"Because of the way they tore the whole place apart?"
"Yeah, pretty much. You do the job I did for 25 years and you get a sixth sense for things like that."
"I'll be okay, Paul. I'm not going to let these bastards control my day-to-day life; that would mean they won."
"Yeah, but ..."
"Look. I'll put the phone in my pocket; I've got a handheld VHF radio, and there're tons of people monitoring channel 16. I'll be up in the cockpit, working, so nobody's going to surprise me. Chill!"
"Yes, ma'am." Paul stepped out of the galley with two steaming plates of food. Setting one in front of Connie, he slid into the seat opposite her.
"What's this? I thought you were doing bacon and eggs. This looks like ..."
"Eggs Benedict," he finished her sentence and picked up his fork. "Bon appétit."
"Bon appétit." Connie tasted the eggs. "Yum."
"You like 'em okay?"
"It's wonderful. Thanks."
"Just doing my job, ma'am."
"Paul?"
"Yes?"
"It's not that I don't appreciate your worrying about me. I really do, but I need to ... to ..."
"It's okay. I understand. I'm sort of the same way, I think. You have to be your own person. Sorry if I was bugging you." He saw those eyes, then. The ones he'd been dreaming about; he felt like they were going to swallow his soul as she held him in her grateful gaze. He picked up his knife and busied himself with his food before he said or did something that would embarrass both of them.
****
Connie stood in the cockpit watching as Paul steered for Cruz Bay in the dinghy. She thought she'd done a good job of maintaining a brave façade until he left, but behind it she was riddled with uncertainty. In spite of what she'd told Paul, she was worried that whoever was looking for Jimmy's money would try again, but that wasn't her only source of anxiety. Between last night and this morning, she had acknowledged to herself that her feelings for Paul went far beyond friendship.
She'd never felt such a sense of comfort, such a willingness to entrust another with her feelings, as she felt with him. She was pretty sure that this must be love; it was a unique experience for her. She was 34 years old and had been on her own for 20 of those years, never daring to put her faith in another person.
Now she wanted to, to ... she shook her head. She couldn't even express to herself what she wanted. She wanted him. Not just physically, although she couldn't deny the warmth that rose in her belly every time he looked at her that way when he thought she wasn't watching. She wanted to be part of him, part of his life, and she wanted him to feel that way about her. She knew that she had no control over his feelings, any more than she had control over her own. She felt a tear roll down her cheek, a tear of frustration.
She could cope with these thugs who thought she had their money; that wasn't a new problem for her. It was frightening, but she knew how to channel the fear constructively. This situation with Paul, though, was beyond her ken. She only knew that she wanted him. She would figure it out; nothing that she ever wanted had eluded her -- not yet, anyway. "But I've never wanted anything this much in my life," she said aloud, surprising herself.
She focused her attention on the splintered wood where the burglar had pried the hardware from the companionway door. After studying it for a moment, she went below to assemble her tools. She couldn't solve the puzzle of what to do about Paul, but she could fix the door, and that would give her some momentary comfort and satisfaction.
****
Paul barely noticed the other boats he passed as he took the dinghy into Cruz Bay. He had registered that several appeared to be getting ready to leave, their engines running as they hoisted their mainsails before dropping their mooring pennants. He had nearly hit one, evoking shouted curses and arm waving on the part of the sunburned tourist at the helm. He tried to focus on the Greco case to get himself geared up for the conference call, but his mind kept drifting back to Connie.
He realized that since he'd met her, all the pain and frustration from his bitter divorce had melted away. At first, he'd attributed that to simple infatuation with a beautiful, vivacious woman willing to spend time with him. Since they passed that night in Beaufort in each other's arms, though, it had become clear to him that there was more to his feeling than that.
He'd had a few tentative relationships since his divorce. They provided enough distraction to mask the pain he carried in his heart, but he always knew it was lurking there, waiting to surprise him when he let his guard down. Now, he could look back on that period of emotional trauma and feel nothing more than a little sadness, a bit of grief, but not the overwhelming sense of anger and hurt that he had borne for years.
Shocked, he found himself holding the dinghy alongside the public dock in Cruz Bay with no recollection of having stopped there. He looked at his watch, alarmed that he been daydreaming and would be late for his call. He was relieved when he saw that only ten minutes had elapsed since he left Diamantista. He wrapped the dinghy's security chain around the railing of the floating dock and snapped the padlock through the links. Picking up his vinyl zippered binder, he climbed onto the dock and looked around for a moment to get his bearings. He didn't notice the two men staring at him from the crowd on the plaza in front of the adjacent ferry dock.
****
"Shit," Murano muttered. They had just found a place to park their rental car. Ferranti had been right; the traffic was 'un-fuckin'-believable.'
"That's him, ain't it?" Ferranti asked. "The cop."
"Yeah," Murano said.
They had planned to take their time about picking up the dinghy that Ferranti had left at the dock. Most of the overnight occupants of the moorings around the woman's boat had been leaving, so they had decided to drive to town. They could poke around the harbor in the dinghy, acting like tourists until they saw that all the boats had left. Then they would make their move.
"So what now?" Ferranti asked.
"Let's follow the son of a bitch. See where he goes."
"You think he's got the money?" Ferranti asked.
"Not on him."
"I know that, damn it. I'm the one packed it, remember?"
"Yeah. Take it easy. Let's see what he's up to. He's carrying a briefcase. You catch that?"
"Yeah. Don't look much like a tourist."
"No. Look. He's going in that place that advertises fax and Internet service."
"Yeah, and mailboxes for rent. Maybe the money's in there."
They stood across the street, blending with the crowd for a few minutes.
"Been in there a while," Ferranti said.
"Yeah. I'm going in and check it out. You wait here."
Murano stepped into the air-conditioned store and looked around. There was a woman behind a counter with a couple of people waiting as she searched through a folder. She looked up at Murano and smiled. "Be right with you, sir," she said, in a soft, southern accent. Murano nodded and studied the placards on the wall behind her.
"We're all here because we're not all there," one of them announced.
The other said, "We don't really care how you do it up north."
The two people at the counter left carrying small parcels, and Murano was alone with the woman.
"What can I do for you today?"
"I was wondering, um, do you have, like, private rooms for Internet access, or something?"
She frowned, and he realized what she must be thinking.
"No. Not like that, I mean, like somewhere I could spread out some papers and go on line to do a little work?"
She smiled, blushing. "I thought for a minute ..."
"Yeah. Sorry. My fault. I'm just looking for a place to get away from the wife and kids for a while to get some work done."
She nodded. "We do have a small conference room with a computer that's got high speed Internet access. People use it for video conferences, sometimes."
"That sounds like what I'm looking for. Is it available?
"
"Sorry, not right now. It's in use."
"Any idea how long before I could get in?"
She glanced up at the clock on the wall. "Probably a couple of hours, yet. If you have a phone, I could call you when it's free."
He shook his head. "No, thanks. I'll check back with you."
"You're welcome. Have a nice day."
Murano stepped across the street and told Ferranti what he had learned.
"Couple of hours, huh?" Ferranti asked.
"Yeah. What do you think? Should we wait for him, or just go grab the woman?"
"I'm gonna die if I don't get outta the sun, that's what I think."
Murano nodded. "Let's go get a cold drink at that place over there and figure out what to do."
* * *
Chapter 24
Paul did his best to maintain an attentive appearance; that was the thing that he liked least about video conference calls. His active part in the call had long since passed, but he was still on display. He had to look alert and engaged, but they couldn't see his thoughts.
He had spent the last hour working out how to tell Connie what he needed to tell her without spooking her. His worst fear was that she'd think that they had to spend some time apart; he didn't think that she would sever their friendship. She wouldn't reward honesty that way, but she might well be uncomfortable about sharing such a small space with him, knowing how he felt about her. He resolved once again to take that risk. To do otherwise was impossible, but the thought of being separated from her was unbearable.
"Paul?" He heard the voice of the Assistant U.S. Attorney.
He raised his eyes to the screen. "Sorry, ma'am. Just checking my notes."
"I asked if you had anything to add before we adjourn."
"Oh. No, ma'am, I can't think of a thing we haven't covered."
"Good. Thanks for joining us. Get back to your adventures in paradise, but don't forget to check your email every day, please."
"Yes, ma'am. Thanks, and don't hesitate to ask if there's something I can do to keep Greco off the street."
"Will do. 'Bye, everybody."
With a burbling tone, the computer screen went blank. Paul shuffled his papers into his vinyl briefcase, noticing as he did that his notepad was covered in doodles of a black-haired woman with big, dark eyes. He smiled wryly and tore the page off, balling it up and tossing it in the trash can in the corner of the small room. He opened the door and stepped over to the counter.
"All done, Lieutenant?"
"Yes. I'd like to put this on my credit card, please."
"Oh, it's been taken care of; the U.S. Attorney's office has an open account with us."
"Okay, then. Thanks."
"Have a good afternoon," she said, as he eased the street door closed behind him.
He felt like he was wading through quicksand as he made his way through the crowds of tourists to the dinghy dock. He dropped his briefcase into the little boat and climbed down, unlocking it and pushing it away from the crowded dock as he took a seat on the starboard side and pulled the starter cord. He felt a sense of excitement as he twisted the throttle and headed for the harbor entrance; he knew it was because he had made the right decision about telling Connie. His business behind him, he felt free and unburdened, except ... except he knew he had fallen in love with Connie. He had come to grips with that while the other participants in the conference call were droning on about the Greco case.
Despite the fact that she'd spent much of her life as a con artist, she was still a kind, generous person. She radiated a fundamental honesty that spoke of a solid character beneath a wily public persona. Connie had been the one to raise the subject of their mutual attraction back when they had first met. Paul had been surprised at the time, thinking that she was probably just out for a fling. Then she had surprised him when she'd said that she thought they should proceed with caution. She had told him that she wasn't ready to get emotionally involved with a man, even one that she liked as much as she liked him -- especially not one that she liked that much. She had too few friends in her life to risk one by getting into the complexities of a sexual relationship, as attractive as she might find it.
As they had talked, he had seen the wisdom in her viewpoint. He had taken stock of his own feelings and confessed that he agreed with her. The comfort that they provided one another was too rare to risk losing for a roll in the hay, as he had put it in his down-home way.
He still felt that way; it was just that there was something new in the mix. He couldn't look at her without wanting to take her in his arms, to hold her and comfort her and protect her. And while those were the limits of his conscious desires, he wasn't naïve enough to believe that he could stop there.
He was ready to move their relationship beyond friendship, but until she felt the same way, he knew he owed her the kind of honesty that she had shown him. As difficult as it would be, he'd have to tell her how he was feeling about her, and sooner rather than later. As risky as such a confession might be, it was the only right path for him to follow.
As he rounded the point, the mooring field that stretched from there up to Caneel Bay came into view. He was a little surprised at how many of the moorings were occupied now; they had been empty except for Diamantista and a few other boats when he had come in just two and a half hours ago. Now, there were few unoccupied mooring balls; the population of boats was so dense that he couldn't even pick out Diamantista on the farthest mooring.
He was about a hundred yards back when he realized that the boat on the far mooring was not Diamantista. Perplexed, he thought Connie must have moved for some reason. Maybe she wanted to be closer to town, but he was surprised that she would do that by herself. A 56-foot boat was a handful for one person when it came to picking up a mooring. She had worked hard at becoming an expert boat-handler. He didn't doubt that she could have done it, but he couldn't imagine why she would have.
He throttled back and stood up in the dinghy, looking around, but he didn't see Diamantista. "Must have passed her," he muttered, turning the dinghy around and weaving through the boats at full throttle as he headed back to town. Having failed to spot her, he went back to the boat on the mooring Diamantista had occupied when he left a few hours ago.
There were several people in the cockpit when he pulled alongside. He willed his heart to slow down, sure that his blood pressure must be setting a record.
"Excuse me," he said, "but I'm looking for a boat called Diamantista. She was on this mooring about three hours ago."
One of the men shrugged and shook his head. "It was empty when we got here."
"Could you please tell me how long ago that was?"
"I made a note in our logbook. When I shut the engine down, it was 2:15. Couldn't have been too long ago; we're still on the first round of beers." He chuckled.
Paul glanced at his watch; it was 3:00. He released his grip on the side of the boat and sat down. "Thanks," he said, as he turned to start the outboard.
"No problem," the man said.
"Hey!" one of the women yelled as Paul started to accelerate.
He throttled back and returned.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Check the third boat from the front. It was here when we got here; the rest of them came after we did."
"Thank you very much," he said, and roared away. He throttled back as he approached the third boat, finding a couple relaxing with books in the shade of the cockpit awning. They looked up from their books as he came alongside.
"Sorry to disturb you," he said, and explained his quest.
"Well," the woman said, "I don't know about the name because we didn't get that close, but there was a boat on that mooring when we got here. There were only a couple of others back toward town, us, and that one on the first mooring."
"Do you know about what time that was?"
The woman and her companion exchanged glances.
"Not exactly. We're on vacation, so we're deliberately not looking at the time," th
e man said.
"But it was lunch time," the woman added. "While we were eating, the two men came back to that boat and left in a big hurry."
"Two men?"
"Yes, in a really trashy-looking dinghy. I was surprised, because the boat was so well kept."
"Any chance you could describe them?" Paul asked.
"I didn't get that good a look; they were going pretty fast, but I guess they were average looking. Shorts, Tshirts. Nothing that caught my eye but the dinghy."
"Were they white or black? Fat? Skinny?"
"White, I think. The dinghy was kind of a dark gray with paint splotches on it, and the outboard was painted day-glow orange," the woman said. Her husband nodded.
"Thanks," Paul said, his heart in his throat.
****
Connie could hear voices as she recovered consciousness, but she could not make out what they were saying. She lay still, feigning sleep as she assessed her surroundings. The rumble of the diesel from below sounded familiar, like Diamantista's, but that wasn't right. Could Paul be moving the boat, or charging the batteries, or something? That didn't add up either. She remembered that he had gone into Cruz Bay for some reason.
Cruz Bay. That's right. They were on a mooring in St. John. God, her head was splitting. She kept her eyes nearly closed and cast a furtive glance at her immediate surroundings. She was on the starboard settee in Diamantista’s main cabin, and she could tell now that the boat was underway. Alarmed, she rolled to a sitting position, her vision spinning as she opened her eyes.
"Well, well. Sleeping Beauty awakens. I was beginning to think I'd hit you too hard."
She focused on the grinning man with difficulty, taking in the carefully groomed hair and the closely clipped beard that covered his face. At first, she thought he needed a shave, but then she realized that the whiskers were a fashion statement of sorts, like the piercing through the bridge of his nose.
"Like what you see?" he asked, still grinning.
"Who are you?" she asked, still befuddled.
"Just call me Tony, sweet thing. And I'm betting you go by Connie, right? Not Constanza?"
Love for Sail Page 15