No, of course not.
Mitch stepped away from the wheel, and Kate heard him call, "Cast off." Darryl yelled from the back deck, Remy from the bow, and Mitch returned to the helm. The boat soon idled into forward motion.
Kate sat up straight and raised her cuffed hands to the small window above the bed. Sweeping aside the short blue curtains, she watched the watery expanse gradually grow between the boat and the wharf. Though the boat moved slowly, she soon lost sight of the dock altogether. Her apprehension grew, and she looked longingly at the forested shoreline, wondering if she'd ever step foot on solid ground again.
Heavy footsteps thudded on the side deck along the far side of the cabin, and soon the murmur of conversation sounded in the wheelhouse. "I hope you right, Cap'n" came Remy's voice from somewhere to the right of Mitch. "You don't want no bad luck on dis trip wit' your missus."
Mitch uttered a sharp reply, which Kate couldn't quite make out. She felt shaken, though, to be called his "missus." She'd almost managed to forget the relationship between Mitch and her sister … and the fact that she now played the role of his wife. A vague qualm rolled in her stomach.
"A woman on board is another strike against you," Remy warned Mitch.
Kate pursed her lips in annoyance. Of all the insulting, sexist beliefs!
"I notice you never let that sacred rule of the sea bother you too much," Mitch said, sounding amused.
Remy barked a short, jolly laugh. "Never. A man has to draw da line somewhere, no?"
"Maybe so. But to me, that superstition is the only sensible one. A woman on board usually means trouble."
Kate huffed out an indignant breath. Of all the nerve. Breaking into her home, kidnapping her and carrying her off in chains was bad enough, but spouting blatantly sexist statements was going too far. After her initial rush of annoyance ebbed, though, an inkling of hope came to her. Perhaps she could use this newly gained information to her advantage.
Decisively she swung her feet to the floor, rose from the bed and started for the wheelhouse. To balance herself against the slight swaying of the boat, she wedged her elbow against the chart table. When she reached the open doorway, she piped up from behind the three men standing near the helm, "Did I hear you say that a woman on board is bad luck?"
All three turned surprised gazes to her. No one answered her question.
She leaned her shoulder against the doorjamb to steady herself. "If that's true, there's still time to turn around and travel by car. Might be a good idea. After all, I'm not familiar with these 'rules of the sea.' Who knows what mistakes I might make? Like, um, whistling in the wheelhouse."
"Vie, vie!" exclaimed Remy, his eyes growing round. "Don't do dat, chèr'. With t'ree strikes against us, we won't even make it back to da dock."
Kate bit her lip to stifle a smile at the thoroughly startled expression on his comically expressive face. Even in his startlement, though, his eyes sparkled with unmistakable friendliness, and despite her unease with the entire situation, Kate found herself liking Remy.
A humorless laugh drew her attention to Darryl, who stood to the other side of Mitch. "Better not make too many mistakes, chèr'. We'd hate for you to fall overboard. Might be hard to swim in handcuffs. 'Specially wit' all dem hungry sharks out dere." Though he'd spoken lightly, the menacing glint in his eyes left no doubt that he'd intended to scare her.
And he'd succeeded.
"Then again," Mitch drawled, his gaze aimed straight ahead as he easily guided the boat between green and red channel markers, "I'm sure Darryl wouldn't mind jumping in to save you." His tone matched Darryl's in lightness, but there was no mistaking the underlying message.
Darryl shot a quick look at Mitch, curled his lip, crossed his hefty, tattooed arms and stared sullenly out at the water. Kate realized then that Darryl could be a dangerous enemy. And that Mitch, in his own quiet-spoken way, had come to her defense.
She couldn't have been more relieved.
"I would be happy to leap to your rescue anytime." Remy pulled himself up to his less-than-impressive height, snatched the New Orleans Saints cap from his head and crossed his heart. A wide smile displayed a brilliant diamond embedded between his two rather crooked front teeth.
Kate stared at that diamond in awe. Its prism-cut facets caught the late-afternoon sun and transformed the golden beams into wildly glittering rainbows. "Ooh." She clasped her cuffed hands to her breast in appreciation of the sheer unexpectedness of it. "How pretty!"
Surreptitiously watching through his sideview mirror, Mitch poked his tongue against his cheek and resisted the urge to grin. He swore Remy actually grew in stature. His chest definitely swelled by a good two inches, and though his white rubber shrimper boots technically never left the floor, his toes probably hovered somewhere above the grounded soles.
"Talk about pretty," Remy enthused, as he worshipfully regarded her—a reaction not completely unexpected by Mitch, mind you. "You done something new wit' your hair. Tres beaux!"
"Merci."
Mitch blinked in disbelief at her French reply. She'd never spoken a word of French when she'd been with him, or expressed any interest in doing so. She'd actually grown impatient when his family and friends occasionally spoke it.
He peered at her through the navigational mirror and sustained an even greater shock. She was not, as he'd expected, casting a provocative look at her admirer from beneath her lush lashes, or fanning Remy's fantasies with a flirtatious smile. She was simply gazing at him in amused camaraderie. A man would have a hard time reading anything sexual into that look.
Yet, for the first time in their relationship, a stab of envy pierced Mitch. She'd never gifted him with that particular brand of droll, sunny warmth. And although her hair trailed from her prim, braided upsweep in limp strands, her cotton blouse and khaki shorts were wrinkled from hours of travel and the dense humidity shone on her skin like a fine sheen of perspiration, he'd never seen her looking as beautiful. Not even in the first fateful moment he'd set eyes on her. And he'd been spellbound by her then.
The strike of a match and an acrid cloud of smoke in his face jarred him to his senses, and he jerked his attention to the waterway. Darryl muttered, "Want me to take over da wheel, Cap'n? Would be nice if we made it t'rough da channel without running aground."
Mitch clenched his teeth in self-annoyance. They hadn't been in danger of running aground, but Darryl had a good point. He'd been ridiculously distracted. What the hell had gotten into him?
"If you think my smile is nice, chèr', wait till you try my etouffee," Remy boasted. "Or maybe I'll make dat gumbo you liked so much last time."
"She don't remember your gumbo, Remy," Darryl said with subtle sarcasm. "And she don't remember you. Or Mitch, either."
Another disturbing pang went through Mitch, although he wasn't sure why. Couldn't be injured pride, considering he didn't believe for a moment that she'd forgotten him. He chalked it up to anxiety over her motives for the ruse, and maybe anger at her for the deception.
"What you talkin' about, Darryl?" Remy asked in bewilderment. He then frowned questioningly at Camryn. "Of course you remember Mitch. And old Remy, too … no?"
Mitch couldn't help glancing her way again.
The expression of gentle apology on her face was so damn convincing. "I'm sorry, Remy," she murmured in her summer-soft voice, "but I don't remember you, or your gumbo. You see, I … I was in an automobile accident and suffered a head injury. Since then, my memory has been … unreliable." She glanced at Mitch, and he resolutely returned his gaze to the waterway. "I don't remember Mitch, either, or any of the time I … spent with him."
Remy stared at her in astonishment.
"So much for your unforgettable gumbo, eh, Remy?" quipped Darryl, flicking the ash off his cigarette into an ashtray.
The gesture, along with the smoke, suddenly brought to Mitch's mind the fact that Camryn wasn't smoking. She hadn't asked for a single cigarette. Amazing, considering she'd always had a nico
tine fit after ten minutes without one. When he thought back to his casual search of her purse, he realized that he'd found no cigarettes or lighter.
Odd. Very odd.
"Why don't you offer our guest a smoke?" Mitch suggested to Darryl. "Just to show you didn't mean anything by your threat to feed her to the sharks."
Darryl frowned, shrugged and reached for the cigarettes in his shirt pocket.
Camryn stopped him with, "No, thanks. I don't smoke."
Mitch pivoted from the wheel to stare at her. "Are you telling me you quit?"
"Y-yes." She seemed to shrink back in the doorway from his probing gaze. "After the accident."
Some sixth sense told him she was lying. But when Mitch remembered holding her during their various tussles of the day, he recalled only a light, sweet scent emanating from her. Like vanilla wafers, maybe. Not cigarette smoke. And though he hadn't been in her house for very long, he didn't recall seeing any ashtrays there.
Highly suspicious and somewhat confused, he sullenly turned back to his navigation.
"Good for you, chèr'." Remy beamed his approval at her. "Me, I quit four months ago. Don't like smudging up my diamond. Mitch, you lucky you never started. It's your turn now, Darryl. You should—"
"Sit down, Camryn," Mitch broke in. "Or better yet, go lie down on the bed." He suddenly wanted time alone with his crew to discuss some much-needed strategy. "We're almost out of the channel, and the swells will grow bigger. With your hands bound, you might lose your balance. You'll be safer on the bed." In a gentler tone, he added, "I'll take those cuffs off you as soon as I can."
He met her eyes in the mirror, expecting an objection or, at the very least, a pout. Oddly enough, though, she looked grateful. Grateful! And he knew it was because he'd spoken pleasantly to her; had shown concern for her well-being; had promised to release her from the cuffs. She was simply that easy to read.
Guilt pulsed through him, and he tried to squelch it. She'd stolen his daughter and kept her away for six months. She'd put his family through hell. And who knew what harm she'd done Arianne? He had every right to take her to the authorities for breaking their custody agreement. He'd done nothing that hadn't been necessary.
But he supposed he could have been nicer about it. Open hostility only made matters worse. Besides, as the old saying went, more flies were caught with honey. And he had some important "flies" he intended to catch … before she reached the courtroom.
Mitch watched through his navigational mirror as she turned toward the bedroom. Remy stepped forward and took her arm. With a gracious smile for him, she hobbled into the captain's quarters.
The moment she was out of easy earshot, Mitch explained his plans regarding Camryn in a discreet undertone to Darryl. After he'd finished and answered a couple of questions, Mitch said, "Take Remy to the back deck and fill him in. She's more apt to respond to him than to you or me."
Darryl nodded, looking considerably cheered by the traps they would set for her.
Mitch hoped they would trip her up in her lies, and soon. He wasn't sure he could take much more of her role playing. He was beginning to feel as if a stranger had taken over her body. Or that he'd never really known her at all.
"Drop the outriggers."
No sooner had Mitch's command boomed over the intercom than a loud cr-r-reak and clang! jarred the boat. Within moments, the speed of the boat increased to a humming pace; the vessel surged and rolled over waves; and a cool, clean-smelling wind whistled through the doorways and windows, riffling the curtains, the linen on the bed and the loose, sweat-dampened strands of her hair.
Clearly, the boat had left the channel. They were "outside."
An unexpected reaction stirred in Kate—one that defied all common sense and told her things about her character that she'd never suspected. Anticipation. Good Lord, here she was a prisoner, bound in handcuffs, headed for a place that frightened her … yet she still wanted to see everything along the way; to learn everything she could about this alien new world in which she found herself. The lure of the unknown, she supposed. For the first time in her life, she somewhat understood Camryn's yearning for adventure. Kate nearly pressed her face to the small window above the bed to get a wider view of the scenery. All she could see was smooth, gray-green swells and the vague, smoky outline of the wooded shoreline growing more distant.
Sudden doubt tempered the odd anticipation. Would she ever return to that distant shore, or to the world she'd left behind? Was this journey taking her closer to Arianne, or farther away?
The heightened speed and movement of the boat soon increased her queasiness, and she worried about getting seasick. An uneasy heat pulsed through her, and she lay back against the pillows. Up and down, side to side … the motion seemed to get more pronounced.
Breathing deeply, she stared at the white stippled ceiling of the captain's quarters and tried to concentrate on anything rather than the sickening toss of the sea. Up and down … side to side … again and again… The ceiling itself began to spin, and all interest about the seascape dwindled. She now wanted only to curl up in a ball, close her eyes and … die, maybe. Or just lose her lunch. But that thought only made her feel worse.
Mitch soon materialized beside the bed, looking strong, vital. He seemed to emanate a palpable energy, an aura of unlimited authority and stamina. Life at sea clearly agreed with him. "Ready to get out of those cuffs?"
A sarcastic reply rose to her tongue, but she couldn't summon the physical energy to utter it. A listless nod would have to suffice.
"Before I turn you loose," Mitch began in a pleasant yet uncompromising tone, "there are a few things I want to make clear. As always, I don't allow alcoholic beverages onboard the boat. But if you find a way to get your hands on any—and with Remy around, that's not impossible—I forbid you to drink. Break that rule, or any rule, and you'll end up back here, in this room, in handcuffs. Next, there will be no—"
"How long is this trip going to take?" Kate cut in, managing not to gasp or groan while she forced the words out.
He frowned and narrowed his gaze on her face, as if suddenly realizing that something wasn't exactly right with her, physically speaking. Perhaps her skin had turned green. "Two or three days, depending on the weather."
"Two or three days!" She gaped at him in abject dismay. She'd been expecting hours, not days. Good Lord. Days! "I'll never make it."
"Are you sick?"
She nodded, her misery growing.
"Let's get you out of these cuffs."
Wise choice, she thought, although she was no longer certain she could make it to the bathroom in time if the need arose, anyway.
Sitting beside her on the bed, he took her wrists between his large, work-hardened palms and unlocked the cuffs. Feeling listless and ill, she closed her eyes again and allowed her head to loll back on a pillow. "You're probably hungry," he said. "It's eight o'clock. Way past suppertime. I'll tell Remy to make you something light. I doubt you're in the mood for his etouffee."
"No food," she croaked, fighting a wave of nausea.
"Soup. Or toast."
"Not hungry."
"Then try to sleep. A nap helped you get your sea legs last time."
"It did?" She squinted up at him with sudden hope.
He didn't answer, and through her blurry-eyed squint, she saw his mouth flatten at her question. It seemed that her alleged amnesia still annoyed him. She couldn't think about that now, though. The pitching of the sea was too bothersome, too ceaseless, too draining.
With a fervent prayer that she would "get her sea legs" as her twin apparently had, Kate shut her eyes and curled around a pillow to battle the nausea. Her attention was quickly claimed, though, by a crackle from the wheelhouse, a blurb of static, then the tinny blare of a man's unintelligible conversation from what had to be the radio.
The radio. She'd forgotten about the ship-to-shore radio. Fighting dizziness, she pushed up on her elbows. "Mitch, you said we'd call Joey to check on Arian
ne."
"She won't be home yet. I'd rather wait until—"
"Now," she insisted, calling upon all her strength to raise herself into a sitting position. "Please, Mitch. Let's call her now."
Amazingly enough, he didn't argue but braced her with a strong, steady arm as she rose from the bed and made her way to the wheelhouse, fighting nausea and dizziness with every step.
Though darkness had begun to encroach upon the mellow gold of evening, the breeze blowing through the wheelhouse felt hotter and heavier with the taste of salt. The electronics on and above the control panel glowed a soft, steady green, punctuated here and there with blinking red. Through the open starboard doorway, Kate saw the distant lights of the coastline, looking much like a constellation in a cloudy evening sky. The sky itself, though, as well as the sea, had disappeared into grayish shadows.
"Are you sure you're up to this?" Mitch asked as he helped her into one of the high-legged chairs near the helm.
"I'm fine," she lied, grasping the edge of the control panel with one hand and pressing the other to her churning stomach. A wave of sickly heat rushed to her head, and she sucked in deep breaths. "Just … hurry. Call her."
Reaching overhead for the radio, he fiddled with knobs, spoke into the handset and enunciated a telephone number, presumably to the marine operator. Kate tried to memorize the number, but the throbbing in her head and stomach distracted her too much. At least she knew the area code. If she had to search for Arianne, it would be a start. Then again, he was calling a cell phone. How much good would a cell phone number do her if Joey ran with the baby? But Mitch had said she was headed home…
"Don't talk until I give you the handset," he told Kate while they waited for the connection to be made. "I don't want you to upset Joey any more than necessary."
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