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That could have put an end to the conversation, but the man had a one-track mind. “I never banned them from giving you an interview, Dakota.”
There: he was using her name again. She swallowed a mouthful of hot liquid. “But they won’t.”
He shrugged eloquently.
“And neither will you,” she couldn’t resist pointing out.
“Did you expect me to?” The thought seemed to amuse him.
“Not since…my story, sure. I understand that. But you turned me down well before—”
“I’m not very good with the media,” he responded offhandedly.
“Then you’re in the wrong field.”
He gave her a slow smile, one that had a curious effect on her stomach. “Oh, I’m pretty sure I’m in the right field. Music is my life, and my life is music. I’m just lucky I can afford to hire people to handle stuff I’d rather not do.”
“Such as interviews with bottom-feeding scavengers like myself.” She quoted one of the last things he’d said to her at the cocktail party months ago. Even to her own ears, she still sounded hurt.
He must have heard it, too, because he leaned forward, and his self-satisfied smile faded. “I apologize if my words were a little…harsh. I’m not normally that uncouth. I was a bit ruffled at the time.”
He had been ruffled? Just thinking about the way he’d repeatedly dismissed her made her feathers curl. “You’re prejudiced,” she told him bluntly.
He looked shocked. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t know who I am or what I’m capable of. You treat me like I’m nothing more than a tabloid hack—”
“Your story on Shanique had all the hallmarks of a hack job—”
“It did not,” she defended herself hotly. She counted her points off on her fingers. “It was well researched, well substantiated and it turned out to be one hundred percent true. And yet you made a decision about me, and that’s the end of that,” Dakota said with finality. “You call yourself a businessman, but you don’t have the guts to change your mind once it’s made up. I’d have thought someone in your position would be more flexible.”
She went on, too upset to care if she was treading on his toes. “And furthermore, all you care about is how my column affected you and your precious goldmine. But Shanique needed to be reined in and helped, and nobody around her, none of you who knew her, did anything about it. I know that these days, the music business is more about image than substance—”
“Shanique has true talent,” he interrupted at once. “She has perfect pitch. Her vocal range spans almost four octaves.”
“It certainly didn’t last year,” Dakota shot back. “Or she wouldn’t have had to get help from an out-of-work R&B singer called Michelle.” She was surprised at how upset she was getting at his instinctive defense of his superstar. She slapped her hand on the table to make her point. “Shanique’s fans didn’t deserve to be cheated out of their hard-earned money. What she did to her fans and to her body was wrong, and somebody had to say something.”
“And secure their own writing career while they’re at it,” he countered scornfully.
She ignored the assault on her motives. “I know I did the right thing. Did you?”
From the way he flinched, she could tell her barb had struck a nerve. She pressed home her advantage. “Not only that, but you compounded the appearance of guilt by saying precious little. You’ve consistently glossed over every single question aimed at you about the whole affair.”
“I believe it’s my constitutional right to—”
“Oh, please,” she scoffed. “You know the music business better than that. If there’s a void in information, people will fill it with whatever suits their fancy. Not facing it head-on only makes you look worse.”
“Worse?”
“That you were complicit in the drug use. That you were a party to—or even the mastermind behind—the whole lip-synching scam.”
“Operational issues such as her concert performances are the responsibility of her manager, not her producer,” he protested.
“You work closely with all your acts. You had to have known.”
His light skin took on a mottled hue; he was mighty irritated but struggling to hide it. Take that, she thought.
The waitress glided back into view, whisked away their soup bowls, and set down aromatic, steaming dishes. Like their appetizer, the meal came with a little menu card, which listed the featured food: spit-roasted chicken, herbed grouper and tomatoes stuffed with saffron rice. Glasses of amber-colored cashew wine were placed next to each plate.
When Dakota lifted her glass, her hand shook slightly. “Cheers,” she said, clinging to her cool.
“The same.” He lifted his glass to her.
Silence followed as they ate. Then, halfway through their meal, “Go ahead. Shoot.”
She frowned. “What?”
“You wanted to interview me? Ask me a question.”
Her little potshots had worked? Seriously? A man’s ego really was his weakness. She looked around, flustered. “But I haven’t prepared. I need notes…a recorder…”
“I’ll bet you have an excellent memory.”
She did, but still… “Here? Now?”
“Now or never.” He was challenging her, testing to see what she was made of.
But her triumph had fizzled. He’d thrown her off balance with his acquiescence, and all she could manage was a weak, “How old are you?”
“Thirty-four, but everybody knows that. That all you got?” His toffee-colored eyes were taunting.
She wished she had a paper napkin, anything to scribble a few notes on. What she really needed was a minute to clear her head. “What made you get into the music business?”
He opened his hands in an expansive gesture. “Are you writing for the school paper?”
He was right; she was handling this like a cub reporter. She bought herself a moment by taking a bite of the delicious chicken, asking herself what it was about him that so unnerved her. She was a writer, and a good one, and had done interviews with subjects far tougher than he. She needed to find her mettle.
She set her knife and fork down, straightened her spine, and nailed him to his chair with a look. “Mr. Walker,” she demanded, “Did you have anything to do with Shanique’s lip-synching scandal? When she stopped singing live at her concerts, and started using a voice double…when she started cheating her fans…did you know?”
He set down his cutlery as well, finished his cashew wine, and steepled his fingers. “You used my last name, you know. You owe Declan a buck.”
She reached into her bag, extracted a dollar between two fingers, and laid it on the table before him. “Toss it into the jar next time you pass. Now answer the question.”
He sighed heavily. “I knew. I was dead set against it. When Shanique’s voice started to go, because of the…” He paused.
“Drug abuse,” she added helpfully.
He nodded. “I considered canceling the last few concerts. She almost lost her mind…and so did the backers. My financiers.”
“You’d have lost millions.”
“Correct.”
“So you decided the show had to go on.”
“As I said, I didn’t decide. The music director, her voice coach and other…interested parties…thought it would be best for all involved. Shanique just had a few more shows to go before her tour ended, and then she could get some rest. And some…”
“Help.”
“Correct,” he said tautly.
She took one more step onto dangerous ground, and behind her, the path to safety faded in the distance. “Did you know she was using?”
The answer was curt. “I knew.”
“And you did nothing?”
His expression darkened. “I know you don’t think much of me, but no, not even a dipstick like me would sit by and watch a woman destroy herself. I tried talking to her. I scheduled appointments with a therapist. She missed all of them. I was setting things in place for an intervention when…” A disgusted huff escaped his clenched teeth. “When your unnamed friend slipped you the details of this story. And the rest, as they say…” He trailed off.
The wine went sour in her mouth. When her column first hit, she’d received a furious call from Trent himself, demanding that she tell him how she’d gotten her hands on the information, but she’d remained professionally silent. She followed the first rule of journalism: protect your source. And in her case, she had more than one good reason to do so. She wondered what he’d say if he only knew exactly who that friend was.
She couldn’t…could not look at him. Her gaze dropped to her plate, and she discovered that the sight and smell of the meal she’d been enjoying so much had become overpowering. Her stomach rolled.
“Shanique made her own choices,” Dakota reminded him. “When you look at the bare bones of the case, she only has herself to blame.”
“She did make her own choices,” Trent agreed softly, much to her surprise. “Bad ones.”
Dakota couldn’t help but notice the tenderness with which Trent spoke of Shanique and her problem. Realization dawned. “It was you who made her go into rehab after…you know.”
He nodded.
A memory resurfaced of Shanique outside the doors of an expensive rehab clinic, flashbulbs popping, a forest of microphones in her face as the newshounds, having caught wind of her presence, had converged on the scene. Tearfully apologizing for her actions, begging her fans to forgive her, promising she’d be back on stage once she was clean again. Trent had stood stoically by her side, his face a mask, eyes hidden behind dark glasses. One arm around her shoulders, the other urging the media back when they got too close. He was a silent, solid rock.
His protective body language, the way he positioned himself between Shanique and the aggressive slew of reporters, had spoken volumes. Only a man who loved a woman took that stance. Even as she asked the question, she knew there was no way he could deny it.
“You and Shanique really are romantically involved.”
He looked directly into her eyes. “Are we involved? No.”
She gasped. He was lying to her face! “How can you sit there and deny—”
“I’m not denying,” he said crisply. “I’m being precise. Shanique and I aren’t romantically involved, as you so delicately put it. Not now. We were. Past tense.”
She tried to conceal her satisfaction, tried to put a lid on her rising excitement, but it was difficult. To her knowledge, Trent Walker had never publicly discussed his personal relationship with his biggest star, and here he was, admitting it to her. The next question was obvious. “What happened?”
“Rehab happened. Shanique’s career taking a nosedive happened.”
So the relationship had fallen apart in tandem with Shanique’s career. His glittering singing star had gone supernova, and he’d bailed. Trent must have blamed Dakota for both catastrophes.
“You…broke up with her when she went into rehab.”
His brows shot up, shock resonating in his voice. “I…? You must really think I’m a son of a bitch, huh?”
She was too confused by the passion in his response to speak.
She didn’t have to. He continued, his words like acid rain. “I would never abandon a woman at the darkest point of her life. As much as it would surprise you, she broke up with me.” The mole at the corner of his mouth was like a period at the end of an abrupt sentence.
He sat back, his rigid body going limp, the eyes that held hers losing focus as he gazed off into mid-
distance. To Dakota’s horror, a cloud of hurt and sadness drifted across his face. She was looking at a man who’d been burned, and who was tasting grief and rejection warmed over.
Then she understood. Dakota’s story had led to Shanique’s humiliation, which, in turn, had caused Shanique to push Trent away. No wonder Trent hated her.
To ask was to bring fire raining down onto her head, but she did so anyway. “Are you still in love with her?”
The warm eyes went cold. His chair scraped as he got abruptly to his feet. “Interview’s over, Merrick,” he told her.
He threw a dollar onto the table.
Chapter 4
There was a certain quality about Tobago that soothed Dakota. Everything moved in slow motion. People didn’t rush; they ambled. They didn’t yell; they sang their words. Nonchalant groups of men sat outside bars playing cards and drinking beer in the sunshine, and herds of goats and shorthaired sheep roamed untended along the beaches. A seductive peace permeated her bones, even though she was here to work…and was sitting beside a man who should still be pissed off at her after last night, but who was instead cordial and calm.
By the time she’d returned to the cabin—and, yeah, she’d dragged her feet a little—his bedroom door had been closed and there was no light shining from beneath. She’d spent the night marooned atop the huge brass bed in the master bedroom, listening for signs of activity in the next room, finally falling into a tense, exhausted sleep.
Although he’d politely offered to wait while she had breakfast, pointing out that he rarely had more than a cup of coffee himself, she’d rather go hungry than inconvenience him more than she already had. She’d grabbed a cup of locally grown coffee, pocketed an orange and a banana, and dragged her suitcase out to his car, a pointed reminder that after her day at the concert site, she was seeking her own accommodations.
As Trent drove, her entire body was aware of him next to her. She’d dreaded being stuck in the car with him, almost as anxious as the night before when she’d accepted his offer of a place to stay. Though he seemed more moodily introspective than angry, the pool of silence between them made her uncomfortable.
She filled the silence with babble, commenting on everything she saw including how tall the coconut trees were, how colorful the little houses, and how salty the sea breeze. She marveled at the bright piles of fruit sold at the side of the road by old women or young children. Trent responded to her conversational efforts, but didn’t seem willing to start any of his own.
In the glare of the morning sun, she could see that the capital city, Scarborough, was an odd blend of old and new, with British forts and cannons as the backdrop for American fast-food joints and cybercafes. And the sea. The sea was everywhere. No matter which direction they turned, she could smell, see or hear it. Locals and tourists alike walked aimlessly along the roadside, towels tossed nonchalantly over their shoulders, swinging cotton totes filled with necessities.
At a traffic light, a dark, hulking man, with his thick dreads bleached orange by the salt water, thrust a live lobster at her. She shrieked. Trent declined the offer to buy, and as he peeled away from the light, Dakota caught a glimpse of the lobster, waving its banded claws goodbye—or beckoning for help.
With two days to the start of the festival, Immortelle Park was a beehive. Trucks and cars were parked haphazardly for a hundred yards, workers moving in equipment, designers erecting banners, decorations and signage. Sound people unrolled cables and yelled at each other. They were forced to park some distance away, even though Trent’s rental sported a temporary VIP pass.
“Here we are,” he said unnecessarily. He hopped out, walked around and opened the door for her.
She passed her hand through her hair. They each had work to do. He’d go off to see about his performers’ affairs, and she’d start poking around for stories and keeping the appointments she’d made. “Um, well, thank you.”
He regarded her quizzically. “For…?”
“For giving me a place to stay last night. You didn’t have to do that.”
He dismissed the thought with a gesture. “Anyone would have.”
Not anyone. She wasn’t sure she’d have been as noble if she’d been in his position. She pressed on anyhow. “Well, I was in touch with my assistant this morning.”
