"Yeah, but he says he wanted a place to come home to—that's why he bought the shop, and a boat. He does some teaching when he's here, and takes recreational divers out for short trips."
"Do you envy him?"
"Hell, no! I guess it suits Brodie though."
"He said you saved his life."
"Crap. We had an air supply problem. I did what he would have done for me. That's what the buddy system's for." He'd told her that divers went down in pairs. If one was in trouble the buddy would come to the rescue or, if that wasn't possible, raise the alarm.
"This afternoon," he promised, "I'll teach you about sharing an air supply in an emergency."
It wasn't too difficult when they were kneeling close together on the floor of the pool, except that despite the neoprene covering their legs Camille felt a disconcerting tingle of awareness when his thighs straddled hers as they swapped the breathing apparatus.
Trying to maintain contact while they slowly surfaced with their arms about each other's shoulders, she lost her equilibrium and floated close against him during the ascent, her legs tangling with his. Heat suffusing her body, she loosened her hold and was drifting away, putting a strain on the breathing hose until Rogan grabbed her wrist and hauled her back.
When they broke the surface she panted, "Sorry."
Rogan grinned and pushed up his mask. "We'll do another practice on dry land."
Kneeling by the pool, without their mouthpieces and masks on, he put an arm about her again, taking a grip on the harness that fastened the air tank to her buoyancy compensator. His skin where his arm touched her was wet but warm, and she had to make an effort to breathe properly as she reciprocated.
"Okay," Rogan said. "That feels good. Not that the other didn't."
Startled, Camille turned to face him, finding him very close, his eyes filled with laughter. The laughter died and became a question, her mouth parted in slight shock, and for a moment she was dizzy. She felt his arm tighten, his hand gripping her shoulder. His gaze was on her mouth.
Then abruptly he dropped his arm, his head jerking away, and he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. "Do you think you can manage that underwater now?"
For the remainder of the lesson Rogan was professional, well-organized, and almost distant.
The following afternoon they spent time again in Brodie's pool, and Rogan seemed totally focused on improving her technique, watching her with a critical, dispassionate eye. Afterward he went into the town and she took out Mr. Trubshaw's books and the small tape recorder she used for quick note-taking.
When Rogan returned he found her sitting in the cockpit with a book in her lap, and stifling a yawn.
"Oh," she said, looking up as he leaped to the deck. "I'll start dinner."
"You're tired," he said. "I'll buy you dinner in town tonight."
"I ought to pay for you!" she protested. Providing him with meals had been part of the deal.
He overrode her objection. "A reward for coming top of the class."
They dined at the Imperial—despite the brash new cafés in town it still had the most elegant restaurant. "Unless you'd prefer somewhere else?" Rogan had offered.
"No. I love the old Imperial—all that lovely kauri paneling and carving."
"Yeah," Rogan replied. He was glad the new proprietors hadn't modernized the old building too thoroughly.
Over dinner he described places where he'd dived and the people he'd dived with. Camille was a good listener, and he was glad to see her wariness melt slightly.
"Taff was a pretty good diver," he told her, cutting into a carpetbag steak.
"Was he."
The flatness of her tone made him look up. Her expression was closed off, cold.
"Taught me a lot." He watched her, trying to think of something to erase that look from her face. "He was a good bloke, specially to Granger and me when we were kids."
"Really." Her voice was positively arctic.
Damn. That hadn't been the most tactful thing to say. "Not that we saw a lot of him really."
"More than I did."
Feeling clumsy and insensitive, Rogan said, "I'm sorry."
Camille gave him a deliberately blank look, and a brittle little laugh, a shade too high. "I'm not heartbroken. I told you, I didn't even know the man."
There were more ways than one to be heartbroken, Rogan thought. Especially for a little kid. When he was young his own father had been an almost mythical figure, breezing in at erratic intervals and disrupting the family routine with exotic presents, and tall tales of adventures at sea and strange places he'd visited—and promises that one day he would discover undersea treasure and make them all rich.
Rogan's mother would smile sadly and shake her head, and gradually it dawned on him and Granger that "one day" was never going to happen.
And if it finally had, for Barney it was too late.
Camille said, "This pasta is good. How's your steak?"
"Fine." Obviously she didn't want to discuss her father. He wanted to hear more about her life, but she evaded his attempts to draw her out, only giving minimal information about her school and university years.
Walking home along the waterfront in the fading light, Rogan would have liked to put an arm about her, pull her close to his side, feel her warmth, perhaps rub his cheek against her hair.
Not a good idea. At the pool the first day, when her legs had tangled with his, even though their wet suits had ensured there was no skin-to-skin contact his body had reacted, his mind filling with images of a bed instead of a swimming pool, of naked flesh instead of layers of neoprene. And he should never have made that suggestive remark.
Learning to dive was serious business; divers couldn't afford distractions—it might mean the difference between life and death. Sex definitely came under the heading of a distraction.
Working at dive schools, he'd had good-looking women in his classes. Some turned up in minimal swimwear, tiny triangles of fabric, and not a few came on to the instructor from day one. He'd learned to ignore his libido and direct all his attention—and theirs—to the business of diving, and diving safely. It had never been so difficult before.
A large boat was cruising slowly into the harbor, several fishing rods ranked along the top of its high deckhouse. Rogan said, "Can you see the name on that boat?"
Camille followed his gaze. "No." Darkness was creeping over the harbor and the boat was moving. "Why?"
"A deckhand on a hire boat that's been away from port was seen with my father the night he died."
"Have you been doing some detective work?"
Irritably he said, "I've been warned off. The police don't want me to 'prejudice their inquiries.'"
Camille regarded him curiously. "You loved him, didn't you—your father?"
Rogan shot her a sharp glance. "Yeah, I guess."
"But he was hardly ever home!"
"He wasn't your ideal father," Rogan admitted. "Basically my mother brought us up on her own. But when he was in port it was great. He let us wag school, sleep on board the Sea-Rogue, use the dinghy to row about the harbor. And if Mum let him, he'd take us for an overnight sail."
"What did your mother think of it all?"
"She scolded us—even Dad—but he'd always bring her round. He was one of those people who could charm the hind leg off a donkey and then have the donkey eat out of his hand. I think she was always conscious of how short his visits would be, and she didn't want to spoil them for any of us."
His mother must have been a monumentally tolerant person, Camille reflected. Or very much in love.
Her own mother, she guessed, would say Mrs. Broderick had been a fool—a doormat for a selfish, feckless man. And she'd probably have been right.
But seen through her son's eyes Rogan's mother didn't sound like a doormat. She sounded like a nice person, and a strong one, with a generous heart.
Not many women would have put up with a sometime husband like Barney.
Cha
pter 8
The Sea-Rogue's deck was nearly level with the wharf, but Camille accepted Rogan's proffered hand.
Although he immediately released her, by some kind of tacit agreement they went to lean on the taffrail at the stern and watch the occasional glint of moonlight on the water, the sudden silver of a fish twisting and leaping on the surface.
After a while Camille moved her palm on the rail, preparing to go below, and paused as she felt an anomaly in the smoothness of the wood. She looked down.
"Granger and I did that," Rogan said. "When we were kids."
"What is it?" It was too dark to see.
His hand came over hers, extending her index finger and guiding it slowly over the grooves. His initials.
She said, "You wanted to make your mark on her."
"Right." His fingers were still warm on hers. His palm flattened her hand over the carved RB. "We knew we shouldn't do it, but we couldn't resist the temptation."
Her heart was thumping. She ought to pull her hand away, he wouldn't hold her against her will. Only her will wasn't awfully strong right now.
His other hand touched her cheek, turned her head toward him. When she didn't protest he bent his head, and then he was kissing her, sweet and gentle but confident.
It was even better than the first time. Longer, deeper, and very, very sexy.
When she finally made the effort to draw away, and he let her, she felt a pang of regret. She should never have allowed it, of course. But it did make a lovely end to a really nice evening. She sighed, and tugged at her hand.
He lifted it to his face, and pressed her palm briefly to his cheek, turning his lips for a quick kiss in the hollow before letting her go.
Camille dug her teeth into her lower lip, trying to kill the weakening sensation that shivered right through to her toes. "Good night," she said, and climbed down to the cockpit and the door.
"It's locked," Rogan reminded her, and while she fumbled in her shoulder bag for her key he joined her in the small space and used his.
She could smell his skin-scent and the seductive muskiness of male arousal. Her own skin was extra-sensitive, his arm brushing against hers sending a warm shiver over it.
Then he stood back. "Good night, Camille. Be careful on the companionway."
Relief and disappointment warred as she made her way down to the cabin, which seemed stuffy and over-warm.
It was only a good-night kiss, she told herself when she lay in her bed, rocked by a passing motorboat that stirred the water. A casual gesture, just like James's light kisses.
But James's kisses, pleasant and quite expert in their undemanding way, didn't leave her feverish and tense, her untrustworthy body longing for more.
* * *
Rogan was so brisk and aloof during her lesson next day that the kiss might never have happened, and she decided it was best to pretend that it never had. He looked a bit put out when she told him she was having dinner with James, but waved aside her offer to cook for him before she left, and when she appeared on deck in her green dress and carrying high-heeled shoes, proffered her his help to get on shore.
He placed her shoes on the wharf first, then leaped up himself and took her hands, hauling her after him.
"Thanks," she said, landing only inches from him.
For a moment he didn't let go his firm grasp, a smile lighting his eyes and lifting a corner of his mouth as he gazed down at her. "No problem," he drawled.
She wriggled her fingers and he let go, then knelt and picked up one of her shoes. "Give us your foot, Cinderella."
She would have managed on her own, but he had grasped her ankle and instinctively she put a hand on his shoulder to steady herself so he could slide the shoe on for her.
When both shoes were on he straightened and she said, "That wasn't necessary."
"You might have lost your balance trying to do it on your own. And—" he stepped back and ran a rapid glance of scarcely veiled masculine appreciation over her "—you don't want to spoil that pretty dress."
The boards of the old wharf were striated and uneven, and he was probably right. "Well, thanks," she said.
"If you need help when you come back, yell."
"I may be late."
His gaze sharpened. "Thinking of staying the night?"
"No!"
"Good." Rogan's momentarily rigid stance slackened. "And don't drink too much…" She blinked indignantly and he went on. "…if you want to dive tomorrow."
He'd promised she could try out her scuba skills in the sea the next day.
"I never drink a lot," she told him.
* * *
James's friends were three couples, expensively dressed and so interchangeable she had trouble sorting out who was with whom for most of the evening. The men were fortyish, two of the women considerably younger. Once they'd discovered with some surprise that Camille didn't have a favorite fashion designer and knew none of the high-flyers in business and entertainment whose names they casually dropped, the women seemed to run out of conversation.
After dinner James brought out a small collection of antique jewelry he had recently acquired. While the other women clamored to try on some of the pieces, Camille slipped out into the cool air on the veranda, where a few minutes later James found her.
"There you are, Camille!" He put his hand in his pocket and drew out something that glittered in the outdoor lighting. "What do you think of this?"
It was a bracelet of wrought silver, studded with small, sparkling gems. "It's beautiful," she said. "Are the stones real?"
"Of course. Put it on."
"I don't think…"
But he had lifted her hand and was sliding the silver circlet onto her wrist. "The other girls have all tried something. I want to see how this looks on you." His grip was surprisingly strong, overriding her resistance.
"Perfect," he said, turning her wrist so the stones shot flashes of colored light. He raised her hand in his and dropped a kiss on it. "Keep it."
"No," Camille said. "Thank you, but no."
He caught both her hands as she made to remove the bracelet. "Don't you like it?"
"I can't take anything as valuable as this as a present, and I'm sure I couldn't afford to buy it."
"What a sweet old-fashioned view!" he said lightly. "It's a mere bauble, though a particularly pretty one. It deserves the right setting."
"I'm sorry," Camille said. "I can't accept it, James."
For a moment he looked annoyed. Then he smiled, although his eyes remained cool. "Well, at least wear it for the rest of the evening," he coaxed, "to please me?"
Against her instinct, Camille capitulated. "All right."
When she left and he was walking her to her car, she slipped the bracelet off and handed it to him.
"You're sure?" he queried, reluctantly accepting it.
"Quite sure. Thank you for letting me wear it."
He stopped her as she made to get into the car, and pressed a kiss on her lips. "Thank you for coming. Could I persuade you to have lunch with us tomorrow?"
"Rogan's taking me scuba diving."
"Oh?" James looked suddenly intent.
The roar of an engine interrupted and a car swung into the drive, blocking the exit.
James frowned. "Excuse me, Camille."
He strode to the other car as a man opened the door and got out, and they engaged in a short, low-voiced conversation. The newcomer seemed agitated, thrusting his head forward and talking rapidly, and Camille caught the odd vehement swearword.
"I have guests," she heard James say tersely. "I tell you, there's nothing to worry about. Now get out."
He returned to Camille as the man reversed the car out of the drive and sped off the way he'd come.
"Is everything all right?" Camille asked, noting his grim air of preoccupation.
He smiled then. "Perfectly. A disgruntled employee actually. I think he's been drinking. I'll sort him out on Monday."
As she made to turn toward he
r car he said, "Have the Brodericks done anything about having the boat valued?"
"Not that I know of. Since I'm the one who wants to sell, I suppose it's up to me."
"I can recommend someone, if you like. Do you think they're serious about not selling?"
"Rogan is."
"You might be able to influence him to change his mind."
"Me? I don't think so."
"Don't underestimate yourself." He smiled again. He had a very nice smile, and she wondered why its obvious charm didn't affect her the way Rogan's raffish grin did. "Even the tough Mr. Broderick might melt for an attractive woman."
Camille said coolly, "What are you suggesting?"
James didn't answer for a second. Then he said, "I beg your pardon. It occurred to me that the boat would sell more readily if you could offer a whole rather than a half share. You'd probably get a better price, and more quickly. I spoke without thinking. Of course I didn't mean…what you thought. I'm…interested, myself."
"In buying the Sea-Rogue? I thought you didn't like sailing."
"I don't, but I already own a boat—quite a nice little earner, taking tourists out for game and spear-fishing cruises. That was the skipper, just now." Fleetingly a grim look crossed his face.
"Would the Sea-Rogue be suitable for that?" she asked, surprised.
"Probably not, but I'm thinking of a different clientele. Holiday charters and small-ship cruises are a growth area, and classic wooden boats appeal to the romanticism in a lot of people. It would need a good deal of work, but it's a shame to see a beautiful old craft reduced to a seagoing tramp."
A loud burst of laughter came from the house, and Camille said, "I'll let you get back to your guests. Thank you for inviting me."
* * *
For her first real dive they drove in Camille's car to a small, deserted cove some miles away. Rogan made sure they checked each other's equipment and reminded her to clear her ears after submerging. They shuffled backward into the water and when it was deep enough turned and began to swim.
The burden of the air tank and weights seemed to disappear. Blue and orange starfish studded the pale surface of the downward slope, and crabs walked daintily over it. A school of tiny fish shot by in silver flashes, disrupting the stream of air bubbles rising from the divers.
Dangerous Waters Page 10