oh, Lord, she moaned to herself, it was worse than she first thought! His eyes were deep, deep blue, and the delightful laugh crinkles around them were evident as he smiled, and she was right: he did have the faintest dimples on either cheek. She just wanted to grab his head and kiss him. There was no hope for her now. All that was likely to be in her future were a few illicit weeks of pleasure before he moved on to another woman, leading to her eventual downfall to alcoholism, and quite probably insanity.

  “Erm . . .” Oh, why had her brain chosen this moment to shut down? Why couldn’t she remember how to speak? Why did those glittering blue eyes peering into hers make her forget those things said to people when you wanted to talk to them . . . words, that was it. Where had all her words gone?

  He leaned his head slightly toward her. “Is there something the matter?”

  “No. No, nothing. It’s just that I . . . erm . . . nothing. Thank you.”

  He nodded and stood up holding out his hand to help her to her feet. She stared at it stupidly for a moment, noticing his heart line curved up between his index and middle finger.

  “You’re a romantic,” her mouth said before her brain could veto the inane comment.

  That startled his almost-dimples back into hiding. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sorry, I did an article on palmistry last year.” She took his hand and got to her feet, mentally cursing at herself. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Here was a veritable oasis of a perfectly nice man in a desert of sex fiends, and she had to babble at him like an idiot. That was what snapping did to you: it turned you into a raving lunatic.

  “Article? You’re a writer?” His head tipped a little to the side in question, his smile doing all sorts of squishy things to her insides.

  Oh, Lord, now what had she done? “Writer? Me? I . . . eh . . . just dabble in it.

  “Ah.” He looked at his hand. “How do you know I’m a romantic?”

  Her heart did a little somersault as she traced his heart line, her finger tingling with the heat of his palm. “That’s your hear line. The way it’s curved indicates that you have a romantic nature.”

  “Ah,” he said again, the baby dimples back. “What else does it say?”

  She blinked at him, surprised he asked. Most men pooh-poohed having their palms read, but this one just stood there smiling at her with his nice eyes, and his almost dimples, and a cat whose arm was reaching out to snag other unwary travelers. A sudden spurt of hope came to life within her. Maybe she could turn her snappage into something good.

  He obviously took her silence as reticence. “I’m sorry; you probably don’t want to be bothered with my hand. Forget I asked.”

  “No, I love your hand,” she said hurriedly, then blushed at her words. “That is, it’s a very interesting hand. I’d like to read it for you.”

  “Perhaps later, then?” he asked with a look in his eye that turned the little trickle of hope into something stronger. Unbidden, her heart started beating faster. He wanted her to read his palm? Was he just being nice, making polite talk in the queue, or was he truly something special? Dared she hope that the wonderfully warm feeling his smile was spreading through her was reciprocated? Could it possibly be he was interested in her, as well? Had he snapped, too?

  “That would be lovely,” she managed to say without throwing herself on him. She allowed herself a moment of pride over her restraint, then immediately turned her thoughts toward more important matters. Should she take the chance? Should she be bold and courageous, as Gemma had advised, when meeting a man who turned her crank? Her lips curved in response to his warm smile. She would. She would take the chance. “Perhaps if you have an hour free this evening after the orientation, I could read your palm. It really is a fascinating art, taking into account all sorts of things, like the size and shape of your fingers, fingernails, lines on your palm, mounts, and such. You would be surprised, for instance, what a person’s thumb can reveal—”

  “Excuse me,” the dishy man muttered, picking up his cat carrier in one hand and a suitcase in the other. “I see someone I have to speak with.”

  Before she could blink he was off, hurrying down a dirty and dimly lit corridor leading out of the main customs area.

  “Well, hell,” she muttered to herself, staring at the luggage at her feet, trying hard not to cry. All of the wispy dreams and hopes beginning to solidify under the influence of his intriguing presence were dashed, her heart leaden and aching with the knowledge that no man, not even one with nice eyes and a warm smile, could find her worth his time.

  She picked up her bag and rejoined the crowd queued up for customs, mulling over the tragedy of a freshly snapped mind as she waited. Moving forward when the customs official beckoned her, she answered his questions without thinking, aware only of the devastating truth made crystal clear by the nice man’s sudden defection as soon as she stupidly opened herself up to him. When would she learn?

  She blinked back a few tears of self-pity as the official stamped her passport, and started toward the outer reception area, where large groups of attractive men and women were chatting and flirting with one another. Avoiding the beautiful people, she retreated to the far corner, next to the corridor containing a line of offices. Her stomach roiled for a moment at the thought of what a personification of ugly duckling-ness she would make among the collective beauty of the other contestants; then her pride and determination and every ounce of fortitude within her surged to life. She turned her back on them and gazed down the corridor. So she had snapped and the snappee wasn’t interested in her, so what? She had a job to do, and by the saints, she’d do it, and do it so well that Stephen would have no choice but to offer her not only her job back, but also an immediate pay raise as well. Wasn’t it an American who had said “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead?” Well, she’d take a page from his book and show Mr. Nice Eyes. She didn’t give a fig for what he thought of her. She couldn’t have cared any less about his opinion. She had no interest in him, none whatsoever, not even the slightest bit of curiosity about what it was he was doing skulking down at the distant end of the corridor, speaking with a man in a customs uniform, handing over not only his cat carrier, but what looked to be a large handful of money as well.

  Every journalistic instinct within her stood up and screamed at the nervous, guilty looks he was c
asting around himself. Hero glanced over her shoulder at the crowd behind her. Several members of the television show staff were trying to round up contestants and herd them toward the shuttles that would take them to the resort proper, but there were far more people than space on the shuttles. She probably had at least ten minutes before she’d need to be back in the main area. Still undecided, she picked up her bag and looked back down the hallway to where the man was disappearing through an unmarked door. She gnawed her lip for a second, then started down the corridor after him. She had no idea what was going on, but it looked to be the stuff that great stories were made of, so it could only be to her benefit to follow through on it.

  She slipped through the door after the two men and found herself in a large room reminiscent of a warehouse, stacked from floor to ceiling with large wooden crates. She ignored them and headed toward where she heard voices, pausing to peer around a towering stack of crates marked Crescent Moon Resort.

  The customs official signed a paper, then handed it to the blue-eyed man. “Here is the quarantine certificate. I’ll just add the stamps on the receipt, and you’ll be able to pass through without comment.”

  Quarantine? Hero vaguely remembered a note about pet quarantine in the literature about Mystique Island that came with her acceptance on the show. The man was smuggling his cat through quarantine? What a personal interest story that would make! Not to mention it was highly, highly illegal. Hero grinned as she dug through her bag, her fingers closing tightly around the digital camera loaned to her by the newspaper. She hadn’t had much of a chance to use it yet, but knew from those prior experiences that it could be tricky. If she could just get a photo or two of Mr. Blue Eyes and the customs official doctoring the quarantine information, she’d be a very happy woman. Ah, but revenge was sweet.

  Both men spotter her with the very first picture.

  “Bugger and blast,” she said in a snarl at the camera as the flash went off, attracting their attention. The customs official disappeared instantly, leaving Hero to face the irritated-looking man who stalked toward her.

  “Hello again,” she said weakly, trying unsuccessfully to hide the camera behind her back. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “You were taking my picture,” the man accused her, and rightly so, she had to admit. His luscious black brows were drawn together in a frown that made him look even more adorable, if that were passible. Hero sighed to herself and promised a lecture to her libido at the earliest possible time.

  “A picture? Why would I want to take a photo of you?” she asked, knowing innocence was not a brilliant subterfuge, but it was the best she could come up with under the constraints of a snapped mind.

  “That’s what I’d like to know. You don’t work for Sally, do you?” He looked suspicious now, trying to see what she held behind her back.

  “Sally? No, I don’t even know a Sally. My, look at these fascinating crates. I wonder what could be in them. Isn’t this a fascinating room? You know, I find the whole customs procedure simply fascinating. The rules, the regulations, the officials . . . oh! That must be what you saw! I was taking a picture of a customs man who was absolutely—”

  “Fascinating?” he asked.

  Hero nodded, slapping an insincere smile on her face. “Yes! That’s it! He was fascinating. An now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe the shuttles are leaving for the resort. I’ll just dash out of your way and allow you to do whatever it was you were doing secreted away in this room with the customs official. Ta!”

  “One moment, if you please, Miss North.” The man’s hand shackled her free wrist as she turned to leave. “I’d like to see your camera.”

  See it? Hero smiled wanly. “It’s just a camera, I assure you. Nothing special about it. Has a lens and a flash and all that.”

  He pulled her toward him gently but firmly. “I’m afraid I can’t allow you to keep the film in your camera.”

  “It’s a digital camera; it doesn’t have film,” Hero retorted, beginning to be incensed at his high-handed manner. He set the cat carrier down and pulled her hand forward until the camera was between them. “You see? No film. Now please release me. I have things to do, and they don’t include standing in a room with a professional cat smuggler!”

  “So you did follow me!” the man said, taking the camera from her. She snatched at it but he stepped back, fiddling with the knobs and buttons.

  “That’s mine; you have no right to it! I must insist that you return it to me immediately!”

  “You’re English,” he said, apropos of nothing.

  “Yes, I am, as if that makes a difference to camera ownership. Give me back my property!”

  “One moment.” He frowned, not even looking at her as he pressed buttons until his image appeared on the small screen. “There. I’ll just erase this picture—”

  Hero ground an objection between her teeth, furious that he was deleting her evidence, more determined than ever to have her revenge on him.

  “It matters little whether I have a photo of you and that customs man falsifying quarantine documents,” she said airily as he handed the camera back to her. “I imagine both the television show producer and the head of customs will be most interested in what I witnessed here. I’m sure a quick look at your passport and the false papers for your cat will reveal everything.” She tucked the camera away in her bag and gave him a bright smile. “Good day!”

  “Wait a minute; you can’t tell anyone about Jesus!” The man looked horrified at the thought.

  “Jesus?” Had the man snapped, too?

  “My cat.”

  She blinked in surprise. “You named your cat Jesus? Isn’t that rather blasphemous?”

  “It’s not intended to be blasphemous; it’s just the only name he answers to,” the man said, resignation written all over his face. He squatted down to release the door to the carrier.

  “He answers to the name Jesus?”

  “Yes,” the man said, pulling out a huge gray-and-white cat, attaching a thin leather leash onto his collar. “I think it’s because when most people see him, they say, ‘Jesus, that’s a cat?’ Somehow the name just stuck.”

  Hero looked at the huge animal as it hobbled around. It was approximately the size and shape of a well-fed bulldog, was missing one eye, and had a pronounced limp. Altogether it was a very curious animal for a man to feel so strongly about that he dared risk imprisonment to smuggle it through customs for a six-week visit. “I begin to see your point,” she murmured watching the cat as it investigated the nearby crates.

  “Do you know what they’ll do to him if you turn us in?” the man asked. Hero squatted down when the animal limped over to her and smelled her shoes. She peered at his front.

  “Is one of his legs shorter than the others?”

  “Yes, he lost an inch and a half of bone on one leg when he was hit by a car. That’s how I found him, as a matter of fact, a stray lying by the side of the road after some bastard had mowed him down. The vet was going to take the leg off, but offered to do reconstructive surgery instead. As you can see, it wasn’t entirely successful.”

  “Poor puss,” Hero cooed, stroking the cat as he rubbed against her, admiration for the sort of man who’d stop for a wounded cat—not to mention pay for its surgery—doing much to take the edge off her irritation with him. He might have named the cat inappropriately, but he evidently had a very soft heart. “I don’t think very many people would take in such an odd animal.”

  A rueful smile curled the man’s lips “I seem to have a habit of acquiring them. Back home I have a maniac pheasant who likes to chase cars, a parrot that speaks only Mandarin Chinese, two dogs that have six legs between them, and a pygmy goat that’s happiest when she’s playing on a swing set. Him I found about a year ago.”

  Hero scratched behind the cat’s ears. He leaned into her and almost pushed her over. “He must have suffered terribly.”

  “Yes, he has suffered, and he’ll suffer even more if you tell the officials wh
at you saw.”

  The man’s eyes were dark with pleading. Despite her earlier vow of revenge, Hero couldn’t help but be affected by his obvious love for the huge cat. “I’m sure they wouldn’t harm him. They’d just put him quarantine for a few months. The animals are very well taken care of, I’m sure.”

  “It would kill him,” the man argued, his eyes soft as he scratched behind the cat’s ear.

  “Oh, you exaggerate. I’m sure it wouldn’t’ be fun for Jesus, but I hardly believe quarantine would kill him. I’m quite sure the attendants are fond of animals.”

  “It’s not that,” he answered morosely, looking up and giving her the full benefit of his attention. Hero rocked back on her heels in response. Lord, but he was everything she could want in a man . . . except for his proclivity for smuggling, that is. “Jesus is depressed. Suicidal, in fact. That’s why I’m here, in an attempt to cure his depression.”

  “Really?” Hero stood up slowly as the cat strolled over to her luggage and began investigating it. Her heart melted at the thought of a man who went to the trouble and expense he did just to find a partner who would love and care for his cat. He truly was one in a million. If only he could look beyond appearances to see that such a woman didn’t have to come in a svelte, tanned package . . . “I suppose you’re here to find him a mum?”

  “What?” The man looked startled. “Oh . . . er . . . yes, that’s it. I’m here to find him a . . . mum. Yes.”

  “That’s terribly affecting, but you know, I have to say . . . What is your name?”

  He stood up. Adam . . . er . . . Monday.”

  “Adamermonday? That’s an unusual name.” Then again his cat was named Jesus.

  He looked intriguingly confused. “It’s just Monday. Monday Marsh. Although my friends call me Adam.”

  Her eyebrows rose.

  “It’s . . . ah . . . middle name,” he answered her silent question. “Prefer it. Over Monday.”