Way Too Deep (Love Overboard Book 1)

by Andrea K. Stein

  “Don’t tell me you’ve decided you need someone more ‘sensitive.’“ René took her hand and tried to pull her back into his arms.

  She clenched her lips together and took a deep breath. If only she had one of Manning’s weapons. No one would ever know. It would be so easy to roll the obnoxious Frenchman’s body over the cliff. Fish chum.

  “Listen, you blockhead. I’m not going to repeat this. I need to know right now why you and Manning have been following us for so many miles. What is he up to and why didn’t Carrothers know he was with you?”

  “Cherie, you know I would follow you anywhere.”

  “Stop the BS. Just tell me what’s going on with Manning and my boss.” She put the scooter between them and then pulled off her hair band to re-do her ponytail, in case she needed to fight.

  He hesitated for a moment and then confessed. “I don’t know what he’s up to, and I don’t care. He never tells me anything, but pays me very well to follow his instructions.”

  “And we have to pick up CeCe on Palm Island. What’s that all about?” Lindsay couldn’t stop obsessing about the bizarre chain of events. “Something doesn’t feel right.”

  “I’ll show you what feels right.” He circled around the scooter, and so did she.

  With the scooter between them, Lindsay scoffed at him. “We both know we’re through, so you can stop coming on to me. It’s kind of pathetic. And I know you’re only doing it to bait Alton.” She reached over and poked him hard in the chest. “Stop it.”

  René laughed, “As usual, you are right. But your cook is very fun to tease. However, I do know something about Manning and Carrothers.”

  Hope shot through Lindsay. “What?”

  René pursed his lips in a smolder. “Yes, I do have information, but there is a price for such juice.”

  “A price?” Suspicion replaced hope.

  “Just one kiss, mon cheri. A little kiss, for old time’s sake.”

  He leaned his arrogant face toward her, and she couldn’t resist. She pulled back a fist and let him have it.

  “What the hell?” he yelped, rubbing his jaw.

  “You’re going to tell me what you know,” she said, “and if it’s bullshit, I’m gonna keelhaul you.”

  “All right.” René cut the teasing. “Monsieur Manning doesn’t trust Carrothers. He thinks he’s keeping two sets of financial records for their company, and he wants to know why.”

  “Does Becca know about this?” Lindsay asked.

  “Do you think she’d care if she did?” René shrugged and added, “In my experience, wives of wealthy men do not really want to know the source of their comforts.”

  Lindsay mulled the snippet of information he’d shared. Manning and Carrothers were at odds, and soon Becca would tangle with CeCe. The whole cruise could turn vile. She needed this job to work out, more than ever. This was her chance to redeem herself, so she couldn’t leave, couldn’t call it. Damn it. She’d have to soldier through.

  “Let’s catch up to the others,” Lindsay said, and threw a leg over the scooter, straddling the driver’s seat. “We can’t leave Fiona to face that health guru without me. I’ll be damned if I’ll let some con man hurt one of my passengers just to make a fast buck.” She pointed to the rear cushion. “Get on.”

  “I’m not …”

  “Get on,” she said, “or walk back to town.” When she gunned the motor and made some fast skids as if to leave, he climbed on.

  “This is ridiculous,” he complained. “God made men to drive.”

  “Men maybe,” Lindsay said, “but not little boys.”

  She went over what might be going on, but conceded Manning was the wrong person to take seriously. Carrothers would be smart to distance himself from the latter day James Bond. Still, why bring CeCe aboard? And what if her boss’s partner had reason to be suspicious?

  She was thinking hard when she felt René’s hands wander above her waist. She glanced over her shoulder and shouted, “I have enough to worry about without you being an asshole. Don’t give me an excuse to dump you off a cliff.”

  The hands settled back down to where they belonged.

  * * *

  Alton sat outside with Becca on the mossy concrete steps of the guru’s villa. The scooters leaned in a pile in the treeless front yard. The house had the standard arches he’d come to expect in island architecture. A poster child for nondescript.

  Lindsay and the ferret drove up and abandoned their ride.

  “Where are Moj and Fiona?” Lindsay asked.

  “They’re inside.” Becca jerked a thumb toward the screened entrance. “She’s in the middle of her cure, maybe, possibly, probably not.”

  The Frenchman smirked while Lindsay addressed Alton. “Next time you think you want to play Prince Charming and come to my rescue, you’ll need a white stallion and a sword. I can take care of myself.” She turned away and thudded up the steps with the Frenchman in tow.

  Alton dropped his chin onto his hands, elbows balanced on his knees. Once again, his overtures to Captain Horrible had been misconstrued.

  He turned to Becca and asked, “Do you honestly think a medical genius lives in this concrete bunker?”

  Becca sat in stony silence, but gave him an exaggerated eye roll.

  Five hens sped across the front of the house with a rooster in hot pursuit. Love among the ruins.

  Bones and various constructions roughly approximating mobiles hung from every possible protrusion along the arches and across the porch back wall. Every time the wind blew, the hanging gallery glittered and clanged. Some shapes, on a closer look, seemed to be cut from colorful tin cans—tuna fish, tomatoes, or beans.

  The bones he didn’t want to consider, although he suspected they were related to the hens and rooster now generating frantic dust clouds beneath the ragged greenery fronting the porch.

  While the voodoo wind chimes clattered outside, from inside drifted the noise of chanting and the murmur of a man humming along. Most likely, that was the “cure” in progress. Alton hoped the chanting was all he’d have to hear.

  Becca clung to him like eyelash glue. Her earlier ardor had turned to apprehension.

  “Alt?” she asked softly. “What do think is going on in there?”

  “You don’t have to whisper. We could drive a Mack truck through the living room and they wouldn’t hear us over all the chanting.” Her mood swings grated on his nerves to the point where he contemplated ditching her and making a run for it.

  Maybe he could disappear and sign on as a chef at one of the little cafes in Port Elizabeth. Hell, he was at the point where he would settle for washing dishes in exchange for a stationary place to sleep. Boats. He dreaded going back aboard. Maybe a little chanting might help him with his own PTSD. High school. The reservoir. Julie. The speedboat.

  A wave of nausea swept into his stomach, and sweat rolled down his chest.

  Best not to remember that summer.

  Fiona suddenly appeared at the doorway and announced in drama-worthy tones, “He’s discovered a cure.”

  “What?” Alton and Becca asked at once.

  “A wheatgrass enema. It’s so simple. Why didn’t any of the specialists in LA know?”

  Moj stood behind his wife, his expression somewhere between shock and nauseous resignation. Alton motioned to him to come outside and give them an update.

  “Becca, come inside with me, please?” Fiona had her hands clasped together.

  Becca sighed, whispered “Fuck,” and both women disappeared back inside the house.

  Moj stepped out the door and leaned over the concrete-formed railing across the porch. He kept his head bowed for so long, Alton cleared his throat, hoping to break the tense silence.

  “This is bullshit,” Moj finally said. “She thinks shoving herbs up her butt is gonna fix her.” He descended the steps on stiff legs and dropped down next to Alton. They sat together in mutual misery.

  “This has got to end,” Moj muttered. “She is g
onna kill herself trying to get well.” He dropped his head and clasped his hands.

  “Do you think she might really be sick?” Alton asked. “I wasn’t so sure, but then yesterday at lunch, I could tell she didn’t feel right.”

  “That’s just it,” Moj said, raising his head. “Right when I think she’s some kind of hypochondriac, she comes down with something real. It’s like we’re both relieved. So I don’t know. Sometimes I think she does it for the attention, sometimes I think she’s just afraid. Other times, well, something must be wrong, right?” Then the fabulously famous and wealthy record producer dropped his face back into his hands.

  “This is none of my business,” Alton said, “but why would a man as successful and powerful as you get involved in all her drama?”

  Moj lifted his head and gave Alton a long look. “She needs me, man. I gotta be there for her. At the end of the day, sick or healthy, I love her.”

  The response was totally unexpected, and Alton couldn’t think of anything else to say. He had a lot to learn about love and commitment. That was clear. Again, memories of Julie and that horrible night on the lake in high school rose up.

  Moj cleared his throat. “I sometimes think Fiona’s problem is that on some level, she knows life is short, and we don’t have much time. If that’s the case, what we do with every day is vitally important. And each night we have on earth is precious too. Most people don’t think about that, but she does. It’s one of the reasons she’s been so successful in her acting gigs.

  Alton nodded, absorbing the unexpected wisdom.

  Lindsay and René came back down the steps, both shaking their heads.

  The ferret bowed and threw a kiss to Lindsay. “Cherie, I’m a free sailor for the time being, but you, you are trapped as the captain of a floating insane asylum. My condolences.”

  Alton clenched his fists. He had his own problem to consider. Lindsay. Seeing her fighting off the ferret had unhooked something inside of him.

  If life is short, and every day precious, Alton was determined to make the most of the rest of his.

  And at the top of his list was Lindsay, the tall, the proud, the shapely. He felt his hunger stir, and it had nothing to do with kitchens.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tuesday Night, Carenage Bay Anchorage, Canouan

  Fortunately for Lindsay, the storms of the day had all been emotional. The actual sailing from Bequia to Canouan was easy and smooth. They pulled into the Carenage Bay anchorage for a sunset dinner served up by Alton for everyone except Fiona.

  She was taking her “cure,” which after all of Lindsay’s reservations, turned out to be mostly harmless. Alton had checked over the wheatgrass and various herbs and thought the concoction was safe.

  Awkward, yes. Dangerous, no.

  And the amount the so-called guru had charged for the treatment seemed to be a reasonable spa service price for the islands.

  Dinner was grilled shrimp kabobs with mango, guavas, and pomegranates. Goat cheese raviolis served in a fruity compote finished off the menu. To keep the theme going, Alton provided passion fruit sangria and mousse. Most of the food he’d provisioned fresh in Bequia after the guru drama.

  Lindsay didn’t partake. She had to keep her system on an even keel with Lays and Coke, although she did add a peanut butter and jelly sandwich she made on the sly when Alton wasn’t looking. He’d die.

  She realized with a jolt that at some level Alton must really like her. Yeah, he was a chef, but why should he care whether or not she subsisted on Cokes and Lays? And that whole riding-to-her-rescue thing. Although she didn’t like the idea of anyone saving her, a tiny part of her was flattered. She spent too much time trying to emulate men. She’d missed the whole fun parts of being a woman someone could care about.

  The sun set into the sea, splashing the sky and water with crimson, pink, and gold. Spirits were subdued. Moj and Becca played poker with each other on their smartphones, Manning talked with Raoul in Russian, and Fiona remained below deck. Um. Cleansing.

  The sunset was mostly ignored by her passengers, which killed Lindsay. She had purposefully chosen to anchor in Carenage Bay so they could face west and watch the golden ball of fire sink into the waters. Growing up in South Carolina, she’d dreamed of ocean sunsets. She’d watched the sun rise out of the Atlantic, a thousand times. But ocean sunsets? Exotic and fascinating. To her at least, but then the rich quickly lost their sense of wonder.

  Her dad had been part mason, part sailor, and while the brickwork kept them off the streets, what really made his soul sing was the ocean. His brother Tommy followed the siren song onto the Atlantic and around the world, but Lindsay’s father was a family man. Responsibilities kept him on dry land.

  However, every weekend, he would take Lindsay out on their little sailing dinghy and teach her the basics. Rain, sun, storm, didn’t matter, she’d go out with her dad and tackle the ocean. She’d watch his eyes light up at the wonder of it all. A world of salt, wet, and wind they could ride to the ends of the earth. They never ventured outside Charleston Bay, but the possibilities were always there.

  Her father died in a hospital, not at sea. Neither pirates nor a squall took George Fisher. It was simple lung cancer.

  But out on the water, watching the sun, Lindsay could feel her dad, could see the cigarette clamped between his lips, could remember his smile, the spark in his eyes, the roar of the wind, the splash of the sea in their faces. Life, raw life.

  Her dad hadn’t been able to chase the horizon, so his daughter did instead. And always would. Which made this trip vital.

  To betray her chance at redemption would be to betray her father, and she’d never do that.

  Moj and Becca eventually took their poker game below decks, Raoul took his turn on watch, and from below in the galley came the clatter of Alton doing dishes.

  For the moment, Lindsay and Manning were alone, forward of the mast, on the top deck. On one side of them was the darkness of the ocean stretching off into a starlit sky. On the other, the beaches and twinkle of a hotel resort.

  He drifted over to her. Good. She needed more information on Carrothers, and if the son-of-a-bitch had completely lost his mind, Lindsay needed to know. She needed to know if what he was up to could impact her, the passengers, or the boat.

  Manning had his hands full with a cigar and a snifter of brandy. He raised the cigar. “Cuban. Cohiba. Special selection. I was given a box by Castro himself.”

  “Fidel Castro?” Lindsay asked, ready to be impressed.

  “Jorge. The boxer.” He sniffed the snifter. “The brandy is a Marquis de Montesquiou. Would you like a glass? It is exquisite, I can assure you.”

  “On duty,” Lindsay said. Well, not officially, but that was the safest answer. She wanted to change the subject, but he had the conversation in a Judo hold.

  “Some call Canouan the jewel of the Grenadines, and I can appreciate some of its more rural charms, I suppose. I find it interesting that resort development didn’t occur until the 1990s. I would’ve turned this rock into a Caribbean Monte Carlo long before if I’d had the inclination. Speaking of which, I kept a flat in Monaco for many years, and I must say, the climate of the international casino is the atmosphere which best suits me.”

  Midway through a mind-numbing description of his apartment, Lindsay forced a topic change. “I heard you suspect Carrothers is up to something with your company records. What’s going on?”

  Manning sucked on the cigar and blew out a series of smoke rings. He sipped the brandy and then considered her question. “Paranoia has kept me alive. I consider it my most cherished attribute.”

  “Mr. Manning,” Lindsay said, “please drop the spy stuff. Tell me why you were following us and why Carrothers would want both his wife and his mistress aboard the same ship at the same time?”

  He didn’t give an emotional inch. He remained passive, and again, smoked, drank, and let the gurgle of the water on the hull answer for him.

  Then, in a
whisper, “Men like me, men like Carrothers, we enjoy games. He’s playing a game. CeCe Ahlstrom, his wife Becca, and you are all pieces on the board. And yet, while others are pawns, you are an obvious queen. As for me? What chess piece do you think I am?”

  “A king?” Lindsay leaked sarcasm all over her mock question. Wrestling the truth out of Devin Manning “Bond” probably wasn’t worth the effort.

  “No, I am a player, captain. I’m not on the board at all. Let us see how things progress. I have my suspicions, but I have nothing concrete. Yet.”

  “But you’ll tell me when you do?”

  Manning raised an eyebrow. “Why? All of my stratagems have nothing to do with my partner’s pawns, nor his queens. I will tell you this, however. I will not let anything happen to this vessel, for I know how devastating that would be to your career. And I like you, Captain Fisher. You are a comely woman with surprising talents, or so I’ve heard.”

  Sure. From René.

  Although she was building to a slow, burning seethe, Lindsay was about to ask more when she heard Tommy’s shout all the way from his bunk beneath the bow.

  “What in the fuck are you doing?” Her uncle’s voice boomed with an emphasis on the “F” word.

  Then Moj yelled the same thing, only emphasizing the “you.”

  Manning didn’t move. “Ah, the games the rich and tragic all play. Not chess. More like checkers for the damned.” He returned to nursing his stogie.

  Lindsay grabbed the cigar from his mouth and flung it out into the water. “Goddamn things will kill you, Mr. Manning.” She left him gaping like a fish and raced toward the sounds of the loud altercation.

  As she neared access to the cramped bunks she and Tommy shared, she could see Moj down in the well raising a muscled arm to punch Tommy.

  From out of nowhere, Alton ran past her, bent over the well, and grabbed Moj’s arm.

  Moj whirled and snarled at the chef. “Oh, you want some too?”

  Alton raised his hands. “No, wait. Let’s think this through logically.”

  Lindsay peered below and saw Fiona was there with Tommy, which explained why Moj was about to punch him in the nose. Lindsay tried to lower herself into the hole, but Alton blocked her way.