ALIAS SMITH AND JONES

by Kylie Brant

  Rather than take her hint, he remained in place. "They already called me. The transfer's complete. So if you're ready, we'll pull anchor."

  "How far is Laconos?"

  "Full throttle? Three hours or so. We can make it easily by afternoon, though, if you're not in a hurry, and there's no reason you should be."

  With effort she switched her attention from the shape of his full bottom lip to his words. "There's not?"

  He gave her a long look. "You said you weren't meeting friends until tomorrow."

  "Right," she agreed, relieved. Really, didn't the man have things to do before they left? Starting with putting on a shirt? "Well, I'm sure you're busy. You must have a million things to do. I won't keep you." To her horror, the words tumbled out of her mouth like a waterfall. "I'm just going to put my things away. I packed in a hurry, and I think if I hung things up they'd be less likely to wrinkle."

  To her relief he cut off her involuntary barrage of words by heading toward the door. "I'll leave you to it, then. Come up when you finish and I'll introduce you to Pappy."

  "Okay, then. Good. See you later." The moment he exited the room she swung the door shut, leaned against it. Her knees were weak with what surely must be mortification. When she was uncomfortable she had a tendency to babble, and there was no doubt she'd outdone herself on that scene.

  Blowing out a breath, she pressed her hand to her stomach, quelling the nerves that were still scrambling there. They were caused by nothing more than a minor case of claustrophobia, she assured herself. These quarters were small. Jones was big. Really big. Especially across the shoulders. And his chest was pretty wide, too, not to mention his biceps, which were…

  Eyes widening with horror at her totally inappropriate train of thought, she pushed away from the door, crossed to her suitcase and began unpacking. She couldn't afford to be distracted right now. Especially by the man who might well have been the last one to see Sam before he disappeared.

  Not for the first time, she wished she could afford to come right out and ask Jones about her brother. But the risk was too great. There was no telling how well the two knew each other, or what their relationship was. She had no idea, at this point, if Jones could be responsible for his disappearance.

  No, remaining covert was in everyone's best interest. If Sam was all right, and for some reason had had to abort his mission temporarily, she didn't want to end up blowing it for him. That was the same reason she hadn't alerted her brothers. Cade was a New Orleans police detective, and James … well, James ran the family and their father's business with the same ruthless rein. Neither of the men understood the word subtle. They'd have torn the hemisphere apart looking for Sam, and in doing so would have destroyed his cover forever. Better that she make some discreet inquiries first, and determine whether they had cause for alarm. And then, she thought grimly, shoving her emptied suitcases in the closet, if she still was unable to find a lead on Sam, she would unleash her brothers.

  After she'd stowed the smaller bag holding her toiletries beneath the sink in the minuscule bathroom, she went to the door and peeked out into the hallway. If there was a trace of Sam on this ship, it was likely to be somewhere down here. And with Jones and his crew member busy above deck, there was no better time to look around.

  It didn't take long to explore the limited space. Unfortunately, her search yielded no hint that her brother had ever been onboard. But then, Ana thought, studying the last closed door, she hadn't finished her search. Not quite.

  With a strange reluctance she reached out, turned the knob. The door swung open revealing what was obviously Jones's cabin.

  The space was filled with a large bed, which was unmade, the pillow still bearing a slight indentation. Surprise surged. It occurred to her for the first time that Jones had slept on the ship. Maybe he even lived on it. Suddenly the area took on an almost suffocating intimacy.

  To distract herself she gazed around at the cabin. It was more spacious than the others, but was filled by the bed and the rolltop desk tucked into the corner.

  And it was the desk that had snared her attention now.

  After throwing a furtive look both ways, she slipped into the room, leaving the door cracked so she'd hear if someone was coming. She went to the desk, picked up the shirt he had draped across it. Maybe he'd had intentions of getting fully dressed after all. She wondered if her arrival there that morning had interrupted him. The thought had her stomach fluttering. Forcing her mind away from the vivid mental image that bloomed, she tossed the shirt onto the bed and reached for the top drawer.

  Locked.

  A quick check proved that the drawers were similarly secured, which only made Analiese more determined. Straightening, she folded her arms, contemplating the lock's opening and wondered what a few twists of a hair pin would yield. She had some in her toiletry case. But before she retrieved one she grabbed the shirt off the bed again to replace it.

  There was no sound to alert her, but suddenly she became aware that she was no longer alone. Sudden foreboding weighting her limbs, her gaze slowly went to the doorway. And saw Jones lounging, one shoulder against the jamb.

  She released the shirt as if it were in flames. Ohmygod, she mentally groaned as she looked up to his unsmiling expression. With the vast amount of material her life provided, she thought fate could pass up the occasional opportunity to humiliate her. Since he wasn't moving, she gave him a weak smile. "Hey, I was just looking for you."

  "I told you I'd be up on deck. Why would you be looking for me in my room?"

  She tossed a quick look around. "Oh, is this your room?" Then she almost winced as she heard the disingenuous tone in her words. "I was wondering … if you had anything for motion sickness."

  "Motion sickness."

  "I'm already feeling a little nauseous."

  "Funny. We haven't pulled anchor yet."

  Great. Where was a tidal wave when she needed a good distraction? "I meant I will be nauseous. Soon. When we take off."

  He settled his weight more comfortably and crossed his arms. "You're planning on getting sick?"

  "No, of course not." It took a great deal of effort to keep her smile in place. "I just mean that normally I do. So I thought if I took something now, before I really needed it, when I did need it I wouldn't need it so much."

  With a vague sense of horror she realized the foolish drivel was coming from her. There seemed to be no end to the mortifying depths to which she would sink around him.

  He hadn't moved, was still watching her with the expression one might wear contemplating a strange breed of animal in a zoo. "So if you tend to get seasick, why would you charter a ship?"

  It was on the tip of her tongue to deny any such weakness. She was an excellent sailor, had been going out on the gulf since she could walk. But she kicked pride aside to salvage what she could of the situation. "It's just the first hour or so out, then I'm always fine. And I meant to pick something up before I left home, but completely forgot about it. If you don't have anything…"

  Silence stretched, taut with tension. Then finally he straightened. "I can probably find something."

  Relief filled her. "Great." She could barely contain her eagerness to get out of his room. He disappeared into the head, and she took the opportunity to scurry across the narrow hall into her own quarters. Jones reappeared a moment later, holding two tablets and a paper cup filled with water. She took both from him, and said, "Thanks. I think I'll take these now and lie down for a while."

  It seemed to take an interminable amount of time before he quit staring at her and backed out of the doorway. "That would probably be best."

  Swinging the door shut after him, Ana gulped the water down. It didn't help. Her throat still felt strangled. Dumping the pills in the now-empty cup, she crumpled it in her hand. As far as her espionage skills went, she was scoring in the negative range so far. If she didn't get better at subterfuge than this, she wasn't going to be of much use to Sam.

  She got the
hairpin she'd come for and sat on the edge of her bed, waiting until she felt the ship begin to move. Although her nerves still hadn't recovered from her last encounter with Jones, she forced herself to cross the corridor again and ease his door open. Losing no time, she dropped to her knees before the desk and began to twist the pin into a decent pick.

  Inserting it into the lock on the rolltop, she probed carefully. Although she had no experience at unlocking desk drawers per se, she had grown quite adept at picking the lock on the strong box in which Sam or James had hidden her car keys whenever they'd attempted to ground her. She could have just had extra sets of keys made, but she'd thought the idea had lacked finesse.

  Her skills were rusty, so it took several minutes before she heard a tiny click, and she triumphantly removed the pin, easing the top upward. Excitement filled her when she saw the neat piles of papers and notebooks lining the cubbyholes. She'd hit pay dirt. Reaching for the first book, she withdrew it and began flipping through it. Something in here had to yield a clue about the trip Sam had taken with Jones. Whatever it was, she was determined to find it.

  * * *

  With the engine humming in the background, the sun on his back and the wind hitting him full in the face, Jones felt a measure of peace. The life he'd left behind five years ago could emerge, raw and vivid in his dreams, but the open sea always helped banish old ghosts. Of course, today the tranquility was marred by the presence of the woman below deck.

  His mouth turned down. Damned if he knew why he'd taken her money. Well, hell yes, he knew … because he'd been unable to afford to turn it down. But no amount of money could compensate for some kinds of trouble, and he couldn't rid himself of the nagging suspicion that the word described Ann Smith. With a capital T.

  "School of dolphin up ahead, Cap'n. Pretty miss like to see?"

  Gazing in the direction of Pappy's outstretched finger, he followed the man's island dialect with little difficulty. "She's down below, sick. Let's leave her there."

  "Ladies like dolphins," Pappy persisted. His wizened face was the color of walnut, burnished by his heritage and decades in the sun. "Pretty miss no different."

  "She's more different than you think," Jones muttered.

  Although the other man couldn't have heard his words from this distance, it was a sure thing he'd caught the tone. His voice split into a wide grin. "Cap'n show pretty miss nice things and mebbe she be nice to Cap'n." He cackled at the dark look Jones threw him. "I ask her. I bet she want to see."

  Shrugging, Jones watched the other man disappear below. The woman wouldn't be coming above, he'd put money on that. He'd never met anyone yet who was only seasick the first hour of a voyage. She'd be confined to bed for at least half the day.

  Which suited him just fine. The blonde was a distraction, one he didn't need. Even after she'd left the tavern last night, he'd been unable to stop thinking about her. Smoke hung thick in the place, so there had been no reason for her light, fresh scent to have lingered long after she'd left. And even less excuse for his mind to return to her, time and again that night, until he'd finally made an excuse to Lexie and gone home, alone.

  He hadn't been drunk, not quite, so he couldn't blame his lack of concentration on liquor. No, it had been the woman who even now was probably retching below who was responsible for his sudden restlessness. That and a certainty that this was going to be the longest four days of his life.

  "What you do with pretty miss, Cap'n? Toss her over-board?"

  Although the idea had merit, he shook his head at Pappy's question. "I told you, she's in her stateroom."

  The man swung his head in silent negation. "Not there. And not getting sick in head, either. Not in galley. You leave shore without lady?"

  He stared at the man, impatient. "Of course not. C'mere. Take the wheel." When the man sprang to obey, he turned and went below. There wasn't much space below deck. The woman had to be somewhere. He just hoped if she'd gotten sick she'd made it to the head.

  It took a few moments below deck to discern that Pappy had been right. Ann Smith was nowhere in sight. A wave rocked the ship wildly, and he mentally cursed his crew member's handling of the ship. Steadying himself with a hand against the wall, he opened the last remaining door.

  And found the troublesome blonde in the last place he'd expected, the last place she should have been. In his cabin again, this time sprawled across his bed with her face buried in his pillow.

  Ignoring the sudden knot that clenched in his stomach at the sight, he fixed her with a glare. Her head was bright against the navy sheets, and he had the sudden thought that now her scent would linger there, too, a tormenting reminder of her presence in a place she'd had no business being.

  The glare settled into a scowl as she shoved herself upright in the bed, rose and turned for the door. Then sank slowly back down on the mattress when she saw him in the doorway.

  "Hi." Her tone was the most timid he'd heard from her, but it did nothing to allay his anger. "That … that was a big wave, wasn't it? Did you feel it?"

  "Must have been a big one to knock you out of your bunk, across the hall and into my bed."

  "Oh, well … about that." She bounced up again, her hands twisting on the strap of her purse nervously. "I wasn't actually in your … hmm." Her gaze couldn't seem to find a place to land. "I just … I took the pills you gave me but my bunk is sort of small and uncomfortable. I thought I'd rest better in a bigger bed." She moistened her lips under his silent regard. "And I did. It's a very nice bed…"

  Comprehension dawned slowly, and Jones felt like three kinds a fool. He'd really been gone from civilization too long if he was becoming this slow on the uptake. Jamming his hand through his hair, he muttered, "I don't believe this." It wasn't as if it hadn't happened to him before, but of all the sorts of trouble he'd half expected to encounter with the woman, this kind had been the furthest from his mind.

  "Look," he said, turning his gaze back to her. "I think I know what's going on here."

  She looked panicked. "You do?"

  "Yeah. Damn." This was embarrassing, which was a crock. He didn't have anything to be embarrassed about. "But this thing between us is strictly business, okay? And that's the way it's gonna stay. I don't mix business with pleasure, ever." He'd learned his lesson about that the hard way and still had the scar to prove it.

  Her expression was a mask of horrified fascination. "You … you think I want to have an affair with you?"

  "Yeah, well … sex, anyway. And you seem like a very, uh, a real nice person. But I'm not interested in you that way." Jones was proud of his tact. Although it wasn't a skill he practiced on a regular basis, he thought he'd managed pretty well. Which didn't explain her suddenly thunderous countenance.

  "Let me get this straight. Even if I were offering casual no-strings sex, you wouldn't be interested."

  What was it about women that they had to belabor everything? He thought he'd been damn clear, and it was something more instinctive than diplomacy that had him refraining from pointing out that she didn't look like a no-strings kind of woman. "That's what I'm saying."

  "It's because I don't have big boobs, isn't it?"

  "What?"

  "Boobs." Her tone was disgusted. "I've got brothers. I know a man's brain cells drain away the moment his hormones kick in. If I had a pair of thirty-six D's you'd be drooling all over me."

  He couldn't believe they were having this conversation. "For your information, I never drool."

  "All men drool when their tongues are hanging out of their mouths, which seems to be a universal reaction of your gender when faced with a huge set of mammary glands."

  There was a dull throb beginning in his temple. "Look, I was trying to be polite, and you're missing the point."

  "Oh, I got the point all right. If I was contemplating having wild tempestuous sex with you, you wouldn't be interested. I got that loud and clear."

  How the hell she'd managed to make him feel guilty when she'd been the one to sneak
into his bed was beyond him. "Okay, then. I'm glad we got that out of the way."

  "Did we ever," she muttered, shoving past him and marching down the corridor.

  He followed her, feeling at a loss. "You know, at your weight, if you had big b— If you were big busted, you'd probably topple over every time you got up."

  She was ascending the ladder in record time. "Yeah, yeah. I told you, I know what men like."

  "You don't know me," he said flatly, tearing his gaze away from the curvy hips preceding him. Because if she did, if she ever found out that he was developing an inexplicable interest in delicately made blondes with backsides shaped by an angel, well then God help them both.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  «^»

  As mortifying events went, it ranked right up there with the time Sally Ann Bunston had announced to the hoys in their seventh-grade class that Analiese Tremaine stuffed her bra. But having to endure three straight years of taunts about whether she was "packing" each day paled in significance to the scene in Jones's stateroom.

  Staring out at the school of playful dolphins, she concentrated on deep breathing and vengeful thoughts. She wondered if there was a knife onboard sharp enough to carve Jones into shark bait. The other crew member could handle the ship, and hadn't she heard once there was no law at sea?

  She supposed she ought to be grateful. Just the thought had her grinding her teeth. After the impact of that wave had dumped her headfirst onto his bed, and she'd looked up to see him standing in the doorway, her mind had gone completely blank. He'd seemed suspicious enough the first time he'd walked in on her there. How in heaven's name was she going to explain a second time?

  Then he'd handed her a perfect explanation, at least one that his colossal ego had seemed to buy. She'd had no choice but to play along, even while she'd wanted to go for his throat. Was the man actually used to women hiding under his bedcovers in order to seduce him?

  She threw a dark look in his direction. The answer, quite obviously, was yes. And why that should make her want to hunt for that carving knife again was a question she really didn't want to face. Lord knew she had plenty of experience dealing with formidable male egos: she'd grown up with three brothers. The walls of their home had practically dripped testosterone.