He glanced over at me, and I was glad for the sunglasses covering his bright eyes. “Last night was fun.”
I nodded, flushing. “Oh, I meant to tell you Gisèle saw us.”
“At Le Ti?”
“She recognized you but not me. She didn’t suspect anything.” I held my tongue about the part about our looking like we were going to fuck right there in the club. “I overheard her telling Samira when she got in. Did you know they’re involved? Romantically.”
“C’est un secret de Polichinelle.”
An open secret. “So everyone knows?”
“But no one talks about it.” He slowed to let a pale pink Moke full of beautiful girls roar past on the narrow road, their hair whipping in the wind. “I think Tyson imagines it is for his benefit.”
I snickered. “Blinded by his own ego.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know anything about Samira’s first marriage?” I asked.
He glanced at me. “Another thing we do not talk about.”
“Encore un secret de Polichinelle?”
He smiled. “Yes.”
“But you know what happened?”
“I do not think anyone knows what happened.”
Right. “Do people think she did it?”
“Some people.”
“Do you?” I pressed.
He shrugged.“It is not for me to say.”
I bit back my frustration with his discretion, staring out my window as we came to a halt at a stop sign. “Do you want to see the site of the De-Sal center?” he asked.
“If we have time,” I answered more tartly than I intended.
But he didn’t seem to notice, calmly checking his watch before turning onto the one-way road, so steep my stomach leaped to my throat as we plunged downward. Branches scraped along the roof of the van, and a black-and-white cat sauntered along the top of a stone retaining wall so close I could have reached out and petted her if the window had been open.
Past a cluster of small green-roofed houses whose doors opened directly onto the street, the road curved to the right, but he made a sharp left turn onto a patch of dirt and cut the engine.
“We go through those rocks there.” He indicated a path that cut through two boulders between the dry bushes and scraggly trees. I looked down at my wedge sandals, wishing I’d worn flats as he came around the front of the van to offer me a hand down, which I accepted, then consciously released to close the door behind me before he could do it. He watched, amused, but didn’t comment.
“The path is not so bad,” he promised, noting my shoes as we made our way along the sandy shale toward the rocks.
He went ahead, turning back as he navigated a rock garden to again take my hand. I reluctantly let him, hating how aware I was of his smooth calluses against my palm.
The passageway opened onto a promontory that was perhaps ten by twenty meters, overlooking an inlet where turquoise water crashed against the cliffs below. To our left, the path continued along the rocky ridge; to our right, a sloping hillside tumbled down to a small beach. The view was breathtaking.
The sleeve of his fitted white T-shirt rode up, revealing his tattoo as he pointed at the bay. “The De-Sal center goes there,” he said.“And the developers have plans to build here.” He indicated the hillside.
“I can see why they’re upset,” I said.
“The land is…” He searched for the word, then switched to French.“Devalued.”I nodded to let him know I understood, and he continued,“But he won’t win. St. Barth’s has no natural source of water. We’ve been using desalination for over fifty years, but Tyson’s system is far better. It is good for the whole island.”