by Jayne Castle
As he walked back along the floating dock toward the boathouse Guinevere realized he was carrying a gun. He held it unobtrusively against the right side of his body. No one watching from the marina would have noticed. But from the shadows of the rest rooms Guinevere could see the black metal of the barrel.
She was so startled that she failed to move until Cassidy reappeared from the boathouse. He no longer seemed to be carrying the weapon, unless he’d concealed it somewhere in his clothing. As she watched he ambled leisurely up the ramp and turned left, heading for a small coffee shop that catered to the boating crowd. He had the collar of his flight jacket turned up against the rain but he hadn’t bothered with a hat. Dashing—and dangerous.
Guinevere stared at the boathouse and the plane for a very long time. It was getting late, and at this time of year the days were exceedingly short. By four o’clock it was going to be growing dark. There wasn’t time to run back to the hotel and convince Zac that he ought to take a look inside that boathouse. If the job was going to get done, Guinevere told herself resolutely, she would have to display a little of the right stuff herself and do it.
She felt the odd little frisson of excitement that she had first known when she’d followed Zac one night during a search he had made of a private house. It was compounded of one part fear, one part adrenaline, and one part thrill. It was heady stuff, but she knew it was also very dangerous. Zac was to blame for having introduced her to it.
Could she make it down to the plane’s dock without Cassidy spotting her from the café where he’d gone for coffee? The question was taken out of her hands when Cassidy suddenly emerged from the café and started up the street toward the center of the village.
It was now or never, Guinevere told herself. She emerged cautiously from the protection of the rest rooms and made her way down to the dock. Once on the dock she felt naked and exposed. Anyone who chose to come in this direction from the marina would see her. Halfway along the gently shifting planks Guinevere’s heady sense of excitement became two parts fear and one part adrenaline. The thrill was gone.
She couldn’t turn back now. She was only a few feet away from the old boathouse. A moment later her hand was on the door. She opened it and quickly stepped through into the dark interior. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light seeping through the cracks. In another half hour she wouldn’t have been able to see at all, and she wouldn’t dare turn on a light if there was one.
A small cabin cruiser was tethered inside the boathouse, but that was all Guinevere could see. Disappointment welled up in her, mitigating the fear. She didn’t know what she had expected to find, but she sure hadn’t found it. The door closed behind her as she walked over to the cruiser. In the shadows it appeared to be a sleek craft, obviously built for speed.
Guinevere listened for a moment, but all she heard was the rain on the tin roof. Would she be able to hear the sound of approaching footsteps on the dock outside? Even if she did it would be too late to do anything about it. She would be trapped. The only way back to shore was along that narrow dock.
As long as she was here, Guinevere thought, she would just take a quick look inside the boat’s cabin. It was a pity to waste the adrenaline. Carefully she eased herself into the boat and made her way to the neat cabin. There wasn’t much to see. It looked exactly the same as the cabin of any other small boat. There was no gun casually left lying on the seat.
But then, she told herself, Cassidy wouldn’t casually leave a gun lying on the seat. He’d put it somewhere safe. Perhaps a small cupboard or shelf that would be conveniently within reach of the boat’s pilot. Remembering to use a handkerchief, Guinevere began cautiously opening doors. She didn’t see anything that appeared to be dangerous or incriminating, but in the dim light it was difficult to be sure. She was about to give up when she eased open one last drawer built into the pilot’s console. A flat black wallet lay folded inside. She pulled it out and flipped it open.
Luke Cassidy
Drug Enforcement Administration
She barely had time to examine the official-looking identification, which included a picture of Cassidy, when her question about being able to hear footsteps on the dock was answered.
Cassidy’s slightly uneven stride was unmistakable, even over the sound of the rain on the roof. Guinevere was trapped, and she knew it. She shoved the leather wallet back into the small drawer and scrambled out of the boat.
And then the excitement that had driven her this far metamorphosed instantly into outright panic.
Chapter Six
The only exit from the boathouse was through the door, unless one counted the water as a potential way out. Guinevere froze on the dock, aware of the deceptively gentle slap of the chilly water against the boat and the wood planks beneath her feet. When she looked down all she could see was endless darkness. The thought of going into that was enough to make her dizzy.
The shock from an unplanned immersion into the cold water would be almost unbearable. The thought of trying to explain her presence in the boathouse to Cassidy was just as unthinkable.
Cassidy’s footsteps paused just outside the door.
Summoning up what seemed an incredible amount of willpower Guinevere managed to tiptoe around the dock to the far side of the small cruiser. Its bulk now loomed between her and the door. She crouched in the shadows, praying that Cassidy would not enter the boathouse—or if he did, would not do more than glance casually around. Very little light was seeping into the old structure now. The shadows were welcome.
There was no sound at all from outside the door. Guinevere took several deep breaths and tried to crouch down even more. She was on her knees on the other side of the cruiser. The wooden planks, she discovered to her dismay, were wet, and the dampness was already penetrating the fabric of her pants. The water suddenly seemed very close. The sharp tang of it filled her nostrils.
She ought to get to her feet, march to the door, fling it open, and calmly announce her presence, Guinevere decided resolutely. After all, it wasn’t as if she were doing anything terribly illegal. A person could wander into the wrong boathouse by mistake, couldn’t she?
Possibly, she answered herself, and then she remembered the brief glimpse of Cassidy’s identification. When the boathouse belonged to a man whose profession was hunting drug traffickers, one’s explanations had better be pretty damn good. And offhand, she couldn’t really think of a damn good explanation.
The image, she reminded herself grimly. She must remember the importance of her tiny but growing, and thus far pristine, business image. It would not be helped by being dragged into a drug smuggling case. Besides, for all she knew Cassidy might not even be willing to listen to explanations. He was obviously working undercover, and the discovery that someone was prowling around his boathouse would be enough to rouse suspicions in even the most even-tempered government man. If only Zac were here. He’d know how to confront Cassidy.
Cassidy’s footsteps sounded again. Guinevere heaved a sigh of relief as they moved farther down the dock toward the plane. Hurry up and get what you came for, Cassidy, she thought. I’m getting cold.
There was a large ripple of movement beneath the dock, and water came splashing coldly up between the planks. Was the tide coming in, or was that just a small wave? Guinevere huddled into herself, her hands and feet wet now, as well as the front of her slacks from knee to ankle. She shivered again, and this time it was from something other than fear. The cold water was like ice against her skin.
Stiffly Guinevere changed position slightly, trying to pull the hem of her trench coat around under her knees. It didn’t do much good. More water splashed up between the planks. By now, she knew, the sun must have almost disappeared. It was very dark inside the boathouse. A marina light was switched on outside.
There were more sounds along the dock. Cassidy had apparently finished his business
with his plane. Leave, Cassidy. Go have a cup of coffee or a beer. Aren’t you hungry? Almost dinnertime. His slightly uneven footsteps paused again outside the boathouse door. Guinevere almost tried to make herself invisible by closing her eyes, but forced herself to realize that wasn’t going to do the trick. Taking a deep breath she stretched out flat along the planks, praying that the bulk of the boat was high enough to keep him from glancing over onto the other side if he opened the door. She rested her cheek on the dock, and promptly got a splash of icy water in her face. The shock almost made her cry out, and at that moment the door opened. Instinct took over. Guinevere went as still as a newborn fawn hiding from a predator.
A dim unshielded bulb blinked into life overhead. Cassidy came into the boathouse. Guinevere closed her eyes and told herself it was too late now to jump up and yell, “Surprise!” Nothing she could say would make her look innocent. Damn it, Zac. This is your line of work. You’re the one who’s supposed to be here in this mess, not me.
Another shudder went through her, this time such a mixture of anxiety and cold that she couldn’t sort out one sensation from the other. Guinevere waited in an agony of suspense, wondering what it would be like in that instant when Cassidy walked around the dock and found her lying there. She had delayed announcing herself long past the point where she could have made a halfway reasonable explanation. It was too late.
Too late.
The light clicked off and the boathouse was plunged into darkness. At first Guinevere wasn’t sure what had happened. She heard the door slam shut and cautiously opened her eyes. Another ripple of water beneath the planks drenched the front of her trench coat and slacks. The cold seemed to be sinking into her.
Cassidy’s footsteps dissolved into the distance as he walked back toward shore. Guinevere got painfully to her knees and tried to stand, not sure her legs would hold her. From out of nowhere she remembered that hypothermia didn’t result only from immersion in cold water. You could lose body heat to a dangerous degree just by getting yourself damp in weather like this. Her fingers were feeling numb.
She found out how useless numb fingers were when she tried to brace herself against the side of the gently rocking cruiser. When she realized she couldn’t feel the fiberglass hull beneath her hand Guinevere almost panicked. Frantically she shook her fingers, trying to generate some sensation. Then she began to worry about her damp feet. She should have worn her boots instead of the casual leather shoes she’d chosen.
Grimly she forced herself to calm down. She was all right. She was shivering a little and her fingers were numb, but she was okay. All she had to do was get back to the Buick and turn on the heater. By the time she arrived at the resort she would be toasty warm. She could have a nice hot cup of tea and perhaps a shot of brandy.
That pleasant scenario required that she first get out of the boathouse, however. Uncertainly Guinevere edged her way around the front of the cruiser and over to the door. She paused a moment, listening intently, and then decided she had to act. Cautiously she opened the door and slipped outside into the chill of early evening. The wind was brisk and it startled her when it struck through the dampness of her clothing. She shivered again, more violently. Light rain slashed at her as she ran for the shelter of the overhang of the rest rooms. From there she tried to peer into the shadows of the parking lot. Was Cassidy out there somewhere keeping an eye on his plane?
She couldn’t wait any longer to find out. She was too damn cold. Taking a deep breath, Guinevere ran across the parking lot to the street where she had left the Buick. The physical activity didn’t seem to warm her any. It only made her feel more miserable.
She reached the stolidly waiting Buick without incident and fumbled in her purse for the keys. A few moments later she had the car in gear and the heater going full blast. It seemed to take forever to get warm. Guinevere drove away from the village, following the meandering road that led back to the resort.
It was almost completely dark by the time she left Zac’s car in the resort parking lot and made her way around to a back entrance. The thought of going through the lobby in her present condition was too much. She would feel a fool.
The car’s heater had helped some, but she was still wearing her damp clothing and as she hurried down the corridor to her room Guinevere realized she was still too cold. She had begun shivering again when she got out of the Buick. Feeling a little frantic, she dug the room key out of her purse and twisted it awkwardly in the lock. The phone rang just as she went through the door. She picked up the receiver, knowing who it would be before she answered.
“Jesus Christ, lady, where the hell have you been?”
“Zac, it’s a long story, and I’m so cold. Let me get into a hot shower and get warm. I’ll meet you in half an hour down in the lobby.”
“The hell you will. I’ll be right up.” He slammed down the receiver without waiting for an answer.
Sighing, Guinevere went into the bathroom, stripping off her wet clothing. She had the shower on and was just stepping under the blessed warmth when the bathroom door swung open. Guinevere glanced around the curtain to make sure it was Zac. One glance was enough. He was furious.
“How did you get back into the hotel without me seeing you? I’ve been pacing that damn lobby for forty-five minutes!”
“Please don’t yell at me, Zac. I’ve had a hard afternoon.”
“Shopping? Until after dark. When you knew I’d be waiting for you?”
“It’s not that late, Zac.” She turned her face up into the hot water, considering the nature of his anger. He really had no right to be this upset, she decided. “Worried about your car? It’s fine, really.”
“I was worried about you.” He pushed back the curtain and ran his eyes assessingly over her nakedness. “Your hair looks like hell. What have you been doing?”
She kept her back to him. “Zac, you sound like an irate husband.”
“So?” he challenged evenly.
“So back off a little. My patience is just about exhausted. And I’m not accustomed to having men yell at me when I come home a little late.”
“I’ll bet you’re not. You’re so goddamn used to doing exactly what you please, when you please, that you—”
“Aren’t you?” she interrupted quietly.
To her surprise, that stopped him for a moment. She felt him staring at her, but she didn’t turn around. She couldn’t turn around, actually. The hot water was finally beginning to warm her. Nothing had ever felt as good as this shower.
“Yeah,” he finally said. “I guess I am. I guess we’re both accustomed to setting our own rules.” He drew a long breath. “Okay, Gwen, I won’t yell. But that was my car you disappeared in. I think I deserve an explanation, don’t you?”
“I hate it when you get reasonable. Takes all the fun out of arguing with you.” But she knew her voice lacked any real sting of flippancy. She sounded as weary as she suddenly felt. “Zac, could you order me a cup of tea from room service? I really did get cold. A little too cold, I think.”
He must have sensed the seriousness of the situation. With a last assessing glance he dropped the shower curtain, and a moment later she heard the bathroom door close.
Zac was just pouring a cup of hot tea as she emerged from the bathroom swathed in her robe. He swung around and strode across the room, thrusting the warm cup into her hands.
“Here. Drink this.”
She sipped gratefully at the tea, feeling its warmth heating her from within. “Stop glowering, Zac. I’m okay. And I’m sorry you were worried. Am I really that late?”
“Considering the fact that I was expecting you sometime between three and three thirty, yes. I was about to borrow Vandyke’s Mercedes and come looking for you. What the hell happened? How did you get so cold?”
Wearily Guinevere sank down onto the edge of the bed, her teacup cradle
d in her hands. “It’s going to sound silly when I tell you. Promise me you won’t start yelling?”
He sat in the chair across from the bed, gray eyes pinning her. “I never make promises I can’t be sure of keeping. Talk. Was it an accident with the car?”
“Your precious Buick is fine. The truth is, I got trapped in Cassidy’s boathouse.”
There was a split second of silence that seemed as heavy as lead. The gray gaze was unwavering. “With Cassidy?”
Realizing his conclusion, Guinevere hastily shook her head. “No. Zac, you’re not going to like the way I did it but I think I’ve got some answers. I took a little walk down to the marina shortly after three. Guess who I saw talking to Cassidy?”
“Who?”
“Toby Springer. But this time it didn’t look as if they were arranging an outing. They seemed to be arguing.”
“Where were you that you could see that much?”
“Standing in the shadow of the public rest rooms. Exciting, huh? I had no idea this investigative business was so glamorous. At any rate they both left, and—”
“Together?”
She shook her head. “Toby left first and then Cassidy. I assumed they were gone for the evening so I decided to have a quick look around that boathouse.”
Zac closed his eyes, apparently pleading silently for patience. “I should have guessed.”
“It’s your fault. You’re the one who taught me these devious little tricks.”
“I’ve created a monster,” he groaned. Then, curiosity getting the better of him, he asked reluctantly, “Well? Find anything?”
“A boat.”
“Not an unlikely object to find in a boathouse.”
Guinevere paused for effect. “There was a leather wallet in the boat, Zac.”
“Oh, hell. You went through the boat?”
“It seemed like the logical thing to do. I said to myself, what would Zac do if he were here? You were my inspiration.”