Dangerous Waters

by Laurey Bright

  Rogan shook his head. Already he was feeling slightly unattached from his surroundings, the beer fumes and smoke and noisy revelry receding in an alcohol-induced haze.

  Webby dug the newcomer in the ribs. "Hey, you remember old Barney at Taff's wake, don't you, Doll? Don't you reckon he was all fired up about something?"

  Doll? Rogan blinked as the taller man pondered. "He was fired up about a lot of things—doctors, Taff dying on him, the government, customs regulations…"

  Webby poked him again. "Wasn't he talking about getting rich at last?"

  "Barney was always talking about getting rich."

  "Yeah, but that night…"

  Rogan edged away, leaving the two of them arguing. Granger, a slightly hunted look about him, caught his eye and came over. "Do you think anyone would notice if I left? This lot might keep going all day."

  "And all night," Rogan speculated. "I've had enough, anyway. I don't suppose they'll miss us if we slip away."

  Granger's look held veiled surprise. Then he grinned slightly. "Not much of a female presence here, is there?"

  Rogan tried to look offended, suspecting he only looked sheepish. Sure, he liked female company when it was available. Came of being without it for so much of his working life. Even on shore, in some places where he'd worked just looking at a woman could get him thrown into jail or worse. Not to mention the even greater danger to any poor girl who might be tempted to return the compliment.

  So in a free country where what a man and a woman did was a matter of mutual consent and no one else's business, he made the most of the sometimes brief periods he had to enjoy being with them.

  He liked women. He liked their bodies, softly rounded or slender and supple, and their silky smooth skin, and their hair—how they kept it shiny and sweet-smelling, sometimes curled and plaited and decorated. He liked the way they moved, the subtle roll and sway of their hips and behinds as they walked. And how if they liked a man back, they touched their hair and tilted their heads and peeked at him with shy, flirty eyes. Or boldly looked at him and smiled, inviting him closer.

  He specially liked their laughter, and their voices—light and pretty, or low and sexy. And how they listened, really listened when he talked. He liked the way they cared, about all sorts of things—children, the environment, their girlfriends' problems.

  And he was awed by how capable they were. His mother had needed to be, but other women too seemed to just know things that men blundered through without a clue.

  He liked being with them. For a while.

  Sometimes a leisurely drink or two with a woman in a warm bar was as pleasurable in its own way as a wild romp in bed. Not that he wasn't open to offers…

  He wondered if Ocean-eyes was around.

  Camille, he remembered. Her name was Camille. Nice. Yeah, and it suited her. Although she didn't look consumptive like The Lady of the Camellias.

  It wasn't easy escaping, and it was another hour before the brothers slipped through a side door and Rogan gulped in a lungful of fresh air.

  "Let's walk," Granger said.

  Putting some distance between them and the revelry inside, they strolled randomly along the nearest street, then uphill, where for a while they silently observed the view, and finally by a roundabout route made their way back into the heart of the town.

  Rogan told Granger about his conversation with Webby. "Do you think it's possible Dad had stumbled on something valuable?"

  Granger snorted. "The old man chased after so many wild geese he could have started an egg farm."

  That was certainly true. Except that he'd never actually caught one.

  Granger's step faltered, then picked up, and Rogan said, "What?"

  "Nothing." His brother looked grim. "That's the street where he…"

  Died. Rogan stopped, looking back. The alley would be a shortcut from the hotel to the Sea-Rogue, a more direct diagonal route behind the buildings that meandered along the dog-leg line of the shore. "Show me."

  Granger halted too. "There's nothing to see."

  "Do you know exactly where?"

  Granger studied the set of Rogan's jaw, and said tersely, "Come on, then."

  It was a service alley between the unwindowed back walls of several business premises. Bags and boxes of rubbish sat against some, and a heavy smell of fish wafted from a rattling air-conditioner, mingling with the aroma of decaying fruit and vegetables spilling from an overfilled bin a little farther along where fat black flies droned lazily about.

  "Here." Granger stopped at big double doors with peeling paint. On the wall, a faded sign above identified the premises as Tench and Whiteburn, Sailmakers Since 1899. A heap of sodden and stained canvas, rotted rope and collapsed cardboard boxes gave off a moldy fetor, and a couple of stubborn tufts of grass that had fought their way through uneven cracks in the tar-seal lent the only sign of life except for the flies.

  "I told you," Granger said. "There's nothing to see."

  A van roared into the alley, slowing as it lumbered by with barely enough room to pass them.

  Rogan turned away, his throat tight. "Let's go," he said in an almost normal voice, leading the way and heading blindly toward the hotel. "I want to get out of this bloody suit." He stripped off the jacket that was stifling him and threw it over his shoulder, pulling irritably at the dark tie about his throat and stuffing it into a trouser pocket.

  "It's my second-best suit," Granger told him. "And I'll thank you to treat it with respect."

  Rogan snorted. "I don't know how you stand wearing them all the time."

  "I guess your shoulders are wider than mine." Granger gripped one of them. "All that muscle-bound machismo stuff you do for a living," he mocked gruffly.

  Rogan's reply was even less polite than before. Scowling, he shrugged off his brother's hand. He needed a stiff drink. Never mind that he'd already had more than enough beer. A whiskey was what he was after. Harsh, strong whiskey. Neat. Undiluted alcohol.

  They reached the hotel, warily peering into the deserted lobby before entering.

  Rogan headed for the doorway labeled Bottle Store, ignoring his brother's lifted eyebrow. "See you in fifteen minutes," he muttered.

  He did too, feeling considerably better as he rapped on Granger's door exactly one minute early, having broached a bottle of Black Watch in his room.

  "Here," he said, thrusting the borrowed clothes at his brother. "Thanks."

  Granger took the suit and tie and motioned him in, going to the wardrobe.

  "She's still here," Rogan said.

  "Who? Oh—Whatsername McIndoe. You've seen her?"

  "No, but I checked at the desk." He'd half expected her to have bolted. At the chapel she'd seemed uncertain, ambivalent. "Shouldn't we talk to her before we do anything else? And she's Camille Hartley, remember."

  "Oh, yeah, Taff's illegitimate daughter."

  "She can't help that."

  "I wasn't being snide, Rogue." Granger finished hanging the suit and closed the wardrobe. "Facts are facts."

  "Does that mean she doesn't inherit half the Sea-Rogue?"

  "Extramarital children do have some rights. It's not my field, but she might have a case, if only morally. Did you get her room number?"

  Rogan shook his head. "They wouldn't give it to me. Even wearing your suit."

  "You weren't, any more," Granger pointed out, picking up the bedroom phone. "You'd already hauled half of it off." He'd taken off his own jacket but still wore shirt and tie.

  He spoke into the receiver, asking to be put through to Miss Hartley's room.

  After a brief conversation he reported, "She'll meet us down in the Garden Lounge in five minutes."

  Somehow that made Rogan feel considerably lighter than he had all day.

  * * *

  The Garden Lounge looked seldom used. Its small, multipaned windows were curtained with loops of white lace, and when the men entered, Camille was in a cane armchair by a low table, watching them cross the carpet toward her.
Her legs, neatly tucked to one side, were encased in dark green trousers. What a waste, Rogan thought regretfully, remembering those legs emerging from her dress last night.

  Her gaze flicked across Granger and lit on Rogan. For some reason she looked apprehensive, and as the men drew closer her eyes grew larger, darker.

  He was no Adonis, but surely he wasn't that intimidating? Suddenly he felt taller and bigger, as if he'd somehow expanded under her eyes, and he wondered if he should have put on something a bit more reputable than thin-kneed camouflage trousers and a khaki shirt with the sleeves ripped out.

  Army surplus clothes were cheap and hard-wearing. And comfortable, for gosh sakes.

  Heck, now he was even censoring his thoughts. As if she'd know what he was thinking.

  He remembered her flushing last night as he watched her. She'd known what he was thinking then, all right. The gist of it anyhow.

  Granger said, "Thank you for coming," and she actually smiled at him—not a wide smile, but a smile of sorts, and now she wasn't looking at Rogan at all.

  The men sat down and a waiter brought coffee for three. Rogan would have liked a beer but his head was already floating inches above its normal position. And he figured, when Granger cast him a firm look before he ordered for them both, that as usual his big brother was right. He'd had enough to drink. At least for the next few hours.

  "Why did you want to see me?" Camille asked.

  She kept her attention on Granger while he explained the terms of Barney's will.

  He reached the bit about Taff's descendants, and for a moment her delicious, tempting mouth fell softly open, making Rogan's blood stir as he wondered how it would feel to close it with his own.

  "You may be able to make a claim," Granger was telling her, "if you have proof of your relationship."

  She blinked at him.

  "For instance, is his name on your birth certificate? Even though your parents weren't married—"

  Her chin tilted. "My parents were married."

  Rogan interjected. "Taff was married?"

  She glanced at him with a hint of scorn. "He seems to have forgotten it, but he was once."

  Granger said, "I'm sorry, I misunderstood." He fished in his pocket. "In that case you'd inherit half the boat and its contents—plus half of any profit still outstanding from voyages Taff made with our father. As executor I need your address and phone number." He handed her a card. "This is my office address. You'll need to produce your birth certificate to prove your right to your inheritance, and—"

  "I don't want it." The rose-pink lips went tight.

  "Why not?" Rogan demanded, making her look at him.

  But not for long. Her gaze skittered away again to Granger. "Can't I just waive any rights I have?"

  Granger looked at her curiously. "It would be simpler to let things take their course. Then you can dispose of your portion as you like. The boat might be worth quite a lot."

  She opened her mouth again, then closed it, her eyes glazing in thought. "How much?"

  "The market for classic wooden craft is apparently pretty lively. There are huge variations depending on a number of factors, but some fetch prices in six figures."

  "Have you seen her?" Rogan asked Camille.

  "I looked there for your father yesterday, but no one was on board. Someone from a fishing boat came over and told me what had happened."

  Barney had been found by a delivery driver on Monday morning, and it was Tuesday before the police had identified him and tracked down Granger.

  "Why did he want to see you?" Rogan asked.

  Her face went stiff, expressionless. "He wanted to give me some things he thought I should have. I suppose he meant my father's…effects. He said he had to talk to me but he couldn't leave his boat for long. I was due for annual leave and it quite suited me to come north."

  "Would you recognize your father's belongings?"

  Camille shook her head. Dryly she said, "I'd have been hard put to recognize my father."

  Granger asked, "Have the police talked to you?"

  "No, why? I can't tell them anything."

  "You should check in with them all the same. If you were supposed to be meeting Dad they'll want to see you." Granger pulled out a notebook. "Your contact details?"

  She recited them stonily, and stood up. "Thank you for explaining the situation."

  "We'll be in touch," Granger promised, rising too.

  By the time Rogan had put down his coffee cup and started getting up she'd already left them. He sank back, watching her walk away, until he realized Granger was watching him with amused tolerance.

  "Get your eyes back in your head, little bro'," Granger told him, "and your butt out of that chair, unless you plan to stay here." Eyeing him critically, he added, "Mind you, a second cup of coffee wouldn't do you any harm."

  Rogan glared at him, hoisting himself from the chair. All the time they'd been talking Camille had scarcely glanced his way, her eyes pretty much fixed on his brother throughout. And Granger hadn't even seemed to notice. Did the man have ice water instead of good red Broderick blood in his veins?

  Not fair, of course. Last night he'd shown a cursory appreciation, at least, of Camille's spectacular beauty. On the surface she was very similar to the women who occasionally, briefly, graced Granger's life—classy, polished, composed. Like him. Only better-looking.

  Inexplicably, when he followed his brother into the lobby Rogan's heart settled somewhere near his midriff, as if he'd swallowed one of his lead diving weights.

  His father had just died. It was natural to feel depressed. He ought to be feeling this way.

  None of Granger's beloved laws said he had to like it.

  Chapter 3

  As Rogan and Granger crossed the lobby they were waylaid by a bunch of men erupting from the private bar. "Boys!" a solidly built man flushed with beer and bonhomie hailed them. He hooked an arm about Rogan's shoulder. "Bloody good do, this. Barney'd be proud."

  The others milled around, one in an oversize suit asking peevishly where the effin' can was until his fellows shoved him in the right direction. Propelled back into the thick of the wake and obliged to drink yet another toast or three to Good Ol' Barney, it was some time before the brothers extricated themselves.

  "What now?" Rogan asked.

  "We could check over the Sea-Rogue," Granger suggested. "Pack up Dad's clothes, make sure there are no perishables on board. And decide how the boat's going to be looked after until we sort out the estate."

  "Estate? He doesn't…didn't…own anything but the boat, did he?"

  "It's a legal term," Granger said patiently. "You're probably right, but a standard clause in the will covers anything not specified, like bank accounts, bonds or other assets. He could owe money, or have some owed to him."

  "Didn't he buy salvage rights to a wreck years ago?"

  Granger laughed. "I don't suppose it's worth anything. The Maiden's Prayer. She disappeared in a storm in the 1850s with no survivors, carrying passengers returning from the Australian gold fields to America with the loot from their endeavors. There were chests full of gold on board—nuggets or bars—and several thousand dollars' worth of gold and silver coins. Not counting what passengers had in their luggage."

  "A fortune," Rogan commented.

  "If it were ever found," Granger said dryly. "The insurance company was happy to part with the salvage rights in return for a modest cut, particularly with the new laws about historic wrecks making recovery more difficult and expensive. Dad asked me to make sure his rights were solid and there'd be no counterclaims. The papers were with his will. But it'll take more than a maiden's prayer to pinpoint where she went down, with practically the whole of the Pacific to choose from."

  * * *

  Camille had returned to her room feeling rather dazed at the idea she'd inherited a share in a boat worth thousands of dollars. And through the generosity of a man she didn't remember even meeting.

  Although he hadn't
really left it to her, but to her father. She wondered if Barney had discussed the bequest with his mate. And if so, whose idea it had been to provide for Thomas McIndoe's family in the event of his death.

  Staring out the window at the hill behind the hotel, she dredged up what she remembered about the seaport that had thrived in the days of sailing ships and sunk into obscurity with the advent of road and rail transport. One of the old houses crowding the slope featured a small tower with a railed enclosure around it. A widow's walk, similar to those in other historic ports around the world, from which women used to watch for their men coming home from the sea.

  Like so many of those men, Camille's father had finally failed to return. But it was a long time since his wife had given up keeping vigil for him. Nobody had been waiting and hoping to welcome him home.

  For a while she tried to work while the deep rumble of male voices penetrated the floor, and loud guffaws and occasional shouts or snatches of song floated clearly through the open window.

  Distracted and restless, she left the room and ran down the stairs, her hand enjoying the smoothed curve of the baluster that ended at an ornate carved newel post, then hurried across the lobby into the dazzle of the sun.

  Unthinkingly she directed her steps toward the seafront and then the old wharf, eventually finding the Sea-Rogue snugged against the massive wooden piles.

  Camille didn't know much about boats, but this was a weatherworn veteran compared to the elegant yachts in front of the hotel. The deckhouse had a higher, squarer profile, with two steps leading from the wheel well to a narrow door, not a lift-up hatch cover. A waist-high timber rail instead of wire lines guarded the afterdeck, and a slender bowsprit like those on old sailing ships tapered forward from the bow.

  After a brief hesitation she stepped across the small space to the rail almost level with her feet, and jumped onto the deck, pushing aside an uneasy feeling of trespass. After all, she'd been told she owned half of the craft.

  The boards shifted under her feet. She touched a sun-warmed spar—or was it a boom? She was hazy about modern nautical terms.