Disclaimer: I do not own the storyline of tropical kiss nor the characters of south of nowhere.

"What time is the movie?" Spencer asked.

"I ended up talking to your father. How about if we just go down there and improvise?"

Ash asked.

"Sounds great," Spencer said happily. But now that she'd mentioned Arthur, she saw a window of opportunity. "Ash what exactly does my father do?"

Ash explained to her about the recent acquisition by a U.S. company of Aruba's oil refinery at the southern end of the island. She said Arthur's assignment here had something to do with that.

Spencer tried to figure how the five passports she'd seen in Arthur's desk could have anything to do with an oil refinery.

Something was definitely going on.

-------------------------------------------

He was late.

The heat was giving Spencer Carlin a headache. She looked at the long afternoon rays of Caribbean sun sliding toward her along the sidewalk. The bench she was sitting on occupied one of the few areas of shade remaining on the stretch of white concrete outside the airport terminal. Sun was positioned on her freckled Cincinnati Irish skin. She avoided it like the plague.

How much longer could he be? She thought, looking at her watch.

God, it was hot.

Spencer glanced over her shoulder at the sliding glass doors leading from the air-conditioned baggage claim area. When she stepped out of the plane an hour ago, it seemed like the entire population of Aruba was packed into that area. Now she knew why. The air was crisp. The white floors were shining. Even the green plants in the raised dividers looked happy and healthy. And cool.

But she hadn't stayed inside. Hobbling on her crutches and pulling her bags behind her, she had come out ahead of most of the tourists

She knew now she'd expected too much. Wished for the impossible. She'd thought Arthur might just be there to pick her up. Waiting for her.

Fat chance.

Aruba's airport was not exactly as busy as Cincinnati's Logan. The flight Spencer had come in on had been the only one arriving at the hour. There were no lines for immigration, no multiple conveyer belts running to process people's luggage. Everything came through quickly and without a hitch, it seemed. In and out within fifteen minutes. She stood in line longer to get a happy meal. A stamp on the passport and everyone as off to hotels and time-shares and whatever.

Spencer looked past the empty taxi stand at the rental car buildings across the way. The sun was blinding on the whitewashed concrete buildings. The entire place seemed deserted.

She breathed in the smells of baked Caribbean cement and jet exhaust. Gross.

Beyond the entrance to the airport, everywhere she looked, the heat was giving the island that hazy, mirage look. She could see in the distance, rising sharply above the flat surrounding area, one high rounded hill with a little white building on top.

"Come on, Arthur", she muttered, tapping her good foot on the pavement.

The sweat was trickling down the inside of the cast on her leg, and the itching was about to drive her crazy. Thank god she'd at least been smart enough to wear a light sundress. She lifted the limp blanket of hair off her neck. It didn't help. There was no breeze to cool her skin. She tied her hair back in a ponytail.

She thought of the magazine article she read on the plane from Cincinnati. The trade winds keep the island cool with year-round breezes. Yeah, right.

Spencer leaned over and tried to get a finger down inside her cast. Why was it that the itch was always just a little further down than she could reach? She pulled off her sunglasses and used one of the handles. She still couldn't get at it. The sun had finally reached her, and the rays were crawling up her legs. She gave up, gritted her teeth, and put her shades back on. Behind her the sliding glass doors opened and glanced around at them. A short, middle aged guy came out. Straw Indiana Jones hat, khakis, a large, untucked Hawaiian shirt. Spencer remembered seeing him on the plane. He'd been wearing his hat even then. Later on, as everyone was going up the ramp toward the Aruban customs area, he was walking a couple of steps ahead of her. He had a nose that looked like it had been chewed on by something, and the tan, leathery skin of someone who worked in construction or who had spent lots of hours in the sun anyway. He also didn't look like he was too hot on shaving. His chin could have easily been mistaken for the butt of some aging porcupine.

Looking at him now, Spencer had no idea about his nationality. She knew he wasn't American, though; she'd noticed that he had a different colored passport when he was heading to customs ahead of her.

As the doors closed behind him, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. He was carrying only a briefcase. She glanced at her two suitcases, the backpack, and her purse. Mistake. She didn't know what the heck she'd been thinking, packing so much stuff.

Like she was ever going to leave the house during the couple of months that she was stuck here in Aruba.

She got a whiff of his cigarette smoke and immediately became annoyed. The Last thing she needed was to have her asthma flare up. There was no air here as it was. Wheezing wouldn't be fun. He saw her looking at him. He smiled and started walking toward her.

Great, she thought. American girl abducted from deserted Aruba airport.

"Bon tardi," he said.

"I don't speak. . . Uh, Dutch?" she guessed, not really knowing what language he'd just spoken.

"Papiamento," he corrected. "The native tongue of Aruba."

"You're Aruban?"

"From the islands."

That wasn't much of an answer. There were lots of islands in the Caribbean.

He puffed on his cigarette and pushed back the rim of his hat.

"American?"

Wasn't it tattooed on her forehead?

"Yeah," she said, glad that she spread out her backpack and luggage on the bench. There was no room for him to sit down next to her.

"Your first time in Aruba?"

Spencer wished she could lie. The way he was looking at her was creeping her out. His eyes were kind of squinty, like he was sizing up some ripe cantaloupe.

"First time, she said, looking off toward the road. Two cars turned in from the main highway, but neither came toward the terminal doors.

"Boyfriend picking you up?"

"Not a boyfriend. She kicked herself after saying it. She didn't have to explain.

"Traveling by yourself?"

"No," she said right away. "Visiting my family. Visiting my father. He lives on the island."

"Works for the oil company?

"No."

He took another drag from the cigarette and blew the smoke in her direction. "Hotel business? Casino supervisor?"

"No." She pulled he crutches closer to her. They were the only two people out there on the sidewalk. She looked over her shoulder at the sliding glass doors of the airport building. The sun's reflection on them prevented her from seeing inside. She had no clue if anyone was even in there.

"Construction?"

"No," she answered under her breath. He had moved to where the bright yellow sun was behind him. She could no longer see his face because of the shadow. She decided to turn the tables on him. "Is someone picking you up?"

"How about if I give you a ride?'

"No. Thank you," she said tersely, guessing that he wasn't going to be much for answering questions. Still, she thought, a good defense was the best offense. . . Or the other way around. Whatever. "Do you have a car?"

He held one hand out, palm up. . . Like he was checking for rain. "What kind of man would I be if I had no car?"

"Then why don't you get in your car and get out of here?"

"You can come with me."

"No," she said louder and more pointedly.

"My father is coming to get me."

She could tell he was grinning at her. He dropped his cigarette on the clean sidewalk and crushed it out.

"No oil business, no hotels or casinos, no construction. I say you lie about your father. I think your boyfriend is standing you up. You come with me, I'll show you real island life."

For the first time, fear clutched at her gut. She was in a foreign country. The airport had turned into a ghost town. She had no cell phone. Great.

No that there was anyone she could call here anyway, considering the fact that Arthur had apparently forgotten she was coming to visit. Spencer looked over her shoulder at the doors again. The heck with her luggage. Maybe she could get inside. There had to be somebody. . .

"They locked the doors when I came out," he said, following the direction of her glance. "They want nobody to go in that way."

Porcupine butt picked up her backpack and dropped it on the sidewalk, making room for himself.

He sat, she stood. It was like a seesaw. She grabbed her crutches and tucked them under her arms. She wasn't familiar with the airport, didn't know where the other entrances were, but there was no reason for him to sense her fear.

"Unda bo ta bai?"

"English please."

"Where are you going?" He patted the seat next to him. Sit down. Visit with me."

"I don't think so." She hobbled backward a step. "I'd like to be left alone. Please go."

"A pretty girl like you shouldn't be left alone." Spencer's temper started to push back her fear.

"I don't know what your problem is, but I told you I'm waiting for my father. . . And he happens to be a high ranking official for the U.S. government. He's in Aruba on an assignment, and he has important people in high places. Very high places." Spencer wasn't about to say it but, from what she could tell, Arthur Carlin had spent his entire, boring, low-level, bureaucratic life behind a desk, pushing paper for those important people. "He should be here any minute. So unless you're looking for trouble, you should just leave me alone and be on your way." The sound of a car speeding on the road jerked Spencer's head around. Immediately her stomach sank. A new Black jaguar with tinted windows was racing toward them. She backed another step away from the curb as the car came up and screeched to a stop. She could hear loud Caribbean/rap music blasting even with the windows closed.

Somehow she doubted that Arthur was in that car.

"You wait for your father, I wait for my nephew. Old porcupine butt was smiling as he got to his feet. The driver revved the engine of the Jag. Even this close, Spencer couldn't see how many people were inside.

"Come with us?"

She shook her head and continued to back away. Her mind was racing. There could be two of them in the Jag, maybe three. They could force her into the car with them. She was liking this idea less and less. The music suddenly stopped.

As the car door started to open, she felt someone put a hand on her shoulder. Gasping, she whirled around and swung one of her crutches hard. The wood connected solidly with the knee of a woman behind her. She heard her curse out loud and stagger backward.

Right away, Spencer had a suspicion that she might have aimed wrong. The young woman holding her knee was dressed in knee high khakis and a white polo shirt with cawrie shell sandals. All in all, she looked too casual to be threatening, in spite of the continuing stream of muttered curses. Spencer saw her bend over and snatch her sunglasses from the sidewalk where they'd fallen. When she looked back at her, there was murder in her eyes.

"What the hell was that for!?"

"You grabbed me. It was self-defense."

"Self defense!?" She said, scowling. "I touched you on your shoulder. You weren't watching where the hell you were going. You were backing right into me!"

"You materialized out of thin air."

"I came out the side," she said. "These damn doors were locked!"

She was pretty tall, towering Spencer's 5'6 height by two inches, and had a nice build. Her brown hair was longish and curly, with red highlights on her front bangs. Pretty, but too serious. At least, right now she looked pretty serious. Spencer figured her ego had taken a bigger hit that her knees. She was still flexing her knee, but other than that, she didn't seem to be in too much pain.

"It's not nice to sneak up on people. And stop yelling at me."

"I didn't sneak up on you. You backed into me."

Her bronze eyes disappeared behind the sunglasses. "And you sure have some right to tell me to stop yelling. Aren't you even going to apologize?"

"I'm sorry," she told her. "But it wasn't like I hit you intentionally."

Spencer then jumped at the sound of the car door slamming. As she turned, the Jag sped off in the direction of the main road. Thankfully her annoying friend was nowhere to be seen. She'd had enough excitement. She'd just wait inside the terminal.

She hobbled back to the bench, picked up her purse and backpack, and slung the two items on her shoulder. The strap of the purse caught on one of the crutches. She tried to unhook it, but the backpack slipped off her shoulder, knocking over the two suitcases like a pair of dominoes. As she reached down to straighten them up, her glasses fell of the bridge of her nose. She tried to catch them but the purse -still tangled up with the crutch-stopped her. Spencer pulled the purse off her arm and took a step back, glaring at all the items in front of her.

"Behave," she muttered at the tangled mess of items in front of her.

All the while, the slim brunette watched this scenario with amusement.

"You must be Spencer Carlin."