While Matt Murphy talked to the folks at the Maui airport, Annabelle watched him like a chicken hawk circling the henhouse. His expression gave him away, but then she’d known the plane wasn’t there. She’d prayed that she was wrong, but she knew.

Matt hung up the phone. He looked a good ten years older than he had when she’d walked into his office. “I’m sure he’s taken it upon himself to land at a different airport,” he said. “Maybe he had engine trouble and put down at Molokai.”

“Call there, then.” But Annabelle didn’t think Nick had put down at Molokai. She wished to hell that he had, but they had telephones on Molokai. Genevieve would have called her the minute she had a chance.

Muttering under his breath, Matt picked up the phone again. “Kendra, I want you to contact the airport at Molokai and find out if the Rainbow Systems plane landed there this morning.” He paused. “And if it didn’t, then check with Kauai and the Big Island. Let me know what you find out.” He dropped the phone back in its cradle and stared at it without moving.

“They won’t be at any of those airports.” Annabelle’s heart beat so fast she wondered if she should sit down and put her head between her knees. She couldn’t afford to faint. Time could mean the difference between life and death.

He glanced up, his jaw tight. “What are you, psychic?”

“Yes.” She didn’t usually admit that to strangers, but her daughter’s safety depended on Matt Murphy taking her instincts into consideration. “Not as psychic as some of my kin, but sometimes I see things. I saw danger in this trip, but I thought it was my fear of planes talking. It wasn’t. Something is terribly wrong and we need to alert whoever can call out the search parties.”

Matt’s jaw muscles worked. “Until I check with every airport within flying distance of Honolulu, we’re not calling anyone. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for this. Nick’s a good pilot, and the Sky King’s well maintained. The weather’s good, and he didn’t have far to go. Whatever your Ouija board told you, I’m sure Nick, your daughter, and my top programmer are all just fine.”

“If Genevieve’s fine, she would have called me!”

“She’s young! She could have forgotten!”

“No.” She stared him down. “Not my Genevieve.”

He met her gaze for several long seconds. Finally he sighed and leaned against his desk. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler. “Maybe she did call. You’re here instead of wherever she’d be trying to reach you. Can you check for messages?”

Annabelle flushed. He had a point, although she doubted there were any messages for her at work or at home. Still, she needed to pull herself together enough to find out. “Is there another line I can use?”

“Sure.” He punched a button on his phone and turned the instrument to face her before picking up the receiver and holding it out to her.

As she took it from him she reminded herself that Matt wasn’t her enemy. In fact, he might turn out to be her most important ally. First she checked the beauty shop. She must have gotten her hopes up, because when Elena told her Genevieve hadn’t called, her stomach heaved as if she’d eaten something bad.

Genevieve would have called the shop first, so there was no point in checking at home, but Annabelle did, anyway. Lincoln was at the Parks and Rec basketball camp every afternoon this week, so he’d turned on the answering machine before he left, like she’d told him to. There were no messages.

She was trembling again by the time she put the phone back in its cradle.

“Nothing?” Matt asked.

“Nothing.”

The buzzing of his phone made her jump.

He grabbed the receiver. “Kendra? What did you—oh.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Okay, let me think.”

Annabelle clenched her hands together and waited for what else he planned to say. It had better be the right thing or she was taking over.

“Listen, Kendra, I’m not sure what protocol is here, but start with the Coast Guard.” His voice shook. “Yeah, it looks like the plane’s missing.” He replaced the receiver and squared his shoulders before facing Annabelle again. “We’ll find them,” he said, looking resolute and determined.

She was encouraged by his air of confidence. Apparently he wasn’t the type to fall apart during times of trouble, and she could use someone like that right now. “I know we’ll find them,” she said.

“We will. And now the best thing for you to do is go home and—”

“Not on your life, Matt Murphy.”

He blinked. “Um, you want to stay here? That’s fine, of course, but I was just thinking that under the circumstances—”

“You don’t have children, do you?”

“What’s that have to do with anything?”

“If you had children, you would never suggest that I go home and sit on my hands while everybody goes out looking for my daughter.” Power rose within her. She’d felt this kind of power once before, and it had allowed her to conquer her fear of airplanes and take Genevieve out of the poverty-stricken life of the Hollow.

Matt looked sympathetic. “I can understand that you want to do something, but this process is best left to the experts. They may need to talk to you and get a description of Genevieve and…what she was wearing this morning.”

Annabelle closed her eyes as a wave of grief washed over her. That sexy, flirty little dress. A dress to catch herself a man. Genevieve had been worried about how her nails would look for her grand adventure. Annabelle could still feel the imprint of her daughter’s fingers, could almost smell the polish.

“Annabelle, is there someone who could stay with you at home? You’re right, you shouldn’t be alone. I’d be wrong to send you home without making sure you have some support there.”

She opened her eyes and pushed aside the emotions swamping her. She had work to do. “If you think I’m going to stay at home and wait for some word, then you’re crazier than my cousin who wears a coonskin cap and thinks he’s the reincarnation of Davy Crockett. I’m going to help search. Can you fly a plane?”

His jaw dropped. “No, but I thought you were afraid of flying?”

“Like I said, you’ve never had children or you wouldn’t ask that, either. So you can’t fly. Can you handle a boat?”

“That I can do, but—”

“Good. Because I need someone who can either fly a plane or pilot a boat. To be honest, I like the boat better.”

Adrenaline poured through her. “Charter one big enough that we can sleep on. We’ll need room for you, me, and Lincoln.”

He was looking at her as if she’d gone crazy. “Who’s…who’s Lincoln?”

“My fourteen-year-old son. I wouldn’t dream of leaving him.”

“Listen, it might make you feel better to be out there, but we’d accomplish exactly nothing. You need specialized equipment like sonar.”

Her chest tightened up in fear, but she forced herself to breathe through the moment of panic and to look the ultimate horror in the face. “To find the plane under the water, you mean.”

He started around the desk. “I shouldn’t have implied they were under the water. I’m sure they’re fine. Annabelle, maybe you’d better sit down. You’re very pale.”

“I’m not sitting and I won’t faint on you, so don’t look so worried. I’m not after your precious plane, either. I aim to locate my daughter, and I’ll be better at that than any sonar or radar contraption in the world.”

“I’m sure you believe that, but—”

“If you won’t rent a boat and take me and Lincoln out there, I’ll find someone who will.” She felt like Gary Cooper walking down the street at high noon. “And when I rescue Genevieve, I plan to get me a really good lawyer and sue the pants off Rainbow Systems.”

Matt didn’t seem fazed by that threat. Instead he gave her a sad smile. “That kind of arm-twisting might work with another man, but you’re talking to a guy who’s been raked over the judicial coals by a very greedy ex-wife.” He shrugged. “Bankruptcy doesn’t scare me anymore.”

She remembered Genevieve talking about the divorce and how tough it had been on Matt in many ways, including his pocketbook. She understood what it felt like to have someone clean you out. It had happened twice with the handsome no-good fathers of her two children. “If you don’t have the money to rent the boat, then I’ll pay for that.” She had no idea how, but she’d manage.

“No, you won’t.”

Fire blazed within her. “Don’t you dare tell me what I can and can’t do! I’ve spent enough time jawing with you, anyway. If you’re not fixing to help me, then—”

“I’ll help you.”

“You will?” She’d about given up on him, and here he was coming around, after all.

“But I think you should have your son stay with someone instead of dragging him along.”

“If that’s the hitch, then we don’t have a deal. Lincoln goes.”

“But—”

“You know, it’s a good thing you don’t have children, if you can imagine leaving one of them behind to wait and worry by himself while his mother’s out hunting for his big sister. So thanks, but no thanks. I’ll hire a boat my own self.” She started toward the door.

“Okay. We’ll take Lincoln.”

She turned. “Good. Then let’s go.”

“Now?”

She’d lost all patience with him. “Yes, now! You’re not going to be slowing me down like an old mule with the rheumatiz, now are you?”

“No.” He glanced at his desk once, then threw up his hands and turned away from it. “Nope. I promise not to act like an old mule with the rheumatiz. Let’s go.”

* * *

“This reminds me of Christmas.” In the shade of the overhanging rock ledge, Genevieve sank to her knees in the sand next to her suitcase and flipped open the lid. She didn’t know which she was more excited about unpacking, her nail file, her hairbrush, or her lotion.

“Santa brings you suitcases of soggy clothes every year?” Jack crouched beside her.

“Very funny. I meant it feels like Christmas because we have this unexpected treasure to open. I’m referring to Christmas like I remember it back in the Hollow. Nobody could afford store-bought presents, so you never knew what strange and wonderful thing would appear under the tree with your name on it. One year my cousin Festus made me a party dress from corn husks and duct tape.”

“Creative.”

“It was a little scratchy, but I wore it until the mice ate so much of the corn husks that it was indecent.” She tossed her flip-flops into the sand and lifted out the South Park towel. “Lincoln made me the cutest bunny out of Play-Doh when he was six. Now he thinks he’s too cool to make his own gifts, but homemade presents are the best, don’t you think?” She wrung the towel out, letting the excess water drip on the sand beside her.

“I only ever had one homemade present. My grandmother crocheted an afghan for me one Christmas.”

“That’s wonderful.” She hadn’t heard much about Jack’s family before, and it was good to know he had some kin who cared enough to make him a cherished heirloom. She smiled at him. “I’ll bet you were touched that she’d spent all that time making something for you.”

Instead of smiling back and telling her that he used that afghan to this day on the foot of his bed, he dropped his gaze. “Actually, I…I told her I would’ve rather had a Nintendo.”

“You didn’t!”

“‘Fraid so.” He glanced up. “She sold the afghan and a couple more she had around the house, and got me the Nintendo.”

“That’s purely dreadful. I’m flabbergasted that your parents allowed such a thing to happen. Somebody should have tanned your hide for being so ungrateful.”

He looked as if he agreed completely. “Unfortunately, Grandma never had the heart to tan my hide, and my folks died when I was two months old, which is why I ended up with Grandma. Years later I realized I’d done a terrible thing by rejecting that afghan, but I never did work up the courage to apologize. I guess I’m hoping she’s forgotten.”

“Not likely, Jack.” She nearly forgave him, considering that he was an orphan and he had that hangdog look on his face. He really had a terrific face, too—squared-off and manly, nicely accented with remorseful blue eyes. A girl could fall for that combo if she wasn’t careful.

But he’d caused his poor grandmother to sell what should have been a keepsake, and he shouldn’t be let off easy for a transgression like that. “I’m sorry your parents died when you were no bigger than a minute, but I have to say you’ve treated your grandmother mighty poorly.”

“You’re right, I did. I’m scum.” He glanced at the beach towel in her hand. “Would you like me to drape that over the ledge?”

“Yes, thank you.” She handed him the beach towel. “What color was it?”

He stood and draped the towel across the ledge. “What?”

“The afghan, Jack. If you’re hoping that I’m going to forget, too, you’re barking up the wrong tree.” She squeezed the water out of her green suit jacket.

“I don’t know what difference the color makes to the discussion. It’s gone, in any case.”

“I just want to picture it, is all.” She handed him the jacket. “And I think you should picture it, too, as a fitting memorial to something that has departed from your life forever, because you didn’t have the good sense to appreciate the effort involved in creating it.”

He arranged the jacket next to the towel. “All right, I admit it was a rotten thing to do, but don’t you think you’re getting a little carried away with this subject?”

“Nope. I’ll bet she spent hours and hours bent over her work, all for love of you, Jack.” She squeezed water from the matching skirt and passed it up to him. “She probably even had poor eyesight and arthritis in her hands.”

Jack groaned.

“What color was it?” Next she wrung out her bathing suit and held it out to him.

“Orange and yellow, I think.”

“You think? You paid so little attention to it that you don’t even remember what color it was? Your sins are piling up on you, boy.”

“Okay, you might as well know the truth. I’m color blind.”

“Color blind?” She stared at him in astonishment. “Well, shut my mouth. That explains a heap of things. Why didn’t you tell me that a long time ago, when I was trying to do something about your look?”

He shrugged. “What difference would it have made? I couldn’t expect you to show up at my house every morning and pick out my clothes.”

That idea had more appeal than she wanted to admit. Dressing Jack would be fun, now that she realized he had a decent body. Undressing him wouldn’t be a real chore, either. “There is a solution, you know. Wear black.” She could see him in all black, too, looking better than those velvet paintings of Elvis that Aunt Maizie had in her front room.

“I’d probably mess that up and get navy or purple mixed in there.”

“Not if you asked the salesperson to sell you only black clothes.” She gazed up at him. “Right?”

“I guess.”

“You don’t want the salesperson to know you’re color blind, do you?”

When he didn’t answer, she figured this physical failing was a touchy subject for him. “Being color blind is nothing to be ashamed about,” she said more gently. “It’s not like it’s your fault or anything. Try being my aunt Nelda, who has six toes on her right foot. That’s not her fault, either, but you should see the way people make fun of her every blessed time she goes wading in the crick. She’s threatened never to go again, on account of that.”

He smiled down at her. “You sound like my grandmother. She used to tell me to be glad I had all my fingers and toes.”

“I’ll bet I would like your grandmother. Is she still alive?”

“Uh-huh. She lives in Nebraska. I’ve tried to get her to move over here, but she’s very attached to her little house and I don’t think she’d ever do it.” He glanced at the suitcase. “Anything else to hang up?”

Nothing but her pale blue underwear, and she was feeling a little shy about giving him that. She shouldn’t be shy. This was good old Jack, after all. Even so, she couldn’t just hand him her panties and bra. “That’s it.” She unzipped her makeup bag and took out her tube of sunscreen. “Come on back down here and I’ll put some lotion on your back.”

“Okay.” He crouched down with his broad back facing her.

Uncapping the tube, she squeezed coconut-scented sunscreen onto her fingers before laying the tube back inside the suitcase so it wouldn’t get all sandy. Then she rose on her knees and smeared the lotion over his right shoulder.

He flinched. “Yikes. That’s cold.”

“Sorry. It’s because your skin’s so warm.” Warm and smooth. Nice. His indoor-white color was starting to turn pink, but the sunscreen should save him from getting burned. She went back for more lotion, because there was a lot of area to cover.

And she was having a good time. If anyone had asked her before today, she would have said Jack probably had a bony, skinny back, but it wasn’t at all. He was firm and very touchable. She made several passes over his shoulders and then got more lotion before heading down toward the waistband of his jeans.

With the way he was crouched, the waistband of his jeans gaped at the small of his back, right where a sprinkling of hair followed his spine down under the elastic of his tighty whiteys. She wondered if he wore Fruit of the Loom or Hanes or Jockeys, like the pair the King had left in her grandmother’s bedroom.

Whatever the brand, Genevieve figured Jack would have great buns underneath the cotton. She never intended to find out about that. She’d never find out about what was on the flip side of those briefs, either, although parts of her were acting very interested in that area.

Time for a distraction. “Jack, I have the best idea. I’ll teach you how to whittle, and you can make your grandmother something. And when you give it to her, you can tell her how much you regret your behavior regarding the afghan, and this is how you’re showing it, by giving her a gift from the heart.”

“You whittle?”

Maybe she shouldn’t have told him. “I suppose you think that’s peculiar.”

“No. Well, maybe, a little. I always thought of whittlers as being old guys with beards sitting on a sagging front porch with a hound dog lying beside them and banjo music in the background.”

“Picture a barefoot little kid in place of the old guy with the beard, and you’ve painted it just about right. We always had coon dogs lying around, and I don’t know a single porch in the Hollow that isn’t slightly swaybacked. My uncle Harley was the best banjo picker in the hills of Tennessee. Or so he always told us.” She gave his back one final swipe. “There, you’re done.”

He stood and stretched, looking way too good doing it. “Thanks.”

“Put some on your chest and arms.” She thrust the tube of lotion at him.

“Then I’ll do you.”

She panicked at the thought. “That’s okay. I can reach everything that’s exposed.” If she felt as nice to him as he felt to her, they could get into trouble, with him having a crush and all. And her getting increasingly attracted. She knew it was on account of them being marooned and Jack being her rescuer. Once they were back in Honolulu she’d stop thinking of his hands and his mouth and his…other stuff.

She turned back to the open suitcase. There was another reason her thoughts were going in that direction. Six of them, to be exact, lay in the bottom of her suitcase. Now that she’d taken out everything except her underwear and her makeup bag, one or another of those six packets kept slipping into view. She thought the suitcase might have had elasticized side pockets once upon a time, but they’d been ripped out by the time she became the owner.

She shoved the packets under her bra and panties and makeup bag as she listened to Jack rhythmically slapping more lotion on his bare arms. It sounded like two people having sex. Two specific people. People marooned together who wouldn’t be discovered for hours and had six condoms.

“Did you bring a knife?” he asked.

“A knife?” She couldn’t imagine why he’d ask.

“To whittle with.”

“Oh.” She’d been so sidetracked by the image of having sex with him that she’d plumb forgotten about her offer to teach him to whittle. “No, but I have a pair of manicure scissors in my makeup bag. I could make do with those.” She turned to glance up at him and found herself having to look past his crotch in order to get to his face. She gulped. “Do you really want to learn?”

“It’d be a way to kill some time until we’re sure Brogan is gone for good.” His attention veered from her to the blue underwear in her suitcase. “Those look wet, too. Why don’t I hang them up?” He leaned over and reached one long arm toward the suitcase.

“Never mind.” She spread her hand protectively over her damp undies. “They’ll dry in there.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. So are you ready for me to teach you to whittle? First we have to find some small pieces of driftwood.” She had to change her position and change it fast. This view of his male equipment was not helping her mental condition at all. She got to her feet, but in the process kicked the suitcase slightly. The contents shifted.

“Whoa.” From the tone of his voice it was obvious he’d seen at least some of the condoms.

She banged the lid shut and avoided his gaze. “Never you mind about that, either.” She started toward the beach. “Come on. Let’s find something we can whittle.”

“Hold on.” He grabbed her arm. “You didn’t trust that smarm-meister to bring his own, and yet you were willing to go to bed with someone that irresponsible?”

“When it comes to makin’ babies, I don’t trust any man.”

His grip on her arm gentled, and a soft light came into his eyes. “You could trust me.”