Rogan took Camille's gloved hand to guide her to a rock outcrop, limpet-encrusted and bristling with spiny kina like small hedgehogs. He pointed to a narrow opening, touched a finger to what appeared to be a part of the rock, and she discerned a moving tentacle. Rogan put his hand into the crevice and gently eased the little octopus out. No bigger than half a meter long, it turned an indignant crimson, then enraged purple, and as he released it, shot away like a rocket, leaving a cloud of black ink hanging in the water.
The sea life they encountered amazed Camille, and when Rogan gave the signal to surface she couldn't believe they'd been under so long.
After they had removed their breathing tubes and masks, Rogan grinned at her. "Congratulations. You came through with flying colors."
They picnicked on the beach, dived again until their air tanks were getting low, and lazed on the sand for a while. Facedown on her towel, Camille was enjoying the sun on her back where her bathing suit dipped to below her waist, when something cold landed on her spine, and she jumped.
Rogan said, "Sorry, I should have warned you. You'll get burned if you don't have sun lotion on."
"I wasn't intending to sunbathe for long."
"It only takes ten minutes to burn."
His hand was quickly, efficiently spreading the lotion on her skin. And despite the impersonal manner in which he did it, she felt herself going warm all over, the pleasant lethargy induced by the sun laced with new and disturbing sensations. She was glad he couldn't see her face.
He put more lotion on her shoulders and arms, and then said, "Shall I do your legs for you?"
"No." Reluctantly she sat up, creamed her legs from the bottle he handed to her, and passed it back to him. "Do you use it?" She'd thought he'd be too macho to bother.
"Yep. Skin cancer's no joke. I've lost a couple of friends. Want to do my back?"
She could hardly refuse after his ministrations. Kneeling behind him, she poured lotion into her hand and began smoothing it over his warm, sand-dusted skin. She felt the muscle and bone beneath her fingers and the slight movement when he breathed. His hair was growing longer already, curling at his nape as it dried in the sun. When she began stroking the stuff across his shoulders he said, "I'll finish it, thanks," and grabbed the bottle from her.
Thankfully Camille resumed her facedown position. She'd wanted to keep running her hands over the tantalizing texture of his skin, trace the outline of his shoulder blades, explore the groove of his spine…
She had never felt this way about a man, never wanted so much to touch, even tease, and be touched in return.
Of course, she'd seldom been so close to such a superb physical specimen. The men she met tended to be academics, more interested in developing their brains than their muscles, spending most of their time in lecture rooms and libraries, or hunched over books or computers.
Any normal woman would be biologically attuned to respond to a man who looked like Rogan Broderick.
And no doubt he was used to it. Just as she was used to being stared at and propositioned in various ways, from the obvious to the subtly sophisticated.
The difference was that her usual instinct was to ward off advances, while Rogan gave every sign of welcoming them. If she'd given in to temptation he wouldn't have rebuffed her. Yet he was keeping his promise that she'd be safe with him, not pressing her to follow through on the kisses they'd shared. He was either a perfect gentleman—she couldn't help a small grin at the thought—or not all that interested.
That possibility should not have disheartened her.
She was almost asleep when he roused her, commenting that they'd better get back. Together they packed up and returned to the Sea-Rogue. When their gear was stowed away Rogan produced a bottle of sparkling wine he said he'd been saving to celebrate Camille's first sea dive, and they drank it on deck, teamed with fresh fish bought from a boat that had chugged in late in the afternoon and tied up nearby.
"I should do some work," Camille said, leaning back with a half-full glass in her hand.
"It's Sunday," Rogan reminded her. "Day of rest."
"We didn't go to church."
"Do you?" he quizzed, looking at her quite seriously.
"Sometimes. Are you a believer?"
"It's kind of hard not to be, when you see stuff like we saw today. I mean, some intelligence out there that's bigger than us surely must be responsible for…" he waved a hand "…everything."
She looked down at her glass, watching the bubbles rise, remembering the undersea bubbles from her own breath and Rogan's mingling in the clear depths of the sea. "So do you think your father…and mine…are in heaven now?"
"About that," Rogan said, "I wouldn't like to guess. They were no angels, either of them, but they don't deserve being sent to hell."
And Barney hadn't deserved to be murdered. The anger that was never far from the surface of Rogan's mind tightened his hand on the glass as he gulped the remains of his wine.
He was tempted to hurl the empty glass into the sea, simply to satisfy his need for some violent action. But littering the ocean bed was a sin. Instead he reached for the bottle and leaned over to top up Camille's glass before emptying the remaining wine into his own.
"What did your brother say about buying me out?" she asked.
"We're…talking about it," Rogan hedged.
"And he doesn't want to sell his share?"
"We're not selling." He could rely on Granger to back him up, even if he didn't approve.
* * *
First thing Monday Rogan was at the police station. If the cops wanted him to keep out of things while they did their job, he'd just make sure they were actually doing it.
He asked if Gary's boat had returned to port and was told it had. "But," the constable said, "the skipper says he didn't turn up on Sunday and the Catfish left without him."
"The Sunday my father died?"
"It isn't necessarily significant. Boats and sailors come and go all the time. Don't worry, we're doing everything we can to track down your father's assailant."
But he was the sole officer in Mokohina, the CIB detectives were based miles away in Whangarei, and the department was notoriously short-staffed. Rogan worried.
While Camille went to see her elderly historian, Rogan took the ketch's dinghy and rowed across the harbor to where the Catfish was anchored. The skipper was checking fishing gear. Seeming friendly enough, he welcomed Rogan aboard, offering beer and asking if he wanted anything in particular.
"I heard you were short of a deckhand."
"You want a job?" the man inquired.
"I might know someone who does. What happened to the last one?"
The man's glance seemed to sharpen. "Didn't turn up for work when we were picking up a group at Paihia for a deep-sea trip. Probably found a better berth on some fancy yacht. A couple of American big boys' toys have been around lately. It's no use talking to me about the job. The boss likes to pick 'em himself."
"It isn't your boat, then?" Rogan asked.
The man laughed. "I can't afford anything like this."
"So who would my friend have to see?"
"Mr. Drummond at the antique shop."
"James Drummond?"
"You know him?"
"Yeah," Rogan answered, his brain working furiously. "I know him."
* * *
James Drummond was nowhere to be seen when Rogan told the helpful young man behind the counter he was just browsing thanks and strolled randomly about the shop, not even sure what he'd hoped to find. Minutes later the owner appeared and said, on a note of curiosity, "Rogan—can I help you?"
"Just looking," Rogan replied. Scanning the nearby bookshelves, his gaze was caught by a copy of Hakluyt's Voyages, large and handsomely bound in thick, dark leather with gilt embossing. His father had owned a similar copy, though he didn't recall seeing it recently. He eased the book from its place and opened it up.
Drummond looked almost startled, perhaps not expecting Rogan
to be interested in classic books. "Not a first edition of course," he said, coming to stand nearby, "but a nice vintage copy, in good condition. I'll give you a discount, for a friend of Camille's."
"Thanks," Rogan said curtly. "But I don't think so." He slid the book back onto the shelf. He supposed it was churlish, but he didn't want any favors from James Drummond.
Looking slightly amused, Drummond said, "Were you looking for something in particular?"
"No."
"Camille tells me your boat hasn't been valued yet."
Did Camille tell him everything? She spent far too much time with him—dinners and lunches, and hanging about his shop. What did she see in this smarmy, soft-handed weasel anyway? "I'm sure she appreciates your interest," Rogan said, a sour taste in his mouth.
"My interest isn't entirely altruistic, I may be interested in buying. And I believe she wants to sell."
The thought of him owning even part of the Sea-Rogue made Rogan want to throw up. Fat use it would be to him if Rogan and Granger refused to let go of their half.
Granger could maybe do with the money. He was on a tight budget with his new practice. Guilt gnawed at Rogan's conscience as he turned to leave the shop.
"Nice talking to you," he heard Drummond say smoothly before he reached the door. But the man's voice changed as he called on a sharper note, "Shaun—come here!"
Shaun, Rogan surmised, glancing back to see Drummond reaching up to the shelf where the Hakluyt was, would be the young assistant who was emerging from the rear of the shop, looking defensive.
* * *
At dinner Camille said, "I contacted a marine surveyor this afternoon. He's going to inspect the boat and give us an estimate of what it's worth."
Rogan didn't comment. But his sudden scowl was fierce as he scooped up the last bits of his meal.
She gave him a speculative look, and pushed away her empty plate. "What's making you so bad-tempered?"
"I'm not bad-tempered!" He picked up the can of beer at his side and took a swig, then stared down at the can as if it were a crystal ball. "The cops don't seem to have any idea who attacked my father. I suppose an old drunk who got himself beaten up isn't a top priority for them."
"I'm sure they're doing their best."
"Yeah, well…" Morosely he swilled the beer around in the can, and drank some more. "Somebody must know something." Struck by a bizarre thought, he said, "You were in Drummond's shop before the burglary, weren't you?"
Camille looked bewildered. "Yes, the day I arrived."
"Did he have an old copy of Hakluyt's Voyages then?"
She hesitated, thinking. "I don't remember seeing one, but then it wasn't what I was looking for. Why?"
"He's got one now. Just like one my father had."
Her eyes widened disbelievingly. "You're not suggesting he stole it?"
"I just wondered how long he's had it."
"You could have asked him."
"Didn't occur to me at the time." He'd merely thought that the old volume was remarkably similar to Barney's Hakluyt, the heavy, smooth leather binding with its rounded, decoratively ridged spine fitting familiarly into the curve of his palm. "He could have been receiving stolen goods."
"I'm sure James wouldn't do that. Not deliberately."
"How do you know? You only met him a couple of weeks back."
"Before I met you," she retorted. "If it's your father's book and he knew it was stolen, it would be stupid to display it for sale so soon. James isn't stupid." Gently she added, "Don't you think maybe you're obsessing a bit?"
"Is it obsessive to want to know who caused my father's death?" At least it helped stop him obsessing about her—living with her and giving her diving lessons while keeping his distance physically was driving him nuts.
Chapter 9
Next day Camille visited the Treasure Chest again. James was busy with other customers, but as they left he came to her side. "Not much that's new, I'm afraid," he said.
"Rogan said you had a copy of Hakluyt's Voyages."
"Ah…" he said. "I'm sorry, it's been sold."
"He wondered where you'd got it from," she told him.
James rubbed a finger over his chin. "It came in an auction lot. I'm afraid my inventory's a bit behind lately. My assistant unearthed the Hakluyt the other day."
"Rogan thought it might have been his father's."
James's brows lifted. Then he laughed. "Did he send you to investigate?"
"No! He mentioned it, and I was curious."
The assistant entered from the back of the premises, carrying a carton of books. "Is it okay to shelve these?" he asked James. "Or are they going to the Auckland store? I don't want to make another mistake."
Looking faintly annoyed at the interruption, James swept a cursory glance at the books. "Yes, go ahead."
"I've arranged for a survey of the boat," Camille said.
"Ah! At last. When you set a price I hope you'll allow me first refusal."
"I promised that to Rogan and Granger."
A momentary frown creased his forehead. "Then I'd like a chance to better whatever they offer. You don't want to take less than you can get for it."
That was sensible, she supposed. And only fair to her mother, the person she felt the money rightfully belonged to. Mona deserved to get the best price possible.
"I'll be meeting friends in Auckland for Christmas dinner," James said. "Would you care to join me? He's the managing director of United Chemical Products, and his wife—quite a connoisseur—has bought several things from my Auckland shop. There'll be other interesting people…"
While she found James's knowledge of his wares and their provenance fascinating, spending Christmas with a crowd of strangers appealed to her even less than spending it alone. "Thank you, but I don't really fancy traveling all that way." And if he meant to stay overnight things could become awkward. "I'll be fine here."
He looked disappointed. "Can I persuade you to come to my place for drinks and cake on Christmas Eve, then? After eight?"
"That sounds nice." Having turned down one invitation, it would be almost rude to refuse that too.
* * *
The surveyor gave the boat a thorough inspection and promised a formal written valuation by the end of the week.
Later Rogan phoned his brother.
"Sorry, Rogue." Granger's voice crackled through the telephone receiver. "When she asked me point-blank I had to tell her. Camille's free to sell now to anyone she pleases. And before you ask, the answer's still no, I can't help you in a buyout. I'm not even sure it's a good idea. I'd hate to see you go the same way as the old man. Are you sure you're not just being a dog in the manger?"
"Huh?"
"You've taken a dislike to James Drummond because he's interested in Camille. If you're serious about her you should think about how much you want the Sea-Rogue—and why. And how much you want the woman."
Rogan said huffily, "Don't jump to conclusions." He'd scarcely mentioned Camille to his brother—not how he felt about her, anyway. Of course he wanted her—in the most basic way. And he liked her. A lot. It didn't mean he wanted to marry her. Or anyone.
Marriage wasn't in his life plan. He had Barney's genes, and he'd seen what that had done to his mother. She'd struggled to bring up two boys and get them a decent education between Barney's occasional visits and with his erratic financial contributions. If she needed emotional support there was no one to give it to her.
Rogan had no intention of doing that to any woman. His conscience wouldn't stand it.
Presuming it wasn't much use asking Granger to guarantee a loan since he disapproved of the whole idea, Rogan visited the local branch of the bank that had been the recipient of his latest hefty check, and emerged decidedly disgruntled after fifteen minutes with the manager.
He knew Brodie would help him out if he could, but although Rogan had no problem asking his friend for the odd favor, borrowing money from him went against the grain. He'd never borrowed so mu
ch as a fiver in his life, from anyone.
* * *
He told Camille, "I want to check how the Sea-Rogue's running, and you're ready for a deep dive. Brodie's free on Sunday, and I've asked him to be our safety guy."
Brodie boarded on Sunday morning, and they motored out of the port on still water that became choppy when the boat hit the open sea. Once they picked up a breeze Rogan cut the motor and the men hoisted sail.
Rogan said, "There's something I have to do," and took a small box from his pack on the deck.
Standing at the stern, he opened the box and Camille realized with a faint chill that what he'd had to do was scatter his father's ashes on the sea.
She glanced at Brodie, who also looked a bit shocked. They both watched Rogan's rigid back until he turned, catching their expressions, and said, "The old man didn't want any ceremony about this. We did all that the day of the funeral."
Brodie nodded, and Camille quelled an impulse to give Rogan a hug. His remote expression signaled it wouldn't be welcome.
He took the wheel, and after a while called Camille from her post in the bow where the breeze blew her hair and cooled her face, and showed her how to keep the boat parallel to the shore as they headed north, passing sheer cliffs where seabirds wheeled and dived, and deserted sandy coves.
Standing behind her, he put his hands over hers on the smooth turned spokes of the wooden wheel. Achingly conscious of his roughened palms and the warmth emanating from his body, clad only in light jeans with no shirt, a tantalizing inch or two away, she had to fight an urge to lean back and feel the strength of it against her. She wondered if he was making an excuse to be close to someone—perhaps anyone—after carrying out his sad task.
After a while he moved away, letting her steer the boat herself while he kept an eye on how she was doing. She found it surprisingly exhilarating.
When the boat drew close to the Poor Knights islands, their granite cliffs rising stark and sheer from the blue-green of the sea but softened by tenacious clinging plants, Rogan took back the wheel. He steered to a tranquil cove with a sandy bottom, where there was little danger of their anchor damaging a reef.
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