Rogan climbed out onto the deck, a coffee mug in his hand. She turned her head and saw a grim look on his face, changing to something that might have been relief when he saw her. "You're not getting any silly ideas, I hope," he said.
Camille looked away again. "Not me," she said. "That's your specialty."
His laugh was short and sharp. "One day you may thank me for this."
She cast him a glance of disdain. "In your dreams."
"We could be rich," he said, "if my father was right."
"Your father was as crazy as you are. Has it occurred to you that people will wonder where I've got to?"
"Who—Drummond?" His lifted shoulder indicated he didn't give a damn about James.
"My mother. She'll worry if she doesn't hear from me."
He looked pensive, as though that might have given him pause. "You can phone her," he said.
"You took my phone!" she snapped.
"For your own protection." He looked at the sky, which was clouding over. "You can tell her you're on a pleasure cruise."
"Pleasure!"
His grin went awry. "I guess I can't expect any more pleasure like last night's for a while."
"Ever!" she assured him fervently.
He grimaced. "You'd better explain to your mother that once we leave the coast your phone will be out of range. Do you want to call her now?"
Camille thought about it. If she could just get across some message, some idea of her predicament…
Rogan must have been reading her face. "And don't get clever," he said ominously. "I'll be right beside you."
Could she say, "Call the police" before Rogan cut her off?
But how long would it take for the police to come to her rescue? Presuming they took it seriously at all. It might take them ages to check it out, let alone figure out where she might be.
Meantime her mother would be in a state of panic. She would almost certainly cut short her long-awaited holiday and fly home. And her sister's anniversary celebration would be overshadowed by anxiety. Camille wouldn't hear the last of it for years.
Of course none of these were good reasons to hesitate if her life was in danger.
Think it through, she exhorted herself. If Rogan was unhinged it was about one subject—in every other way he was as sane as she was. Although he'd been furious when he found the sale agreement it didn't seem likely that he planned to throw her overboard.
He might be a pirate, and abducting her was certainly illegal and immoral and it had made her mad as hell, but it wasn't directly life-threatening. A police search would cost time and money and manpower. She'd be asked what her relationship was with her abductor. Even if she said nothing, Brodie would do his best to defend his friend, and she'd tacitly admitted she and Rogan had indulged in consensual sex. The media would love a story like that.
There would be suggestions that she'd simply changed her mind about going off with him. Yet if the police believed her Rogan would probably go to jail.
She discovered with a shock that being infuriated by his actions hadn't stopped her loving him. The thought of Rogan locked up in a cell made her stomach churn.
"It's early," she said aloud. Mona would still be in bed.
Rogan cast her a shrewd look. "Later, then."
The sky was overcast, the morning turning bleak. Gray clouds lowered over the boat and the water became leaden, the swells lifting the boat high before dropping it into the troughs. When rain began to fall Rogan left the cockpit and stayed under cover in the deckhouse.
Going down to the galley, Camille discovered that it wasn't only the strain of the morning's events and the thought of sending Rogan to prison that was making her feel sick. Looking at food made it much worse, and every movement of the boat brought a corresponding heave of her stomach.
* * *
When Rogan came down he tapped on the door of Camille's cabin and, since she didn't respond, pushed it open.
She was lying motionless on her berth, and one look told him why. Her face was as almost as green as the pillow she was clutching with one desperate hand while the other held a plastic basin, and her skin had a waxen sheen.
He swore, making her momentarily open her eyes. Then she closed them again, her bloodless mouth clamped tight.
Swiftly he crossed the cabin to hunker down beside her. "Hey," he said, "have you thrown up?"
Her lips barely moved. "About twenty minutes ago."
"I'll get you something. Just stay there."
"Stupid…" she said faintly.
Rogan grinned, not unsympathetic despite his deep, still smoldering fury.
His conscience bugged him as he went to the galley and shook a pill out of a plastic container. But he quelled the small voice, arguing he'd had no choice once he'd discovered Camille's betrayal. It had been stupid to trust her with the secret of the log. She could have been in with Drummond all along. And even if she wasn't, going on past evidence she seemed to tell the damned man everything. A risk Rogan couldn't afford to take now.
He returned to the cabin with the pill and a glass of water, and helped her get it down before she moaned and fell back against the pillow. "I hate you," she whispered.
"I know," Rogan acknowledged equably. "I'll bring you a biscuit."
She shuddered.
"It'll help," he promised. "And then we'll get you up on deck. You need fresh air."
* * *
Camille didn't bother to contradict him. There was no way she was moving from this bed. She'd die here if necessary. At the moment that seemed not a bad idea.
Within seconds Rogan was back; even with her eyes closed she sensed his presence. Something touched her lips, and she jerked her head away. A mistake. She moaned, and Rogan pushed the fragment of dry ship's biscuit into her mouth. "It will help," he repeated. "Believe me."
After she'd managed to swallow a few pieces, he gently bullied her to let him help her onto the deck. The rain had stopped, and he wedged himself into the corner of the cockpit and held her against his chest after lifting her feet up to rest on the slats. "Keep your eyes open and look ahead to where the boat's going," he instructed her.
She was angry with this man, he was a pirate and a kidnapper and quite possibly at least mildly insane—and responsible for her being here at all, feeling as she did. It would be what he deserved if she threw up over him.
Only his solid chest was heavenly to rest against, and his arms held her firmly and comfortably as the boat forged its way through the waves that occasionally misted her face with blessedly cooling spray…and actually he was right; she was beginning to feel a little better, breathing in the salty, rain-washed air.
She wasn't sure when she dozed off or how long she slept, but she woke to sunshine and calmer water, and a surprising feeling of hunger.
Rogan hadn't moved. He said, "Feeling better?"
Camille sat up, pulling away from him, irritated with herself. "Yes," she said curtly. "Where are we?"
"Heading for North Cape. If you want to contact your mother it had better be soon, before we lose signal range."
He stood up and stretched his arms, and she thought he must be stiff from holding her while she slept. He pulled her phone from his pocket and sat beside her, an arm along the coaming at her back, silently reminding her that he'd be listening.
"Camille, darling!" Mona's voice was faint, distant. "I tried to ring you but your phone was switched off. I suppose you were buried in your musty old books again. You'd have loved it last night—we went to the opera. Your uncle paid for everything, he insisted! And tomorrow…"
Her voice began to fade in crackling interference, then came back. "…a terrible line! Where are you?"
"On the boat," Camille said. "Sailing. Mum—"
"Sailing?" Mona queried on a higher note, her voice breaking through the static. "I know you're living…that man but…thought it was tied up! You're not…a trip in that…? Is it even seaworthy anymore?"
"We're on our way to—"
&n
bsp; Rogan pressed a warning hand over Camille's mouth and whispered, "The Islands."
"—the Islands," Camille echoed tightly when he removed his hand, the description so wide that no one would be able to identify which of the many remote islands of the Pacific they were headed for.
"…islands?…how long?" Mona demanded.
"I don't know. We'll be out of phone range soon." The crackling increased on cue and she raised her voice. "You may not hear from me for a while."
"You're with that Broderick boy, aren't you?" Mona said sharply, loud enough to cut through the increasing noise. "Camille, don't be a fool! You know what sort of man your father was—him and that Barney Broderick, both the same. Like father, like son…" Her voice faded again. "…setting yourself up for heartbreak…I can say…" Her voice shrilled, though static drowned out some words. "…trouble to…away from you all those years to have you…the same…I did."
"What?" Camille pressed the phone to her ear.
"…say I didn't warn you…hope you'll come…senses."
"Mum…" But the noise was so bad now it was useless to persevere. "I love you," Camille said, not knowing if Mona could hear. "I'll be in touch as soon as I can."
Her hands were trembling as she shut off the connection. Rogan immediately took the phone from her, saying, "You did well."
Camille stood up, all her anger with him resurfacing. "I did what I was told to do," she said coldly. "I hope you're satisfied."
"You are feeling better," he said.
Remembering her resolution to talk sense to him, she said, "You can't expect to get away with this. Just take me back to Mokohina and we can forget it ever happened."
"No way," he said flatly. "It ain't gonna happen."
She stared toward the land that looked tantalizingly close, and he said, "It's farther than it looks, and if you didn't drown first or get dashed to piece on the rocks, you could die of exposure before you reached help."
Camille tightened her mouth and turned away, climbing down into the saloon. If she stayed she'd scream or hit him or both. And neither would be very productive.
The instruments by the saloon table were lit, mysterious lines moving across small screens on a couple of them. There must be a radio of some kind. She approached the machines and examined buttons and switches for a clue. A faint crackling sound emanated from one that showed the number 16 steadily on its dial.
There was a microphone attached by a hook. Gingerly she unhooked it. "Hello?" she said quietly. Nothing happened, and she looked at the microphone and found a switch. "Is anyone there?"
After a few seconds a voice asked, "What is your name and position?"
She hadn't a clue what the boat's position was. "I'm Camille Hartley, and—"
"Can you speak up? The boat's name?"
"Sea-Rogue. I've been kid—"
A hard hand snatched the microphone from her, even as another snaked about her, clamping her mouth. Rogan said, "Sorry, false alarm. I've told the kids not to play with the radio. Thanks for responding."
By the time Camille had wrenched herself free he'd cut the contact and the number had disappeared from the screen.
"That's the emergency channel," he said as she twisted to face him, defiance and fury in her eyes. "Only to be used if the boat is in danger of sinking. Nobody would be too pleased if you brought some ship miles off course to rescue you and they found a perfectly seaworthy boat and a woman who just didn't like the company she was in. Try another trick like that and I'll lock you up again."
"You can't do this to me!" she raged.
"Sorry," he said curtly, "but I can. And I am. You can settle down and make the best of it, enjoy the trip. Or spend it sulking in your cabin."
"Enjoy the trip? When you've forced me to come along with you?"
"You don't seem to have found it too much of a hardship sharing quarters with me in the harbor—even your bed."
She didn't relish the reminder, and fired back at him, "If you think that's going to happen again, you can take a running jump!"
"You slept with me knowing you were going to sell to Drummond!" He looked positively lethal, his cheeks whitening and his mouth taking on an ominous look as his eyes became diamond-hard and glittering. "And that you were leaving!"
What was he so livid about? She didn't understand him. "I'd finished my research. There was no reason to stay."
"So what was that…last night? A farewell present?"
Trying to appear nonchalant, she shrugged. "It just…happened. It seemed a nice idea at the time."
"Nice?"
"Well, I'm sorry if you didn't like it!"
"Of course I bloody liked it!" He didn't look any less angry. "I didn't know what you were planning, did I? And I don't have time for this. Someone ought to be keeping watch. Are you coming back on deck or do I lock you in your cabin?"
Wanting to throw something at him, she met his steady gaze with a fulminating one of her own. "I'm hungry!" she said.
A glimmer of humor lightened his expression. "I made you a ham sandwich, without butter. It'll help settle your stomach. You can eat it on deck."
He took it from the kerosene fridge, handed her a small bottle of water, and motioned her ahead of him. The sandwich was good, and the water cold and refreshing. When she'd finished, not wanting to sit in the cockpit with Rogan, she settled for leaning on the stern rail with her back to him, watching the hypnotic surge of the boat's wake stirring the water. Seabirds flew behind them, then veered away to find something else of interest or to land on the bobbing waves, disappearing finally into the distance. A couple of times she saw container ships near the horizon, their low decks laden with cargo. Once she thought she glimpsed the white hull of another boat, rearing from the waves behind, but then it vanished. Maybe she'd been mistaken.
Rogan came to stand beside her, lifting binoculars to his eyes and scanning the sea.
Camille didn't offer to cook, and Rogan found lettuce, tomatoes and more ham, spread fresh sliced bread thinly with margarine, and loaded two plates. Camille supposed foodstuffs had been included in the cargo Brodie brought.
She took her plate without comment, climbed back to the cockpit when he told her to, and ate in silence. There was every reason not to thank him, not to cooperate with him in any way. But she felt petty and ungracious, remembering he'd nursed her through her bout of seasickness and even provided for when it had passed. After they'd finished she muttered, "I'll wash up."
"You'd better have another pill," he said. "In a day or two you'll be okay."
She took the one he offered, and when the dishes were done retired to her cabin, reaching for the first book that came to hand on the shelf above the bed.
It was about treasure wrecks and recovery efforts. She dipped into three chapters and found descriptions of tragedy followed by murder, mayhem and greed. Incredulously she read that only a few years previously poachers on a wreck site had engaged in deadly undersea battles, going so far as to cut a legitimate salvor's air line and try to blow up his boat. While she knew that even today piracy was rampant in parts of the world, she'd had no idea that people were still committing murderous acts in pursuit of sunken treasure.
The next day began fine and clear, but later the sea became turbulent, the boat tossed on confused waves that seemed to come from all directions. They must have passed North Cape, where the Pacific met the contrary currents of the Tasman Sea between New Zealand and Australia.
As the land diminished behind them she was attacked by a sick alarm. Ahead there was nothing but empty, inky sea meeting the blue bowl of the sky on a blurred line of deep indigo. Out there she would be miles from anywhere and without any means of communication, alone with a man who didn't like or trust her anymore and who might be unhinged.
She should have taken the chance to warn her mother of her predicament, try to get an urgent plea for help across before Rogan stopped her. The stories she had read the previous night came to mind. Over the centuries the lust for gold had
made monsters of men. Had love blinded her to the possibility that she might be in real danger? How stupid to have decided that not spoiling her mother's holiday or her aunt's anniversary party was more important than her own safety, maybe her life!
Rogan had disregarded the law, common sense and the possible consequences for himself when he made off with her. Supposing there really was a treasure, how far would he be prepared to go in order to conceal its location—and perhaps keep it all for himself and his brother?
If she sold half of the boat to James, Rogan and Granger would still be entitled to their own share of any treasure. So why was Rogan so worried?
She hadn't handed over the agreement to James to conclude the contract, and Rogan had her in his power. According to him she could claim half of any profit resulting from the Sea-Rogue's voyages, including the results of any treasure hunt, whereas he would get only a quarter.
If she died, his share would double. Shivering, she clutched at the wooden rail under her hands. Had she been wrong in thinking he wasn't a danger to her?
"Camille?"
She jumped as his hand touched her arm, backing into the curve of the rail, eyes wide and wary.
Rogan scowled at her. "What's the matter with you?"
It was too much. "What do you think is the matter?" she yelled at him. "I've been kidnapped, locked in and threatened with being tied up, forcibly prevented from communicating with anyone, and I have no idea what you mean to do with me."
"Do with you…?"
He lifted a hand and she screamed, "Don't touch me!"
The scowl changed to a look of shocked comprehension. "What do you think I mean to do with you?" he demanded.
"I don't know!" she cried wildly. "But I'll fight you with every breath!"
Rogan laughed suddenly, and she tightened her grip on the rail behind her, facing him with her chin up, her body taut, trying to conceal the stark fear that stretched the skin over her cheekbones and made her breathing uneven.
His laughter abruptly stopped, and he said, "I won't hurt you, Camille, I swear. For God's sake get that idea out of your mind. I didn't mean to scare you silly."
Dangerous Waters Page 18