He shook his head at the injustice of it and then leaned forward, his southern accent thickening. “He lives like a king, you know. He’s worth millions and pays a paltry sum to the poor people who depend on him.”
He’ll just take the insurance money and build another damn hospital in Jamaica. Was that true? And if so, did he do it for the good of mankind…or the good of his own image?
She didn’t know. There were too many contradictions surrounding Dane.
“My dear, you are key to our success. You can persuade those folks to go against him far more effectively than I can.”
“How is that, Mr. Boyd?”
“You’re a family member from the United States who isn’t doing this for money, but for justice.”
She took a sip of water and said nothing.
“I’ve interested Dateline in doing a story on this.”
“What?” She choked on the drink.
“Very few people are aware that the son of a celebrity was on that ship. I know you said your father won’t talk about this, but you can. As the Santori family spokesperson. The NBC producer loves this angle.”
“No. Absolutely not. Forget it.” Her fingers tightened around the water glass.
“Ava, if we can get some international press coverage about this wreck, it would really help. The Hurricane Carlos story has come and gone, but there are still some network crews lurking about Grenada, which is in ruins. I think we can get one to go with us into the slums of some of the islands and really drive home how poorly they live.”
He leaned forward to drop his next bomb.
“The producer wants to film Erikson’s house from a helicopter. It’s a mansion on the water, I’m told. We can juxtapose that against the poor conditions these people live in, with a nice ‘forty million dollar’ graphic over it.” He chuckled and wiped an imaginary crumb from the table, a false humility seeping into his voice. “I’m not much of a TV producer, but you know, sometimes you can just envision these things. We need to really drive home the fact that Erikson intentionally sent the ship into the storm for a fat profit—”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“Ava, we have evidence. Signed affidavits from people who picked up the satellite transmissions—”
“But no recordings or transcripts of any conversation between Dane and the captain, as I understand it.”
His blue eyes suddenly narrowed. “Are you in this or not, my dear?”
“I will not talk about this on television or to anyone else.” She glared at him to ensure the message was understood. “Mr. Boyd, do you really think a man would send his own ship and twenty-one men into certain death—just for money?”
Boyd sighed, as though he had to explain the simplest concept yet again to a moron. “That ship was more than seventy years old. It wasn’t worth that much to him anymore. It was the least glamorous of the fleet. He wants to buy another, something in keeping with the upscale image he’s carefully creating. I told you Paradisio hadn’t been in dry dock for years. Things were falling apart on it, and he knew it.”
She shook her head, the Spanish voice still ringing in her ears. Dane Erikson knew nothing of what Genevieve discussed in the darkened dining room. That much was clear to her. “That’s hardly a motive for mass murder. I have a hard time buying it, and maybe a jury will too.”
He took a furtive glance around the restaurant before he spoke. “Let me tell you something. That man doesn’t play to lose. Oh, he’s fooled a lot of people with his devil-may-care barefoot sailor act. But he’s ruthless, dishonorable, and cunning, and he’ll do whatever is necessary to succeed.”
Ruthless, dishonorable, and cunning. Who did that describe? Dane or this pushy man determined to use her for his gain?
“I want to do what’s right for Marco and the men he sailed with.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” he said with a condescending smile. “Now, about our meeting this week. I’ll tell those family members about maritime law. I’ll explain to them that they are entitled to more than lost income. They are actually owed hundreds of thousands of dollars for lost companionship and punitive damages for the misery suffered by those poor men as they struggled for their lives and drowned. I’ll describe the negligence involved in terms so potent, they’ll be ready to hang Dane Erikson when I’m done.”
She closed the menu, her appetite long gone. “And what do you expect of me, Mr. Boyd?”
“You act as their leader who will help them find retribution for what they lost.” He put a gentle hand on hers, a damp palm that made her want to wipe the spot with her napkin. “Emotional trauma costs a lot of money, my dear. And Dane Erikson’s going to have forty million to dole out.” As the waitress approached, he whispered, “Don’t you want a piece of it?”
The words on the computer screen ran together, the passenger lists and purser’s inventory dancing in front of Dane’s fatigued eyes. Three weeks worth of E-mails and administration and virtually no sleep took its toll. He flipped off the laptop, drawn to the open window of his study. Absently rubbing the late-night beard that darkened his face, he studied the familiar celestial patterns in the night sky.
At least Valhalla had a marvelous send-off. A bit light on passengers due to some cancellations, since it was the first Utopia cruise in three weeks, but he’d expected that. The crew had been uneasy too, eyeing the heavens for signs and one another for support. No star-dogged moon tonight, he thought. Perhaps he should have heeded that warning when Paradisio set sail.
When would he stop feeling guilty? Every time he looked into the eyes of a crewman or a sad widow…or a grieving sister…he felt responsible. The thought of Ava Santori and her mission twisted his gut for the hundredth time. He was the last person on earth who would hurt Marco Santori or any of them. She might not know that, but surely the rest of the Utopians did. Unfortunately, her presence could legitimize a lawsuit that he had very little energy or time or desire to fight.
It could ruin him. This messy lawsuit and the resulting newspaper and TV stories could cripple the business, which hurt the very people he supported. Didn’t they see that?
If he fought it hard—and he could, the son of a bitch Grayson had no case—it would look like he didn’t care about the families. If he settled out of court, he would look guilty of murder. Not that he gave a rat’s ass about how he looked. But he did care about the two hundred people who worked for him, and the hundreds of extended family members who ate and slept in comfort because of Utopia’s success.
He ran a hand through his hair. The lawsuit was just a fact of life that he’d deal with. Along with the appearance of Ava Santori. He studied the vivid formation of Orion’s Belt in the eastern sky, but his mind’s eye envisioned the exotic features of Marco’s sister. He smiled as he recalled her enthusiasm in the kitchen, then remembered how shaken she’d been when he’d seen her later. She was a bundle of emotions, a constant brewing storm that struck with no warning. For some reason he liked the idea of keeping a close watch on that storm. He liked the idea far too much.
The sound of a motor, a Moke or a Jeep, slowly coming up his half-mile-long drive interrupted his thoughts. The car door slammed just seconds before the doorbell rang.
Enough troubled sailors and lifelong employees knew that Dane’s home could be a place of refuge that he didn’t question the late-night visitor. He padded barefoot through the dark hallway and opened the front door.
Her black hair blended into the night. Her eyes caught the moonlight, revealing something childlike and frightened, and he put his hands on her shoulders without thinking.
“Ava? What are you doing here?”
She opened her mouth to speak, but her eyes dropped down his bare torso and boxer shorts. Then she glanced into the hall behind him before tentatively asking, “Are you alone?”
He grinned at the assumption. “All the dancing girls have left.”
“I need to talk to you.” Her dark eyes narrowed, as though she expecte
d an argument.
He opened the door wider. “Come in.”
She inched in, keeping her distance. He reached over and touched the switch on the wall, gentle up-lighting suddenly spilling from unobtrusive wall fixtures. She still wore the pink sweater and white pants that she had on this morning, her hair windblown into a tangle of soft curls.
Her gaze darted down his chest again and lingered a moment, then flew back up to his face.
“Sit in here,” he said as he guided her into the living room. “Can I get you anything?”
“No, this isn’t a social visit.” She crossed her arms and looked around the room, at the window, obviously avoiding him.
As intrigued as he was by the late-night call, he took pity on her obvious discomfort at his state of undress. “Then you’d probably appreciate it if I put some clothes on.”
She sat on the edge of a chair. “Yes. Good idea. I mean…that’d be fine.”
“I’ll be right back.” On the way to his bedroom, he stole a glance back at her. She still had her gaze determinedly set in the opposite direction, and he smiled.
Marone, this was stupid. Ava ran a hand through her unruly hair and realized she must look like a mad woman. And he looked like a Viking god. She hadn’t expected him to be naked. Or nearly so. She hoped she hadn’t gawked at the carved muscles of his shoulders and chest, where his hair darkened over masculine planes. How long had her gaze lingered over the sculpted stomach muscles above his boxer shorts? Oh God, boxer shorts. She squeezed her eyes closed to erase the sparks of arousal at the thought of what they barely covered.
She dropped her head back on the sofa, realizing that her temples had throbbed all day since she’d left the ship. She’d spent the afternoon wandering around town until she finally stumbled into a tiny shop that sold French bread and bottled water and rented cars. She bought a loaf of bread and took a chance on something called a Mini Moke, much smaller and more manageable than Cassie’s Gurgel, but just as noisy and open. In it, she’d traveled the mountainsides of St. Barts, stopped at a breathtaking Anse de Gouverneur beach, and parked at the top of a rocky cliff. By sheer chance, she had a perfect view of Valhalla as it set sail.
During her private picnic, she replayed every nuance of the conversation she could remember, fighting for the bits that eluded her memory. She didn’t know where to turn, who to trust. She kept coming back to Dane.
And, then, literally, she did. Miraculously, or at least unconsciously, she found herself at the foot of his driveway. She’d parked there for a good twenty minutes, considering what to do. Should she trust him? Would he believe her story? Did he know what was behind the conversation she’d heard? It was entirely possible that no matter what, he would protect Genevieve Giles. The granddaughter of a good friend, the man who set him up in business. An extremely beautiful woman. He could easily be in love with her.
She considered tracking down the police, but the voice of bitter experience told her to slow down. That same voice kept leading her back to Dane Erikson.
The conversation she’d overheard and nearly everything she’d observed so far conflicted with the demonic picture Grayson Boyd had painted to get her down to St. Barts. Her instinct told her Marco wouldn’t become so close with a cold-blooded killer. If she were to ever figure out what Genevieve meant and what happened to Paradisio, she had to take a chance and trust him.
At the sound of him clearing his throat, she opened her eyes. He still looked like a Viking god, only mercifully dressed in cotton sweatpants and a T-shirt. He stood in the arched doorway, barefoot and holding two glasses of red wine. She looked at the glasses to keep her eyes off his striking features.
“I know. Not a social call. But you look like you could use a drink.” He handed her the goblet. “I’m guessing Chianti. Your brother’s favorite.”
She took it and tried to steady her hand, wishing her emotions weren’t always written all over her face. “He was raised on my Uncle John’s homemade wine from a jug. I hope he didn’t have you imagining otherwise.”
Dane smiled. “He was honest to a fault. Cheers.”
She took a sip, barely tasting the dry wine.
“And,” he added with a smile, “he had an annoying tendency to speak before he thought.”
“A family trait, I’m afraid.”
Dane took a seat next to her and set his glass of wine on the coffee table.
“I’m guessing this is about your meeting with the lawyer?”
She smoothed a wrinkle from her white pants. “No. Not really. It’s…it’s something else.”
When she didn’t say anything more, he prompted her. “Do you need some more time to think, or do you want to just get it out there, Santori fashion?”
She couldn’t help smiling. “No. I’ve been thinking all day.”
He was being extremely patient. She’d burst into his home well beyond a reasonable hour, openly stared at his display of masculine assets, accepted some expensive wine, and hadn’t yet offered an explanation. She took a deep breath.
“Okay. I have reason to believe that something…something really wrong happened on the Paradisio.”
He stared at her. “It certainly did.”
“I overheard an unnerving conversation today and I think you should know about it.”
“Okay. Tell me.” He was walking a thin line between gentle and patronizing.
“I overheard Genevieve talking to someone about money. About profits.” She paused to consider how to phrase it.
“Ava, that’s what she talks about. That’s her whole world, profit and operations. I know she’s not the most lovable person in the world, but she’s really good at what she does.”
She knew he’d defend her. “Embezzlement? Murder? Is she really good at that?”
He shifted imperceptibly in his seat, and a shadow of confusion crossed his face. “Start from the beginning. Please.”
“Okay.” Melodrama wouldn’t work on him. “Remember when I saw you in the purser’s office this morning?”
“Yes. You seemed upset.”
She fingered the crystal stem of the wineglass. “When I left the galley, I overheard a strange conversation coming from some back room off the dining room. I was trying to find the way to go up—above deck—whatever you call it on a ship. Upstairs.”
“I understand. Go on.”
“I heard two people talking. One was Genevieve. The other was a man with a Spanish accent, and they were talking about the accident. He said he wanted her to get—to take—four hundred thousand dollars from you to pay him back for what was lost on the ship. Some kind of precious cargo. He said ‘you know why that ship went down.’ Genevieve said, ‘You sent a boy to do a man’s job and now they are all dead.’”
He raised his eyebrow slightly, and she took it as doubt. She leaned forward to reinforce her certainty. “I remember her words clearly. I’ve heard them in my head a thousand times today.”
He kept his eyes on her, searching her face before he spoke. “You said the man had a Spanish accent. Did Genevieve ever use his name?”
Ava shook her head. “I don’t think so. But there’s more. He said that it wouldn’t be the first ship to vanish without a trace and it won’t be the last.”
His blue-green gaze flashed at her. “What?”
“And she said ‘next time get your precious cargo off before the ship disappears.’” As he frowned in disbelief, her voice rose. “Then he…he threatened her. I think he…he hurt her. Choked her or something, it was hard to tell.”
He said nothing but stood, pressing his palms together in thought. She watched him, waiting and hoping he’d respond with the same horror and determination that had wracked her all day.
“Do you believe me?”
He walked toward the veranda. She bit the well-worn spot on her lower lip and waited. Finally, he turned back to her. “Is it possible that you misunderstood—”
“I knew you wouldn’t believe me!” She jumped out of her seat and near
ly lunged at him. “There’s something going on and it cost a lot of lives. If you don’t care, fine. Or maybe you want to protect your girlfriend. But don’t you want to know what happened?” She froze as another thought planted itself. “Or perhaps you already know.”
“Ava, please.” He took a step toward her.
“Maybe this explains why the ship sank,” she insisted. “Maybe people on the ship were involved.” She narrowed her eyes, knowing that what she heard had vindicated him, but unable to let go of her nagging suspicions. “Maybe you were involved.”
He gripped her shoulders, his thumbs resting on her collarbone. “Calm down. I’m trying to figure this out. I do believe what you heard, but Genevieve could have been talking about Arnot’s truffles, for Christ’s sake.”
Ava tried to shake his hands off her. “She wasn’t talking about freaking truffles, Dane. Unless they cost four hundred thousand dollars now.”
Her blood was near the boiling point. Then he touched her cheek. Just grazed his finger along the side of her mouth and everything froze. Her fear, her temper. Her entire being.
“Calm. Down.”
At the whispered command, she felt her breath catch in her throat, trapped between pulse beats. “Okay,” she choked. “I’m calm.”
“Liar.”
He was so near that she could see the pale stubble on his cheeks, the dark lashes edging his eyes. His fingers were warm and the caress sweet. It should have calmed her, and in a sense, it did. It made her forget her mission. It made her imagine what it would feel like if he lowered his hand, traced a line down her neck, and touched the very spot where her heart pumped madly. For one insane instant, she wanted him to.
“What are you going to do, Dane?” she managed to ask.
He didn’t say a word as his salty, soapy scent made her as dizzy as his unbroken gaze. Then he stepped back, leaving a warm spot on the skin he’d touched. “I’ll look into it.”
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