One True Secret

She still acted as if she had reservations. But she said, “It’s a bird-of-paradise.” She paused, then said, “Some people say it looks like a bird in flight. It’s unusual, because it’s actually pollinated by birds, not bees.”

“Really,” Merriman said, as if this was the most fascinating fact he’d ever heard. Perhaps it was, coming from her lips, those words about birds and bees.

He rubbed the cat’s stomach so it would stay peaceful. Merriman tilted his head toward a climbing vine with ornate lavender flowers. “And those? Orchids?”

She pushed a wayward lock of hair from her cheek. “No. They’re passionflowers.”

He rubbed the cat harder. “Passionflowers. Why are they called that?”

“Well…” She still seemed torn about lingering, but clearly she loved the plants and wanted him to appreciate them. “It’s kind of a complicated legend…”

“I’d love to hear it,” Merriman told her with so much sincerity that it made him dizzy. He rubbed the cat until it had no choice but to purr in sensual pleasure.

EMERSON KICKED OFF her sandals so she could walk in the damp sand and dodge the surf when it came foaming onto the beach. It was a game she’d played since childhood, and she loved it.

This, she calculated, would force Eli Garner to keep his distance and try to question her against the wind and over the roar of the waves. That, or he’d have to shed his own shoes and a considerable amount of dignity to stay at her side.

She was surprised when he undid his sandals and set them next to hers. He rolled his jeans up to his shins, stuck his hands in his pockets and strolled to the sea’s edge beside her as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

But today the sea was not playful. The waves that came rolling in were rough, and they did not so much collapse in a froth on the sand as throw themselves on it in assault.

The wind was cool and whipped Emerson’s long skirt around her. She had to gather it up and clench its hem in her fist. This left her legs bare to the knee, and Eli gave them a glance that seemed coolly interested. She wished she’d worn capri pants.

The wind blew her hair about, and his, too. He had thick hair, longish and wavy. He reached into his pocket and put on his sunglasses. They gave him a masked look.

She sidestepped a wave more aggressive than the rest and accidentally bumped into him. The water surged around her calves, and she nearly lost her balance when the spent wave pulled seaward again.

His arm shot out to steady her, settling on her waist, bracing her so she didn’t stumble. It seemed a perfunctory gesture, brief and businesslike. His hand fell away almost immediately. She was glad. His touch implied an intimacy she found dangerously intriguing.

“Careful,” he warned.

“I didn’t realize you were that close,” she grumbled.

“I have to stay close to hear you. Looks like we’ve got some weather coming.”

She glanced at the far horizon. There, the clouds were almost black, and a gray veil seemed to spill from them: rain.

She said, “They’ve upgraded the storm back to a hurricane. It’s in the Caribbean and moving fast.”

He studied her from behind the mask of his sunglasses. “Hurricane? When did they upgrade it? It was still a tropical storm when we left Key West.”

“I heard it on the radio right before you came.” She tried to smooth her streaming hair. “It’s growing. And picking up speed.”

“Does that scare you?” he asked.

Few things frightened Emerson, and she hated to admit that anything could frighten her. But hurricanes did. She tried to sound philosophic. “Hurricanes are the price you pay for living here.”

“That didn’t answer the question.”

Damn, he must sense her uneasiness. “Only a fool wouldn’t respect a hurricane. But it doesn’t scare me until I know it’s close. I’ve seen what they can do.”

“So have I. So what do you do when one’s coming at you?”

“The usual. We have emergency supplies. A propane stove, lanterns, the whole disaster kit. Even a special room. We hope for the best and close the hurricane shutters.”

He looked at the dark horizon, then back at the house. “Maybe you should shut them soon.”

She tossed her head. “Frenchy will. As soon as you leave.”

“I see. And Frenchy would be…”

“The groundskeeper and maintenance man.”

“Frenchy, I take it, is French?”

“No. Frenchy is Norwegian.”

“Then why’s he called Frenchy?”

“I don’t know. Things like that happen in the Keys.”

He seemed to reflect on this. She added, “He won’t talk to you under any circumstances. He’s signed a confidentiality agreement. An ironclad one.”

Take that, she thought. But at that moment, she had to dodge another wave and once again nearly collided with him. Why did he have to stay so close?

But he didn’t seem to notice, and he changed the subject. “So this is the beach your grandfather loved so much.”

She caught his careful wording. “He still loves it,” she said. “There’s no need to use the past tense.”

“He still comes here?” Eli asked, just casually enough.

“Of course.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes. “It’s the main reason he bought this place. Maybe we should turn back. This isn’t a nice day to be here.”

“I don’t mind.” His gaze swept up and down the beach.

“It’s private here. Very private.”

“Yes. It is.”

“No immediate neighbors. I looked at it on a detailed map. To the south, a mangrove swamp. To the north, a mangrove swamp. To the east, a long tract of wild country that your family owns. And to the west, the Gulf.”

She shrugged. He walked so close now that strands of her hair flicked and danced against the shoulder of his shirt. Her gauzy sleeve, damp with spray, blew against his tattooed arm.

She stopped. “The wind’s getting higher. I feel it. We’ll turn back now.”

She walked to his other side, no longer wanting to play tag with the water. She moved out of its reach, letting her skirt fall to her ankles again.

He kept even with her, and he tilted his head toward the cove. “You’d have a tough time getting here by boat, if I read the charts right. It’s shallow with a rough bottom. Almost impossible to land here.”