It was small, green, and tranquil—and it was a long way from L.A. What the hell was he going to do here for six long weeks? He zipped up his jacket, stuffed his hands into the pocket of his slacks, and shrugged his broad shoulders, the act half in resignation to his immediate future and half in defense against the cool wind blowing through the narrow channel. What was it Paul called this place? * * * "Salt Spring Island is a jewel, Quinn,” Paul said. “A real jewel. Right up your alley. There's cycling, hiking, scuba diving—and great fishing. No problem for you to occupy yourself." "I'll pass on the fishing, thanks, but the cycling will be good—and maybe the hiking. I could use the time to get in shape." Paul Severns looked across the lunch table at him and arched a brow. "Yeah, you're falling to pieces, big guy. Anyone can see that. The star of my latest picture should look so good." "Maybe so, but the last six months have been nothing but one damned meeting and one jet after another.
