She needed to conserve her energy. She had no idea how tonight would play out, but she intended to be awake through every second of it. So far, everything she’d planned before she’d left New Orleans had come to fruition. Getting rid of her excess things. Making her way down to Key West. Finding someone who’d take her across to Cuba. It was the next step in Havana that threw all the questions in the air.
But it was a waste of energy to even think about it. One step at a time.
The setting sun was busy transforming the sky into shades of citrus when she returned to the transit station. Another busload of people was disembarking, and mingling in with the crowd, she made her way to the lockers and removed her suitcase and Peter’s cane. After a couple of minutes in the bathroom, she’d changed into jeans and a T-shirt, and put sneakers on her feet. With her teeth brushed, she was ready to get moving again.
The only practical way to carry the cane was to hold the silver owl. So, with her satchel handbag secured diagonally across her torso and her suitcase trailing behind her, she used the cane like it was her own walking stick and sauntered out of the bus station.
The trek back toward the marina was now familiar; however, the setting sun had transformed the streets into intimidating gauntlets. During the day, they hadn’t felt so uninviting. Drunkards spilled out of dim doorways and showed her enough unwanted attention that the hairs on her neck bristled. She’d run if she needed to. She’d fight if she had to.
Her decision to keep the cane shifted from being just a sentimental choice to a brilliant one, as it elevated the sturdy wood from being a link to her past to an efficient weapon. Should the need arise. With her grip intensified on the owl, she picked up her pace and had the wheels of her suitcase sounding like rolling thunder on the uneven pavement.
She arrived safely at the marina at 8:30 that evening with a cool sweat and a dominating thirst. Ignoring both, she slinked into the shadows, eager to spot Marshall’s arrival. From her vantage point, she could watch the entire marina complex and the entrance to the main wharf. There were a few people about, mostly couples and small groups who, based on their laughter and wobbly legs, appeared to have been drinking for hours.
Several boats were lit up like Christmas trees, displaying both their owners’ opulent wealth and their blatant disregard for precious energy. Some of the yachts were so enormous they were as big as mansions. The one closest to her was called Slave to the Ocean. The giant ship had sleek lines and polished chrome railings, and although she didn’t have much experience with marine vessels, she guessed it would be worth millions. The one beside it was just as big, as were all the other ones she could see from her position. It had her pondering if her crossing to Cuba was going to be surrounded by sheer luxury. It’d be a nice change.
Nine o’clock came and went, and with every passing minute, her hopes sank lower. She hadn’t even considered that Marshall would renege on his commitment. He didn’t strike her as that kind of guy. Then again, she’d been wrong before. Peter was a perfect example.
It was another twenty minutes before she conceded she’d been duped. With her cane in one hand and the handle of her case in the other, she left her concealed spot and headed away.
“You’re late.” The first words she heard from Marshall were not friendly ones.
She spun to the voice and saw him striding up the central wharf, toward the main entrance. Halting her stride, she unclamped her jaw. “No, I wasn’t. You are. Nine o’clock you said, and it’s half past.”
He pointed at the wrought-iron arch. “I told you to wait there. So I’ve been looking for you there.”
“What? I haven’t seen you.”
“Of course, you haven’t. You were hiding in the shadows. Why?”
Even if she had a good answer, she didn’t want to tell him anyway. “I thought our agreement was that you wouldn’t ask questions.”
“Lady, I don’t know what agreement you’re referring to, but it ain’t with me. We haven’t even agreed on a price.” His eyes were enigmatic and his face utterly masculine, especially when he clamped his jaw.
She strangled the silver owl in her grip and angled her chin up to him. “Okay, Mr. Crow, what is your price?”
Something flitted across his gaze before his shoulders softened and his eyes drifted skyward, as if he was searching for the answer. She found herself admiring his strong jawline and snapped her eyes away before he returned his attention to her. “How about I show you my boat first?”
“No, thank you. I don’t need to see it. I just need your assurance that you can get me there fast and at a fair price.”
The edge of his mouth curled, bordering on a smile, yet his eyes showed surprise. Maybe Mr. Crow wasn’t accustomed to dealing with a woman who spoke her mind? If that was the case, then they were in for an interesting trip.
He collected himself by placing his feet shoulder width apart. “You want fast, right?”
“Correct.”
“In that case it’s going to cost four hundred.”
“Done.”
His eyebrows launched upward. “That’s not how this is supposed to work, you know.”
“What’s supposed to work?”
“Haggling. I say a price, you undercut me. Eventually we meet in the middle.”
Nerves and confidence became one in her brain, and she didn’t want either to show her naïveté. “I assumed you were a man I could trust.”
His expression washed with confusion. “You’re correct.”
“In that case, I trust you to charge me the going rate.”
“Hmm. That price is one way. I assume you want a return trip?”
Strangling the silver owl in her fist, she broke eye contact. Charlene hadn’t thought that far ahead. But the answer was obvious. “Of course, I want a return trip.”
“Okay then. When?”
“When?”
“Yes, when exactly did you want to return?”
His question had her nerves fraying, and she glanced away, silently debating a suitable response. A crescendo of raucous laughter sounded behind her, and she spun to watch a group of three young couples stagger onto the main wharf. Grateful for the interruption, she stepped aside for them to pass and systematically contemplated a suitable answer to his question. She wouldn’t leave Cuba until she had her answers. But she didn’t want to stay even a day longer than she needed to.
Once the noisy group had faded into the shadows, she finally met Marshall’s gaze, and his expression signaled he’d been waiting her response.
But she was taken off guard by his emerald-green eyes. They were flecked with copper that shimmered in the surrounding yachts’ twinkling lights. But it was something else she saw in them that had her breath catching in her throat. Honesty. Integrity. Loyalty. But, most of all, security. She hadn’t felt safe in months, yet within a couple of minutes in Marshall’s company, she already felt like he’d protect her with his own life. It was an overpowering sensation.
He lowered his gaze first. “Look.” He rubbed his hands together, emitting a rough sandpaper sound. “Let’s get going, and you can fill me in on the finer details once we’re underway.” He grabbed her case without asking, turned on his heel, and strode down the wharf, with the suitcase wheels making enough noise to wake anyone lucky enough to be sleeping in the opulent yachts around them.
After a moment of bewilderment, she dashed after him.
The marina was much bigger than she’d initially thought, and the boats gradually became smaller with each berth they passed. It was several minutes before he stepped onto a side wharf. He finally stopped at a boat that for some reason seemed to perfectly suit him. It wasn’t ostentatious like many of the boats they’d passed. Its shiny chrome proved that he looked after it, and it seemed efficient and practical, much like her first impressions of Marshall.
She glanced at the name.
“Miss B Hayve?”
He cocked his head at her. “Yeah. You have a problem with that?”
His tart response had her wondering if she’d hit a nerve. “Not at all.”
“Good. Follow me.” He stepped onboard with her bag in hand and headed down a set of steps.
Charlene followed him down the polished wooden steps, holding the railing as she went. The room below was bigger than she’d thought it would be and was decorated in honey-colored wood, stainless steel, and navy-blue fabric. His military training could well be the driver behind the immaculate condition everything was in. He carried her case to the far end and plonked it on a bed that must’ve been custom-made to fit the triangular space.
He turned to her and seemed to be much taller in the enclosed space. Broader too. “What do you know about boats?”
After a second’s pondering, she decided to give him one of her father’s favorite sayings. “I don’t know what I don’t know.”
The muscles along his jawline bulged. “Right then. Come and give me a hand.”
“Yes, boss.”
He shuffled past her to climb the steps. “Captain. Not boss.”
“Yes, sir.” She giggled, plonked her handbag onto her suitcase, and then followed him up the stairs.
She stood at a central position on the lower back deck, while he pulled in the gangplank and nestled it alongside the rail. “What do you want me to do?”
“Can you unhook the bowline?” He didn’t elaborate by pointing out what he meant, and she assumed this was a test. Aware that he was watching, Charlene climbed a set of three stairs and edged along the narrow ledge toward the front of the cabin cruiser. She knelt down at a rope dangling over the side and tugged on it to edge the boat closer and provide some slack. At the perfect moment, she flicked it from the T-shaped cleat on the wharf, and when the loop holding the boat in position released, she flipped it up to catch it and then looped the length of rope into position.
When she stood and turned to where she’d last seen Marshall, his gaze perfectly depicted a man impressed. Her intentions were complete. “What next?”
“Come on back, and we’ll get underway.”
She retraced her steps and met him on the small lower deck. Behind him, she spied a smaller boat elevated in a secure position at the back. It was wrapped in white canvas that showed zero signs of aging. Just like the rest of the cruiser.
“Ladies first.” He indicated the set of steep stairs that led to the upper flybridge.
As she climbed up, she tried not to picture him looking at her butt. Men were like that, though. Her years of waitressing had taught her to ignore the ogling. Most of the time. When it became too creepy, she was known to spill the odd drink or two on the culprit. Twice she’d had men that didn’t get the hint, and both times she’d applied enough pressure to the nerve below their collarbones to have them on their knees long before the security guards caught onto the situation.
She’d always thought Peter’s insistence that she learn martial arts was because of the nature of the “cheap-labor” jobs she’d held. But maybe he’d had a grander plan. Maybe he always knew that his secrets would eventually be revealed. And maybe, all along, he was preparing her for this mission.
That was a lot of maybe’s. Too many.
She turned her attention back to her current situation.
The flybridge at the top of the stairs was fully contained, giving them an elevated view while protecting them from the elements.
“Take a seat.” Marshall’s gruff voice showed his no-nonsense attitude, and she instantly scrubbed the potential for small talk from her unwritten agenda.
On the front console, the steering wheel was positioned in the center, so she sat on the right-hand side of the white leather seat, allowing plenty of room for Marshall. He plonked himself at her side and flicked a couple of switches, triggering the engines.
Within a few minutes, they left the berth and were navigating their way out of the marina. Marshall remained silent, so she did too. Over the years, she’d learned that some people were just wired that way, and if Marshall didn’t want to talk, that was fine with her.
In the distance, the ocean was as black as the sky, and the only lights were the red and green markers highlighting the shipping channel. As they passed the last set of berths, Marshall pointed toward the last boat tied up alongside the wharf. In the dimmed marina lights, it appeared to be a dirty mustard color, and the canopy over the bulkhead was tilted at a precarious angle. “That’s Warren’s boat.”
She assumed he was seeking recognition for saving her, so she turned to him and met his gaze. “Thank you.” She contemplated elaborating, but decided that he didn’t seem to need nor want that.
“You’re welcome.” He pushed the throttle forward, and the boat quickly gained speed.
He waited until the marina lights were barely a few dots behind them on the horizon before he cleared his throat. “You can head downstairs and sleep if you want.”
“Oh no, no. I’m not tired, thanks.”
“Hmm.” Silence again.
It was a further ten or so minutes before he adjusted in his seat. “You don’t talk much, do you?”
“Neither do you. I figured you weren’t the conversational type.”
“You told me not to ask questions.”
“Not true.” She gave in to a smug smile. “I asked you not to ask too many questions.”
“Right.”
“Aren’t you going to ask for your money?”
“You’ll pay me.” He said it with a confident smirk.
She half giggled, half huffed. “Oh, I will, will I?”
“Yep. Or else you’ll be living on Cuban soil for a very long time.”
He had her there. She had no intention of staying any longer than she needed to. Not that she had anything to come home to. She didn’t even have a home. Charlene should be used to that. There’d been many times in her life when she didn’t have a home. But now—now that she was homeless and alone—it seemed so much sadder.
“So, you know what we’re doing is illegal, right?” As his cast-iron glare captured her eyes, she decided that he must’ve held a high rank in the military.
“Yes. I’m aware of that.”
“Are you going to tell me why you have to get to Cuba in a hurry?”
She angled her head up at him and decided to reply using one of her father’s tricks. “Army, navy, or air force?”
“Hmm, that’d be a no then.” He shifted his eyes back out to the blackness surrounding them. “Navy. How’d you guess?”
“I’ve seen my share of military personnel.”
“Yeah, how so?”
“I spent a bit of time in Charleston, South Carolina.”
“Huh. What’d you do there?”
She shrugged her shoulder. “Waitressing.”
“Is that where you learned your boating skills?”
Although she’d barely shown him anything yet, she liked that he was impressed enough to call them skills. “No, we spent a bit of time on a houseboat in Austin, Texas.”
“Texas. You get around a bit, huh?”
“You could say that.” After her experience with Detective Chapel, she had no intention of trying to explain her nomadic life to anyone ever again.
“Right then.” He rolled his eyes at her. “Change subject.”
“Why did you leave the navy?” She decided to take charge of the conversation.
“I didn’t leave.”
As much as she wanted to bite, she remained silent instead. Miss B Hayve plowed through a wave that Charlene hadn’t spotted, and as she clutched at a chrome rail to stop from hurling forward, water washed up over the windshield.
“I was medically discharged.”
He showed no concern over the height of the wave that’d just en
gulfed them, so Charlene tried to quell the anguish welling up inside her. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Color blindness.”
She huffed. “That’s very unfortunate. How long were you enlisted?”
“Fifteen years.”
“Wow, you must’ve joined up young.”
“Thank you. Yes, sixteen.”
For the first time since they’d met, he smiled, and the transformation was stunning. It changed him from a man who seemed to be going through the motions of life to a young man, eager to please. She liked what she saw. It showed another layer to Marshall that she hoped to see more of. “That’s so young. I had no idea what I wanted to do when I was sixteen.”
“So what did you do?”
She huffed. “Everything. And nothing.”
“Cryptic.”
“Waitressing. Bar work. Whatever paid the bills.” Before he could ask another question, she added, “So are you married, have kids?”
“Nope. I was engaged once. To a Cuban woman. No kids.”
“Really? How did you meet her?”
“I was stationed at Guantánamo Bay for a while. I thought it was love, she thought it was her ticket out of Cuba. Not that I blame her. It was pretty rough for a woman back then. Still is, I guess. I still see her from time to time.”
Charlene’s ears pricked up as she realized Marshall’s knowledge of Cuba might be able to help her with more than just a trip across the ocean. “So you cross over to Cuba often?”
He cocked his head at her, his lips drawn into a wry grin. “I’ll answer that when you tell me why you’re going to Cuba.” Then he leaned forward and flicked a switch, plummeting them into absolute darkness.
Chapter 13
The instrument panel offered enough light for Marshall to see Charlene’s wide eyes and clenched jaw, yet he was impressed that she didn’t completely wig out.
Out of Luck Page 10