Everything to Me

“Hey,” he said reasonably, with that same easy smile that made him as much of a star as his singers, “if the Pilgrims and the Indians could call a truce long enough to eat…”

She could have countered with a sharp rejoinder about smallpox-infected blankets, but good manners forced her simply to nod in mute, weary gratitude.

He accepted her concession with the satisfaction of a man used to winning. “Twenty minutes, then.” He headed back to his room.

* * *

“Anything you don’t eat?” Trent asked as he studied the menu. All around them, guests were already dining in the gorgeously decorated hall. The meals were included in the price of the stay, so most of the hotel guests stayed on the grounds for dinner. The vaulted ceiling was bright white, and the glow from small lamps on each table danced along its surface like a light show.

Dakota sat in the comfortable polished teak chair, several degrees cooler now that she’d showered and changed into a light linen sleeveless dress with a square-cut neckline. She could have sworn for a second that, upon first seeing her, Trent’s eyes had lingered briefly at her bare collarbone before sliding downward and away, but she could be mistaken.

The air was filled with the dizzying scent of hot food, an opulent blend of roasted meats, baked yams and potatoes, and vegetables drizzled with olive oil. A sharp pang of hunger stabbed at her, reminding her it had been hours since she’d had anything.

“I’m not normally fussy, but I hope the soup of the day isn’t goat liver or something weird like that.” She was startled to find her sense of humor hadn’t abandoned her.

In response, the rigid squareness of his shoulders softened a little, letting her know she wasn’t the only one anxious over their arrangements. “Well, they cater to Americans and Europeans, so I’m sure they’ll have something less exotic for the guests. And I think that soup you’re talking about is called mannish water. It’s Jamaican, not Tobagonian.”

“Well, if I ever go there, I’m not having any.” She ran her finger around the top of her water glass, glad for something to focus on. Anything to keep her eyes off him.

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” He seemed as relieved as she was to have something safe to talk about. As if food could be a safe topic in a place like Rapture. From what she’d seen so far, she’d be grateful if the coconut mousse wasn’t molded in the shape of a penis.

As for her sense of adventure? She was having dinner in the least likely of places with the least likely of people. This was enough adventure for her.

At the next table, a movement caught her eye. A long-haired young man with deep blue eyes reached across the table to his companion, a champagne flute in his hand, and slowly drew the chilled glass over her left nipple. The woman laughed, and her physical reaction to the icy contact was instantly obvious as the small, hardened bump poked through the thin satin of her blouse. That simple gesture was so outrageously erotic that Dakota sucked in a lungful of air, shocked at herself for watching.

She exhaled through pursed lips, commanding her body to be still. Many dangers lurked in this place. One night, she reminded herself. It’s just for one night.

She could tell Trent was studying her reaction. The low light made long feathery shadows of his lashes. She noticed for the first time that a tiny mole perched near the corner of his lower lip. On a woman, it would have been a beauty mark. On a man, it was…something else. His smile was lazy, his gaze assessing. “I’ve never met a reporter who was a prude,” he remarked.

“I’m a columnist, not a reporter,” she answered, dragging her gaze away from the most erotic sight she’d seen in a long time. Upon deeper thought, it would have been a very long time since she’d even experienced something so erotic.

“I stand corrected.” He tilted his head in the direction of the couple, who were about five minutes from getting it on right there at the table. “This really bothers you.” It was a statement, not a question.

“No, it doesn’t,” she lied, and felt her face flush. “I’m not opposed to PDA, per se,” she added, hating the primness in her voice.

“Just in my presence?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

A waitress arrived just in time to save her from his response. Trent asked the waitress to surprise them with their meals, which shocked the hell out of Dakota.

“Adventure,” she noted dryly.

“I embrace it whenever it presents itself,” he shot back smartly. Then his brow furrowed a bit. “Although maybe I should stop short of ordering red wine with the meal?”

She knew at once what he was referring to: her wine-pouring escapade at the cocktail party seven months ago. He’d deserved it, she reminded herself, for his behavior. Rather than be embarrassed, she felt a grin break out. “I think your odds are good tonight.”

“They’d better be. Don’t want to lose another shirt.”

“I sent you a replacement. Didn’t it fit?”

“Perfectly,” he conceded. “You have a very good eye.”

A clear implication that she’d been looking at him long and hard enough to correctly guess his size. She debunked that at once. “It was a wild guess.”

He gracefully let the matter drop, and they settled on cashew wine. The waitress floated away, promising them she’d be back with their dinner “just now.” At that, Trent’s lip twitched.

“What?”

“Nothing, but maybe you ought to fill in the cracks with a few breadsticks while we wait.”

She’d heard enough about island service to think that was a good idea. As she broke off a crumbly piece of bread and slipped it into her mouth, she hoped they’d be too busy nibbling to make much small talk. No such luck.

“What’re your plans for tomorrow?” he asked.

“Find a hotel,” popped out of her before she could restrain it.

“I’m sure that’ll be a priority,” he agreed. “I meant, apart from that.”

“Oh,” she said with deliberate casualness. “I think I’ll go down to the festival site and get started on my interviews.”

He tautened visibly, but his voice was steady. “Do you already have appointments booked?”

“Of course, a few,” she said noncommittally, and couldn’t stop herself from adding, “but none with your people.”

He smiled like a wolf. “Did they all turn you down? Even Mango Mojo? Those youngsters would grant an interview with a supermarket rag if they thought it would give them more exposure.”

The comparison between her nationally syndicated column and a write-up in a tabloid stung like blazes. She worked hard on her craft and was well respected in many entertainment circles for her writing. The fact that Trent seemed stubbornly intent on not acknowledging her successes rankled. But instead of defending her work, she retorted, “Yeah, they all turned down my requests. And why wouldn’t they? You obviously told them to avoid me like I’ve got leprosy.”

His face didn’t even twitch. “I gave no such instruction.”

“Oh, don’t ask me to believe—”

“I’m their producer, not their publicist. I don’t decide who they talk to and who they don’t—”

“But you must have let on how you feel about me,” she argued.

He shrugged. “I’ve never made my feelings a secret. Anyone who knows anything about the industry knows what went down last year, and what happened after your column hit the newsstands.”

What went down last year…as if she needed a reminder. Shanique was enjoying a meteoric rise up music’s A-list, was on the second album of a four-disc deal with Trent’s Outlandish Music and had celebrity endorsements piled up to her impressively sculpted butt. Those who’d noted a few cracks appearing in her stunning facade had chosen to overlook the growing problems. There was talk of her losing her voice, her edge. She’d denied it, claiming that her album and concert sales were proof enough that she was still on top of her game. Until Dakota’s story broke that instead of singing live at her sold-out concerts, Shanique, due to her overindulgent drug use, had been lip-synching to the voice of another singer, hidden backstage.

Dakota’s solid connection with the right person… She stopped midthought. Truth be told, she could hardly call her source the right person, considering how much pain he’d caused her. Deliberately, carefully, she rephrased, even if it was only inside her head. Her solid, well-connected source had gotten her the exclusive and all the proof the doubters needed. It was the exposé of Dakota’s career. Shanique had denied it until she was purple, sobbing to anyone who would listen that she’d been set up, and the whole thing was a ruse to make her look bad. While some of her fans took it in stride—stuff like that did happen in the music business, after all—others were outraged at spending their hard-earned money on tickets to hear someone else sing. Websites and Facebook pages sprang up overnight, boycotting her concerts and demanding their ticket money back. Parodies of her fraudulent performance went viral on YouTube. The sponsors took notice. Endorsement deals dried up like a creek in Death Valley.

Trent’s reputation also took a hit. Questions rolled in. As Shanique’s producer—and rumored lover—had he known about her subterfuge? Did he willfully aid and abet? Had it been his idea all along? His publicist had released a statement expressing concern for Shanique’s well-being, while stopping short of admitting any involvement in the lip-synching debacle. Nonetheless, the damage was done.

Their waitress arrived with steaming bowls of dark green soup, just in time to stop Dakota from getting further sucked into the depths of Trent’s accusing gaze. He seemed glad for the distraction. “Callaloo soup,” he informed her, reading off a small card that came with the meal. “It’s like spinach.”

She’d have eaten warmed-up tar if it meant they could change the subject. She sipped experimentally and discovered it was pretty good.