When She Was Bad...

“NO. I THINK SHE WAS probably a very skilled teacher.” Too skilled. Being a little jealous of an imaginary slave girl was one thing, but every time she imagined Mary Jane dancing with Cole, or even worse, making love with him, something inside of her twisted.

“If you tell me she taught you how to kiss, I might have to trace her and do something really nasty to her.”

With a laugh, he lifted her so that she was seated on the railing. “I’d rather you did something nasty to me. Shall I tell you what I have in mind?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re into dominatrix stuff.”

He laughed. “I’ve never been tempted to try it. You know, you’re a pretty good dancer yourself.”

“My grandmother arranged for me to have private lessons with a young man who came to the house. I’d like to tell you that he looked like Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing, but he didn’t. And his behavior was depressingly proper.”

“I’m glad.” He snagged her fingers and raised them to his lips.

She shot him an amused look. “It was okay with me, too. He was at least thirty-five—ancient-looking to a sixteen-year-old. And he was a task master too. I had to do hours of ballet exercises at the bar to develop poise before we got to the ballroom stuff. But enough about me. I want to know something else that you’re good at.” She held up a hand when he opened his mouth. “Something that will surprise me.”

She’d been peppering him with questions all evening, claiming it was what people did on a first date. She’d pried out of him that he’d had a double major in college—literature and anthropology—and that he was widely read. They’d even discussed some of the books they’d both enjoyed.

So far he’d told her only what he wanted her to know. But he was surprised at how much he wanted to confide in her. He wondered why. Because she’d understand?

“I’m a pretty decent cook.”

Real surprise registered in her eyes. “No kidding. Where did you learn? No, wait—let me guess. You read cookbooks too.”

He smiled. “Some. But your brother Luke got me interested in cooking in college. We moved out of a dorm and into an apartment as soon as it was allowed, and he was always in the kitchen whipping up something. The rest I’ve picked up from watching cooking shows on TV. Where did you learn to cook?”

She wrinkled her nose. “I didn’t. My grandmother had a temperamental chef who never allowed anyone in the kitchen. But show me a place setting of silver, and I’m a real whiz kid. You cannot trip me up.”

“Time out,” Cole said. “Back up. You don’t cook, but you always bring something to the Sunday family gatherings at your dad’s.”

She leaned closer. “I just pretend I’m Julia Child when I’m in the kitchen and I whip something up.”

He studied her. “Liar.”

She laughed then and the sound carried, bright and carefree, on the breeze that was coming in from the sea. “You’re right. Although I did my best to pretend to be her. I even bought her original cookbook on French cooking. It was a disaster. I ended up dirtying every single pan in my kitchen and the result was still totally inedible. I would have signed up for a cooking class, but I was already taking the PI class. So I went to Plan B. My Pendleton background is good for something. I found a really good caterer, and I have this cordon bleu chef make something for me. Then I put it in one of my own bowls and take it to my father’s. I figured that was what you were doing, too.”

I could teach you to cook. Cole barely stopped himself from giving voice to the thought. If he offered now, it would bring up the topic of what their relationship might be when their time on the island was up. And he didn’t want to bring that into the discussion. Not yet. Not on a night when she was more relaxed than he’d ever seen her.

He could also point out to her that her brothers and her father wouldn’t care if she didn’t know how to cook. They loved her for who and what she was. But she wasn’t quite ready to accept that. She was still too afraid of not measuring up to their expectations.

No, he’d tell her neither of those things tonight.

“What are you an expert at?” he asked instead.

“Well…” She thought for a minute. “A lot of stuff, actually. A Pendleton had to know how to play the piano and tennis, how to dance and how to ride. Sometimes my grandmother would hire tutors to come to the house. Other times—like for the riding lessons—the chauffeur would drive me.”

In his mind, Cole pictured the young girl being driven to one lesson after another so that she would measure up to being a Pendleton. He was beginning to see why she was so determined to learn what she needed to know to fit in at Rossi Investigations. “It sounds like you had a busy life.”

“Actually, some of it was fun. I found that I liked learning new things. And I managed to add some lessons that were more interesting. I once snuck away to Atlantic City and took courses on how to play Black Jack and poker.”

His brows rose. “Those don’t sound like they’re on the Pendleton required list of skills.”

She grinned. “I told you I didn’t really fit in there.”

He thought of his own efforts and failures to fit in.

“You know, this first date thing is turning out well, I think. All told, we have more things in common than I would have thought.” She began to tick them off on her fingers. “Curiosity and a love of learning new things, though you’re self-taught and I’m a lesson freak, so we have different styles. And then there’s the fact that we both want very much to be a part of a family.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re going to have to elaborate on that.”

She leaned toward him a little. “As a lit major, you must have read the Brontës. Remember Jane Eyre and Heathcliff?”

He nodded, wondering where she was going.

“Well, we’re like them—I’m Jane and you’re Heathcliff. We’re both on the outside looking in and wanting to fit in to a family. In this case, it’s the Rossis.”

“I’m not sure I like the analogy. Your ending is happy. Mine isn’t.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re much more inventive and competent than Heathcliff ever was.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “Thanks for the compliment.”

She reached over to pat his hand on the railing. “That’s how it was meant. Heathcliff was pretty clueless as far as Catherine was concerned.”

He kept her hand when she would have withdrawn it and linked his fingers with hers. “You’re a surprising woman, Pepper Rossi.” Even in the moonlight, he could see the blush that rushed to her cheeks.

Suddenly Pepper’s eyes widened and she leaned closer. “Don’t turn around.”

“What?”

“Evan is finally here. He and Jean Claude are sitting down at a table on the other side of the pool.” She slid down from the railing and turned her back on the pool.

“Why don’t you want him to know you’re here? I thought your plan was to go over and surprise him.”

“I’ve revised it since I overheard them talking in the gift shop. I mean I can’t very well walk up and ask Evan if he’s selling the stolen Monet to Butch, can I? Well, I suppose I could, but I’m not sure his answer would be truthful. And besides, once I go up and let him know I’m here, my cards are all on the table, and he’s still holding all of his.”

“Right. What’s Plan B?”

She glanced up and met his eyes. “I’m going to do a little eavesdropping.”

“You’ve got good instincts.” He reversed their positions so that her back was to the railing and his back was to the pool. “Jean Claude is looking this way.”

Then his own gaze became riveted on the path that led down from the main hotel. “To borrow a phrase from Yogi Berra, it may be ‘déjà vu all over again.’ Butch and H are on their way down.” He watched where the two men headed. “They’re sitting down with Evan and Jean Claude.”

The look she shot him was filled with mischief. “C’mon. Let’s eavesdrop.”

“Your call,” he said as she took his hand and drew him along the edge of the dance floor.

IT TOOK LONGER THAN she would have liked to reach the potted palm trees that were clumped near Evan’s table. They’d made it there without attracting any notice from the men at the table, but that was when her luck had run out. The band was playing close by, making it difficult to hear anything.

Evan was the only one she had a full view of through the palm leaves. He looked nervous. She could see Jean Claude and H in profile, and Butch’s back was to her.

She breathed a sigh of relief as the band ended a piece. But Gari showed up just then to serve champagne. He uncorked the bottle, offered it to Jean Claude to taste and then filled four glasses. No one spoke during the ritual, and Jean Claude was the only one who drank champagne. By that time, the band had begun the next song, and the woman drummer took a solo.