To the Ends of the Earth / The Danvers Touch

by Elizabeth Lowell

  Cat closed her eyes and concentrated on the pain of her nails digging into her hands. When the time is over.

  Not even if, just when.

  She hadn’t known how simple and devastating a single word could be.

  And the worst part of it was that she still wanted to go with Travis, even if it was for only two weeks, two hours, a minute.

  “No,” she said tightly. “I can’t. There’s too much I have to do. Ashcroft’s book. Some small jobs I’ve lined up. My show in L.A. Your book.”

  Travis could feel Cat slipping away. It enraged him. They wanted each other so much they were vibrating like a sail in a storm, and she was turning her back on it. On him.

  “Christ!” Travis snarled. “Weren’t you listening earlier? I know how important money is to you! I’ll be glad to pay for the time you spend with me.”

  “What?”

  “That’s the first smart question you’ve asked,” he retorted, deliberately misunderstanding her. “Five thousand dollars for a five-day trip to Australia. All expenses paid, of course, including clothes if you’re worried about it.”

  Cat was too shocked to answer. Her body had gone cold, all passion drained by Travis’s relentlessly reasonable voice and cool, measuring eyes.

  “No, that wouldn’t be enough,” Travis said as though Cat had refused an opening bid. “Not for a photographer like you. Ten thousand dollars. How about it? Ten thousand dollars for five days.”

  Holding herself very carefully, Cat climbed off the bunk. When she spoke, her voice was thin from the effort she made not to scream at him.

  “If you stopped buying women, you might just find out that there are women who can’t be bought.”

  “Twenty thousand.”

  Cat stepped backward and looked at Travis for a long moment. His face was closed. His eyes measured her with bleak assurance, certain that she would allow herself to be bought when the price went high enough.

  “Forty.” Travis’s voice was like an ice pick chipping away at her composure. “Fif—”

  “No.”

  “Sixty. It would solve all your problems, Cat. The tuition, your mother, even a chunk of your house. Hell, I’ll throw in some digital camera gear and a computer to go with it. Five days. Sixty thousand. Okay?”

  She spun around and yanked open the cabin door.

  “Running won’t do any good,” he said flatly. “I’m tired of all the games and uncertainty between us. I’m not letting you go until we agree on how much you need.”

  “Money?”

  “What else?”

  Rage shot through Cat. “Screw you!”

  “That’s the whole idea, darlin’,” he drawled.

  “Then screw yourself, T. H. Danvers—if you can agree on a price.”

  Cat slammed the door behind her, raced up topside, and ran the length of the deck. For an instant she hung poised against the shimmering moonlight. Then she flew from the Wind Warrior’s stern in a graceful dive that barely disturbed the dark surface of the harbor.

  The water was chilly, but the shock waves of adrenaline that pumped through Cat’s body kept her from feeling anything. With swift, angry strokes, she swam to the steps leading up the pier to the parking lot.

  Dripping, shaking as much from emotion as from cold, she climbed the stairs and ran to her car, grateful that she had put her keys in her pants pocket instead of in the purse she had left behind on the Wind Warrior. As she unlocked the car she heard the snarl of the Zodiac’s engine.

  “Too late, you thickheaded bastard,” she said through chattering teeth. “I’m gone. Go buy some other woman.”

  Cat was out of the parking lot and accelerating down the harbor road before the Zodiac reached the dock. She had one satisfying glimpse of an infuriated Travis silhouetted on the dock with his legs braced and his hands on his hips.

  Then the road turned and he vanished.

  Not until Cat drove into her garage did she remember what sheer rage had made her forget. She had left more than her purse behind.

  Her cameras were on board the Wind Warrior.

  FIFTEEN

  CAT AWOKE from a daze that was more like a trance of exhaustion than true sleep. Dawn poured over her bed and filled the room with light. Automatically she looked through the open curtains toward the radiant sea.

  A man’s black figure cut across the shimmering waves, swimming powerfully, leaving a shadowed wake behind.

  She watched while emotions warred in her and questions hammered her like hail.

  Is Travis thinking of me?

  Is he still angry?

  Does he wonder if I’m watching him swim like a god through the heart of dawn?

  Why did we have to meet now? Given enough time, I would have gotten past his cynicism to the man beneath, the man I could love.

  The man who could love me in return.

  Cat didn’t like hearing her own fierce longing put in words, even in the silence of her own mind. She swept off the tangled covers and shot out of bed, buoyed by a surge of adrenaline.

  The floor was cold beneath her feet. She shivered and rubbed her arms, remembering last night and the chill that even a steaming bath hadn’t been able to ease. But she didn’t want to think about last night. It had taken her three hours to get to sleep. Three hours of trying not to care, not to remember.

  Yet even in her sleep there had been no peace. She had endured four hours of fragmented dreams, dreams that dragged her to the brink of consciousness only to let go of her at the last instant, sending her spinning back down into troubled darkness.

  Dreams of cameras that didn’t work, broken lenses, slides warped and torn . . . hell presided over by a shadow figure whose power was exceeded only by his grace, a voice as compelling as the heat that radiated from him; he was smiling, touching her, and she was burning.

  Grimly Cat yanked on her clothes. She had had enough of her dreams last night. She refused to be captive to them in daylight. Anything was better than that.

  Even trying to figure out how she was going to get her cameras off the Wind Warrior.

  At least Travis had gotten home, even though she had driven off and left him without transportation. That meant she wouldn’t have to confront him on the ship when she went to pick up her camera gear.

  Cat tried to be grateful that she wouldn’t be face-to-face with Travis again, but gratitude wasn’t what she felt. She felt used up, spent, baffled, exhausted. The spurt of adrenaline that had goaded her out of bed was already gone. She was fresh out of anger to keep herself going.

  With dragging feet she went to the kitchen, hoping that a cup of tea would put energy back into her. The first thing she saw was the blinking light on her answering machine. Even as the swift hope came that Travis had called to apologize to her, she slapped the thought aside.

  He had been as angry as she was. Besides, he didn’t see that he had done anything to apologize for. A simple business transaction, that’s all.

  Cat hit the play button and listened. Diego’s clear, apologetic tenor lifted into the silence, saying her name. Her neck prickled. She doubted that she would like what she was going to hear next.

  “Captain Danvers instructed me to tell you to pick up your camera equipment at nine o’clock this morning on board the Wind Warrior. If that is not convenient, please call the following number and make an appointment.”

  Staring out the window, trying to work up energy to replace emptiness and aching, Cat barely listened to the number Diego gave her. She kept telling herself it shouldn’t hurt that Travis was as eager to avoid her as she was to avoid him. Being hurt didn’t make sense. But she felt pain just the same, gnawing away at her, bleeding what little strength she had.

  Cat couldn’t see Travis anymore. He was a shadow lost among other shadows, and the colors of dawn flowed like wine over the ocean waves.

  Breathing raggedly, she tried to shake off the pain and unhappiness that whipsawed through her. She should be out shooting now, when the light was best, t
aking pretty pictures for the pretty poet with the skim-milk mind.

  But her cameras were out of reach. Like her heart. Locked up on an elegant black ship owned by a pirate who didn’t know the value of love, only money.

  Beneath the hot sun, Travis paced the length of the Wind Warrior wearing only swim trunks, a dark T-shirt, and deck shoes. The sun had taken forever to crawl above the ragged line of the land into Southern California’s empty sky. Time was moving like it was chained to the deck. Yet even time in chains had to pass somehow. Eventually.

  He looked at the shadows cast by the sun and knew that Cat would be coming soon, lured by the damned cameras that meant more to her than anything, most especially Travis Danvers. He was tempted to meet her out on deck, but didn’t trust himself. Or her. He hadn’t forgotten her swift, graceful dive from the ship’s stern.

  The memory of it still made him furious. He hadn’t laid a finger on her, yet Cat had fled over the railing as though he was no better than the drunken wife beater she had married before she was old enough to know better.

  Hell, the way she acted, you’d think I had taken a whip to her. All I did was offer her enough money that she wouldn’t have to work herself into the ground. Enough money that she would have time to enjoy life a little. With me.

  Granted, he hadn’t made the offer with much finesse. But she hadn’t exactly made it easy. Every time he tried to talk about how much money she needed in order to make room in her life for him, she acted as though she was deaf. Or she got angry.

  Travis had been telling himself all night that Cat must have been holding out for marriage; that was why she had been so coy on the subject of money. But even as angry and frustrated as he was, he couldn’t fully convince himself that marriage had been on her mind. Unless she was a staggeringly good actress, the look of shock on her face when he had accused her of trying for a gold ring had been as genuine as her outrage when she stormed out of the cabin.

  Then screw yourself, T. H. Danvers—if you can agree on a price!

  Warily his mind circled around the dangerous, alluring possibility that had made his night a hell of restlessness. What if Cat wasn’t an actress? Did she really want to be with him for no other reason than the pleasure of his company?

  Prickles of unease snaked coldly through Travis. If he had learned nothing else last night, he now knew how much he wanted to take Cat at her word. The depth of his hunger to believe in her shook him. He couldn’t trust his judgment. Not where she was concerned. He wanted her too much.

  Needed her even more.

  She said she didn’t want marriage. Hell, she insisted on it. So why not just do it her way? Nothing said. Nothing nailed down. Nothing paid. Just enjoy each other and take the days as they come until there aren’t any more days.

  Then I’ll step into the wind and sail to another place, another time, another . . .

  But for the first time in his life, Travis couldn’t imagine another woman in his bed. Anger and an uneasiness that was barely a breath away from outright fear warred within him. Before he could discover which was more powerful, the sound of the Zodiac’s engine ripped across the water toward him.

  Soon Cat would be here.

  He was damned if she would find him hanging around like a lovesick teenager.

  Other than a polite greeting, Diego didn’t offer conversation to his passenger. Cat was grateful. It was all she could do to control her nerves. Small talk was beyond her. She was too worried about running into Travis on the ship. She didn’t have the energy to face him now. She felt frayed, fragmented, no more strength than a handful of sand.

  Travis won’t be there, she assured herself quickly. Even if he is, he won’t bother me. He wants to buy a woman and I won’t be bought.

  Yet Cat’s hands trembled as she climbed aboard the ship. She felt as faded as the cutoff jeans and blue work shirt she wore.

  “This way, if you please,” Diego said. “Your equipment is in the captain’s cabin.”

  Her throat closed and her stomach flipped, but nothing showed on her face as she followed Diego down to Travis’s cabin. Her camera bags—all five of them—were lined up neatly on the bed. Next to them, on the pillow, lay a pen and sheets of paper covered in angular printing that fairly shouted of T. H. Danvers’s male hand moving furiously across the lines.

  “Please read these,” Diego said, “and then sign where indicated.”

  “What?” Cat asked, startled.

  Diego’s eyelids flinched, but he said nothing more. He simply handed her the papers and stepped back.

  She flipped through the sheets. They contained a summary of the contents of each camera bag, down to serial numbers where appropriate. She didn’t understand why Travis had bothered until she read the last page. There, in slashing block print, was what she was supposed to sign.

  I, CATHERINE COCHRAN, DO AGREE THAT THE AFORE MENTIONED EQUIPMENT WAS RETURNED TO ME IN THE SAME CONDITION I LEFT IT ABOARD THE WIND WARRIOR. AT NO TIME IN THE FUTURE WILL I SUGGEST OTHERWISE, OR ATTEMPT IN ANY WAY TO RECEIVE PAYMENT FROM T. H. DANVERS FOR ANY OF THE EQUIPMENT LISTED ABOVE.

  There was more. It was like a slap in the face.

  I, DIEGO MATEO RAFAEL DE LORENZO Y VELASQUEZ, WITNESS THAT MS. COCHRAN PERSONALLY CHECKED EACH PIECE OF HER EQUIPMENT TO VERIFY ITS CONDITION.

  Cat turned on Diego. Her gray eyes were narrowed and glittering at the unmistakable insult.

  “Does he think I’m some little slut he picked up who can’t wait to go through his pockets?” Cat said in a raw voice.

  “I am sorry. I tried to talk him out of it, but . . .” Diego shrugged gracefully. “You do not know the captain when he is truly in a rage.”

  Then Diego looked again at Cat’s pale face and swore under his breath in Spanish. Obviously she had seen Travis in one of his famous tempers.

  “I regret,” Diego said quietly, “but I cannot release the equipment to you until you have checked each piece and signed that paper. The equipment is very valuable, I’m told. More valuable than anything else you have. It is your life, yes?”

  She stared at Diego’s firm, apologetic expression for a long moment, then at the pieces of paper that were headed “CATHERINE COCHRAN’S PHOTOGRAPHIC EQUIPMENT.”

  Savagely Cat turned to the first case and began examining the contents. Ignoring Diego, she worked quickly, efficiently, handling each lens and camera body with the familiarity that only came from long experience. When she finished the first case she closed it, set it aside near the door, and went to work on another, and then another.

  Somewhere between the first and last camera case, her anger diminished, soothed away by the cool curves and familiar weight of cameras and lenses. They were old friends, loyal friends, her magic windows on the soul of the universe.

  And Travis was correct. The equipment was very valuable. To replace it would cost at least fifty thousand dollars. Yet if she sold it, she would be lucky to get a quarter of that. It was the old story of secondhand not being as valuable as new, even though the pictures were the same regardless of the age of the camera.

  Behind Cat, Travis silently walked into the cabin. He gestured, and Diego left.

  “You know,” Travis drawled, “if you need money so damn bad, you could always sell some equipment. You’ve got enough for three photographers.”

  Cat’s heart stopped, then beat so frantically it made her dizzy. She might have been prepared for Travis’s presence, but she wasn’t prepared for the casual suggestion that she sell off her very life.

  He didn’t understand. He never would.

  Rich men didn’t know how to love anything but themselves.

  Trying to control the waves of hot and cold coiling through her stomach, Cat put the last lens in its nest, closed the fifth case, and set it aside. She straightened but didn’t turn around to confront Travis. She didn’t trust herself. She had no idea what she was going to do next—scream or weep or claw him like a cornered animal.

  Travis’s legs brushed past Cat, stoppi
ng only inches from her as he leaned against the bunk. A tanned, strong hand shot out and scooped up the papers she hadn’t signed.

  Yet even now, even when she was gripped by anger and hurt, the sight of Travis made her want to run her palm over his arm, to feel his warmth, to savor his strength. Her weakness frightened her.

  “I’d no more sell my cameras than I’d sell my children,” Cat said harshly.

  Then she heard the echo of her own words . . . my children, my children. A soft, anguished sound broke through her control. She looked up at Travis, her eyes blind, and when she spoke her voice shook.

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” Cat asked. “I’m passionate, poor, and sterile. That makes me great mistress material but not worth more than a few nights in the sheets, not worth really caring about, certainly not worth loving.”

  Travis flinched at the pain he saw in her. He felt it as though it was his own, a razor of anguish slicing into him. Then he saw her look toward the door. Her desire to escape from him was as clear as the white lines of grief bracketing her mouth. She started toward the door.

  “If you go overboard again,” he said, “I’ll throw your goddamn cameras in after you.”

  Cat stared at his face and knew that he meant precisely what he said. Fury literally vibrated in him. She had never seen a man so angry, hadn’t even known that such anger could exist without physical violence. Yet he made not one move toward her.

  She looked at her cameras, then at the door that had never seemed farther away. Numbly she looked back at Travis. He was watching her as though he hated her.

  No doubt he did. He would have to in order to look at her that way.

  “The papers,” Cat said, looking away because she couldn’t bear to see Travis’s contempt anymore. Her throat ached from the strain of not screaming. “I haven’t signed them.” She held out her hand, not looking at anything except the camera cases lined up by the door. “I’ll sign, then I’ll take my cameras and go.”