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Dangerous Waters
Laurey Bright
The shamelessly sexy man with the bold gaze and the wicked pirate's smile commanded Camille Hartley's attention from the moment she saw him.Rogan Broderick was just the sort of love 'em and leave 'em type she avoided at all costs, but they shared a mysterious inheritance, and she couldn't evade him. Rogan's legacy could be worth millions - or nothing. But someone had already killed for it - and Camille could be next in line.The green-eyed beauty refused to believe in the danger - and though she evoked a riptide of unsettling feelings in commitment-shy Rogan, his instinct to protect outweighed his will to fight the desire to claim her forever as his own….
Kidnapped!
Camille banged on the door with her fists, yelling Rogan’s name.
A key scraped in the door. When Rogan’s solid figure appeared in the doorway, instinct took over. She launched herself at him. Her fists thudded into his chest, and he staggered. Then he had both her wrists, holding her away with infuriating ease.
“Settle down!” he said sharply.
“The hell I will!”
She wrenched her gaze up to his face, to the accusing eyes and jutting jaw. His mouth was uncompromising. She could scarcely believe that it had wooed hers last night with tenderness and passion. His chest was bare, and she had to block out the memory of what it had felt like under her hands, against her breasts.
“What the hell,” she demanded, “do you think you’re doing?”
“Saving you.”
Dear Reader,
The year may be coming to a close, but the excitement never flags here at Silhouette Intimate Moments. We’ve got four—yes, four—fabulous miniseries for you this month, starting with Carla Cassidy’s CHEROKEE CORNERS and Trace Evidence, featuring a hero who’s a crime scene investigator and now has to investigate the secrets of his own heart. Kathleen Creighton continues STARRS OF THE WEST with The Top Gun’s Return. Tristan Bauer had been declared dead, but now he was back—and very much alive, as he walked back into true love Jessie Bauer’s life. Maggie Price begins LINE OF DUTY with Sure Bet and a sham marriage between two undercover officers that suddenly starts feeling extremely real. And don’t miss Nowhere To Hide, the first in RaeAnne Thayne’s trilogy THE SEARCHERS. An on-the-run single mom finds love with the FBI agent next door, but there are still secrets to uncover at book’s end.
We’ve also got two terrific stand-alone titles, starting with Laurey Bright’s Dangerous Waters. Treasure hunting and a shared legacy provide the catalyst for the attraction of two opposites in an irresistible South Pacific setting. Finally, Jill Limber reveals Secrets of an Old Flame in a sexy, suspenseful reunion romance.
Enjoy—and look for more excitement next year, right here in Silhouette Intimate Moments.
Yours.
Leslie J. Wainger
Executive Editor
Dangerous Waters
Laurey Bright
LAUREY BRIGHT
has held a number of different jobs, but has never wanted to be anything but a writer. She lives in New Zealand, where she creates the stories of contemporary people in love that have won her a following all over the world. Visit her at her Web site, http://www.laureybright.com.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 1
The woman knew he was watching her—Rogan Broderick was sure of it.
Rogan, perched on a stool with his forearm resting along the beer-stained counter, a whiskey glass in his hand, had seen her the moment she entered.
Dark-lashed ocean-green eyes clashed briefly with his as she looked about with the air of a cat entering a strange place and inspecting it for possibly hostile elements. Two plain gold clasps secured a sleek fall of shining brown hair, revealing a classically feminine face. An intriguing hint of strength about the jawline belied the tender, kissable curves of a luscious mouth.
Her shoulders were bare but for the narrow straps of a light, simple-seeming dress the same deep, mysterious green as her eyes. The thin fabric hung in symmetrically draped folds over nicely rounded breasts, skimmed her waist and hips, and moved tantalizingly about her thighs. A perfect beauty—and a city girl, he’d guess. She didn’t seem to belong in the public bar of an old hotel on New Zealand’s Northland coast.
A fish out of water. Or a mermaid.
No, not a mermaid. She had legs—the kind of legs other women would have killed for. Long, creamy and smooth, their fabulous shape emphasized by high-heeled sandals almost the exact color of the dress.
Giving her a friendly grin, he saw a slight widening of her eyes before the aloof green gaze roamed past him. She tucked her hand into her escort’s arm as if for protection as they made for a corner table being abandoned by another couple.
He could hardly blame her, Rogan conceded, rubbing a knuckle over the three-day growth on his cheeks. Other men might look interesting and even glamorous unshaven, but he just looked unkempt and probably sinister. His thick, near-black hair was rust-colored on the haphazardly curling ends, overlong after weeks without seeing a barber, and the sea and sun of the Arabian Gulf had made it harsh and difficult to comb into submission.
He raised his glass to gulp a good shot of whiskey, not taking his eyes off the woman as her companion negotiated a passage through knots of tough, tanned fishermen, sunburned visiting yachties, and weathered locals in checked shirts and creased boots.
Sometimes holiday-makers from luxury yachts liked to hobnob with the regulars and soak up local color rather than patronize the classier lounge bar in the newer part of the building. These two didn’t look like hobnobbers.
The man was slim, probably ten years older than Rogan’s thirty-one, with neatly combed midbrown hair and smooth untanned cheeks. He wore precision-pressed sand-colored slacks, and a black blazer over a toothpaste-white, roll-collared shirt.
Rogan’s T-shirt, long since faded from red to an uneven pink, was rumpled, and his jeans, softened with wear and washing, conformed comfortably to his body. When he’d heard about the old man he had packed his kit in a hurry and barely made the first available flight. Clothes had been the last thing on his mind.
After collecting a room key he’d deferred the long hot shower he planned, in favor of a bracing drink. One whiskey, he’d promised himself, then he’d go upstairs and make himself respectable. Or at least as respectable as he was ever likely to look.
Instead he found himself ordering another drink to give him an excuse to ogle a woman, his blood stirring when she leaned forward to speak over the noise of the bar to the man opposite her, revealing the upper slopes of her breasts, the velvet shadow between them. When a waiter approached the table she looked up and smiled. Rogan shifted on his bar stool. That smile would have brought a stone statue to life.
He made the second drink last until after she and her companion had been served with white wine. Her right hand closed around the stem of the glass while her left one rested on the table. Both were bare of rings.
Didn’t mean a thing—she could be in a relationship. Rogan turned his attention to the man, who did sport a gleam of gold on the middle finger of a hand that obviously had scant acquaintance with manual labour. He looked like an accountant or a lawyer. Reminded of his brother and why he was here, Rogan tossed off the remains of his drink, not wanting to think about the reason he’d flown home. Easier to occupy his mind fantasizing about a pretty woman.
He placed the glass on the counter and the barman inquired, “Same again?”
“No. Thanks.” His gaze returning to the woman, Rogan got off the stool and hoisted the bulging pack at his feet up to his shoulder.
The movement must have caught her eye. She looked up and a faint rose color entered her cheeks. She blinked the deep-sea eyes and turned away to stare into her wine, a curve of burnished hair falling across her cheek. Her escort looked up too, his glance taking in Rogan’s disreputable appearance before returning to his companion. He said something and the woman shook her head, then lifted the glass to her lips.
The man looked at Rogan again, warning him off with an ice-blue stare. Rogan slanted him a resigned grin and raised a hand in a half salute as he ambled to the door.
Granger was on time as always. Rogan, showered and shaved and in fresh jeans and a gray T-shirt, found him in the lobby, beside a large Christmas tree decorated with tinsel, colored gewgaws and, in defiance of the New Zealand summer, cotton-wool snowflakes.
The two men gripped hands and Rogan reached out to slap his brother’s shoulder, noting signs of strain about eyes the same vivid aquamarine as his own. “You’re looking pretty flash,” he said, nodding at the suit and discreet silk tie.
Granger allowed himself a tight smile, his eyes glinting. “I don’t suppose you even own a suit. I brought along a spare you can borrow. You’ll be a pall-bearer, won’t you?”
“Uh-huh.” It was the least he could for the old man. “You haven’t put him in a suit, have you?” At a guess, their father had never worn one in his life.
Granger shook his head. “He’d have died all over again.”
Rogan’s laughter cracked in the middle. He clamped his teeth shut and there was a small, awkward silence. Then he said, “Let’s eat.”
Camille Hartley saw two tall, dark-haired men, strikingly good-looking and bearing an unmistakable family resemblance, enter the dining room. It was a moment before she recognized the casually dressed one as the man who had stared at her earlier in the bar.
The piratical beard shadow was gone, revealing clear-cut bone structure and a stubborn jaw, and he’d ruthlessly combed back the unruly mane of his hair, its obstinate waves dampened and glossy under the artificial lights. She had a momentary picture of him standing in the shower, water sleeking his hair and cascading over his sun-browned body. A very good body—his clothes did little to hide the broad shoulders and chest, narrow hips, powerful legs. He looked superbly fit and strong—a man who did something physical for a living.
As if he’d felt her stare, his head turned. She saw an oddly bleak look in the blinding green-blue eyes, and then it vanished, replaced by a gleam of interest, a hint of bold inquiry.
She wrenched her gaze away, directing her attention to what James Drummond was saying. James, from their first meeting yesterday, had shown a rare respect for her mind, and a real though circumspect desire to get to know her more than superficially. Already they had established a tentative rapport. Yet still she was disconcertingly conscious of the other man, needing to breathe carefully, her heart beating faster and sending the blood to warm her cheeks.
Irritated, she inwardly shook herself. She wasn’t in the habit of mentally undressing strange men, and had outgrown blushing years ago.
He was hardly the first male to stare at her, although few were so frank about it. Aware that the gods had been generous to her, she had learned to be chary of men who were less interested in her personality than in flaunting her as some sort of trophy. She’d guess that the unsettling stranger, with his unabashed gaze and knowing grin, was the love-’em-and-leave-’em type, a genus she kept well clear of.
“Try concentrating,” his brother advised as Rogan’s eyes strayed again from the menu in his hands to the woman whose luminous gaze was now fixed on the man opposite her.
Granger half turned to see who he was looking at. “Not that I blame you,” he admitted, “but I’m hungry and we’ve got things to talk about. I’m having the pepper steak.” He closed his own menu.
“Wild pork,” Rogan decided. “And a beer.”
Granger ordered a bottle of red wine, and Rogan sipped his beer while they waited. “Thanks for booking me a room,” he said. “I could have slept on board the Sea-Rogue.”
“I thought you’d appreciate a real bed. Besides, I wasn’t sure the boat would be available. I only collected the key from the police station just before I came here. Have you been down to the wharf?”
“I arrived less than half an hour ago,” Rogan told him with a shake of his head. “Did you get all your business done?” Granger had said he had things to do but would be at the hotel in time for dinner.
“That’s one of the things we should talk about,” Granger said. “I checked out Dad’s will.”
Trust Granger to think of the legalities. Well, someone had to. “He made a will?” That didn’t sound like Barney.
“Years ago. I persuaded him to get it fixed up with one of my colleagues. The police needed to sight it before they would hand over the boat.” Granger paused. “You and I own half of the Sea-Rogue and everything in it.”
“Half each?”
“Half for us two together. He left the rest to Taff.”
“That’s fair enough,” Rogan conceded. Taff “Taffrail” McIndoe had been Barney’s first mate and sailing partner for more than twenty years.
“But if Taff predeceased him,” Granger continued, “his share was to go to his legitimate descendants.”
“Taff isn’t married, and anyway he hasn’t predeceased—”
“He died two months ago. I only found out after the police called about Dad.”
Rogan’s beer glass hit the table with a thud. “Taff died?” It was almost as big a shock as his father’s sudden demise. “How?”
“Liver disease. They were somewhere way out in the Pacific, and by the time Dad finally got him to a hospital at Rarotonga it was too late to do anything.”
While Rogan digested that, Granger added, “You know how he used to put the booze away. It’s a wonder either of them survived as long as they did.”
“Dad never drank at sea.”
“He made up for it on land. According to the pathologist there was enough alcohol in his body to sink a ship.”
“They cut him up?” Rogan’s voice went hoarse.
Granger eyed him levelly. “They have to do an autopsy in a case of sudden death. Besides, he’d been in a fight.”
“You didn’t tell me that!”
“You’d only have stewed about it all the way home. There could be manslaughter charges at least.”
Rogan’s hand closed tightly about his beer. “Against who?”
“Whom.” Granger shrugged. “The police are investigating but they don’t have any witnesses. He was found in an alleyway near here and he’d probably died in the early hours of Sunday. But the cause of death was a heart attack, not the beating he’d taken.”
He’d taken a beating? “There must have been more than one of them.” Barney Broderick had been a big man, toughened by a life at sea.
“Dad wasn’t getting any younger,” Granger reminded him, “and he’d have been reeling drunk.”
“He never said anything about having a dicky heart…did he?”
“You know he wouldn’t admit to being less than a hundred percent healthy.” Barney had indiscriminately labeled all doctors quacks and used their services only in the direst need. “He might not even have known.”
