Dangerous Waters

by Laurey Bright

  A waitress appeared and Camille accepted a glass of orange juice and ordered toast, with coffee to follow. Rogan shot her a disparaging look but didn't comment. Instead he said, "Are you checking out?"

  Camille fiddled with a spoon, picking it up and glancing at her distorted reflection in the bowl before replacing it on the red cloth. "I have to leave the hotel. They're booked solid now until after New Year."

  He sawed off a piece of sausage but didn't eat it. "Are you still planning to move to Kerikeri?"

  "Well, I've met this man here—"

  "Ah." Rogan sat back.

  She said impatiently, "He's nearly eighty."

  "Didn't look like it last night."

  Camille stared back at him. Last night?

  He looked away, then hastily shoveled a piece of sausage into his mouth and chewed. "Different bloke," he mumbled when he'd disposed of the sausage, "I guess."

  "You weren't spying on me?"

  "Why would I want to do that?" He sounded indignant. "I happened to be looking out the window when you came home."

  Infuriatingly, she felt her cheeks color. So he'd seen James kissing her good-night. Nothing to be embarrassed about—it had scarcely been more than a peck. Well, a warm peck. A bit longer, perhaps, than your average, but when James would have carried it further she'd pulled back a little and he'd immediately drawn away. As any enlightened man would. Then he'd courteously escorted her through the hotel doorway and left with a promise to see her tomorrow.

  Today.

  Rogan said, "So who is he?"

  Who is who? she wondered. And decided to play safe. "Mr. Trubshaw is an amateur historian," she answered. "A retired teacher. He has a lot of interesting material I'd like the time to study properly."

  A flash of annoyance crossed Rogan's face. He grabbed his coffee and gulped some down before attacking his breakfast again. "And he's eighty."

  "Just about."

  "So has he invited you to stay?"

  "No." James had, when she'd told him that she must move out of the hotel and that the receptionist had canvassed the motels and bed-and-breakfast places for her with no success. Camille had declined the offer, afraid he might have thought she was fishing, and unwilling to take more favors. He'd seemed disappointed, but had accepted her refusal without argument.

  Rogan asked, "Why not take that berth on the Sea-Rogue?"

  Camille shook her head. "I don't think so."

  "You'd be safe," he assured her quite seriously. "My brother's a lawyer, remember. Ultra-respectable, and he'll vouch for me if you like."

  She could hardly tell him that it wasn't a crude attack she feared, rather the effect he had on her.

  Her toast arrived, and he watched her spread butter and marmalade, then he quickly finished his own meal as she ate. The waitress immediately scooped up his plate, asking if he wanted anything else, and he gave her his multimegawatt smile and said he'd have more coffee when the lady had hers.

  "You needn't wait for me," Camille protested.

  "I'm in no hurry. I'll just sit here and admire the view." He glanced out the window at the yachts riding their anchors, but then his gaze returned to her, the afterglow of the smile lurking in his eyes. Camille concentrated on cutting a piece of toast in two.

  Admittedly it would make sense to live on board the boat. Cheaper, and she needn't feel obligated since apparently she had a right. Mr. Trubshaw's library was an unexpected gold mine. On the face of it she'd be foolish not to take advantage of a free bed, even if she had to share living space with the most unsettling man she'd ever met.

  She thought about the kiss they'd shared, and pushed it firmly from her mind. It had been nice, but a casual kiss didn't necessarily lead to other intimacies. Rogan Broderick had probably lost count of the number of women he'd kissed. He was so good at it—the very fact that she'd thoroughly enjoyed it was a warning.

  Surely she could cope with an inconvenient sexual attraction. She'd had plenty of practice at saying no to men, even men who were quite attractive.

  Their coffee came and she drank hers in thoughtful silence. When she put down her cup and began to get up Rogan gulped the remainder of his own coffee and hurried to pull her chair out. For a moment he was close and she caught the aroma of soap and freshly washed cotton, warmed by his body heat. Her arm brushed his sleeve before he stepped back, and she felt his breath on her temple.

  He was just too much man, she thought. She'd be mad to even contemplate living in close proximity to him. But now he'd moved away and was regarding her nonchalantly, one thumb hooked in the belt of his jeans.

  She breathed again, annoyed with herself. This was akin to a teenage crush, a simple physiological reflex, and she was too old and too experienced to let it affect her actions. If she left today she'd have forgotten all about Rogan Broderick within a week.

  The receptionist appeared in the dining room doorway and headed toward her. "There's a call for you, Miss Hartley. Shall I tell him to hold until you get to your room?"

  "Thanks," she said, then left and raced up the stairs, arriving breathless to pick up the receiver.

  James said, "I didn't mean to interrupt your breakfast."

  "I'd just finished."

  "I had a thought after leaving you last night. If you're determined to be independent, why don't you claim your right of inheritance and use the boat?"

  It seemed almost a conspiracy. "Rogan did offer…"

  "Offer?" He sounded amused. "You're entitled, surely. It wouldn't hurt to assert your ownership in case there's any problem later. Nine-tenths of the law, you know…"

  "Rogan's moving aboard today," she said.

  There was a pause before James said slowly, "All the more reason to stake your claim, I should think. There is more than one cabin…isn't there? Are there locks?"

  There had been one on the door of the master's stateroom, she recalled. "I'm sure I won't need one." If Rogan wanted sex there were any number of holiday-makers around who would probably be happy to oblige. "And I don't think he and Granger will try to bilk me out of my share."

  "Still, you can't be too careful. Will I see you later? We could have lunch."

  "All right," she agreed. That would give her time to make up her mind and check out of the hotel.

  She was tucking her father's cigar tin into a corner of her suitcase when a tap on the door sent her to open it to Rogan, a bulging pack slung over one shoulder and several photographs in his hand.

  He said, "These pictures are of your father. I thought you should have them."

  Camille recoiled, automatically taking a step back and, apparently assuming it was an invitation, he followed her into the room.

  "I don't want them," she said.

  Apparently perplexed, he said, "Your mother might."

  Camille shook her head.

  "You don't know that," he persisted.

  "I know my own mother!"

  "Yeah, I guess." He looked down at the photographs, and impatiently she took them and tossed them at the wastebasket.

  He gave her a searching look, then noticed the open suitcase beside her laptop on the bed and said, "I could carry that for you if you're coming aboard the Sea-Rogue."

  Time she made up her mind. It would be convenient to be based in Mokohina. Why was she dithering, simply because Rogan upset her sexual equilibrium?

  Living with him would very likely cure her. He'd probably leave smelly socks and used underwear lying about, and never clean the toilet—the "head," she remembered it was called. And emerge from his cabin in the mornings with a scruffy overnight growth of stubble, yawning and scratching his chest.

  Even that picture had its attraction. His teeth were in perfect order, white and strong, and she'd seen his chest—a splendid, manly sight…

  "You can have the master's stateroom," he offered. "It's bigger than the others, with a desk. And a lock on the door."

  "It's your father's!"

  He gave her a lopsided smile. "He's not using it
anymore."

  "No, but…you should have it."

  "I don't need the space. I'm not doing research."

  She remembered the roomy cabin with its bookshelves and sturdy desk. "What are you going to do?"

  "My contract in the Gulf only had a few weeks to run and they'd phoned for a replacement even before I left. I guess I'm free for a while."

  So he wasn't leaving for "a while" anyway. Camille had harbored some hope his stay would be a short one. She shouldn't be feeling a leap of pleasure that it wouldn't be.

  "If you don't like it," he said, "you can change your mind anytime. Is that all your luggage?"

  "I've got some things in the bathroom." She hesitated a moment longer, then summoned all the pragmatism she'd worked on since childhood. "I'll get them."

  * * *

  Rogan watched her half close the door to the bathroom, and wandered toward the window. One of the photos had fallen on the floor beside the wastebasket. He stooped to pick it up, paused, and tucked it into the breast pocket of his sleeveless denim jacket. The others were fanned in the basket, along with a crumpled paper cup, some pencil shavings, and a scrunched-up ball of paper.

  He glanced toward the bathroom, where he could hear a subdued clatter, then a brief rush of running water. Quickly hunkering down, he extracted the paper ball, and was straightening when Camille emerged carrying a toilet bag. He closed his fist over the paper, and while she was making room for the toilet bag and zipping the case closed he surreptitiously shoved the page into a back pocket before crossing to take the case from Camille.

  "I can manage," she said, but he just looked at her and she grudged out, "Thank you."

  She picked up the laptop, took her jacket and followed him. He wondered if she noticed the curious look the receptionist cast at them as they checked out and left together. Not that it bothered him.

  "We might as well take my car," Camille said. "There is parking near the boat, isn't there?"

  "Plenty." The wide tar-sealed area where the road ended was seldom filled.

  When they'd made the short journey he took her things on board and opened the door of the bigger cabin. "All yours."

  "Are you sure…?"

  "You're welcome." He swung the suitcase onto the berth. The built-in cupboard was already empty of Barney's clothes, but Rogan found a carton and packed into it everything they'd previously returned to the desk drawers. When he looked at the books they'd neatly replaced in their railed shelves above the bed Camille noticed his tight expression, and as he took a stack of them to stow in another box she said swiftly, "Leave the rest if you like." Removing them would strip the cabin of every trace of his father. "I won't be needing all the shelves."

  A flicker of relief crossed his face. "Okay," he said nonchalantly. "Maybe you'll find some of them interesting." About to leave her, he paused at the door, looking at a framed photograph fixed above it.

  "Your mother?" she asked curiously. The picture showed a pretty, dark-haired young woman with a wistful smile.

  "Yes. Do you want me to take it down?"

  "Of course not!"

  He gave her an odd little smile and said, "Let me know if there's anything you need."

  * * *

  In drawers under the bed she found a couple of threadbare blankets but no sheets. Apparently a sleeping bag had been sufficient for Barney.

  The cushion on the chair looked flattened and hard, thinned in the middle, and sitting on it confirmed its appearance. She wandered into the main cabin as Rogan emerged from one of the others.

  He smiled at her. "All settled in?"

  "Yes, but I thought I'd walk into town and buy some sheets." A sleeping bag might have been practical but they made her feel suffocated. "And do you mind if I replace the cushion on your father's chair?"

  "Fine. I'll come too if that's okay. We should get in some supplies, unless you plan to eat out all the time?"

  Whoever had ransacked the boat had left a few tinned goods but not much else. "I have a lunch date today, but—"

  "Your Mr. Trubshaw?"

  "No." To stop him probing further, she said, "You're right, we'll need groceries."

  She bought a pale green linen set of sheets and a cushion patterned with blue and green dolphins before they visited a minimarket for groceries. By the time they'd returned to the boat the tide had lowered and Camille was taken aback at the difference in levels between the wharf and the deck.

  Rogan leaped down, dumped the bags he carried and turned back to Camille to collect her bags as she swung them across.

  Then he held out his arms. "Jump."

  Camille cast a look at the narrow iron ladder attached to one of the slimy wharf piles, where the gap between the boat and the wharf looked rather alarmingly wide.

  Rogan said, "It's safer this way."

  He was probably right. She stepped into nothingness and was caught and held against a warm, hard chest for a second before he let her go, only retaining a light grip on her arms as he said, "Okay?"

  "Yes." But she felt almost winded. "Thanks."

  "No problem." He stooped to pick up the groceries.

  By the time the food had been packed away Camille had barely time to tidy herself, deciding not to change from her cotton pants and top before going to meet James.

  Rogan was lounging on one of the narrow seats in the wheel well that he called the cockpit, a bulging hamburger bun in one hand, a beer can in the other.

  Eyeing the difference between the deck and the wharf, Camille hesitantly approached the ladder, and Rogan said, "Need some help?"

  He was there anyway, his strong hand on her elbow as he hoisted her up to the railing, the other reaching out to grasp a rung of the ladder. "You'll be okay."

  "I know." But getting both feet on the slippery rungs from the gently rocking boat was a tricky operation, and it was nice to know that if she made a mistake Rogan was there to ensure she didn't fall very far.

  When she'd made it to the top and turned to thank him, he was standing with his hands on his hips, grinning appreciatively.

  "No problem," he said. "I enjoyed the view."

  Torn between indignation and amusement at the blatant comment, Camille retreated in dignified silence.

  * * *

  Watching her go, Rogan shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. As he turned away his fingers encountered paper, and he pulled the crumpled page out. He'd forgotten about the burst of curiosity that had led him to rescue it from Camille's wastebasket at the hotel. For a moment he hesitated, then he carefully opened it out, arguing to himself that even if Camille thought it unimportant, there was a faint chance this could hold some clue to the mystery of his father's supposed treasure.

  It was a child's crayon drawing on lined paper. A woman with long yellow hair held the hand of a child who wore a red dress and had large fat blue tears falling from her eyes to the ground in two evenly spaced rows. Across green-crayoned water, a large man in bright blue trousers stood on a tiny sailboat. Along the bottom of the picture in uneven and painstaking letters, with the "ss" back to front, was printed I Miss You Dady.

  Guilt crawled up Rogan's spine, mingled with an empty, sad feeling that he thought he'd left behind in his own childhood, swiftly followed by a hot, sudden anger. He screwed the paper into a ball again, walked to the bow and hurled the drawing into the water below. His hands gripped the rail and he watched the paper bob on the small swells, floating jauntily away until it was indistinguishable from the lace caps of foam on the restive wavelets.

  * * *

  When Camille entered the antique shop only one customer was browsing some old glass and crystal displayed on a kauri dresser, while a young man with an earnest air stood patiently behind the counter.

  The brass bell fixed to the door summoned James from the back of the shop. With a word to the assistant, he swept her out between buttoned chairs and dark-varnished nineteenth-century furniture, to the bright sunshine. "I thought we'd try the Seagull restaurant just
around the corner," he said. "It's new and the food is supposed to be good."

  The tables were black-and-white marble, the chairs black leather slung on chrome, and the combination of slate tiles on the floor, an unlined beamed ceiling and pop music blaring from several speakers made the place noisy. The food came in artistic piles and tasted superb with the expensive wine James ordered, but after one attempt at conversation, telling him she'd moved onto the Sea-Rogue, Camille gave up shouting across the table.

  As they left James said, "At least it's possible to get a decent meal and good wine here now. When I was growing up Mokohina was a total backwater."

  "You stayed, though?"

  "I left as soon as I could. But after my father retired I took over the business." He shrugged. "Call me sentimental…"

  "What did you do when you left?"

  "Took a business degree, and started off in an import-export firm where I was a cog in a very big wheel. I prefer working for myself. But enough about me—what did the police detectives have to say about the burglary?"

  "They don't seem to be connecting it to Mr. Broderick's death."

  "I'm sure they're right. From what I hear that was some drunken street fracas." James gave a light laugh. "The elder Broderick's lifestyle seems to have been more than a bit rough-edged. I'll walk you back to the boat."

  "Thank you," she said, "but I'd like to look at the books in your shop again."

  * * *

  After finishing his lunch, Rogan had visited the Imperial, hoping to find some of Barney's cronies in the bar, but although it was filled with hopeful fishers and their hangers-on who had converged for the tournament, the only person he recalled from the funeral was a seedy type sitting alone in a corner, and already so far gone he could hardly slur out two words. Most of the others were off fishing, Rogan guessed, or avoiding the influx of visitors. The little harbor was chock-full.

  He bought a local paper and sat on deck, half concentrating while a bothersome thought struggled from the back of his mind, until it hit him right between the eyes.