She leaned near the bathroom door, listening to the water, then returned her attention to the bag; she unzipped and spread the canvas. Surprisingly, the contents were neatly stacked, with the flannel shirt he’d worn into her cabin loosely folded on top. She rummaged through the clothes, searching among the shirts, sweaters—taking a moment to feel the silky, steel-blue one—cotton-knit jockeys, socks, jeans, and T-shirts. She smiled at the Señorita Largatija T-shirt Max had been wearing at her garage sale, looking freshly laundered and ironed—in spite of the stain—and neatly folded. Maeve Kendall, Daisy assumed. She kind of liked Maeve, or maybe it was admiration for any woman, mother or not, who held sway over Max.
Back to her search, she stopped when she hit the cowboy boots at the bottom. That fit the profile of a rogue; she ended her trespass and zipped up.
Another glance at the door, another listen for the shower, and Daisy hit the end pockets. What exactly she looked for she wasn’t sure; maybe just some clue to the man whom Fate had dropped in her cabin.
Stuffed in the end pockets were three paperback novels, two Louis L’Amour and one Stuart Woods. Not that she expected Deepak Chopra. She quickly thumbed through the pages for anything hidden between. Switching to the lone side pocket, she unzipped, her heart thumping as the clock ticked down on her available time. A wallet and a manila envelope. Why hadn’t she looked here sooner? She’d make a lousy detective.
She grabbed the cognac–colored wallet first, appreciating the expensive leather, still gleaming but with worn corners. Credit cards and ID stacked neatly inside, their top edges peaking from the pockets. She didn’t really have time for this, but she finagled one of the IDs from its sheath. Pilot’s license. Flying—the bane of her existence. Daisy stuffed the plastic back in. She spread the currency sleeve and was taken aback by all the bills. Dozens. All with the same portrait of Ben Franklin.
She could take one or even two and Max would probably never know. She tugged at a single hundred. Only a loan—if she didn’t need it, she could give it back. She would pay him back, once she got to Haines and a bank. If not there, she would send him a check when she got to Otter Bite. Oh hell, Daisy swore, swiping the bill and tucking it in her jeans pocket. All is fair.
Stuffing the wallet back into the side pocket, she then grabbed the envelope. She squeezed the brass wings together, lifted the flap, and dumped the contents.
Passport; two envelopes, one green, one orange; itinerary; and ticket carbons for the M/V Columbia and another set of tickets for the M/V Tustumena between—
Daisy did a double take.
Valdez and Otter Bite . . . ?
As valuable seconds ticked away, her brain scrambled for what this could mean. The truck’s final destination? And then what this could mean for her.
Setting aside the tickets, she grabbed the green and the orange envelopes she suspected were get-well cards. The green envelope contained a card signed With all our love, Mother & Da, and had a religious theme with rhyming verse and lilies. The other card had a photo of a basset hound on the front, and inside the single word Heal. But the real message was in the handwritten words . . . and the heart dotting the I’s.
If you need anything, just whistle. Love, Tina
Well, doesn’t that just figure? Daisy stuffed the card back into the envelope. Only a couple of business envelopes remained—cream-colored expensive stock. The return address was printed with the name and address of Max’s attorney, Clyde Standish.
No stamp on the envelope; the flap was unsealed. She pulled out a set of pages in a fold.
The shower. Daisy leaned toward the door. There was no sound of water. How long had it been off? And how long before Max opened the bathroom door? If he caught her going through his things, he’d never take her to Valdez in his very new, very expensive, very red truck. Pushing her luck, she quickly unfolded the letter.
Mr. Max Kendall
c/o Royce Raymond, Esq.
1407 W. 2nd Ave.
Anchorage, AK 99503
Daisy stared at the Anchorage address. Jiminy Christmas, how many lawyers did Max have? What did that mean, in care of? Maybe Max filtered all his legal entanglements through his attorney in Anchorage. Maybe Max traveled. Maybe Max was between homes. Maybe Max didn’t want anyone to know where he lived . . .
That fits, but it didn’t explain his ticket to Otter Bite on the M/V Tustumena—as it so happened, the same date as her departure, assuming she got to Valdez in time to make that date. Daisy started reading.
Dear Mr. Kendall:
Based upon our recent discussion, I am withdrawing the complaints filed with the court on 3 May against Ms. Daisy Moon and instead
A bump against the inside of the bathroom door. Her heart drummed in her ears as Daisy quickly fumbled the letter back into its envelope, stuffing it, along with its unread mate, into the manila envelope. She scooped up the remainder of items and poured them inside with the letters.
“Are you all right?” Daisy called, zipping up the evidence. She scrambled to her feet as the bathroom door cracked open.
Max poked his towel-draped head through. “Did you say something?”
“I heard something hit the door. Are you okay?”
“My knee. I lost my balance.” His eyes reflected suspicion at Daisy’s concern. “I should probably put my brace on.”
Daisy looked down at the brace and saw Max’s passport, the words United States of America in gold script peeking out from beneath his duffel bag.
“I’ll get it,” she volunteered, stepping on the writing and grabbing Max’s brace.
The door opened wider and specters of steam escaped into the cabin. Wearing jeans, but bare from the waist up and still suspicious, Max took his splint from Daisy. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“All right, what’s up?”
“Nothing.” Daisy smiled. “I’m just being helpful.”
“Exactly.”
Her smile waned. “Just because you and I have some . . . unfortunate history—”
“Unfortunate history?” Max rubbed his head with the towel, then slid the thick white cotton from his head and let it drape his naked shoulders. “That’s an innocuous way of putting it.”
Amusement sparked her eyes at the sight of Max’s damp, tousled hair, poking this way and that like a punk rocker. “Look, what happened at Mama Mia’s wasn’t my fault. I know you think it was, which is why you’re suing me . . .” Daisy paused, giving Max the perfect moment to confess that he’d withdrawn the lawsuit.
“I told you, it’s business.”
She huffed. Why was Max continuing this charade? “My point is,” But there was no way she could argue to the contrary without making her own confession, “just because stuff happened that wasn’t my fault doesn’t mean I’m completely unsympathetic. I got hurt, too.”
“That’s what happens when you throw beer at an angry drunk.”
“He grabbed me!”
Max leaned toward her. “He was drunk. You were taunting him and then gloating about it. That’s not how to walk away without a black eye.”
Daisy leaned forward. “He was flaunting his floozy.”
“Tina isn’t a floozy. If anything, she was trying to get him out of there. And did I mention he was drunk?”
“Well, I was a little drunk, too! I had just chugged two Midori-’n’-rums because someone was too cheap to leave the restaurant.”
“I am not cheap. I didn’t understand what was going on. Why the hell didn’t you tell me your ex was there?”
“Because it seemed soooo—”
“What?”
“—pathetic.”
Max flinched at the unexpected response; at Daisy’s unexpected vulnerability.
“I mean, you’d already seen my meltdown at the garage sale. And there was Charity’s lie about the tree chipper. And then the golf clubs. And I confessed about losing my job. You knew too much about me that wasn’t very . . . flattering. Having to leave Mama’s
because of Jason and Tina wasn’t something I wanted you to know.”
His blue eyes softened. “Believe it or not, Daisy, I would’ve understood.”
“Right, like you’ve ever run away from an ex.”
“God, no. But I can understand how a woman like you—”
Her left brow came perilously close to shooting off her forehead.
“What I mean is, a woman like you who has committed herself to a man and . . . is no doubt faithful, and then finds out her fiancé isn’t . . . well . . . Retreat is a good option . . .”
“Oh, please, stop.” Daisy rolled her eyes at his pathetic backpedaling. “Dry your hair. You look like a punk rocker.”
Max finger-combed his waves. “Your feelings . . . wanting to run . . . it’s really not pathetic.”
“But you’d never do it.” She shooed him away. “Just drop it.”
Max hesitated, then pulled the bathroom door closed.
Daisy fumed. The man was insufferable. The way he described her as being no doubt faithful made her sound like some Victorian throwback. Unlike Tina, who hadn’t a single Victorian inclination. And just how many exes did Max Kendall have? Probably one in every port—
Daisy shot her eyes to her foot and bent to grab Max’s passport.
The bathroom door opened. Daisy practically catapulted up, whipping her guilty hand behind her back.
Max looked at her, flashed on his bag, and then returned his eyes to her. “I hate to ask a favor,” he began after another glance at his bag. “But my hair dryer isn’t working. Can I borrow yours?”
“Sure.” Daisy curled her lips into a smile so contrived even she wouldn’t buy it.
“Anytime soon?”
“I’m, uh, trying to remember where I put it.”
“Suitcase, maybe?”
“Noooo . . .”
“A drawer?”
She shook her head. “Doubtful.”
“Closet?”
“Maybe.” She scrunched her face as if wrestling with a real dilemma. “Why don’t you go back into the bathroom and when I find it, I’ll knock.”
Max stepped forward, Daisy stepped back.
“I need my bag,” he said, bending to reach it. “Which, by the way, is where I normally keep my dryer.”
“Yeah, but your dryer is broken.”
“Okay.” He stepped back into the bathroom with his bag. “I’ll be waiting in here.”
“Okey-dokey.”
The door latched.
That damn, damn, damn passport! Of all the things not to put back in his bag. What if he needed it? What if he had a trip planned? Even crossing the border into Canada required a passport.
“This is what happens when you steal,” Daisy chastised herself. Well, she’d just have to figure some way to get it back in there before he discovered it missing. But that meant separating Max from his bag and he was surely taking it with him after they finished dinner. Unless. . .
Max straightened his knee then strapped on the splint over his jeans. He wiped the fogged mirror with a corner of his towel. But instead of checking his reflection, he turned away and lifted his duffel bag to the lidded toilet. A quick check here, a quick check there, everything seemingly intact, Max decided he was being paranoid. But it didn’t stop him from licking the flap on the manila envelope and sealing it, just in case. Because Daisy definitely looked guilty of something, even if it was just intent. Maybe he caught her before she’d snooped, not that he worried she’d find anything useful to her.
Money. But he’d checked his wallet and, although he didn’t count the bills, the wad was still pretty thick. Besides, Daisy might be a lot of things, but she was too proud and too honest to steal, no matter how dire her circumstances. Never mind that she’d sold Jason’s widescreen TV and Tina’s golf clubs. That was payback. But with Max, she’d been totally up-front about whose clubs they were and had even given him the chance to renege on the deal. He had found that amusing and admirable, in a weird sort of way. If all else failed, there was always guilt to keep Daisy on the straight and narrow.
A triple knock. He opened the door on a smiling Daisy with hair dryer in hand.
Speaking of guilt, Max thought about her excessive smile . . . and recently-glossed lips?
“Here y’ go,” she said as if she might break into song.
“I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
“Take your time. I’ll be out here. Waiting.”
Yep. Something smells rotten in Denmark. Max plugged in the dryer and faced himself in the mirror. A few minutes of hot air and he was done. Raking fingers through his dark waves, he let them fall naturally. Appraising his clean-shaven reflection, he caught the line of pink skin over his right temple. He fingered the healing gash.
So why hadn’t Daisy visited him in the hospital?
Of course, he was suing her. And he had slept with her ex-fiancé’s fiancée. Ouch. It was probably safe to say that Daisy didn’t like him all that much. Maybe even stronger than that.
Still, Daisy hadn’t even tried to see him while he was in the hospital; not a card, phone call, flowers, nothing. He couldn’t decide which bugged him more—that she hadn’t tried to see him or that it bugged him that she hadn’t tried.
Pride. Pride had kept Daisy from his bedside. Had he really expected differently?
He regretted the lawsuit. But he had hospital bills and now he couldn’t work, which meant he’d have to hire someone else to do his job. On top of that, he was out $647 when he’d given the golf clubs back to Tina . . . who, by the way, had visited him in the hospital three times, not to mention the visit he’d made to her condo after his release.
Besides, Daisy obviously had money. She had just sold an expensive house in an expensive neighborhood and she owned a Lexus—until it was stolen. Still, she’d been the executive chef at a posh restaurant, undoubtedly well paid. Bottom line, Daisy could well afford $25,000 to help him out of the predicament she’d put him in.
Not only that, Daisy still hadn’t apologized for all the damage she’d caused—or, more recently, for accusing him of being a thief and a stalker—although she’d had plenty of opportunity this afternoon when he’d bought her lunch.
“That’s right,” Max said to the mirror. “I bought her lunch.” It didn’t matter that he’d had ulterior motives; she still got fed, which was obviously all she cared about. When it came down to it, for all the pain and suffering she’d caused him, Daisy was getting off pretty damn easy.
If only she’d told him why she wanted to leave Mama Mia’s. Never mind that fleeing from Jason was a little pathetic—although he actually did understand. Those few minutes they’d spent quibbling over her drinks could’ve been spent escaping. And Max wouldn’t have this brace on his leg or a scar above his eye or Daisy on his hands.
But not for long. Max patted aftershave on his neck and cheeks. Tomorrow they docked in Ketchikan and Daisy would be off the Columbia and on a southbound ferry to Bellingham. Max would be in Daisy’s cabin, on his way to Haines. Like two ships passing, they’d never see each other again.
Chapter Eleven
“This place is busy,” Daisy said while she and Max waited at the hostess station for a table. A wall of windows port, bow, and starboard showcased the reason most were on this ferry—cloud-piercing mountains, voluptuous spruce, and diamond-blue waters. All washed by a golden sun beginning to drop in a cerulean sky, but far from sunset. Nowhere in that vast wilderness was the tiniest evidence of human intrusion. Alaska wasn’t called the Last Frontier for nothing, Daisy thought, entranced by the landscape.
Max looked around the dining room as if he hadn’t already noticed the crowded tables or the waitstaff hustling from one place-setting to the next like hummingbirds to nectar—pouring water, delivering food, clearing dishes. Happy voices rose above the background noise of silverware on porcelain and congenial conversation as a casually dressed foursome entered the room.
“Captive audience,” Max said. “Not a lot of options.
”
A half frown. “I think the food is pretty good.”
“That’s right. You had a hot date here last night.”
Daisy’s intended retort was thwarted by the hostess.
“Reservations?”
Daisy looked at Max, rolled her eyes, and said no.
“Table for two?” the sunny hostess asked, pulling menus and a wine list from the rack without waiting for confirmation.
With Daisy and Max following, the hostess wended her way between diners and oases of plants while cutting through spheres of translucent amber shining down from the ceiling. They arrived at a far table crowded against a wall in a partial alcove. She handed each their menu, promised a waiter, then left, still smiling.
“Well, it’s not the greatest table,” Daisy remarked, scooting her chair in. “We should’ve made reservations.”
“I like it.” Max pushed up the sleeves of his cobalt-blue sweater and landed his elbows on the table. “I’ve got my back covered and I can see all the action.”
“Expectin’ trouble, Hopalong?”
“I like privacy,” Max explained, his voice deep and his words slow. “Besides, it’s the food I care about.”
“Dining out should be as much about ambience as it is about food. Subdued lighting, flickering candles, sparkling crystal, gleaming silverware, where each of the fork tines are perfectly aligned and the pieces match in pattern—”
Max glanced down at his setting, noting the slight bend in the outer tine of the dinner fork. Like he cared . . .
“—And the linen should be crisp and creamy white, never stark white, without a wrinkle, or a stain, not even a water mark. The napkins folded precisely, each edge and corner aligned with the next, and the china evenly glazed without the minutest dull patch—”
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