Way Too Deep (Love Overboard Book 1)

by Andrea K. Stein

  When they finally made land in the Grenadines, on Carriacou, the two of them made a monumental decision. They would open a restaurant and never again venture back onto the ocean. Yann dismantled On y Va and made her the heart and soul of the restaurant. End of story.

  Alton downed a third beer and leaned back, taking in the weather-battered wood of the cannibalized boat. Yann and Zoe had the same dream, and they followed it across the world.

  What dreams did he and Lindsay share?

  None.

  Or maybe the dream they shared was when they looked into one another’s eyes, the dream of living life together, as partners, as lovers, as best friends. The dream had been sweet, but now it was over.

  “Well, Yann,” Alton said finally, “if you need a cook, I’ve been known to fry an egg now and then.”

  * * *

  An hour later the Kitchen God had scrubbed and wrapped himself in a blinding white apron. He stood at a wooden block table in the tiny kitchen from which the mysterious Zoe had fled and wondered what in the hell had possessed him to sign on for a stint slinging Caribbean hash.

  He’d slipped his bare feet into his rubber clogs and was poised to do what he knew best—chop. He didn’t have his knives. Yeah, his old girlfriends were gone, but he knew they would have a happy home with Lindsay. He didn’t regret giving them to her, not at all.

  He and Yann had only a few hours to get the On y Va ready for the dinner rush, and he had just fileted piles of fresh snapper. He was flying by the seat of his pants and listening to Yann’s description of what his goddess, Zoe, would be fixing if he knew where the hell she was.

  Okay, Provencal sauce next, to go along with the grilled fish. Basically a ratatouille—eggplant, tomatoes, green and red bell peppers, garlic and lots of olive oil. Fried plantains on the side. Alton added some Nantes flourishes of his own.

  The fish would go on the big drum grill out back, done to order as the customers drifted in. And Alton would have everything else prepped well in advance so he could rule the grill and make damned sure no fucking poisoner lurked nearby.

  Yann worked the corner with a big barrel of flour hanging from the ceiling and a funnel pouring out onto the workspace. He told Alton his elusive wife allowed him in the kitchen only to churn out Johnnycakes, handmade from a rich, unleavened dough - first baked and then fried into decadent, crisp bites.

  The wine would be a dry rose’ from Martinique. And the grand finale—a crème brûlée with coconut.

  Alton was jammin’ to the sound of Ziggy Marley’s reggae pounding from the speakers on the patio. He didn’t need the rich and famous—he just needed a kitchen. And maybe if the real kitchen gods were listening (and he still had some chits to call in), he could somehow cook and have Lindsay as well.

  * * *

  Thursday Night, On y Va on Carriacou

  Alton and Yann sat on two plastic chairs on On y Va’s patio and sipped beer. Alton was exhausted, but in a good way. They’d sold out Thursday’s dinner, and Yann had to send a local to the store to re-supply for the next day’s crowd, which would be huge. Word had gotten out that Yann’s restaurant had a new cook, and his food was a miracle.

  A few regulars had even come back to the kitchen to thank him. Yann expected a line out the door and down to the beach when they opened for lunch on Friday.

  “Zoe will not like this.” Yann sighed and frowned. “Especially not after our argument.”

  “Why not? You said it yourself, you’ve never had a sell-out, and tomorrow we should be even busier. We could charge twice as much and make twice as much. Zoe should be dancing in the money we’re making.”

  “You don’t understand Zoe.” Yann turned and gave him an assessing look. “You don’t understand women, do you?”

  “Guilty.” Alton saluted him with his longneck Red Stripe. He soaked in the quiet. At the height of the kitchen frenzy he’d been frazzled, but happy. Like coming home. Home. Somewhere that looked, felt and smelled like a kitchen. Only Lindsay was missing.

  Although Manning’s phone had vibrated several times, Alton had ignored it. He’d deal with the secret agent toy in his own time.

  Yann took a swig of his beer, and then after a long time, seemed to make a huge decision. “If you stay on and cook tomorrow, you’ll need a place to sleep tonight. Do you have one?”

  “Nope.”

  “There’s a small room behind the restaurant. You’re welcome to stay there until you find a place.” Yann paused for a minute and added, “You can work in my kitchen as long as you like.”

  “Like hell he can.” A feminine voice, equal parts venom and hurt, speared through the darkness.

  Yann waved his sweating bottle over his shoulder and motioned the owner of the voice toward them.

  “Zoe, please come have a drink with us and meet Mr. Maura. He is, after all, at the heart of our disagreement.”

  That was news to Alton, and he couldn’t hide his shock. “I am?”

  Yann winked at him. “Oh yes, you are.”

  * * *

  Zoe stood like an avenging goddess, hands on her hips, eyes pouring out heat and violence like hot lava.

  Alton had been the target of the female volcano far too often. This time, he didn’t need to stick around. “Nice meeting you, Zoe, but whatever is going on between you and Yann has nothing to do with me. I’ll be leaving.”

  “No, you won’t, Mr. Kitchen God. I know who you are.” And then she aimed her twin caldera eyes at her husband. “I can’t believe you would do this, just because you think you are so right.”

  “I didn’t find him,” Yann said, standing. “He found us, but look what happened. Look, look, look!” He gestured toward the kitchen. “We have not had a dinner like this since we began. It’s like I told you, the menu has gotten stale.”

  “Our menu was fine,” Zoe shouted. “We are fine. We did not need to change it.”

  Alton winced. Being a witness to a couple fighting brought back memories from his childhood. Like playing at a friend’s house when he got in trouble. Alton hated the yelling.

  “Well, I better be going,” Alton said. He stood up. Zoe pushed him down.

  “You will not be going anywhere,” she said. “My husband said people were tired of my cooking. If the food is good, will people get tired of it? Will they?”

  “Um, well,” Alton said, and he could see it, a small island, an interesting restaurant, but after years of the same menu, the customers would be bored with it. But he didn’t want to say all that because if the dishes were good, well, people would come back. Old restaurant argument. But not his business. He tried to stand again, and this time Yann pushed him down.

  And asked him a question. “New menu items will draw new attention, yes, Mr. Maura? You keep things changing, and people will come to try the new? Or else they are filled with ennui when the meals are all the same, blah, blah, blah.”

  Zoe then attacked in French, and Yann defended himself. Alton wasn’t going to try to get up again. He’d sit and let them fight. He knew some French, and could follow that Yann was talking about Zoe’s parents, and she was saying he had the palate of an Englishman, and why didn’t they just boil everything.

  Both were fighting dirty.

  Finally, Yann spoke in English. “Will you cook tomorrow and show her the power of a new menu?”

  Zoe’s hands flew up. “It’s not a new menu, but a new chef. Now you will want to marry him. Well, good, I hope you’ll be happy together.”

  “I don’t really need to …” Alton searched for an escape route but couldn’t find one. The pair were back to yelling at each other in French.

  As he sat, Alton realized Zoe was afraid of change. And Yann was desperate for it. Could they compromise?

  He thought back to Lindsay, and her love for the sea. Did he love anything as much as she loved her career? He did. One thing. Cooking. And he could do that anywhere, for anyone, and be happy. His time in On Y Va’s kitchen had taught him that.

  Could he i
ndulge his passion on a boat? Certainly. If he could be with Lindsay again.

  It was time to fix what had been broken. He didn’t know the logistics, but he did know he needed to talk to Lindsay.

  Even if he had his phone, that might not have worked. His cell coverage had been spotty, his international plan iffy, but with Manning’s phone he could probably contact Mars.

  He took the phone out and saw a blinking request for a four-digit pass code. Only one thing it could be.

  He keyed in a B, an O, an N, and a D. The phone opened and there were several text messages.

  He started reading them and every word made his stomach shrivel, then drop to his feet to roll out across the sand.

  Material retrieved from the hull of the Bonnie Blue confirmed as C-4 plastic explosives. Det cord and radio-signaling device. Blasting caps.

  Alton remembered Devin and the helicopter. He must have found plastic explosives when he had returned from his diving trip. And he’d sent them away to get tested.

  Someone wanted to kill everyone on board, first with poison, and when that didn’t work, the explosives as a back-up plan.

  He wasn’t sure, but he had a pretty good idea if he had to do a round-up, the obvious suspects would be Carrothers and his smarmy Russian steward, Raoul.

  Why else would such a powerful man want his wife, his mistress, and his business partner on the same boat at the same time?

  And then he read the second text:

  DNA from Russian national Yuri Zhukovsky. Extremely dangerous assassin wanted by Interpol. Main suspect in eleven unsolved killings. Was a sushi chef in Kyoto and would know of fugu fish.

  Alton didn’t realize the French couple had stopped arguing until Yann asked, “My friend, are you feeling okay? You have become very pale.”

  “She’s in trouble,” Alton whispered. “My God, they’re all in trouble.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Friday Morning, the Bonnie Blue, St. Georges Harbor, Grenada

  Lindsay didn’t like the term, “antsy.” She’d heard other people complain of the affliction, but she’d never actually experienced the feeling. Right now, though, her skin literally itched and tingled as if the obnoxious little buggers were crawling across her body.

  She couldn’t shake the sensation, either, in spite of all the preparation and precautions she’d taken since early that morning. Everything was ready for Jerome Carrothers’s arrival. CeCe had been extra helpful, wiping everything down until it gleamed. Things had to be perfect.

  She’d even left the anchorage first thing, alone in the tender, with everyone’s passport, so she could clear Grenada Customs in St. George’s before Carrothers’s arrival, taking advantage of the GYS government center’s early opening on Friday.

  She’d enjoyed the hour or so away from her passengers in bustling St. George’s, a city of tropical greenery and red-roofed houses packed around a bay with an outstretched arm of a spit. The small land arm provided storm protection and homes for thousands.

  She assumed Carrothers had gone through Customs on his own, since he’d flown in to the island the week before on business.

  Becca was reasonably sober, Moj and Fiona were engrossed in a game of backgammon, and the cruise from hell just might turn out okay.

  Several hours earlier Lindsay had sent Tommy and Raoul to shore for provisions, and to pick up the boss. Manning had insisted on going along, unpacking his silver contraption, which turned out to be a collapsible bicycle.

  “I was expecting a jetpack,” she said, teasing him. I’m disappointed.”

  He had pulled her aside, and then said, seriously, so only she could hear. “I have several jetpacks, but I don’t think the technology has been fully perfected yet. However, I am on a waiting list, I assure you. And you should be more worried, Captain Fisher, that my phone is missing. I am working under limited intel, but that makes the game all the more interesting. And more deadly.”

  “What game?”

  “The one you decided you didn’t want to play.” He gave her a cryptic look and a shrug.

  He lobbed the bicycle into the boat, and he and the others roared away.

  Becca sat, chewing a fingernail, eyes distant. She didn’t banter with Fiona, or kvetch about the food, just sat and looked like a cat about to be neutered.

  Now the tender was approaching, and everyone stood up, expectant. Like Jerome Carrothers was royalty. In a way, that was exactly what his extreme wealth made him.

  As they pulled alongside, Lindsay noticed Manning hadn’t returned with them. Only Raoul, Tommy and Carrothers. The boss man was barrel-chested, with silver hair and unwavering blue-gray eyes. A linen shirt met pressed, creased slacks. He was wearing what looked like custom-made topsiders of polished leather. He was clean-shaven, and probably smelled like the lobby of a Swiss bank.

  When he stood and climbed up to the deck, he nodded at Lindsay and CeCe, both in uniform, and then he smiled at Moj and extended a hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. Glad you could make it.”

  Moj grasped his palm hard. “So you’ve forgiven me about that thing in Hollywood?”

  Lindsay had heard of some drama between the men, that Moj had slighted Carrothers in some incomprehensible, small way, but enough for a hundred-line tabloid article. The details escaped her.

  It seemed Carrothers felt the same way. “Forgiven. Forgotten.” He moved on, took Fiona’s hand, and kissed it. “I hope you are feeling well, my love.”

  “Yes, much,” Fiona said. “The food has been amazing on this trip. Alton Maura has a gift.”

  Carrothers didn’t respond, but moved on and kissed his wife on the cheek. “Becca, my Becca, are you well?”

  “Thank you, yes.” She nodded, subdued. “Did your business on Grenada go well?”

  “Of course, as always. Devin went off on one of his adventures, but he’ll catch up to us. Said he wanted to try his new electric bicycle on Grenada’s back roads. It’s not far across the island from St. George’s to Secret Harbour Marina. He said he’d meet us there later.” He waved one hand dismissively.

  A slight smile slid across Becca’s face. “You know Devin.”

  “I do.”

  “Can I have a word with you?” he asked Lindsay after greeting his wife and guests, but pointedly ignoring the masseuse.

  “Certainly,” Lindsay said, with a smile to cover her annoyance at his treatment of CeCe.

  “We need to have a private discussion,” he said, his tone serious. He motioned toward the bow of the boat.

  * * *

  Once Lindsay followed Carrothers forward, his frown didn’t bode well. He was glowering, angry, and she had no clue why.

  Only one thing came to mind: Alton and the disaster of the poisoned soup. He couldn’t really pin that on the captain. Could he?

  “Mr. Carrothers, I’m sorry you’re upset, but we haven’t even confirmed the soup was poisoned. Your wife fired the chef, and Tommy and I will be serving meals for the rest of the cruise. They won’t be as high caliber, but we do have a back-up plan.”

  He leveled his cold eyes on her. “People’s lives while they’re on this ship are the captain’s responsibility, but that wasn’t the only issue I heard about.”

  Who had been blabbing in his ear? Easy. Raoul. He’d been the spy on the Bonnie Blue the entire time.

  “What else are you concerned about, sir?” she asked carefully and reached up to rub the back of her neck.

  “Acetylene tanks were stored next to the oxygen tanks. This boat is worth millions, captain, and such an oversight is unforgivable.”

  Her mouth was so dry she had to muster enough spit to reply.

  “I corrected the situation. Raoul made the mistake, and I believe he …”

  “Raoul and my wife.” He cut her off and dropped the next bombshell. “Do you know anything about that?”

  Holy crap, Devin must have tattled that one to the boss.

  “While the lives of the passengers are my responsibility, what th
ey do in private is not.” She cleared her throat to summon more spit but maintained eye contact with her livid boss.

  “My wife and the cook?” Carrothers growled the accusation as a question.

  “Again, none of my business,” Lindsay said, though the thought hurt. However, the last few days, she was pretty sure Alton didn’t have anything left for anyone else.

  “Fiona has been busy as well,” Carrothers said. “From what I hear, she went for both your first mate and the cook after some kind of woo-woo island health treatment. New Age craziness, orgies. What kind of morally questionable operation are you overseeing, captain?”

  Ha, his outrage was laughable. He was the one who had crammed his mistress into the same small space as his wife. And he’d made passes at Lindsay time and again, until she’d punched him in the eye.

  “Your ship is safe.” Lindsay kept her words even and tempered in an attempt to defuse his anger. “I have adjusted the itinerary to your every request. My responsibility is the care of the boat and the passengers’ safety, not their morals.”

  “Devin has been up to his usual hijinks, I’m sure, but what is this I heard about a helicopter?” His glare intensified.

  Lindsay’s gut clenched, and for a moment she couldn’t take the next breath. The two men were definitely playing a game, but how did she fit in?

  “He went for a dive,” she said. “He returned in a helicopter. Where he got it, and why, you will have to ask him. Again, not my responsibility.”

  “We have a slip reservation at Secret Harbour Marina on the south side of the island. Do you think you can collect yourself enough to get us there in one piece?”

  His abrupt change in the direction of the conversation nearly undid her. She could do without his condescending tone of voice, but she was so relieved to be able to take care of something over which she had some control, she agreed quickly without questioning his sudden departure from the accusations.

  “Of course, sir. How soon would you like to leave?”

  Carrothers finally dropped his judging gaze.

  “There’s some diving south of Grenada I’d like to try tonight.” He deflected his cool gaze away from her for a split second. “The sooner we get the ship to Secret Harbour, the sooner we can take her to the site.”