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For one quarter of a split millisecond, Jake softened toward her. He didn’t know her story, but it couldn’t be a happy one. He found himself torn between chuckling at the absurdity of the mess she’d landed herself in and having a discussion with the helmsman about making this transition a little smoother for their new crew member.
Smoother? Why not make it as rough as possible? She’d made her bed. She could lie in it, or bump into it, whichever she preferred. Let the helmsman toss her around a little. If she were half as smart as she sounded, she’d eventually figure out she didn’t belong on a boat.
Especially not his boat. His boat ran precisely by the numbers. His crew was the best. A mistake could mean the difference between life and death. This wasn’t the type of business that allowed for second chances. Dr. Annie, on the other hand, would need a third, fourth, maybe even fifth chance. Aside from being afraid of water, she had no boat-sense and questionable diving experience, and there was nothing he could do about it.
He returned to the aerials and marked the coordinates where he wanted to begin diving in a few hours. They’d be at the first site before dinnertime, and he couldn’t wait to hit the water. By sunset, if they were lucky, they might find something—a cannon, an anchor, anything—to give some credence to Dr. Annie’s theory. With any luck, the tropical storm Harold worried would strike in a few days would bypass them entirely.
She hit the wall again, this time accompanying the thud with a short little screech. That was it. No longer able to concentrate, he flipped the laptop closed and locked the aerial photographs in the safe under his bunk. Repositioning his baseball cap low on his brow, he stepped into the narrow hall and rapped on her door. “What are you doing in there? Remodeling?”
“None of your business. Go away.”
“All you have to do is say the word, and we’ll take you back to Miami. You could be back on solid ground in no time.”
“I’m fine right where I am, thank you very much.”
The boat hit a wave, shifted and something sounding an awful lot like a body part hit the wall inside her cabin. He leaned against the doorjamb and smiled. “Sounds like a panic attack to me.”
“I’m attempting to get sheets on this stupid bunk. Okay with you, Captain?” The door swung open.
Damn. If this was what she called invisible, she definitely needed a full-length mirror in her cabin. Although she’d replaced baggy black pants with just as baggy cutoff jean shorts, those long slender legs put a big crack in that Annie Hall facade. The gray sweatshirt, zipped only halfway, did little to repair it, considering the cleavage beneath the scooped neckline of her black swimsuit. Her reading glasses were gone, and she’d drawn her hair back off her face, revealing a healthy pink glow attempting to break through her pale skin. He’d been right about her, looking all curvy and soft. Tongues were going to wag.
“Every time I try to tuck under the sheet corner,” she continued, “the boat lurches and I lose my balance. We’re in open water. Who do you have at the helm, anyway?”
He grinned. “Probably Simon. He’s never been known for his steady hand.”
He glanced past her into the cabin, looking for clues to this enigma. Back in Harold’s office, he’d sensed she’d held something back. Was it only her fear of water? Or was there something more? Curiosity getting the better of him, he squeezed his way into her cabin.
“And where, exactly,” she said, glancing up at him, “do you think you’re going?”
CHAPTER FOUR
JAKE RAISED HIS EYEBROWS at Annie. “Want help with your bunk, or not?”
“Not,” she said. “I’ll manage.”
“Without putting a hole through the wall?”
At that, she stood back, if it was possible in an area about half the size of his cabin. There was barely enough room for them to stand side by side, and it certainly hadn’t taken much for her to personalize the small space. A radio, clock and a bestselling paperback sat on the dresser, along with a framed photo of two middle-aged adults. He picked it up. “Parents?”
She nodded, impatiently crossing her arms.
“They back in Chicago?”
She looked as if she might not answer him, and then, reluctantly, she shook her head. “They passed away—died—years ago.”
He wondered if she had brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, grandparents and cousins. Speculated about her fear of water, but he bit back the questions. “‘Passed away.’ Hmmph. Can’t stand that phrase.”
She tilted her head, as if surprised they’d something even so slight in common. “Death’s rarely quiet or peaceful.”
“You got that right.” He thought of his father’s last-minute struggle for breath and the look on Sam’s face, under water, knowing it was over. When similar losses seemed mirrored in her eyes, it threw him. Don’t think about that. He let go the breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding and set the picture frame back on the dresser.
A further survey of her cabin revealed a stack of clothing piled on top of her bunk with a lacy white bra in clear view. He quickly glanced away to find a navy blue windbreaker and pale pink robe hung on the hooks along the wall. She’d thrown a cozy fleece blanket over the only chair in the room, and covered her pillow with a floral printed pillowcase. Goodbye Smitty, hello Dr. Annie. The small room already smelled like her, warm and feminine. Powdery even.
His gaze gravitated back to the bra, and his head filled with alternating visions of white lace and black Lycra cupping full, creamy breasts. If he wasn’t careful, his tongue would be doing the wagging.
As if she’d tracked his body signals, she snatched the bra, balled it in one fist and held it behind her back. “I hadn’t, as yet, completed my unpacking.”
There she went sounding all snooty again. Somehow she’d managed to pull off the stuffy curator bit in Harold’s office without a hitch. Now he wasn’t buying it for a minute. That uptight voice contradicted her down-to-earth looks. “Always talk fancy when you’re nervous?”
She straightened her shoulders. “Absolutely not.”
“’Course we are surrounded by water.”
“I…it’s…” she sputtered.
“As defense mechanisms go, it’s a fairly harmless one.”
Her brow furrowed, and she pinched her mouth shut.
Chuckling to himself, he ducked under the overhead drawers, kneeled on the bunk and wrapped one fitted corner under the mattress. She scooped up the rest of her clothing as he moved to the other corner. The boat slowed and she landed against him, all softness and warmth. He reached out and grabbed her arms, steadying her.
“Thank you,” she said, their faces only inches apart.
“No problem.”
“I…suppose I should thank you, as well, for saving my life earlier.” They stood close enough for her breath to fan his cheek. “I imagine…I might have otherwise drowned.”
“And I imagine D.W. wouldn’t have minded getting wet. Especially if it involved mouth…to mouth.” He glanced at her lips and wondered how a real kiss would feel.
He felt himself move ever so minutely toward her. Her lips parted, pink and tempting. He stopped. Man, oh, man. Maybe Harold had been right, and they should have held off leaving for Andros. A few nights of shore leave would have done him some good.
Suddenly aware of how tightly he held her arms, he cleared his throat and set her back away from him. He pointed at the rails above her head. “Until you get your sea legs, hold on to those when you’re moving around in here.”
“Excellent advice.” She dropped the clothing back on top of the bunk and reached for the rails. The boat motors stopped altogether, and she wobbled. Again, he reached out to steady her, and his hands connected with her waist. An uneasy sound escaped her lips. “What…what is Simon attempting to accomplish?”
“He must need a break and can’t find anyone to take over.” He found himself rooted to the spot, studying her face, her lips, holding his hands around her waist, a little longer than necessary, reluctant to let her go.
The sound of steps pounding down the ladder snapped him back. Something was wrong. He headed into the hall and found Simon on his way down. “What’s going on?”
“Transmission’s overheating.” Simon took off for the engine room at the stern.
“What do you think it is?” Jake followed Simon with Annie close behind. Though he noticed she’d zipped her sweatshirt, she hadn’t covered those long, bare legs. Why couldn’t she stay in her cabin for the duration of this excursion? That would solve at least one of his problems.
“Could be a ruptured cooling line.” Simon messed with the engine.
Jake looked around the other man’s shoulder. “Can you fix that?”
“Don’t have the parts.”
He turned, took a deep breath and calmed himself. “I wanted to be diving this afternoon. We could have covered a big chunk of the dive site.”
No comment from Simon.
“Now what happens?” Annie asked.
“If we have to shut one engine down, we move at a snail’s pace. Won’t be able to go faster than twenty, maybe thirty knots.”
Given that Simon was meticulous with maintenance and Jake couldn’t remember when they’d last had engine trouble, this seemed an awfully untimely coincidence, especially with the Concha in their sights. He moved closer to Simon and whispered, “While you’re in there, look for signs of tampering on that line.”
Simon silently glanced at him and nodded.
“You think someone did this on purpose?” Annie’s eyes widened.
“Just covering all our bases.” Considering the situation, Jake waited impatiently while Simon examined the engine. After a few minutes, Claire, D.W. and Ronny appeared outside the engine room. D.W. sidled right alongside Annie and said, “Hey there, sweet lips. Come here often?”
Ronny grinned, about to claim her other side.
“Knock it off.” The words slipped out of Jake’s mouth before he could stop them. Normally, he didn’t mess with employee relations. Letting his crew find their own level of interaction generally worked best.
“What’s with the engines?” Claire asked.
Jake recited the quick version on the transmission trouble.
“We could turn around, go back to Miami,” she offered. “Get another boat.”
Jake shook his head. “They headed south to finish the surveys.”
“Where are we off to anyway?” D.W. asked.
“Yeah,” Ronny added. “How much farther we have to go will affect what we do about the engine.”
Jake hesitated. One good look at the Global Positioning System and any one of his crew could discern exactly where they were heading. “We’re going to Andros Island, and since we’re more than halfway there it doesn’t make sense to head back.”
“What’s at Andros?” D.W. asked.
“When you need to know, I’ll tell you.”
Ronny raised his bushy gray eyebrows. “Must be bigger than the Concha for you to break from those surveys.”
Simon moved away from the engine, wiping the grime from his hands, and Jake turned abruptly to avoid Ronny and D.W.’s inquiries. “Well?” he prompted.
“Ruptured cooling line.” Simon began putting the engine back together.
The only thing worse than a stalled treasure hunt was no treasure hunt at all. “I’ll have Harold send someone out with a new cooling line. In the meantime, we’ll putt along with one engine. We should be there sometime in the middle of the night. I want everybody except Annie ready to dive bright and early in the morning.”
“You got it, Jake,” Claire said. “Why don’t you all get some lunch?”
“About time. I’m starving,” said D.W. “Come on, Annie. I’ll escort you to the galley.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “I’ll join you guys in a minute.”
Annie, D.W. and Ronny filed out of the room. Jake held Simon back. “What do you think?” he whispered.
With his head down, Simon swiped at the grease on his hands. “The line broke, Jake.”
“Did someone help it along?”
“Maybe,” he mumbled. “Maybe not. Too hard to tell with a break near the compression fitting. That’s where they usually happen.”
Simon shuffled out the door, leaving Claire and Jake alone in the small room. “You’re thinking sabotage?” she asked.
“It’s possible. I’ve heard rumors about Westburne getting in deep with a loan shark. And he was on the dock when I came back from meeting with Harold.”
“That could explain the Anémona,” she said.
“Keep your eyes and ears open, okay?”
“Always.” She nodded. But one look at the thoughtful furrow creasing her brow and Jake knew there was something else on her mind. Most likely, it didn’t have anything to do with business. If he didn’t move fast he’d be getting an earful of—
“There’s something else I need to talk about,” she said.
Damn. Too slow.
“When’re you going to accept Harold as part of this family?”
“Claire, I don’t have time for this.”
“Make time.” She planted herself in front of the door. Though she’d married Sam, Claire had never felt like an in-law to the Rawlings family. She’d been the daughter Jake’s mother had never had, more sister to Jake than sister-in-law, mothering, and sometimes bullying, him all the same. “You’ve disapproved of Harold since Milly’s first date. Are you jealous of him, having a hard time with someone replacing your dad, or what?”
“I’m not thirteen. Give me more credit than that.”
“Is it Harold?”
Jake thought about it. “Now that you mention it, she could do better.”
“You don’t get to choose for her. It’s your mom’s life. Vic’s dead, remember?”
He remembered, all right. “Eight months,” he stated the fact with all the grief and anger of every hour of each and every day piled up inside. “You’d think she could have waited a little longer before running off and marrying someone else.”
“So that’s what’s bugging you? That she didn’t wait long enough?”
“Part of it.” This whole issue unsettled him more than he cared to admit to Claire, Harold or his mother. A man worked hard his whole life, built something from nothing. You’d think his death would have some kind of impact on the world. Instead he was just gone.
Jake looked away and took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. The pungent smell of oil and fuel permeating the air in the small engine room brought forth a flood of childhood memories, memories of his dad smelling like this room if he’d come home after tinkering with an engine. If he’d been on the water, the scent of fresh, salty air had hung on his clothes and in his hair. Sometimes his breath had smelled like coffee, other times whiskey, but to Jake, his dad had always smelled like life, the big, burly, fit-everything-in kind. The kind that would go on forever.
“How long do you think Milly should have waited before getting married?” Claire asked.
Sometimes, Jake wanted to shake her senseless for digging into other people’s business when she should be concentrating on her own. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “You tell me. If anyone should be moving on, it’s you. Sam died almost a year and a half ago, and you still haven’t had a date.”
