Oh, this is fun, she thought. She’d been right about detective work. It could be glamorous and exciting. Not only that, the “bait” idea was working better than she’d dared to hope.
Arthur cupped Bev’s elbow, spiriting her away from the scene of the crime as a crew of housekeepers appeared to mop up the spilled drinks. Bev glanced over her shoulder as they escaped, feeling a little guilty about the mess.
Once they’d found a quiet spot on the aft section of the deck, Arthur clasped her hand again. “My friends call me Tony,” he said, playing with her fingers.
“Tony?” Bev didn’t recall that alias from his police file, but then, con men changed names as often as their underwear. Probably more often in Arthur Blankenship’s case. “My friends call me B.J.,” she said, still a little breathless from their flight.
“I’ll bet they call you other things too, B.J., like beautiful.”
“The man’s a poet.” She laughed softly, the pleasure more real than feigned. Actually, Arthur Blankenship, the man of a thousand names, was much more attractive in a smarmy sort of way than Lydia Covington had given him credit for. Lydia hadn’t mentioned how near black his brown eyes were or the way his teeth flashed when he smiled.
“Did you notice? It’s a new moon tonight,” he said.
They turned to look out at the water, and in the moments that followed, Bev lost count of the number of compliments Arthur lavished on her and simply allowed herself to laugh and enjoy them. She’d never been the type men went crazy over, and even though she knew it was all part of his come-on, it was still a heady experience.
“Something to drink, ma’am?”
A waiter paused beside Bev and she absently took a glass of champagne from his tray. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes fixed on Arthur.
“Wrong guy.” Bev felt a nudge from behind as someone whispered the words harshly in her ear. She nearly dropped her champagne. Who’d bumped her? The waiter?
He was gone by the time she got herself turned around. Puzzled, she searched the area and saw a man signaling to her through the crowd. Then she did drop her champagne. It was Sam Nichols in a yellow calypso shirt!
Bev gaped at Nichols’s angry countenance as Arthur pulled her away from the spilled champagne.
“Are you all right?” Arthur asked. “You keep dumping drinks on the floor.”
“I’m fine,” Bev said haltingly. Her head was swimming with questions. Where had Nichols come from? How had he found her? “I’m sorry,” she told the bewildered con man. “There’s something I have to do. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Sam was moving among the guests with the drinks, but Bev could feel his eyes on her as she approached. There was no doubt that he was angry. The scar on his face was white, pulled tight by the tension in his jaw. Because of his size, he looked a little silly in pedal pushers and a calypso shirt, but any urge Bev might have had to laugh was smothered by caution. She didn’t want to die.
“Thank you,” she breathed, taking a drink off his tray as she reached him.
“Over there. “ He jerked his head toward a windscreen of fluttering palms near the stern of the ship, and then he left her, continuing to move through the crowd.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered a moment later as she joined him behind the potted palms.
His glare nearly melted the sarong off her body. “You’re drunk as a skunk,” he said incredulously. “And where the hell did you get that dress? Off a dead streetwalker?”
Bev bristled. This from the man who preferred low-cut dresses? “Well, thank you, Sam,” she said tightly. “Arthur happens to think it’s a lovely dress.”
He jerked her around and pointed to the silver-haired man she’d been flirting with. “That’s not Arthur, you little idiot.”
“It is so!”
He turned her another forty-five degrees and pointed toward a small, bookish man with silver hair and wire-rim spectacles. He was standing alone, observing the crowd. “That’s Arthur.”
“It can’t be—” Bev caught herself. She’d been about to say he didn’t fit the description Lydia had given her. But, of course, a con man wouldn’t. Arthur had obviously disguised himself with glasses and a more intellectual look.
“I think you’d better hightail it down to your cabin,” Sam said, his hands tightening on her arms. “Before I lose my temper and do something that embarrasses both of us.”
“What?”
His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Let’s put it this way. I’ve never taken a woman over my knee in my life. I’ve never even thought about it ... until tonight.”
Six
BEV LOCKED THE DOOR of her cabin and looked around in vain for a chair to prop up against it. Turn her over his knee? What rock had that man crawled out from under? Hadn’t he heard of Gloria Steinem? Didn’t he know that women were no longer bought and sold at slave auctions?
“Apparently not,” she said, pacing the length of her tiny cabin. If he laid a hand on her, even one finger, she would—She folded her arms tightly and rocked forward, trying to think. Panic flashed through her anger, stopping her cold. What would she do? He was so damn big. He’d picked her up and set her down on her own kitchen countertop as though she were a bag of groceries.
She kicked off the slingbacks, her insteps aching. Life had become so complicated now that she had Sam Nichols to contend with again. He probably thought he was going to run the Covington case, but she had no intention of letting him push his weight around. As long as she was the bait, she would call the shots. If he wanted to take over, let him wear the falsies and lure Arthur Blankenship back to the United States.
She sank down heavily onto the bed, blotting the dampness from her neck as she considered her broom closet of a room. She’d booked so late she’d ended up with the last available cabin on the lowest deck. There were no windows, the air-conditioning didn’t work, and it was so near the engine room, the constant drone made it difficult to think. And then there was the heat.
Perspiration was beading on her upper lip and in the cleft between her breasts. What she needed was a quick shower and some time to cool down before she had to face Mr. Tough Guy again. They’d established a pattern of catching each other off guard, so the next dance was hers.
She’d just about peeled herself out of Tina’s sarong when she heard footsteps in the corridor outside her cabin. Someone twisted the doorknob, and she knew it was Sam. That man didn’t have the manners God gave a donkey. Couldn’t he knock?
“Just a minute,” she said, thankful she’d remembered to lock the door. “I’m changing.”
The doorknob jiggled again, a soft click sounded, and the door swung open. Bev grabbed a blanket off the bed to cover herself as the sarong slid to her ankles. Sam Nichols was leaning against her doorjamb, holding a toothpick between his thumb and forefinger. “These things come in so damn handy,” he said quietly, his blue eyes flashing over her.
Bev wanted fervently to be angry with him, but he looked so outlandish in calypso gear, she couldn’t get a good grip on her outrage. “I said I was changing.”
“I didn’t think you’d mind.” He flicked the toothpick aside, seeming only mildly interested in the fact that she was wearing a blanket. “Especially since we’re going to be sharing this cabin.”
“I beg your pardon?”
For the first time that evening, Bev realized that his blousy shirt had no buttons. It tied at his waist and flowed open above to reveal swirls of panther-black chest hair, layered muscle, and ... was that another scar?
“You’ve got yourself a bunkmate, Lace.” The undersize door frame forced him to duck as he entered the room and closed the door behind him.
Bev shook her head several seconds before the words made it out of her mouth. “I most certainly do not! Even if I were to entertain the possibility of such an arrangement—which I wouldn’t—there is barely room in this cabin for me.”
He leaned back against the door and folded his arms, the ve
ry portrait of an immovable object. “You’re looking at a stowaway, babe. If you hadn’t pulled that cute number with the cruise lines, I’d have my own cabin, and you’d have that bunk all to yourself. “ He nodded at the room’s only bed. “I like the outside. How about you?”
“But there must be somewhere they can put you up? The crew’s quarters?”
“Maybe you didn’t hear me. I’m a stowaway.” He raised his arm and tweaked the voluminous yellow sleeve. “I swiped this clown suit, and if they catch me impersonating one of their waiters, I walk the plank.”
“What a delightful idea.” She hitched the blanket up around her and stepped out of the sarong, bending to pick it up.
“Don’t even think about blowing my cover,” he said, letting his eyes coast over the most prominent point of her rather vulnerable position. “Or I may have to take that disciplinary action I mentioned.”
Bev unbent immediately, glaring at him. “Don’t be absurd! And don’t you dare threaten me.”
“Behave yourself, Lace, and I won’t have to.”
Their eyes locked. Bev felt her breath quicken as she held her ground. If this was another test of her mettle, Sam Nichols had better be prepared to back off. She would die where she stood before she’d let him do such an appalling thing.
“No man lays a hand on me and lives to talk about it,” she said, breathing the words. “How could you be so base?”
“Me? Base? I wasn’t the one drinking Caribbean
Kickers like they were water, dancing like Carmen Miranda, and knocking waiters on their butt.”
“Caribbean Kickers?” Bev touched the patch behind her ear. “You mean the punch was—”
He nodded. “You were bombed, Lace. Admit it.”
Bev sighed in exasperation. Did he have to be so blunt? At least now she understood why the boat had been rolling under her feet. And she also realized that Sam Nichols was doing it to her again. He was stirring up the banked coals, stoking the fire. She wasn’t frightened anymore. She was angry, aflame. It felt good.
Sam saw the fire too. It was dancing in her gray eyes like quicksilver, molten flashes of mercury. It made her beautiful, and as hot as a Caribbean night. It drew him, that fire ... but what drew him more was the earlier stirring of emotion he’d seen in her eyes. Fear, he thought, wondering if he was right. He rarely bothered looking below the surface. Most people weren’t worth the effort, and he usually didn’t like what he saw. But in this case he was fascinated by the deep whisperings of apprehension in her eyes. She was scared out of her mind about something. Was it him? Or just life in general?
“Just for the record,” she said, her voice taut. “I don’t care what you think of me or my tactics. I don’t need your help, okay? I don’t need anything from you. I may have messed up tonight, but I can handle this case—and I can do it alone.”
Her show of bravado might have fooled someone else, but she had just confirmed Sam’s suspicions. B.J. Brewster, only daughter of L.A.’s toughest private eye, was riddled with self-doubts. He was tempted to probe, but something told him her anxieties were rooted in concerns much more personal than detective work. On some level Sam could relate to her fears and the courage it took to face them. He’d done battle with his own demons for years—and the demons had won. She hadn’t given up yet. She was still fighting.
As far as the work went, he could have reassured her on that score. She was still wet behind the ears, but with a little more experience, she could handle anything she put her mind to. Her instincts were good, she just didn’t know it yet.
He felt a softening toward her and abruptly forced it away. It was one thing to want her, but liking her, that was crazy. That was dangerous as hell. He had enough to deal with, keeping his physical drives under control.
“Whether or not you could handle the case on your own is beside the point,” he said. “I’m here and I’m staying. That’s the way your dad wants it.”
Bev turned her back on him and threw open the lid of her suitcase. Arguing with a man without her clothes on put a woman at an unfair advantage, especially when that man was a practicing degenerate! Why did she have the feeling this was going to be just one of many times she would wish she’d hit him harder with her blackjack?
Under cover of the blanket, she slipped off her pantyhose and found a loose cotton sundress that would have to double as a nightgown if she couldn’t come up with a way to get rid of him. When she turned back, he was pulling off his shirt. She was about to turn away again until she got a look at the scarring that had mutilated his upper torso. It looked as though someone had ripped at his flesh with a garden rake. The jagged marks rode a rough path from his right shoulder to his right hip. It was the closest thing Bev had ever seen to physical savagery, and her immediate impulse was to reach out to him, to comfort him.
She spoke softly, trying not to wince. “Is that painful?”
He shook his head, but she could see the muscles working in his jaw as he forcibly wrenched himself out of the shirt. He didn’t have full movement in his right arm.
“Was it the accident?” she asked.
His eyes flashed over her suspiciously. Bev sensed she was intruding, but somehow the sight of such devastation had made her forget their adversarial relationship. He was hurt and her heart went out to him just as it would have to anyone in his situation.
“My father said you’d been shot,” she explained. “He didn’t go into detail, just said that he was there, and that it was pretty bad....” Bev let the words trail off, waiting for him to say something, to let her know that she was doing the right thing in pursuing it.
“Your father was there,” was all he said. He glanced at his mangled shoulder and then at her for a long moment, as though he were trying to figure out her motives. Finally his hands dropped to his pants. He looked back up at her as he began to unbutton them. “I’m going to take a shower. You sure you want to watch this?”
Bev turned away. Apparently he couldn’t handle sympathy. He seemed the sort of man who couldn’t open himself up to any expression of emotion, and she thought that was a terrible waste. Something told her he might have been a different human being if not for the scars. But even as the words resonated in her mind, she realized she meant wounds that cut even deeper than the ones she’d seen.
She glanced around again as she heard his pants drop to the floor and saw him step into the shower. All she got was a glimpse of long, muscular legs swept with dark hair, but it was enough to confirm what she already knew. He was beautifully built. The machine-gun fire must have caught him from behind, she realized. The wounds she’d seen on his side and chest were caused by exit holes, by the brutal passage of too many bullets to count.
As she heard the shower come on, she forced her thoughts away from the damage to his body and began to think about rearranging the tiny cabin to accommodate two people. That she was capitulating so easily surprised her. She really was a patsy for a bird with a broken wing. Not that that description would ever fit Sam Nichols. He was more a battle-scarred panther, streamlined and treacherous, definitely not to be trusted as a house pet.
She was contemplating having him sleep standing up in the clothes closet when she heard an odd thumping noise.
“If I get stuck in this shower stall,” Sam called out, “call the coast guard.”
A panther with a sense of the ridiculous, she thought. Maybe there was hope. “Absolutely not. I’ll let you turn into a six-foot-four prune.”
“I’m only six three.”
“You poor, puny thing, you.” Smiling, she turned toward the stall and caught a glimpse of him moving inside the frosted plastic door. That she couldn’t quite see any details made the sight so provocative. She couldn’t pry her eyes away!
There was something beautiful about the deep flesh tones of his body against the smoky, soft-focus panel. It was like a dream image, a naked man moving through mists. Just when she thought she could see the line of his thigh, or the right angle of his hipbon
e, the image blurred and took new shape. Once she saw his shoulders flare out as he turned his back to her, and another time she saw the darkness between his legs.
Now, as she watched, the form moved fluidly in a kind of spiral as though he were turning in the spray. When he stopped, he was facing the door, facing her. He lifted one arm above his head, and Bev could see the inverted triangle of broad shoulders tapering to pelvis. A waterfall of dark hair streamed toward his groin, toward the wild black thatch and imposing male parts that drew the eye like a magnet.
Could he see her? Did he know she was watching him?
Her heart began to thud slowly—one hard, heavy beat at a time. Quite obviously, she was not immune to the physical charms of a naked man. And he was a whole lot of man, she admitted as she turned away.
The shower stopped, and she heard the door unlatch.
“Throw me a towel, would you?” he asked.
She had to walk past the shower stall to get him the towel, and it took a massive effort of will to keep her eyes from wandering to the open door. Now that she’d seen him in soft focus, now that her imagination had been cruelly stimulated, she wanted to see everything. All of him in graphic detail! She felt the same horrible fascination she had as a child when she heard frightening noises. She didn’t want to look under the bed, but she couldn’t help herself.
“Here,” she said, thrusting the towel at him as his hand flashed out of the stall. “Did you bring any other clothes?” She wasn’t sure she could deal with the calypso look much longer.
“There’s a duffel bag in the closet behind you. I brought a wide assortment of jeans and T-shirts.”
So he’d been in her room earlier, she realized, wresting the duffel bag out of the narrow closet. How could she have been naive enough to think she could escape him?
He emerged from the shower moments later, and Bev’s first thought was that the towel knotted around his hips was several sizes too small for him. There were beads of water all over the parts of him that she could see, and she was immediately reminded of her problem ... with wetness.
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