Volcano by Patricia Rice

had that concern come from?
    She suffered a moment’s unreasonable dismay before the object of her fear sauntered from behind the beach umbrella stand at some signal from Mr. Henwood. She would recognize her roommate’s hulking shoulders in that red muscle shirt anywhere. The damned man dressed like a pig. He probably rode a Harley. No, she mentally corrected herself. Good ol’ boys like Charlie Smith drove battered red pickup trucks with “No Fear” stickers in the window.
    Her horror and fear turned to disgust. A man like that would poke his nose in where it didn’t belong, like a gawking voyeur at an accident scene. Rude, crude, and uncouth.
    As if he’d heard her thoughts, Charlie glanced up the hill in her direction. Penelope imagined him straining to see her, and she had the foolish urge to duck from sight. He couldn’t possibly pick her out from the other diners.
    To her dismay, she saw him speak intensely with Henwood and the policeman, pound the slightly built manager on the back—probably enough to make him wince—and saunter off in the direction of the beach stairs. And her.
    She would not panic. She had no reason to panic. She would sit here and eat a civilized breakfast like any rational person on a lovely day like this. Then she would introduce herself to the office staff and go to work. Perfectly logical, sane, and safe.
    Until the disruptive force with the improbable name of Charlie Smith swept onto the veranda.
    Heads swiveled as he muscled his way past tables of decently dressed couples. Waitresses in their triple-knotted head scarves stopped and gawked as he winked in their direction. He swiped a glass of juice as he passed the juice bar, sprawled in the chair across from her, threw back the juice, glanced around, and, discovering a coffeepot, got up and helped himself. On a second thought, he carried the pot to the table and poured Penelope some.
    â€œAct calm,” he ordered as he poured. “Drink your coffee while I talk.” He returned to his chair, swigged from his cup, and grimaced. He hadn’t shaved, and the stubble of the beard darkened his angular jaw in a manner Penelope wanted to label “criminal,” but her libido yelled “sexy!”
    For a moment, Penelope had the dizzying sensation that Charlie’s bronzed shoulders and piercing blue eyes had obliterated her surroundings. Shaking her head, she forced her gaze away from the mountain of masculinity across from her. She had to get out of here.
    Charlie caught her hand and pressed it to the table as she started to rise.
    â€œNo. Listen. There’s a body in the boat we brought in last night.”
    Oh, God, this couldn’t be happening. Penelope sank back into her seat and stared at him, willing herself not to believe.
    Tension tightened the muscles of his unshaven jaw. The blue of his eyes had frosted into ice. He exuded fury. Not fear. Fury. He held her pinned with his glare.
    â€œAn old man, a harmless one. He played in the streets for coins. But Michel knew everyone, heard everything. He helped me out more than once when I was a kid. Jacques looked out for him when he could. Now Jacques has disappeared and Michel is dead. I’ve got to find Raul and get out of here before something else happens.”
    Penelope wanted to ask him who Raul was but she had a sneaking suspicion it was the man whose life was purportedly in danger, the one she didn’t want to hear about. The rest of Charlie’s words alarmed her enough: an old man who had helped him out. Penelope let the words wash over her, tried not to let them sink in. But instinct, intuition, some sixth sense she hadn’t known she possessed screamed warnings. “An old man?” she questioned. “Tall, skinny? Carved bowls?”
    Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “You saw him? When?”
    â€œHe warned me about the muggers last night. He led me to you. Do you think...?”
    â€œHell,