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‘Well, no matter. What’s important is that Benicio prepares the best crack conch you will get anywhere.’ He laid a hand on my shoulder.

An electric charge, I swear, passed from his body into mine. And, damn the man, he knew it. ‘So we can count on you, then? And your husband, too?’ He raised an eloquent eyebrow that hinted at perhaps your husband will fall ill, or be lost at sea, or abducted by aliens, then fortunately we…?

Somehow I managed to breathe. ‘We’ll be delighted, I’m sure. And speaking of food,’ I rattled on, finding my voice at last, ‘the conch fritters here are to die for.’ I gestured toward the Cruise Inn and Conch Out’s booth where Cassandra and Albert Sands were scuttling about, catering to the ravenous hordes.

‘The competition,’ Rudy added, although from his tone, it was clear that he didn’t consider the Sands’ modest, home-style Bahamian restaurant any competition at all. Frankly, I’d take Cassie’s fried plantain over any highfalutin Paris-trained chef who whipped up the same dish and put it on the menu as banane frite, but I was polite enough not to say so.

While the three of us chatted, a young, twenty-something beauty showed up at Rudy’s side, hovering proprietorially. Trophy wife? She was dressed in an ankle-length floral skirt and a bright-yellow tank top that complimented her lightly bronzed skin. Voluptuous raven curls were twisted into a knot at the crown of her head and held in place with a tortoiseshell claw. When the conversation wound down, she touched Rudy’s arm and said, ‘Papa?’ neatly trashing my trophy-wife theory.

‘Qué quieres, mi pequeña joya?’

‘I’ve got a prospective buyer, Papa. I could use your help.’

Rudy took his daughter’s hand, tucked it under his arm, then turned to Pattie and me, bowing slightly. ‘Duty calls. You’ll excuse us, then, ladies?’

Pattie answered for both of us. ‘Of course.’

I took a deep breath and let it out. ‘Who is she?’ I asked when father and daughter had disappeared into the tent.

‘That’s Gabriele Mueller, Rudy’s daughter, as I’m sure you gathered. He’s got a son living on Hawksbill, too. Rudy’s wife…’ She lowered her voice. ‘Wife number two. She stays back in San Antonio with the twins. They must be four or five years old by now. And if they weren’t enough of a handful, I hear they’re adopting an infant from Columbia.’

‘Speaking of adoption, how did it go with the potcake puppies?’

‘Super! Both potcakes were adopted by a couple in West Palm Beach. Funny little sausages. The dogs, I mean. Terrier and collie with a smidge of dachshund thrown in.’

I chuckled at the image. ‘We missed you on the Net the other day.’

She waved her champagne flute. ‘Someone had to accompany the pups. It’s difficult to fly them out commercial, so we chartered a flight with Cherokee.’ Pattie raised an eyebrow. ‘Say, how long are you here for?’

I was puzzled by the non sequitur. ‘Six months,’ I told her. ‘Paul’s writing a book and he hopes to finish by December. Then we’ll have the family down at Christmas time.’ I managed a weak grin. ‘Alas, Paul has to go back to teaching in early January.’

Pattie tapped out the months on her fingers. ‘I have to go Stateside on family business in a couple of weeks and I need someone to anchor the Net while I’m away. You always seem at ease on the radio, Hannah.’

I pressed a hand to my chest. ‘Me? You’re kidding, right? How about that doctor on Knot on Call?’ I paused, trying to remember the captain’s name. ‘Uh, Jim. He did a great job this morning.’

Pattie shook her head. ‘Jim’s starting back to Virginia Beach around the first. He says he can’t afford the hurricane insurance for Knot on Call, and he’s already pushed his luck by overstaying six weeks.’

‘Surely there’s somebody…’ I began.

‘It’s a piece of cake,’ she insisted. ‘Really. I give you the script, you fill in for a couple of days just to get in some practice, and then… voila!’

I felt myself weakening. ‘How long are you going to be gone?’

‘Just two weeks.’ Her cinnamon eyes locked on mine. Her neatly groomed eyebrows arched expectantly. A friendly smile played across her lips.

I was doomed.

‘Sure,’ I told my new friend. ‘Why ever not.’

Pattie raised her empty glass and clinked it against mine. ‘I think that calls for a toast, don’t you?’ And with a friendly ‘Don’t go away!’ Pattie Toler went off in search of more champagne.

A few minutes later, Pattie got cornered by a sunburned vacationer who wanted to pick her brains about ATM locations, so I took the opportunity to slip away and look for Paul. I found him back inside the tent, standing in front of a booth where the main attraction was a meticulously constructed scale model protected from curious fingers by a Plexiglass dome. A banner in the colors of the Bahamian flag – turquoise with yellow lettering shadowed in black – announced that this was the booth sponsored by the Tamarind Tree Resort and Marina.

I’d read about the controversial development in The Abaconian like everyone else. And I’d seen the clubhouse, too… through binoculars. But seeing the master plan laid out before me in all its ambitious and arrogant splendor was an eye-opener.

The miles of pristine sand beach were still there, but where acres of mangrove and rare Abaconian pines had once stood, there was a marina, and condos, and single-family homes, and vacation cottages, laid out on a series of man-made canals. Next to me, Paul leaned over the case and tapped the glass. ‘That represents the clubhouse,’ he said, ‘and the swimming pool. They’re mocked up in color, because they’re already complete. These others here,’ he added, indicating the housing complex, the tennis courts and the eighteen-hole golf course, ‘are in gray, as they’re still under development.’

‘Eighteen holes? You’ve got to be kidding.’

Paul gave me a sideways-through-the-eyelashes look. ‘It’s supposed to be eco-friendly. Paspalum grass, run-off management, natural methods of pest control. Gabriele has been filling me in.’

‘Gabriele?’ So, Rudy’s daughter had been a busy little bee. My husband must have been the ‘hot prospect’ she’d dragged her father off to see.

Paul straightened and hooked his thumbs in his back pockets. ‘She’s managing the project for her father, the developer, a guy by the name of Rudolph Mueller.’

‘I’ve just met Rudy. Pattie Toler introduced us.’

Now it was Paul’s turn to act surprised. ‘Rudy, huh? First name basis already?’

I grinned. ‘It’s the i’lans, mon.’ I lowered my voice to a whisper. ‘I’m actually working myself up to hate the guy after all I’ve read about the evils of his development.’

Paul flashed me a crooked grin. ‘Give the guy a break, Hannah. He’s complied with every restriction the Bahamian government has placed on construction, and then some. It’s a prime piece of property in one of the most beautiful locations in the world. Development is inevitable, and not necessarily by somebody so sensitive to the environment as this Mueller fellow seems to be.’ Paul rested his hand for a moment on the Plexiglass dome. ‘It’s better than some alternatives I can think of.’

I scowled at my husband. ‘I see you’ve been brainwashed.’

‘Hannah, Paul. Now that you’ve had time to talk it over, I wonder if you have any questions?’ The voice came from behind me, rich and smooth as a shot of Southern Comfort, taken neat.

I felt my face grow hot. Damn! How did Mueller sneak up on me like that? Why didn’t he cough discreetly or wear squeaky shoes like everyone else? ‘Paul’s just been filling me in on your project here, Mr Mueller.’

Mueller held up an index finger. ‘Rudy!’ he reminded me.