Tropical Getaway

by Roxanne St Claire

  “What does that mean?”

  “What would you have me do?” he asked, crossing his arms. “Demand Genevieve take a lie detector test?”

  A little shaky, she dropped back into the chair and took a deep sip of wine. “That’d be a good start.”

  “I’ll look into it,” he repeated. “I have access to everyone’s computer and I’ll carefully—quietly, mind you—talk to some people. Okay?”

  “Will you tell me what you find out?”

  “Depends. How was your meeting with Boyd?”

  She snapped her head up at the question. Was he trying to blackmail her into dropping the lawsuit?

  “To be perfectly honest, my mind was still in that dining room with Genevieve. But he made some compelling arguments.”

  He ran a hand through his hair, a mussed tangle of honey-shaded streaks, long around his neck, a few strands grazing his earlobes.

  “You let me know when you want to hear the other side,” he said softly.

  “Now would be a good time.”

  He sat down next to her. “I had nothing to do with Stuart’s decision to sail east instead of west. We had charted a course straightaway in the opposite direction, reviewed the list of remaining crewmen and what their jobs would be, and promised to stay in touch. Two hours later, all communication with the ship was lost.”

  “All communication? I thought you were in constant contact with them—directing them all the way.”

  “That’s what Boyd wants you to think, but it’s not true. Ava, I’ve been working with the Coast Guard and investigating satellite links that may have gone down in the area before and during the storm.” He stopped and sighed, a bewildered expression darkening his striking face. “It was so strange. One minute we had a satellite connection and the next it was black. There were rough waters, yes, but nothing that Stuart couldn’t handle. Even though the storm had changed tracks, they were hours from any real danger. I never dreamed it would be my last conversation with any of them.”

  A little tremor in his voice seized her heart. “So, it’s my turn,” he said to her. “Do you believe me?”

  She regarded him intently, trying to see past the magnificent roll of genetic dice, to get beyond his impressive mix of power and perfection. Was that guilt that darkened his expression every time he looked at her, or something else? “Maybe your crime was ignorance about your employee’s extracurricular activities.”

  His blue-green gaze stayed locked on her just long enough to unravel the few strands of composure she had left. She remembered her own disheveled appearance, certainly not enhanced by hours of driving around in a tin can. Forcing herself to avert her eyes from him, she reached for the keys to the Mini Moke she’d set on the table.

  “I should go. Thank you for hearing me out.”

  “I appreciate your telling me this,” he said as he walked her to the door. “There may be a perfectly rational explanation—”

  She turned to him, ready to blaze. “Don’t you dare minimize this until we get to the bottom of it.”

  “We?” He stifled a laugh as he opened the door and stepped outside with her. “I’ll handle it, Nancy Drew.”

  Ava bit her cheek to keep from arguing with him. She’d give him a day, maybe two, then start her own investigation.

  “I’m sorry you missed Valhalla’s send-off today,” he commented as he glanced up to the sky. “It was superb.”

  “I didn’t miss it.” At his surprised look, she tapped the hood of the Mini-Moke. “I took this thing to the highest peak I could find—over a gorgeous beach—and watched it from there.”

  Pride shone in his eyes. “What did you think?”

  “Breathtaking, even from the hilltop.”

  “You should experience it on board. There’s nothing like it, really.”

  She opened the driver’s door of the Moke and slipped behind it, smiling as she remembered the spectacle. “I could hear Wagner in the breeze. Very stirring.”

  He stood just inches from her, only the thin metal door separating them. Their eyes met, and once again, she simply couldn’t look away.

  “This couldn’t have been easy for you,” he said softly. “Coming here. Trusting me.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Who said I trusted you?”

  Without a flicker of warning, his hand was on her chin, lifting it to his face. His lips came down on her cheek, taking every breath and thought away as he kissed a spot just to the left of her mouth. The same one he’d caressed a few minutes ago.

  “I like that dimple.”

  Her lips parted to respond, but he kissed her again, this time directly on the mouth. She felt his breath, then the tip of his tongue touched hers. At her tiny gasp, he increased the pressure of their contact, leaving her dimly aware of the blood rushing through her weakened limbs. She gripped the metal frame of the car door for support.

  As quickly as it happened, it was over, leaving only the imaginary warmth where his mouth had been. The moonlight cast a shadow on his expression, but she could see a glimmer in his eyes. “Thank you for giving me a chance,” he whispered.

  Her voice came out raspier than usual. “I expect you to do something. Quickly.”

  He touched her cheek again, next to her mouth. “The dimple must be a family trait,” he whispered. “Along with impatience and hot blood.”

  He was so right. She managed her impatience. But his finger seared her skin, reminding her that the hot blood could be her downfall this time.

  Genevieve had always thought Dane was careless not to have a gate or guard at the foot of his driveway. Everyone on St. Barts knew where he lived, and could walk right up to his house and look in the windows if they wanted. Like she so often did when she ran. It was only four miles from her own hilltop home, and Genevieve, a competitive runner since she was a teenager, could make it in less than half an hour. Especially late at night, when it was cool and there were few cars turning the bends and forcing her to the side of the road.

  She made the jog at least three times a week, often stopping at the foot of his driveway and usually deciding to take the steep hill up to his house. She loved the pull on her hamstrings as she tackled the incline, always rewarding herself with a two-minute break to breathe and stretch. During those two minutes, she could easily figure out what Dane was doing by the lights, the music, the cars parked outside. Most evenings it was dark, except for the glow from the back. His study. She’d only been in the room a few times, he guarded it as carefully as his heart.

  Some nights the whole place would be bathed in light. Marco’s Gurgel and several others parked in front, pounding rock music and bursts of laughter echoing into the early hours. Other nights, she’d hear jazzy notes from the veranda, see a dim light in the front hall, a single rental car in front. There were a lot of those nights when that redhead was around. The one he met when some fashion magazine booked Celestia for a weeklong photo shoot. The leggy model had come back after the shoot was over and stayed with him for nearly a month.

  Genevieve pushed the thought away and counted her steps. Up, up, up to the steepest part where the driveway curved. It comforted her to know what he was doing, who he was with. Almost as if they shared a life. Then she heard voices. Soft. She recognized his voice, but not the woman.

  Her feet stilled, careful not to hit a stone or branch. She literally held her breath, not wanting the slightest pant to give her away. She took the precise number of steps she knew would be necessary to afford her a view of the front door. Two feet to her left and through a copse of hibiscus plants, she could see him. Talking to a woman leaning on the open door of a Mini Moke.

  She couldn’t see the face, but she could see the mass of black waves.

  Dane reached down, close enough for a kiss, but she couldn’t be sure from this distance. Genevieve backed down, silently, carefully, around the bend to the bottom of the driveway and started a fast jog in the direction of her home. Her feet pounded a rhythm on the concrete. What the hell was Ava Santori
doing there?

  Stupid question. Of course Dane couldn’t wait to get his hands on her.

  She hated when a new woman came into his life. Recognized and dreaded the symptoms from beginning to end, like the flu. It always started with a few late mornings and his lazy, bad-boy grin. Then he’d move into full-blown happy, so fucking happy, for three or four weeks. He’d tease her endlessly and let her make all the decisions while he holed up in his mansion and played house with his latest girlfriend. Then everything would change. He’d get a little dark, moody. And the bitch du jour would be on a plane—sometimes the Utopia Piper if he was in a real hurry to get rid of her. Before she left, she’d show up in the office in tears or call twenty-six times in one day hunting him down. Well, this one wouldn’t last long. Marco’s sister would be just a novelty. He’d tire of her after a week.

  At least this got her mind off the conversation with Ricardo this afternoon, she thought bitterly. Now she could torment herself by picturing Dane and that raven-haired witch from Boston in bed together, instead of dwelling on how damn deep a hole she’d dug for herself.

  It didn’t matter. She was over him and her girlish fantasies. It was almost time to leave St. Barts. One more shipment and delivery, one more deposit into her rapidly growing account, and she’d be completely free. She’d spent ten years waiting for him, and that was all she’d give any man. She knew Grandy would be disappointed. Ever since she and Grandfather Giles had befriended the poor little rich boy and given him his first boat, they’d always hoped Genevieve and Dane would get married.

  The lights and engine of a car approached and she dropped back into a thicket of palms until it passed. The Mini Moke. Well, little Miss Ava would learn. She’d fall for him like the others had, and he’d make a big show of not wanting to hurt her, but she’d disappear in time. They all did eventually. The line started here.

  5

  T he night produced little sleep and a lot of questions for Dane. The next morning, he strode into the two-story building that housed Utopia Adventures with a plan in mind. Settlements, inventory, Genevieve: a simple to-do list. As he turned the corner to his office, he silently blessed Claire Shepard, already at her desk as always, while other, more laid-back Utopians still slept. Excellent French coffee would be brewing, and his desk would be uncluttered and work prioritized. With Claire on the job, a calming sense of order prevailed.

  “Morning, Claire.” He spoke to the back of her salt-and-pepper hair and stopped to leaf through a pile of messages picked up from the overnight answering service.

  “Hi, Dane.” Her gaze remained glued to the E-mail on her screen. “We have six more cancellations on Nirvana. That software CEO pulled out of the Owner’s Suite.”

  He said nothing but crushed one message slip into a ball. He’d already gotten this one. Captain Donald Taylor of the U.S. Coast Guard had called him at home last night to give him the dismal update on the search.

  “A producer from NBC called again, and so did that freelance writer from Sailing magazine. Someone from your lawyer’s office called to say don’t talk to the press, and your accountant’s secretary called. Said it was urgent.” She exited her E-mail with a determined click and turned to face her boss for the first time. “You look like hell.”

  “Thanks. It matches my mood.”

  She shook her head and rose. “Let me get you some coffee.”

  As he reached his desk, he called back out to her, “Claire, could you print me out a complete purser’s inventory of every item on Paradisio? On the last few of its cruises, actually.”

  She stuck her head through his office door. “More than the dry goods and crew’s personals that you had me send to the search site?”

  “Everything. I want everything logged in any department, including checked luggage and last-minute freight.”

  She gasped, looking at the balled message still squeezed in his hand. “Dane! Did they find something?”

  “No. Not yet. But I want to be sure we know everything we could be looking for.” Precious cargo. What the hell did that mean?

  She followed him into his office. “But isn’t the search officially over this week?”

  He flipped on the computer and laid three of the messages next to his phone, in the order he would return them. “Yeah, but I’ve decided to keep the private divers down there awhile and extend the search area.”

  A moment later, Claire waved a coffee cup in his face, the rich aroma tempting him. “Don’t get used to this.” She winked as he took the cup. “I’m only spoiling you because you look so bad today.”

  “I haven’t slept in weeks, Claire. I’m sure it shows.”

  “I’ll get started on the inventory. You need a vacation, Dane.”

  He almost laughed at the notion. “When you have a chance, I also need a passenger list for Nirvana. What’s left, anyway.”

  “Oh, there are plenty left,” she called from her desk. “Some VIPs too. A U.S. senator and his wife—allegedly—and two New York Yankees. They’re celebrating the World Series win, I understand. Genevieve will probably want to upgrade one of them into the newly vacated Owner’s Suite.”

  The germ of an idea was growing, but he didn’t have time to play with it now. “No. Keep it open.” He’d work that out later. Nirvana didn’t sail until Friday, three days from now. Today he wanted to concentrate on that inventory and have a long conversation with his executive vice president.

  He sipped the delicious coffee. “Claire, can you let Genevieve know I need some time later this morning?”

  “She left a message saying she’s meeting with vendors in St. Lucia and St. Kitts and a couple of other places. She won’t be back until late Thursday. You want me to try her cell?”

  Damn. “Yes, please. A little later.”

  He’d concentrate on the settlements then, and picked up the message from his U.S accountant, Alex Walker. The sooner they were finalized, the sooner he’d have the monkey Grayson Boyd off his back. Maybe. He dialed the New York number and while it rang, an image of Ava at his door flashed in his mind, all fired up and looking for a villain. He’d managed to avoid thinking of her all night, concentrating only on the possible explanations for the evidence she’d presented to him. But in the less menacing light of day, he let his mind wander back to more pleasurable thoughts.

  Thoughts that were far too erotic, considering they focused on a woman with the mission to bury him. He shouldn’t have kissed her, but he’d moved without thinking. Acted on his instinct and desire, instead of planned strategy. That was something he rarely did.

  Marco had talked about his sister in vague but positive terms. Dane had the impression Ava was protective and that she’d gotten her little brother out of more than a few scrapes. So why the hell hadn’t she ever come to see him?

  Dane remembered asking him that once. Marco had shrugged and said she would when she was ready. He never really offered a specific reason for the estrangement from his family, other than his father’s tyrannical nature. After Cassie came along, Marco talked about Boston more, as though he wanted to heal the old rift because he was about to create a family of his own.

  With a will of its own, Dane’s mind wandered back to Ava. He thought of her rare smile, the calming of the storm in her eyes when he touched her cheek. A distinct ache stirred in his groin as he remembered the jolt he got from their kiss. Their first kiss.

  “I don’t like what I read in the fax, Dane.” Alex Walker’s New York accent came through the line, returning him to the problems at hand.

  “You’re tight as a crab’s ass, Walker, and just as nasty.”

  “Tight with your money. Seriously, Dane, are you sure you want to do this? You don’t even have the insurance money yet, and that maritime personal injury lawyer’s sniffing all over hell and back for dirt on you.”

  Dane kicked off his Docksiders and stretched back in the chair. It was his company and his money. Alex could harp all day, but Dane knew what he wanted to do. What he had to do.


  Claire leaned around the corner and whispered, “It’s that TV producer from NBC. He says he’ll hold all day until he can talk to you. That’d be my choice, but do you want to talk to him?”

  Dane held up a “one minute” finger, letting Alex finish his sentence. “Alex, I need to take a quick call. In the meantime, chill. I know what I’m doing. I’ll call you back in five.” He looked at the flashing light on line two and hit it hard. “This is Erikson.”

  “Mr. Erikson, thank you for taking my call. I’m Jeff Krawsky with NBC’s Dateline. How are you, sir?”

  Lousy. Tired. Worried. Give it a break, kid. “Fine, Jeff. What can I do for you?”

  “Mr. Erikson, we are in the process of producing a segment on the disappearance of Paradisio. Could we get you on camera, sir?”

  “No.”

  “But, Mr. Erikson—”

  “Jeff. I’ve got twenty-one men dead and a couple of hundred employees in shock and mourning. I’m still running a business that’s moving into the height of its season. And, as you may know, I don’t do interviews under the best of circumstances. Thank you and good-bye—”

  “Please!” His voice rose and Dane resisted the urge to hang up. “The son of an American television celebrity was second mate on the ship.”

  Something pinched in his gut. “I’m aware of that.”

  “Dominic Santori’s daughter has agreed to be interviewed. She’s speaking for all the respondents in the class action suit against Utopia and we are anxious, sir, to get both sides. It’s not our policy to present a biased story and your interview would—”

  The pinch in Dane’s gut turned to a full-blown twist. “When did you talk to her?”

  “Who? Oh, the daughter? Her lawyer confirmed it.”

  “When?” He spat the word into the phone.

  “This morning, sir. Just before I called you.”

  Dane closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “My answer is still no.” He dropped the phone into its cradle.

  Ava knew as soon as she arrived at the elementary school that Grayson Boyd had made a tactical mistake. Although the school was close to the Utopia offices, the air-conditioning was off for the evening and the airless library offered only student-size seating. The fifty or so people who gathered looked like giants squeezed into a dollhouse. The physical discomfort only added to their already tense and miserable emotional states.