Camille flushed. "I don't think you can make judgments on what I need. And my relationship with James or anyone else is none of your business."
Rogan tipped his head. "I'd just hate to see all that lovely passion thrown away."
"Passion passes," Camille argued. "Other things are more important."
"Like what?"
"Loyalty, reliability, trustworthiness."
"Yeah," he said derisively. "All fine and admirable. But without passion, a bit dull, don't you think?"
"Passion without them is a flash in the pan, an illusion with no substance."
His eyes intent, he said, "You're speaking from experience?"
"I don't suppose my experience is nearly as extensive as yours," she retorted. "And I'm not going to swap stories."
"That wasn't what I meant. Did some man hurt you?"
"Yes," Camille said flatly. "My father. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to be left alone."
Chapter 11
Camille thought Rogan wasn't going to move, his eyes piercing, his shoulders hunched aggressively forward, fingers thrust into his belt. Then he shifted his shoulders in what might have been a shrug, and stepped away from her. "Okay," he said. "I'll be around if you need me."
She wasn't sure if she was supposed to read a hidden meaning into that, and didn't answer as he left, only moving to close the door behind him.
The rain had stopped without her noticing. An eerie yellow light seeped through the saloon windows and now that the storm had passed she realized it wasn't yet dark outside.
Remembering James's invitation to pre-Christmas drinks, she considered canceling, the prospect of socialising not alluring, but the excuse to get away from the close atmosphere of the boat seemed like a godsend.
Thank heaven she hadn't succumbed to the madness of the moment. James had promised to pick her up at the boat and send her home in a taxi, and the thought of being interrupted by him while making love to Rogan made her hot all over.
She changed into her dark pants and her favorite knitted top, then grabbed a jacket, pulled it on, and picked up her coin purse.
Opening the door, she scarcely glanced at Rogan, seated again at the table.
"I'm going out," she said as she passed him. "I may be late back."
"Running away?" he said. "There's no need. If you didn't believe me before, what happened just now must have proved I don't impose myself on unwilling women."
"I'm not running away. I have a date."
"Drummond?"
"James."
He gave her a knifelike look. "Have a good time." His tone implied, I hope you both get food poisoning. But perhaps he was trying to be gracious, despite the dour expression on his face. She supposed any man was entitled to look like that in the circumstances. She had never been so tardy calling a halt with an obviously aroused male.
"Do you need any help up there?" he asked as she headed for the deck.
"No, thanks."
"Please yourself."
She would, Camille thought, climbing to the wharf. She certainly hadn't been put on this earth to please Rogan Broderick. Or to accept pleasure from him.
Used to the ladder now, she easily negotiated it and quickly walked away from the boat, from temptation, breathing in the wet, metallic after-rain air, dodging droplets from overhanging trees and buildings.
Clouds still hung over the hill, hiding the houses on the brow, but the rest of the town looked newly washed and almost deserted, most people still sheltering indoors, some with lights glowing softly through their windows. Looking back, she saw light shining from the portholes of the Sea-Rogue as it rocked on the ever-restless water.
She ought to find herself another place to stay. Mr. Trubshaw might take her in—but he was elderly and frailer than he looked, with a familiar routine that a boarder would disrupt, and so courteous he wouldn't refuse her even if it were inconvenient. She'd feel guilty about asking him.
James's invitation was presumably still open, yet she was reluctant to take it up. He might read too much into her belated acceptance.
The water was leaden and the waves high, tossing the anchored boats about and racing to the little beach with foam flying from their white peaks. James's car swept up and he opened the door for her, saying reprovingly, "I said I'd pick you up at the wharf."
"I needed fresh air," she said, after climbing in beside him. "It's stuffy on the boat."
Perhaps because he was doing a U-turn, he didn't reply, not taking the opportunity to renew his invitation for her to stay with him.
Despite her misgivings, she might have been persuaded to accept, but Rogan's gibe about running away rankled. She was torn between removing herself from clear and present danger, and proving to herself—and him—that she was still fully in control of her emotions, and her body…
With her mother's experience an object lesson in the risks of entrusting her heart to another's careless keeping, Camille had no intention of getting involved with a man who was more interested in chasing rainbows than establishing a relationship.
James had several other guests, but as they left he quietly asked Camille to stay a little longer, saying, "I want to talk to you privately."
They sat looking out over the darkened harbor, sipping coffee and liqueurs. "No progress on the missing log?" he asked.
Camille hesitated, not accustomed to lying. "The police haven't found it," she said uncomfortably.
James sat back, putting down the spoon he'd used to stir his coffee. His voice lightly mocking, he said, "And is Rogan still looking for clues to his father's imaginary treasure ship?"
Unreasonably nettled at his tone, she said, "He doesn't think it's imaginary."
"Does he have any evidence at all?"
"Um…I don't think so," she muttered. "Not really."
"And have he and his brother made you an offer on the boat?"
"No. I believe he's been talking to banks."
James seemed restless, the wicker chair creaking a little as he shifted his feet and hooked one knee over the other, a slight frown on his brow. As if coming to a decision, he said, "If he was going to raise a loan it should have materialized by now. I'm afraid I can't wait forever. Of course I'd have no objection to you remaining on board while you finish your research, but I'd like to make you a formal offer." He took a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it and placed it on the glass-topped table between them. "I've drawn up a sale document. If the Brodericks can top this—" he shrugged "—I hope you'll allow me to consider raising it. Although I think my price is fair."
It was more than fair, she thought, leaning forward to read it. When she'd got her breath back, she promised to think about it, but said, "Don't you want to get a valuation of your own?"
"I know what it's ostensibly worth," he told her. "To me its antique value makes the boat special. Call it a rescue operation." For a moment his eyes rested on her with warmth, and he added, "For you and the Sea-Rogue. I know you're keen to get rid of your unwanted legacy, and I do hate to see beautiful craftsmanship unappreciated and allowed to deteriorate."
"I don't think Rogan would allow it to deteriorate," Camille demurred. "He loves the Sea-Rogue."
"I'm sure he's sentimentally attached to it. But if he means to knock about the islands the way his father did I doubt he'll maintain her as I would. Broderick Senior seems to have had no idea of her historical attraction, and I doubt if his son is any more aware what could be made of it. It would be simpler, of course, if I could purchase the entire boat, in which case I'd be willing to pay an even better price per half. Perhaps if you mention that they may change their minds about selling to me."
* * *
When Camille arrived back on board there was no sign of Rogan. Maybe he was at the pub again. Considering his mood when she'd left him, he might have felt like a drink or two.
She picked up her cell phone and dialed her aunt's number in Australia. With the time difference it would still be early evening there.
&n
bsp; Her mother sounded happier than she had in a long time. "I'll miss you on Christmas Day, though," she said. "We're all disappointed you refused to come with me, but I know how important your moldy old books and papers are to you." Her laugh held a familiar shrill note that combined indulgence with a faint air of accusation. "I hate to think of you all on your own for Christmas," she added fretfully.
"I won't be," Camille assured her. "Rogan and I are having lunch with an old friend of his father's."
"What sort of friend?" Mona queried suspiciously. "Who is he?"
"She," Camille explained. "Mrs. Edwards."
"Barney's girlfriend?" Mona snorted.
"Do you know her?"
"No, but he probably had one in every port."
Tempted to defend him, with no evidence whatsoever, Camille bit her tongue. She'd accused Rogan of the same thing, she recalled uncomfortably, with as little reason.
Mona said, "You're not getting too close to this Rogan, I hope? I tell you, Camille, the Brodericks are bad news."
"We're not close," Camille assured her, conscious of a sharp tug of regret. "We both just happen to be at a loose end on Christmas Day, and Mrs. Edwards took pity on us."
* * *
On Christmas morning Camille attended a service in the seamen's chapel before joining Rogan for the walk up the hill to Bella Vista Road.
Mollie welcomed them both literally with open arms, giving Rogan a hug and then enveloping Camille in a similar embrace and a wave of violet scent. She let Camille help her in the kitchen, while Rogan opened a bottle of sparkling wine and later took on the task of carving the turkey.
Mollie's pleasure in sharing her festive meal was touching, and the single tear she wiped away when she spoke of having prepared all this for Barney made Camille's own eyes prickle in sympathy. Rogan proposed a toast to his father's memory, and while they ate he gently teased Mollie into a mood of flushed and slightly giddy enjoyment.
After lunch Mollie rested in her favorite armchair and her guests tackled the dishes. When they returned to the sitting room she was fast asleep.
Rogan said quietly, "Shall we take a walk in the garden?"
He took Camille's hand in his and led her to the back door, quietly closing it behind them as they stepped onto the lawn. Passing under an old plum tree, he picked a luscious dark-red fruit and offered it to her, but she shook her head. "I've eaten too much already."
Rogan bit into the plum himself and soon finished it, tossing the pip onto the garden as they admired the flowers. "This is where my father buried his log," he said, indicating a rosebush with deep crimson blooms.
It didn't look any the worse for having been disturbed. He plucked a perfect flower, just opening up, carefully removed a couple of thorns, and handed it to her. "Merry Christmas," he said. "I'm sure Mollie won't mind."
"Thank you." She inhaled the wonderful heady scent.
Rogan looked around. "Pity there's no mistletoe." His hand fractionally tightened on hers, a smiling question in his eyes.
He was almost irresistible in this mood, enough to make any woman's heart melt, her knees crumble.
"It's Christmas," he reminded her hopefully.
Steeling herself, Camille pulled her hand from his. "Don't push your luck."
He laughed at her pungent tone, and led the way back to the house. Opening the door for her, he paused. "You've made Mollie's day, and I haven't enjoyed Christmas so much for years."
Neither had she, Camille realized with considerable shock. Christmas with her mother, ever since she could remember, had been an exchange of presents in the morning followed by church, then a simple cold lunch, a lazy afternoon, and dinner at a restaurant in the evening, because Mona didn't see any point in going to the trouble of preparing a special meal for two, and a day off from cooking was a treat.
Sometimes friends had invited Camille and her mother to join them, but Mona always said she wouldn't impose on someone else's family, and didn't want anyone's charity. Of course if Camille wanted to go…
But that would mean leaving her mother alone, so Camille had regretfully turned down the invitations.
When Camille and Rogan reentered the sitting room Mollie opened her eyes. Brushing her newly gold-rinsed curls from her eyes, she said, "Oh, I fell asleep—so rude!"
"Not at all," Camille assured her.
Rogan said, "We filled in the time very nicely. I've been showing Camille your garden."
"It's beautiful," Camille told her.
"Thank you. Rogan was such a help when I came home from the hospital."
Camille cast him a look of surprise. "I didn't know you were a gardener."
He laughed. "Not me. I just did what Mollie told me."
* * *
After returning to the Sea-Rogue, Rogan and Camille snacked on leftovers that Mollie had pressed upon them, then sat on the seats flanking the Sea-Rogue's wheel, both with their feet up and shoulders resting against the bulkhead. Camille was still reading Les Trois Mousquetaires, and Rogan frowned over one of Barney's navigation tables, looking from it to the pages of the log.
Camille finished the story just as the light was fading too much for her to see the rather small print. She closed the book and went down to the saloon. When Rogan joined her a little later she was making coffee, and he accepted a cup, taking a seat beside her at the table.
"James has made an offer for my half of the boat," she told him. "A very good offer. I'd be stupid to turn it down. But I'd like to give you the chance to match it."
"Thanks," he said, tight-lipped. "How much?"
She told him, adding, "He said he'd raise the price if you and Granger wanted to sell too."
"Why?"
"He wants to restore the boat to its former glory and charter it to people who will appreciate its character."
"I appreciate the old girl just the way she is and without any tarting up, thanks. And Granger and I aren't selling at any damn price. Doesn't it seem strange to you that he's so dead keen to own her?"
"He's an antiquarian. The boat's a classic."
Rogan said abruptly, "Did you know his deckhand disappeared the day after my father was attacked?"
Blinking, Camille said, "What?"
"The deckhand from his boat, the Catfish. He'd been talking to my dad at the pub the night before, buying him drinks. Hasn't been seen since. And I'm sure the Catfish followed us out when we went to the Poor Knights."
"Followed us?"
"Remember the boat that was anchored just outside the reserve—where we could be watched the whole time?"
"It wasn't the only boat out there. And why would it have followed us?"
"Maybe the boss told them to keep an eye on the Sea-Rogue in case we were on the trail of…something. Suppose Drummond has reason to believe Dad found treasure?"
"What reason?" Camille asked, exasperated. "I don't think he ever met your father."
"The deckhand!" Rogan said impatiently. "He took something from Dad that proved the treasure was real—something Dad had in his pocket that night. Or maybe he beat the old man to force information from him. Then he went to his boss with it and…mysteriously disappeared. Drummond—or someone in his pay—ransacked the boat looking for the log or maybe some other clue, and didn't find it. So now he wants to buy the Sea-Rogue because he knows there's something on board that will tell him where the treasure is."
Desperately he looked about the saloon as if he could make it yield up its supposed secret.
Camille closed her gaping mouth. "You can't believe such a preposterous theory!"
He gave her his stubborn look. "I don't believe Drummond is that desperate to get hold of the boat because of some philanthropic desire to restore her. He's not getting his hands on her if I can help it."
* * *
The Christmas break ran into the weekend; the banks and most businesses were closed for four days, and Camille found herself tense and edgy. Living with Rogan was becoming more and more difficult for her. There wasn't a g
reat deal of room on the boat, and it was inevitable that now and then they would accidentally brush up against each other, or encounter each other coming in or out of the cramped head—Camille with a robe pulled around her, Rogan wearing only hastily pulled-on jeans or a pair of shorts or just a towel tucked about his waist.
She was continually conscious of his very masculine presence, the tug of his casual attraction that he made no effort to either exploit or inhibit. It was just there.
In a strange way Camille knew in her bones she could trust him. Her emotions were chaotic and irrational—an odd mixture of rock-solid security and a knife-edge tension that seemed to grow more palpable every day.
They couldn't continue this way—she couldn't.
She had thoroughly explored Mr. Trubshaw's library, and returned the last books and documents she'd borrowed, with warm thanks for his help and a parting present of a rather rare but modestly priced volume from James's shop. So now she didn't have the excuse of research to keep her here.
She broached the subject of the buyout again with Rogan, and he said irritably, "What's the hurry?"
"Can you do it?" she asked abruptly.
"Match Drummond's price? No," he said. "Look, why not wait until we know if there's a treasure or not?"
"What difference would that make?"
"I suppose, none," he admitted slowly. "If my dad and yours found it together, I guess it's half yours anyway."
Camille blinked. "How do you make that out?"
"Taff or his descendants are entitled to half of any profits from their voyages. If they found something it's half yours."
"Half of a chimera," she mocked.
Rogan said, "You own half the boat's contents too."
"There's nothing worth much," she objected, "except the navigation equipment, and that's included in the price of the boat. You're welcome to everything else."
He looked exasperated, pushing a hand through his hair. "Can't you just wait a bit?" he pleaded.
She should say no, not let the intensity of his gaze sway her. "I can't wait much longer."
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