Chapter 1
Laine’s arrival at Honolulu International Airport was
traditional. She would have preferred to melt through
the crowd, but it appeared traveling tourist class catego-
rized her as just that. Golden-skinned girls with ivory
smiles and vivid sarongs bestowed brilliant colored leis.
Accepting both kiss and floral necklace, Laine wove
through the milling crowd and searched for an informa-
tion desk. The girth of a fellow passenger hampered her
journey. His yellow and orange flowered shirt and the
twin cameras which joined the lei around his neck at-
tested to his determination to enjoy his vacation. Under
different circumstances, his appearance would have
nudged at her humor, but the tension in Laine’s stomach
stifled any amusement. She had not stood on Ameri-
can soil in fifteen years. The ripe land with cliffs and
beaches which she had seen as the plane descended
brought no sense of homecoming.
The America Laine pictured came in sporadic
patches of memory and through the perspective of a
child of seven. America was a gnarled elm tree guard-
ing her bedroom window. It was a spread of green grass
where buttercups scattered gold. It was a mailbox at the
end of a long, winding lane. But most of all, America
was the man who had taken her to imaginary African
jungles and desert islands. However, there were orchids
instead of daisies. The graceful palms and spreading
ferns of Honolulu were as foreign to Laine as the fa-
ther she had traveled half the world to find. It seemed
a lifetime ago that divorce had pulled her away from
her roots.
Laine felt a quiet desperation that the address she
had found among her mother’s papers would lead to
emptiness. The age of the small, creased piece of paper
was unknown to her. Neither did she know if Captain
James Simmons still lived on the island of Kauai. There
had only been the address tossed in among her moth-
er’s bills. There had been no correspondence, nothing
to indicate the address was still a vital one. To write to
her father was the practical thing to do, and Laine had
struggled with indecision for nearly a week. Ultimately,
she had rejected a letter in favor of a personal meet-
ing. Her hoard of money would barely see her through
a week of food and lodging, and though she knew the
trip was impetuous, she had not been able to prevent
herself. Threading through her doubts was the shim-
mering strand of fear that rejection waited for her at the
end of her journey.
There was no reason to expect anything else, she
lectured herself. Why should the man who had left her
fatherless during her growing-up years care about the
woman she had become? Relaxing the grip on the han-
dle of her handbag, Laine reasserted her vow to accept
whatever waited at her journey’s end. She had learned
long ago to adjust to whatever life offered. She con-
cealed her feelings with the habit developed during her
adolescence.
Quickly, she adjusted the white, soft-brimmed hat
over a halo of flaxen curls. She lifted her chin. No one
would have guessed her underlying anxiety as she
moved with unconscious grace through the crowds. She
looked elegantly aloof in her inherited traveling suit of
ice blue silk, altered to fit her slight figure rather than
her mother’s ample curves.
The girl at the information desk was deep in an en-
joyable conversation with a man. Standing to one side,
Laine watched the encounter with detached interest.
The man was dark and intimidatingly tall. Her pupils
would undoubtedly have called him séduisant. His rug-
ged features were surrounded by black hair in curling
disorder, while his bronzed skin proved him no stranger
to the Hawaiian sun. There was something rakish in
his profile, some basic sensuality which Laine recog-
nized but did not fully comprehend. She thought per-
haps his nose had been broken at one time, but rather
than spoiling the appeal of the profile, the lack of sym-
metry added to it. His dress was casual, the jeans well
worn and frayed at the cuffs, and a denim work shirt
exposed a hard chest and corded arms.
Vaguely irritated, Laine studied him. She observed
the easy flow of charm, the indolent stance at the coun-
ter, the tease of a smile on his mouth. I’ve seen his type
before, she thought with a surge of resentment, hover-
ing around Vanessa like a crow around carrion. She
remembered, too, that when her mother’s beauty had
become only ashadow, the flock had left for younger
prey. At that moment, Laine could feel only gratitude
that her contacts with men had been limited.
He turned and encountered Laine’s stare. One dark
brow rose as he lingered over his survey of her. She
was too unreasonably angry with him to look away.
The simplicity of her suit shouted its exclusiveness, re-
vealing the tender elegance of young curves. The hat
half shaded a fragile, faintly aristocratic face with well-
defined planes, straight nose, unsmiling mouth and
morning-sky eyes. Her lashes were thick and gold, and
he took them as too long for authenticity. He assessed
her as a cool, self-possessed woman, recognizing only
the borrowed varnish.
Slowly, and with deliberate insolence, he smiled.
Laine kept her gaze steady and struggled to defeat a
blush. The clerk, seeing her companion’s transfer of at-
tention, shifted her eyes in Laine’s direction and ban-
ished a scowl.
“May I help you?” Dutifully, she affixed her occupa-
tional smile. Ignoring the hovering male, Laine stepped
up to the counter.
“Thank you. I need transportation to Kauai. Could
you tell me how to arrange it?” A whisper of France
lingered in her voice.
“Of course, there’s a charter leaving for Kauai
in...” The clerk glanced at her watch and smiled again.
“Twenty minutes.”
“I’m leaving right now.” Laine glanced over and
gave the loitering man a brief stare. She noted that his
eyes were as green as Chinese jade. “No use hanging
around the airport, and,” he continued as his smile be-
came a grin, “my Cub’s not as crowded or expensive
as the charter.”
Laine’s disdainful lift of brow and dismissing survey
had been successful before, but did not work this time.
“Do you have a plane?” she asked coldly.
“Yeah, I’ve got a plane.” His hands were thrust in his
pockets, and in his slouch against the counter, he still
managed to tower over her. “I can always use the loose
change from picking up island hoppers.”
“Dillon,” the clerk began, but he interrupted her with
another grin and a jerk of his head.
“Rose’ll vouch for me. I run for Canyon Airlines
on Kauai.” He presented Rose with a wide smile. She
shuffled papers.
“Dillon...Mr. O’Brian is a fine pilot.” Rose cleared
her throat and sent Dillon a telling glance. “If you’d
rather not wait for the scheduled charter, I can guaran-
tee that your flight will be equally enjoyable with him.”
Studying his irreverent smile and amused eyes,
Laine was of the opinion that the trip would be some-
thing less than enjoyable. However, her funds were low
and she knew she must conserve what she had.
“Very well, Mr. O’Brian, I will engage your ser-
vices.” He held out his hand, palm up, and Laine
dropped her eyes to it. Infuriated by his rudeness, she
brought her eyes back to his. “If you will tell me your
rate, Mr. O’Brian, I shall be happy to pay you when
we land.”
“Your baggage check,” he countered, smiling. “Just
part of the service, lady.”
Bending her head to conceal her blush, Laine fum-
bled through her purse for the ticket.
“O.K., let’s go.” He took both the stub and her arm,
propelling her away as he called over his shoulder in
farewell to the information clerk, “See you next time,
Rose.”
“Welcome to Hawaii,” Rose stated out of habit, then,
with a sigh, pouted after Dillon’s back.
Unused to being so firmly guided, and hampered
by a stride a fraction of his, Laine struggled to main-
tain her composure while she trotted beside him.
“Mr. O’Brian, I hope I don’t have to jog to Kauai.” He
stopped and grinned at her. She tried, and failed, not
to pant. His grin, she discovered, was a strange and
powerful weapon, and one for which she had not yet
developed a defense.
“Thought you were in a hurry, Miss...” He glanced
at her ticket, and she watched the grin vanish. When his
eyes lifted, all remnants of humor had fled. His mouth
was grim. She would have retreated from the waves
of hostility had not his grip on her arm prevented her.
“Laine Simmons?” It was more accusation than ques-
tion.
“Yes, you’ve read it correctly,” she said.
Dillon’s eyes narrowed. She found her cool façade
melting with disconcerting speed. “You’re going to see
James Simmons?”
Her eyes widened. For an instant, a flash of hope
flickered on her face. But his expression remained set
and hostile. She smothered the impulse to ask hundreds
of questions as she felt his tightening fingers bruise
her arm.
“I don’t know how that concerns you, Mr. O’Brian,”
she began, “but yes. Do you know my father?” She fal-
tered over the final word, finding the novelty of its use
bittersweet.
“Yes, I know him...a great deal better than you do.
Well, Duchess—” he released her as if the contact was
offensive “—I doubt if fifteen years late is better than
never, but we’ll see. Canyon Airlines is at your dis-
posal.” He inclined his head and gave Laine a half bow.
“The trip’s on the house. I can hardly charge the own-
er’s prodigal daughter.” Dillon retrieved her luggage
and stalked from the terminal in thunderous silence.
In the wake of the storm, Laine followed, stunned by
his hostility and by his information.
Her father owned an airline. She remembered James
Simmons only as a pilot, with the dream of his own
planes a distant fantasy. When had the dream become
reality? Why did this man, who was currently tossing
her mother’s elegant luggage like so many duffel bags
into a small, streamlined plane, turn such hostility on
her at the discovery of her name? How did he know fif-
teen years had spanned her separation from her father?
She opened her mouth to question Dillon as he rounded
the nose of the plane. She shut it again as he turned and
captured her with his angry stare.
“Up you go, Duchess. We’ve got twenty-eight min-
utes to endure each other’s company.” His hands went
to her waist, and he hoisted her as if she were no more
burden than a feather pillow. He eased his long frame
into the seat beside her. She became uncomfortably
aware of his virility and attempted to ignore him by giv-
ing intense concentration to the buckling of her safety
belt. Beneath her lashes, she watched as he flicked at
the controls before the engine roared to life.
The sea opened beneath them. Beaches lay white
against its verge, dotted with sun worshipers. Moun-
tains rose, jagged and primitive, the eternal rulers of the
islands. As they gained height, the colors in the scene
below became so intense that they seemed artificial.
Soon the shades blended. Browns, greens and blues
softened with distance. Flashes of scarlet and yellow
merged before fading. The plane soared with a surge
of power, then its wings tilted as it made a curving arch
and hurtled into the sky.
“Kauai is a natural paradise,” Dillon began in the
tone of a tour guide. He leaned back in his seat and lit
a cigarette. “It offers, on the North Shore, the Wailua
River which ends at Fern Grotto. The foliage is ex-
ceptional. There are miles of beaches, fields of cane
and pineapple. Opeakea Falls, Hanalei Bay and Na Pali
Coast are also worth seeing. On the South Shore,” he
continued, while Laine adopted the air of attentive lis-
tener, “we have Kokie State Park and Waimea Canyon.
There are tropical trees and flowers at Olopia and Mene-
hune Gardens. Water sports are exceptional almost any-
where around the island. Why the devil did you come?”
The question, so abrupt on the tail of his mechanical
recital, caused Laine to jolt in her seat and stare. “To...
to see my father.”
“Took your own sweet time about it,” Dillon mut-
tered and drew hard on his cigarette. He turned again
and gave her a slow, intimate survey. “I guess you were
pretty busy attending that elegant finishing school.”
Laine frowned, thinking of the boarding school
which had been both home and refuge for nearly fif-
teen years. She decided Dillon O’Brian was crazed.
There was no use contradicting a lunatic. “I’m glad
you approve,” she returned coolly. “A pity you missed
the experience. It’s amazing what can be done with
rough edges.”
“No thanks, Duchess.” He blew out a stream of
smoke. “I prefer a bit of honest crudeness.”
“You appear to have an adequate supply.”
“I get by. Island life can be a bit uncivilized at times.”
His smile was thin. “I doubt if it’s going to suit your
tastes.”
“I can be very adaptable, Mr. O’Brian.” She moved
her shoulders with gentle elegance. “I can also over-
look a certain amount of discourtesy for short periods
of time. Twenty-eight minutes is just under my limit.”
“Terrific. Tell me, Miss Simmons,” he continued
with exaggerated respect, “how is life on the Conti-
nent?”
“Marvelous.” Deliberately, she tilted her head and
looked at him from under the brim of her hat. “The
French are so cosmopolitan, so urbane. One feels so...”
Attempting to copy her mother’s easy polish, she ges-
tured and gave the next word the French expression.
“Chez soi with people of one’s own inclinations.”
“Very true.” The tone was ironic. Dillon kept his
eyes on the open sky as he spoke. “I doubt if you’ll
find many people of your own inclinations on Kauai.”
“Perhaps not.” Laine pushed the thought of her father
aside and tossed her head. “Then again, I may find the
island as agreeable as I find Paris.”
“I’m sure you found the men agreeable.” Dillon
crushed out his cigarette with one quick thrust. Laine
found his fresh anger rewarding. The memory of the
pitifully few men with whom she had had close con-
tact caused her to force back a laugh. Only a small
smile escaped.
“The men of my acquaintance—” she apologized
mentally to elderly Father Rennier “—are men of ele-
gance and culture and breeding. They are men of high
intellect and discerning tastes who possess the manners
and sensitivity which I currently find lacking in their
American counterparts.”
“Is that so?” Dillon questioned softly.
“That, Mr. O’Brian,” said Laine firmly, “is quite so.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want to spoil our record.” Switch-
ing over to automatic pilot, he turned in his seat and
captured her. Mouth bruised mouth before she real-
ized his intent.
She was locked in his arms, her struggles prevented
by his strength and by her own dazed senses. She was
overwhelmed by the scent and taste and feel of him. He
increased the intimacy, parting her lips with his tongue.
To escape from sensations more acute than she had
thought possible, she clutched at his shirt.
Dillon lifted his face, and his brows drew straight
at her look of stunned, young vulnerability. She could
only stare, her eyes filled with confused new knowl-
edge. Pulling away, he switched back to manual control
and gave his attention to the sky. “It seems your French
lovers haven’t prepared you for American technique.”
Stung, and furious with the weakness she had just
discovered, Laine turned in her seat and faced him.
“Your technique, Mr. O’Brian, is as crude as the rest
of you.”
He grinned and shrugged. “Be grateful, Duchess,
that I didn’t simply shove you out the door. I’ve been
fighting the inclination for twenty minutes.”
“You would be wise to suppress such inclinations,”
Laine snapped, feeling her temper bubbling at an alarm-
ing speed. I will not lose it, she told herself. She would
not give this detestable man the satisfaction of seeing
how thoroughly he had unnerved her.
The plane dipped into an abrupt nosedive. The sea
hurtled toward them at a terrifying rate as the small
steel bird performed a series of somersaults. The sky
and sea were a mass of interchangeable blues with the
white of clouds and the white of breakers no longer
separate. Laine clutched at her seat, squeezing her eyes
shut as the sea and sky whirled in her brain. Protest was
impossible. She had lost both her voice and her heart at
the first circle. She clung and prayed for her stomach
to remain stationary. The plane leveled, then cruised
right side up, but inside her head the world still revolved.
Laine heard her companion laugh wholeheartedly.
“You can open your eyes now, Miss Simmons. We’ll
be landing in a minute.”
Turning to him, Laine erupted with a long, detailed
analysis of his character. At length, she realized she was
stating her opinion in French. She took a deep breath.
“You, Mr. O’Brian,” she finished in frigid English, “are
the most detestable man I have ever met.”
“Thank you, Duchess.” Pleased, he began to hum.
Laine forced herself to keep her eyes open as Dil-
lon began his descent. There was a brief impression
of greens and browns melding with blue, and again
the swift rise of mountains before they were bouncing
on asphalt and gliding to a stop. Dazed, she surveyed
the hangars and lines of aircraft, Piper Cubs and cabin
planes, twin engines and passenger jets. There’s some
mistake, she thought. This cannot belong to my father.
“Don’t get any ideas, Duchess,” Dillon remarked,
noting her astonished stare. His mouth tightened.
“You’ve forfeited your share. And even if the captain
was inclined to be generous, his partner would make
things very difficult. You’re going to have to look some-
place else for an easy ride.”
He jumped to the ground as Laine stared at him with
disbelief. Disengaging her belt, she prepared to lower
herself to the ground. His hands gripped her waist be-
fore her feet made contact. For a moment, he held her
suspended. With their faces only inches apart, Laine
found his eyes her jailer. She had never known eyes so
green or so compelling.
“Watch your step,” he commanded, then dropped
her to the ground.
Laine stepped back, retreating from the hostility in
his voice. Gathering her courage, she lifted her chin
and held her ground. “Mr. O’Brian, would you please
tell me where I might find my father?”
He stared for a moment, and she thought he would
simply refuse and leave her. Abruptly, he gestured to-
ward a small white building. “His office is in there,”
he barked before he turned to stride away.
