Banging on the door, he yelled, "Get decent in there, you barbarians. The queen's entourage is coming through."
An annoyed mutter and a curious exclamation in Remy's version of French sounded from within the room before a light switched on.
Mitch pushed open the door and ushered Camryn inside. Darryl frowned at them from his bunk on one side of the cramped quarters, and Remy grinned from his on the other side. They'd both been gentlemanly enough to cover themselves with sheets, but Her Majesty looked mightily embarrassed, anyway.
Which pleased Mitch to no end. "See anywhere in here you want to sleep, chèr'?"
Rosy color flooded her face. As was true with every chamber in the cabin, there wasn't even enough floor space to accommodate a child, let alone an adult. Remy gallantly offered to make room for her in his twin-size bed. Darryl snorted. Camryn pivoted and marched out of the narrow, crowded room without comment.
Mitch smiled, shrugged at his crew, shut their door and followed her. Slipping a firm hand beneath her elbow, he stopped her in the galley. "If you'll notice, the benches at this booth and the table itself are a little too short for an adult to comfortably lie on. And the floor is made up of two narrow, intersecting walkways that could use a good scrubbing. See anywhere you want to sleep yet?"
"Not yet."
"Well, then … I could show you the wheelhouse, which barely has room to walk through, let alone bunk in. Then there's the back deck, the bow, the hold, the engine room and the roof."
"There's got to be some place that either you or I could spread out a pillow and blanket," she insisted, her frustration evident.
"You mean, like, brave the rain and sleep outside? Or ignore the fumes in the engine room, or the ice in the hold?"
"No, of course not, but—"
"But, nothing." His patience was short. She seriously objected to sleeping with him, and he found himself seriously bothered by that. "I'm captain of this vessel, and I sleep in the captain's quarters—three steps away from the radio and the controls. You're a passenger on this vessel, and you'll sleep where I know you're safe." Abandoning her elbow in favor of her slender shoulders, he steered her to the captain's quarters and parked her beside the bed. "Right there, on the far side, nearest the wall, is your bunk. Mine is here." He indicated the near side of the bed. With a slash of his hand, he then indicated an invisible line down its center. "You stay on your half, I'll stay on mine."
She tossed him a cool glance that spoke eloquently of her disdain. Her silken cloud of hair, meanwhile, brushed across his hands at her shoulders and sent a delicate orange-and-flowers scent wafting his way. Raising her chin to a haughty angle, she kicked off her sandals, tore back the bedcovers and climbed in. Scooting over as close to the wall as humanly possible, she presented him with her back and covered herself with the sheet, leaving only her hair to spill out in a golden wave across the pillow.
He allowed himself a small, rueful smile as he stripped out of his wet clothes, pulled on a dry pair of briefs and settled down onto his side of the bed.
His smile didn't last long, though. The bed wasn't big enough for a person his size to share without edging up fairly close to the other occupant. He'd been lucky to find a shrimp boat with a bed larger than a twin. This one wasn't as wide as a regular full bed, though. Keeping strictly to his side would be difficult.
Aggravating the situation was the slow roll of the boat. It made it damn near impossible to stop from nudging up against her. She had to be having the same problem, keeping her back stiff and straight in her effort not to touch him.
Neither of them made a sound or moved as much as an eyelid. Rain drummed steadily on the roof. The distant murmur of the surf reached them from the nearby island, and faraway thunder resonated occasionally.
But inside, the silence grew heavier. She lay near enough for him to feel her body heat down the entire length of him. For her personal scent to gradually emerge from beneath the delicate fragrance of her shampoo—the subtle, natural lure of woman. Never before had her scent evoked such hot, breathless tension in him. The effort not to touch her, not to pull her close and fill his senses, only succeeded in reminding him of how she'd looked today, so sweet and soft and pretty. How she'd cried her heart out, and how he'd held her.
What she'd felt like in his arms. So damn right.
He swallowed hard. Shut his eyes. Tried like hell to fall asleep. He didn't want to want her.
It seemed that he eventually slept. Morning dawned long before he was ready to stir from a deep slumber and lush, hazy dreams. Dreams of silk, and heat, and woman. Of velvet flesh, rounded curves, needful moans. Sweat. Friction. Need.
Her. The One.
He woke with a hoarse groan in his throat. She, with ragged breaths. And in that first instant of awakening, halfway between the dream world and full consciousness, they opened heavy-lidded eyes and met each other in dazed stares of stark, hot longing.
The reason slowly dawned. They were locked in a tight, heart-to-heart embrace … limbs intertwined, hands questing … bodies writhing together in slow, sensual accord.
* * *
Chapter 9
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She couldn't face him. Never, ever again. She'd rather jump overboard and swim a hundred miles than look even one more time into his eyes. His intensely green, intensely sensual eyes, liberally flecked with gold. Hot gold. Molten, like lava. Molten, like his body, his touch.
Kate bit her lip to keep from groaning out loud. She should have opted to sleep on the galley table!
Scrambling eggs in a skillet as if her life depended on it—a job Remy hadn't even tried to keep from her this morning—Kate struggled not to think about what had happened with Mitch. And she couldn't even blame him for it. Oh, no … she'd been more than willing. Asleep for the most part, and unduly influenced by lurid dreams, but undeniably willing. He'd been asleep, too. Or at least, not fully awake. She'd seen awareness flood his gaze at the exact time she'd snapped to full consciousness. Good heavens, if they hadn't come to their senses when they had, she probably would have made love to him!
They'd been precious close to it already. She'd been so involved in her sweet, hot dream of strong arms holding her, intimate caresses igniting her blood, feverish moans, both hers and his … dreams more vivid and provocative than any real experience she'd ever had. She'd savored his muscular body with slow, bold caresses, locked her legs around his sleek hips, twined her arms around his massive shoulders and given herself over to pleasure.
And to Mitch. As much as she wished she could deny it, her dream lover had been Mitch.
By the time she'd awakened and come to her senses, her body was arched and undulating with his. Her nightshirt had ridden high above her thighs, and he'd splayed his hand across her bottom, holding her fast, while his incredible hardness rocked against her. The pleasure had been intense. The very memory shot spears of hot response through her feminine core.
If not for the thin barrier of her panties—those plain cotton briefs he'd mocked just days ago—he would have surged inside her.
Deep, deep, inside.
Heat coursed through her veins, and she drew in a long, cooling breath. How could she have gotten so carried away? He was her sister's husband. The fact that her sister was no longer alive did not excuse Kate's wanting him.
And, worse yet, he believed her to be Camryn. Not only was she hiding the fact that his wife had died, but she'd taken her place in bed with him. Perhaps not intentionally, but the result was the same. Her deception had gone to a deeper, more unforgivable level.
What should she do? Confess?
But she hadn't yet achieved the most important goal of her life—securing Arianne's future. She still didn't know if he had abused Camryn or how he would treat his daughter. She hadn't seen his home, his community or the people who would keep the baby while he was out to sea. If she confessed, the best she could hope for was an outsider's glimpse, if they'd allow her even that much. As Camryn, she hoped her tentati
ve truce with Mitch would yield her an inside view.
And if she discovered that he was abusive, or that his care of Arianne would harm her in any way, she'd take the baby and run. She'd work on the legal difficulties later, from a safe distance, where Mitch and his family would never find them.
The thought struck a hollow chord within her. She really didn't relish hurting him. But Arianne had to come first. Kate could not allow sexual desire for a handsome man to influence her judgment, or get in the way of her plans. She couldn't allow herself to fall victim to his charms, perhaps as Camryn had.
The last thing she needed was a broken heart. And something told her that she could easily lose her heart to Mitch Devereaux.
As she lifted the skillet and scooped the steaming scrambled eggs onto a platter, Remy sauntered into the sunny galley with his usual pleasant grin and a hint of caution in his expression. She knew she hadn't been acting herself this morning. She hadn't spoken much to anyone, and was focused too intently on the tasks she'd stubbornly usurped in the galley. With an air of watchfulness that one might accord a quiet but potentially dangerous bear, Remy said, "Mitch wants you."
She nearly dropped the skillet. Mitch wants you. How arousing was that? Was it equally obvious she wanted him, too?
"In da wheelhouse," Remy added, with a sideways nod in that direction.
Kate set the skillet onto the stove and reached for her mug of coffee with a hand that trembled. When a simple statement infused her with erotic thoughts, it was time to jump ship. Too bad she hadn't done so before they'd pulled anchor this morning. A wistful glance through the open doorway showed miles of choppy blue-gray water between her and the island they'd anchored near last night. Mitch had lost no time in gunning the Lady Jeanette into a seaward course again.
So much for swimming to shore.
She supposed she'd have to talk with him.
They hadn't spoken a single word to each other this morning yet. When full consciousness had dawned on them, they'd sprung apart in mutual alarm. Or, more precisely, untangled themselves from each other and leaped into separate courses of action. She'd grabbed an armful of clothes, changed in the bathroom and headed for the back deck, where she'd walked circles around the hatch cover and nearly hyperventilated.
Mitch had closeted himself in the wheelhouse.
And now he wanted her. To see her, that was. And talk, probably. Her embarrassment flared. She didn't want to acknowledge her wildly hot response in bed, or to analyze that response too closely. Because even though the incident had mortified her, it had also illuminated a disturbing truth about herself.
Despite her hard-earned success over her twenty-eight years of life and her relatively enjoyable standard of living, she hadn't known passion, real passion, until he'd ignited it in her.
Mitch set the auto-pilot on a course through the Mississippi barrier islands, about twelve miles south of the coastline, and settled back in his chair. He knew the route without glancing at the markers, the loran or his chart. From a lifetime of shrimping these waters, he recognized the pattern produced by the depth recorder—the hills, valleys and plateaus of the bottom.
Ironic, that he knew the Gulf's bottom better than he'd known what lay beneath his wife's surface. He'd believed she had little interest in anything beyond self-gratification. To learn that he'd been wrong was as shocking as finding a lost continent in his favorite fishing hole.
The surprises just kept on coming. He'd called her in to the wheelhouse to apologize for this morning's misunderstanding. He preferred to think of it by that term rather than an utter breakdown of his self-control. As of yet, though, she hadn't given him a chance to talk about it.
In fact, from the moment she'd nervously perched in the seat beside him, she'd been chitchatting about everything but the fact that they'd woken in each other's arms. Instinctively he sensed her desire to avoid the subject. That in itself was a change. The old Camryn would have been smug to think she'd posed such an irresistible temptation that he'd broken his own code of ethics, even if he hadn't been exactly conscious at the time.
The old Camryn was nowhere in sight. Why not?
Her conversation baffled him more. After their first few dates, during which they'd concentrated solely on fun and sex, Mitch had found it difficult to talk for any length of time with her. Beyond their common love of a good party, their interests had been too different.
Now, however, she hit on topics that naturally stirred his interest and effortlessly held it. She asked about the electronics in the wheelhouse, and he showed her how to read the radar, loran and depth recorder. She excitedly pointed to a toucan that had landed on the bow with an orange tag on its leg, and spoke of bird-tracking projects she'd read about.
"You won't find more species of birds in one place than in southern Louisiana," he told her. He couldn't help interjecting a little Cajun humor, and let a casual comment drop. "Yeah, we Cajuns might be known for poaching in the swamps, but we always try to safeguard those protected species. One time my cousin Baptiste accidentally shot a falcon, and he couldn't sleep for weeks."
"A falcon! Oh, my. I don't blame him for feeling terrible."
Mitch nodded in absent agreement. After a strategic pause, he mused, "I'd have thought a falcon would taste like dove, or duck, but it doesn't."
Now, that really caught her interest, and she frowned at him in both incredulity and mild disapproval. "You cooked the falcon and ate it?"
He shrugged, as if reluctant to own up to it.
A moment later, she went for the bait. "Well, what did it taste like?"
"Oh, I'd say a cross between a bald eagle and a whooping crane."
Her eyes widened; her jaw dropped. After a horrified stare, though, she twisted her mouth with wry humor. "I almost believed you!" Dramatically she swatted his shoulder.
He laughed. She grumbled. And an odd sense of companionship embraced them. They went on to talk about the wind, the tide and the moon and as he described how each affected the creatures of the sea, she listened, spellbound.
When and why had she developed a fascination for topics that had once bored her silly?
And now, as they passed Ship Island, she turned to him in excitement and talked about its role in the Civil War—a topic that had once glazed her eyes over.
"These barrier islands were used by pirates, too," she was saying, "and all kinds of dangerous smugglers. One of the islands was discovered to have piles of human skeletons. A Frenchman originally named it 'Massacre Island.' I wish I could remember which island it was…"
"Dauphin," he supplied.
She lifted her brows, clearly surprised that he'd known.
"My secret vice," he admitted. "When it comes to the history of the Gulf region, I'm hooked. Spent half my boyhood looking for Jean Lafitte's treasure, or ammunition from the wars."
She stared at him in something akin to awe. At one time, that kind of response from her would require hitting a hefty jackpot. "Did you find any?" she asked in hushed, reverent tones.
"Some. Ammunition, that is."
Her interest was so palpable that the realization struck him harder than it had before: he didn't know this woman. The changes in her were too drastic, too profound, to be attributed to memory loss, or the addictions she'd kicked, or guilt over her sister's death.
He began to wonder if she was suffering from some rare split-personality disorder. Perhaps he should try to talk her into seeing a psychiatrist … if she wasn't already seeing one for her memory loss. But then, what if she reverted to the old Camryn? Sacre Dieu, he couldn't risk that!
Which left him torn over what to do with her. Would it be fair—or wise—to take her to the authorities and charge her with violating the custody order when she didn't remember doing so? But if he didn't put a scare into her, how did he know she wouldn't try to run with Arianne again? They hadn't discussed their daughter since he'd learned of the accident. How could he talk about custody issues when he no longer knew what was right?
/> Was she suddenly trustworthy enough to share custody, or would she return to her old, dangerous ways?
Never had he been more confused.
A little while later, after Camryn had left the wheelhouse to watch Remy make oyster po'boy sandwiches for lunch, the marine operator put through a call that brought Mitch out of his chair in surprise. Chuck Arceneaux.
Locking the doors of the wheelhouse to ensure that the call wouldn't be overheard, Mitch greeted the investigator with, "This is a surprise, Chuck. Thought you'd be too busy swilling those rum drinks with little umbrellas to give me another thought."
"Yeah, well, I should be, but that computer report about Camryn's accident had me asking too many questions. I just couldn't leave it alone."
"Your wife'll have my head. Don't worry about the report until you're back from vacation. We'll have plenty of time to gather more facts before—"
"Are you sitting down, Mitch?"
"Sitting down?" He frowned. "Not at the moment. Why?"
"Sit down."
He blinked in puzzlement. Chuck had never been the dramatic type. "Sure you haven't been throwing back those umbrella drinks, Chuck? Maybe you're the one who needs to sit down."
"We've been wrong about a very basic assumption."
"Oh, yeah." The light went on in his head, and he let out a brief laugh. "You mean the mix-up over her so-called alias. I hate to steal your thunder, but she already told me about her sister."
The silence over the radio was, for a moment, absolute. "She told you?"
"Yeah. The old man who said that Camryn goes by the name of Kate Jones must have gotten the two sisters confused. Kate owned the house where we found Camryn staying, as well as the car she'd been driving at the time of the accident." Mitch paused. "You know, don't you, that Kate was killed in the wreck?"
Again, a rather ominous silence. Then, "Sit down, Mitch."
Foreboding spiraled through his gut. "Why?"
"There was a mix-up about the two sisters. You have that much right. But, uh…" He hesitated, and went on in an oddly gentle tone that Mitch had never expected to hear from the hard-nosed investigator. "According to the death records, Camryn was the one who died in that car crash. The gal you have on board your boat can only be Kate. Her identical twin."
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