Two

Astute? How arrogant.

“Hello,” he said.

Imogene’s nose lifted a notch. “We’ve already met.”

He looked puzzled.

“You saved my box of chocolates. I tried to thank you, but you were—” She shrugged.

“Otherwise occupied?”

“Clearly.”

He gave her a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry.”

She had noticed his height and his broad shoulders and that he was more than passingly handsome. What she had missed was the impact of his dark, expressive eyes.

One deep breath and she decided to forgive him.

“How did you know those Brahms folk songs?” he asked, moving toward her. “They’re not often played on the jukebox.”

“I accompany my college glee club. It’s a medley we sing. Where did you learn them?”

“In my college glee club.” By now he had reached the piano. “I really must have been very preoccupied,” he said, his expression admiring, “not to have noticed you.”

“You didn’t seem very happy.”

The smile slid from his eyes. “You’re right. Home for the holidays, and I was thinking of all I’ll be missing.”

“Me, too. Where’s home?”

“Japan. You?”

“The Philippines. Negros Island. My father owns a copra plantation in Pamplona.”

“Mine builds—boats. So what college glee club do you accompany?” he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

“Occidental College.”

Builds boats? Big? Small? Big! He could afford to give his son an American education and bring him home first-class. “Where do you go to school?”

“I’m a grad student at Stanford.” He leaned against the piano and crossed his arms. “I know Occidental. You have a great track team.”

“Do you run track?”

“Football. We had a chance for the championship this year.”

“Had?”

“Well, have, I suppose,” he said dolefully.

“Even without you?” she teased.

He shrugged.

He certainly had the build for a football player. She swallowed. Not all Japanese athletes had to be sumo wrestlers.

“Let me guess.” She leaned her elbow on her crossed knee. Resting her chin in her hand, she assessed him. “You’re certainly not a tackle—and not big enough for a back.” She straightened. “I’d say you’re either a quarterback or an end.”

His grin told her she had hit the mark.

“Which is it?”

“End. You know your football. I’m impressed.”

Suddenly shy in the beam of his admiring gaze, Imogene murmured, “One doesn’t have to play a game to understand it.”

“No,” he replied, and their gazes held.

“So you’re their star end who catches all the passes,” she said lightly, breaking the spell.

He assumed a modest expression. “I caught my share, I hope.”

“Enough so they’ll miss you?”

He shrugged again, but his grin told her they would.

“I’m Imogene Pennington.” She extended her hand.

Taking it in his, the young man bowed slightly. “Jimmu Yamashida—Jimmy.” And he continued to hold her hand, as his dark eyes smiled into hers.

His grasp was firm but gentle, and she thought his eyes gentle, too, and honest. He had the eyes of a man one could trust.

The momentary calm suddenly erupted into a heave that sent Imogene rocking across the piano bench. Only Jimmy’s tightened grip kept her from sliding off completely.

“Perhaps we can find you a safer place to sit,” he said, taking her arm. “Or we could go to the ballroom. I daresay there’ll be plenty of room on the dance floor.”

“It’s still open?”

“And there’s a combo. I looked in after dinner.”

“You weren’t in the dining room, unless you were at the first seating.”

“No, the second one, but the dining room was empty when I looked, so I had my dinner sent to my cabin. It’s not much fun to eat alone.”

“A minute later and you wouldn’t have been alone.” She cast him a sweet smile.

He was about to reply when another dip sent her staggering against him. His arm swept around her.

She giggled nervously. “Already we’re dancing, and we’ve yet to hear the music.”

They lurched down the long, carpeted corridor, arm in arm, until they finally reached the ballroom.

It was suitably dim, with a stage and dance floor and a faceted glass ball spinning out minuscule rainbows of fractured light.

On stage the trio—drums, a piano, and a bass—swayed more from the motion of the sea than the music, but neither the couple holding hands at a nearby table nor the lone man sitting next to the dance floor seemed to notice or care. Nor did Imogene or Jimmy, who found their own private corner.

“That was quick,” Jimmy remarked, as the steward returned with their beverages almost immediately. “But then it wasn’t a complicated order.” He lifted his drink. “Cheers.”

As their glasses met, so did their gazes.

Imogene took a sip. “You don’t have an accent. Were you born in America?”

“No. In Japan. But from the time I can remember, I was tutored in English. Then I was sent to boarding school in the States. And, of course, Stanford.”

“So you’ve spent more time in America than in Japan.”

“Since I was ten.” He took a sip of his cola.

“But still Japanese is such a different language from English that I’d expect some residual inflection or cadence.”

Jimmy smiled. “That’s the musician in you speaking. I’m glad to know I achieved my goal so successfully.”

“To lose your accent?”

“To lose the slightest vestiges of it. As a kid I wanted to fit in. I couldn’t do anything about my looks, but I could about my accent.”

Silently Imogene studied him, seeing the lonely child he must have been, far away from family and friends, thrust into an atmosphere so completely foreign. A bit as she felt when she’d first come stateside. Until her loving friends at Occidental College had taken her under their wings.

“So you became a cultural chameleon,” she said.

“I never thought of it like that. But, yes, I suppose I did.”

“And now you’re going home to Japan, where you will become Japanese again.” Her voice was quiet.

“Unless I jump ship in Hawaii.”

❧

He didn’t want to go back. That was the truth of it. Deep down inside, Jimmy had an ominous feeling that he would never return to America.

As he gazed into Imogene’s large, violet eyes, eyes so filled with warmth and understanding, he realized how much would be lost to him. Suddenly the young woman sitting before him became a symbol of that loss. He wanted to hold onto her for what she represented, individuality, joy—freedom.

He wanted to hold onto her for what she was, beautiful and compassionate.

At Stanford he was a minority of one and as such, acceptable. He spent weekends with friends in Hillsborough but knew enough not to ask out their sisters. He dated Mills College girls but was rarely taken home to meet their families.

But here was this beautiful young woman, intriguing, with a mysterious hint of the Eurasian about her, cosmopolitan, intelligent, who seemed to see him not as a Japanese, but as a man.

He stood and reached for her hand. “Let’s dance.”

❧

Imogene melted so easily, so naturally into Jimmy’s arms. The combo was playing “Bye Bye Blues,” and the two moved together, feeling as one the languid rhythm of the slow, syncopated beat, holding each other as the ship dipped and rose, not wanting to let go. Laughing when a sudden jolt sent them spinning, clinging.

“This is getting dangerous,” she giggled.

He leaned back, smiling into her eyes. “So I’m learning more about Miss Imogene. Willing to face danger. She’s not only beautiful but brave.”

“Or reckless.”

The man who had been sitting alone at the table arose and moved toward them on unsteady legs. “Jimmu, old man.” His speech was thick, his accent British.

“Didn’t recognize you from the back, Langston—though I should have.”

He was taller than Jimmy and heavier. A shock of white-blond hair fell across his thick brow, and his blue eyes were so pale as to be almost transparent. “Only fair you should share the wealth.” He gave Imogene a crooked smile and grabbed her arm. His teeth were as bad as his breath.

“I think not.” Jimmy pivoted away, placing himself between the man and her.

The man stumbled forward. “Daddy wouldn’t like that.”

“Daddy isn’t here,” Jimmy growled. “Now get lost.”

“Jus’ doin’ my job,” the man persisted, lurching after them.

“Your job does not include annoying the lady.” Jimmy pulled Imogene from the dance floor and toward their table.

She felt his anger in the grip of his hand and the fierceness of his stride. She saw it in his narrowed eyes.

Once she was seated, he turned on his aggressor. And, although he pulled the man away and his voice was low, she could hear his words, measured, precise. “You can do your job in the United States; you can do it in Japan. But on this ship you’ll leave me alone, or you’ll find yourself floating in the Pacific.” He swung the man around and, with the help of the storm, sent him stumbling through the door.

Jimmy’s face was still grim as he sat down across from her.

“You—you didn’t really mean that, did you? The part about throwing him in the Pacific?” Imogene asked, overwhelmed with the possibility that he might. After all, what did she know about Jimmu Yamashida except what he himself had told her?

Jimmy laughed, a short, harsh laugh, but his expression relaxed. “Of course I didn’t mean it.” He covered her fingers reassuringly with his. “Would you have asked that question if you thought I did?”

Imogene paused. “Well, it did cross my mind. But, I guess, no.”

He squeezed her hand and smiled, the warm, diffident smile she found so beguiling.

She knew she should let the incident drop. Clearly Jimmy was ready to. But curiosity got the better of her. “Who is he?”

“A friend of my father’s” was the short, unsatisfactory reply, as Jimmy withdrew his hand and lifted his glass.

It was well after midnight, although Imogene could hardly believe it. They walked along the promenade, her arm linked in his as he held onto the rail, the wind howling around them. Through the steaming glass an occasional flash of lightning defined the slanting horizon and the frothing sea.

The ship creaked and strained and suddenly fell.

Jimmy swung Imogene around, imprisoning her with his arms, as his hands clutched tightly to the rail on either side. He was pitched against her, then thrust away from the too-familiar closeness.

Arms entwined around the other’s waist, they finally wove their way back along the enclosed deck, giggling, bumping against the walls, holding each other up against the bucking storm.

“Like a couple of drunken sailors, if I didn’t know better,” Jimmy said.

Imogene could have partied all night. The pressure of propriety was the only reason she’d insisted on ending the evening. “I think you brought me the long way home,” she observed, smiling up into his eyes.

“Why wouldn’t I? I don’t want this night to end. In fact,” he said softly, leaning against her stateroom door and gazing down at her, “I’d not complain if it went on forever.”

The warmth in his gaze and the low timbre of his voice set off an alarming and unfamiliar response in Imogene.

Her heart fluttered.

Always it had been she who was in control. She knew very well a young man’s fancy and how to captivate him. Now it was as if her own wiles were being used against her.

She lowered her eyes. She didn’t know where to look.

His high-polished shoes? His satin cummerbund? The front of his starched white shirt?

Her breath caught.

His jaw. His lips. She couldn’t seem to drag her gaze any higher than his lips. Sculpted, firm, mobile.