Wife By Deception

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No, she wouldn’t tell him her true identity. She’d save that for the judge. She’d then charge Mitch with false imprisonment, assault, kidnapping and any other offense her attorney could level against him. Unless, of course, she discovered that Mitch hadn’t been abusive. What would she do then? Give up Arianne?

The thought hurt too much to contemplate. And so far, she found it impossible to believe that he could love Arianne more or give her a better life than she would. In fact, she had only his word that he was her father. She couldn’t change her strategy now.

“Is Joey going to bring Arianne to the dock?” she asked, hoping against hope that she would.

“No. I don’t trust you anywhere near Arianne. And I don’t want her upset by anything you might do.”

She glared at him, and they nursed their mutual animosity in silence.

Nearly an hour later, the van veered off the rural highway onto a crushed-shell driveway that ran alongside an abandoned, boarded-up seafood-processing plant. Behind it, the outriggers and mast pole of a shrimp boat came into view. The van then rounded the corner to the back parking lot, where a weathered wharf bordered the glimmering, dark green waters of a small cove.

At the wharf was docked a large commercial trawler.

“Is that yours?” Kate asked in surprise. “A shrimp boat?”

Mitch answered only with a scornful quirk of his mouth. She supposed it had been a silly question. The trawler was, after all, the only boat at the dock. And as they drove closer, she saw the name painted on the stern. The Lady Jeanette.

The driver parked the van beneath scraggly palm trees near the end of the rickety wooden wharf, and Mitch reached for the door. “Stay here until I check out the boat, Darryl. Keep a close watch on our, uh, guest. Who knows how creative she might get? And don’t let her loose, no matter what she says.”

“Got ’er covered, Cap’n.” The cold-eyed man with thinning black hair, a full mustache, well-trimmed goatee and anchor tattoos decorating his impressive biceps leaned his back against the driver’s door and shifted a narrowed gaze to Kate. “She ain’t going nowhere till you’re ready.”

With a brisk nod for Darryl and one last warning glare at Kate, Mitch left the van and headed toward the shrimp boat.

Fear stirred in her at the thought of being forced aboard a seagoing vessel by hostile men and taken far beyond the reaches of civilization. Not to mention the fact that she’d never been on anything larger than a ski boat, and that had been during her college years, in the relative safety of a bay.

“I don’t understand why we’re going by boat,” she said, hoping to glean information from Darryl.

“Because Mitch is boss on da water. No one gets in his way.” He spoke in a heavier, more distinct version of the dialect she’d noticed in Mitch’s speech—a piquant blend of southern, French and possibly Canadian. It had to be Cajun.

“So his name is Mitch,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

Her captor snorted. “You got some nerve, lady. Saying you don’t remember Mitch. If he’d let me, I’d take you way out yonder—” he jerked his head toward the sea “—and drag you in da try-net.”

The fear Kate had been fighting spiked sharply in her breast. She had no idea what a try-net was, but she certainly didn’t want to be dragged in one.

Undisguised animosity blazed from Darryl’s coal-black eyes. “You know what you did to him. We all know. You stole his daughter, wasted all his money and broke his heart. He don’t laugh. He don’t joke. He don’t dance at the fais do do. You took all da fun out of him. All his joie de vivre. He ain’t da same Mitch no more…because of you.”

Kate flinched at his hostility. Never before had she been the brunt of anyone’s hatred. She didn’t like the feeling. But surely a man who valued laughter, joking and dancing couldn’t be all bad, could he?

She found it hard to visualize these tough, hard-edged men doing any of those things, though. And she wondered if what he’d said was true. Maybe Camryn had broken Mitch’s heart. She doubted that. More than likely, he was merely furious because he’d lost control over her.

“Better hope when we get home,” Darryl said, “his maman don’t get her hands on you. She’d take you way back in da swamp and feed you to da gators.”

Great. Just great. If she survived the boat trip, she’d have to contend with a family—or entire community—of hostile Cajuns. In the swamplands yet.

The thought of Arianne being held in the swamplands frightened her. She’d heard stories of people disappearing into the swamps of southern Louisiana, never to be seen again. Her panic served to revitalize her sense of purpose. No matter how afraid she was to board this boat, she had to do it. Even if she could find a way to escape from muscle-bound Mitch and his burly cohort, she might lose all contact with her niece. She couldn’t risk that.

Come what may, she had to keep her link to Arianne intact.

AS MITCH STRODE across the parking lot toward the dock, crushed oyster shells crunched beneath his boots, the late-afternoon sun glared in his eyes and a slight gulf breeze riffled through his hair, mercifully diluting the ovenlike July heat.

He breathed a grateful prayer at the sight of the Lady Jeanette awaiting him. At least something had gone as expected.

Although he’d hated to interrupt the shrimping trip of the crew he’d hired to run the Lady Jeanette, he’d called them in yesterday from Alabama waters. Remy had reported that they hadn’t found much shrimp, anyway. “A waste of a good holiday,” he’d grumbled. Less than a hundred pounds in two days, and mostly seventy-ninety count. Too small, too few, to even pay expenses. Which, of course, was the last thing Mitch needed on the heels of an expensive marriage, separation and hunt for his daughter.

For now, though, he was glad to have the Lady Jeanette at his service. She’d been his first and favorite boat, a seventy-five-foot, relatively shallow-drafting wood hull built in North Carolina. Although his three other boats were newer, faster steel hulls, none handled the sea with the same lilting grace as Jeanette. She also had the most comfortable quarters.

More to the point, she’d been the boat nearest to this isolated old dock between Panama City and Pensacola, a few hours’ drive from Tallahassee down densely wooded highways and unpeopled back roads.

As he’d hoped, the dock was deserted. If Camryn screamed while he brought her aboard, no one would come to her rescue.

After drawing his cell phone from his pocket, Mitch keyed in the number for the private investigator. He had to disprove Camryn’s ridiculous claim before they went to court. A few rings and he reached the investigator’s recorded greeting. Irritated at the delay, he left a message for Chuck Arceneaux, relating the bare facts of his newest problem. He then dialed his attorney, who was also unavailable. Not too surprising, he supposed, considering it was suppertime on a Friday. July 5, no less. A holiday weekend. He suspected that neither his attorney nor the investigator would be available before Monday.

At least Chuck would have a definite starting point this time. Now that he knew Camryn’s address and alias, he could probably trace her activities fairly easily. If those activities didn’t include an automobile accident and serious head injury, she’d be facing a perjury charge as well as breaking the custody order…assuming, of course, she intended to tell the same story to the judge. Mitch believed she did. Why else would she bother to concoct such a tale, if not to defend herself in court?

Tense with anxiety, Mitch climbed a set of sun-bleached wooden steps and crossed the weathered planking to the Lady Jeanette. He couldn’t wait to get out to sea again. At least there, he could think straight. Breathe easy. Make sense of his thoughts.

As he stepped over the bulwark and onto the back deck, a short, grizzled-haired figure strutted out from the wheelhouse. “Ca va, Mitch. How you makin’?” Remy, his long-time employee who usually captained the Lady Jeanette, sauntered to the back deck with a wide grin.

A tiny inset diamond glittered between his front teeth. This newest affectation never failed to amuse Mitch. The ugly, swarthy, ponytailed son of a gun was determined to draw the ladies’ eyes. It seemed he’d found a surefire way. “You have your wife wit’ you?” Remy asked, gazing curiously toward the tinted windows of the van.

“Don’t call her my wife. If you’re talking about Camryn, yeah. I have her.”

Remy muttered a Cajun epithet about her to show moral support for Mitch, as his family often did. Not that Mitch encouraged hostile feelings toward her. Everyone in his tight-knit community knew she’d stolen his daughter, though. Many thought she’d also broken his heart. No one would forgive her those sins any time soon.

Except, perhaps, Remy. The middle-aged seaman always took joy in beautiful women. If he hadn’t proved his loyalty over the years, Mitch wouldn’t have included him in this voyage. Although Remy would take endless delight in Camryn’s company, Mitch knew he’d help deliver her to the Terrebonne Parish authorities. To Remy, duty and loyalty to his captain at sea always came before pleasure. He was one of Mitch’s best men.

“And your fille…you found her, too, eh?”

Mitch nodded and glanced out over the glistening, pickle-green water of the cove, not wanting to talk about his daughter. Too many emotions clashed within him. For six months he’d agonized, wondering where Arianne was, whom she was with, how she was being treated. His relief at finding her washed through him in overwhelming tides, but his anxiety still burned. Though she seemed to have come through the ordeal okay, he couldn’t be sure she hadn’t suffered.

And his need to see her, hold her, reestablish his connection with her, hadn’t yet been filled. He’d caught only a glimpse of her in Camryn’s garage before Joey had whisked her away—a precaution Mitch had insisted on. In case some well-meaning lawman interrupted his plans for taking Camryn to Louisiana, he wanted Arianne safe at home with his family. He also saw no sense in exposing her to the inevitable animosity between her mother and him. He would not intentionally add to his daughter’s distress.

All he could do now was hope that Joey and a long-time family friend had a safe trip back to Terrebonne Parish. If anyone could calm a distressed baby, it was Joey. She’d have her smiling in no time.

Wishing he could be there to see it, Mitch swept his gaze distractedly over the neat back deck of the shrimp boat. “Are we ready to go, Remy?”

“Mais, oui, Cap’n.” A frown etched deep grooves in his forehead. “Da boat’s ready, yes, but…”

“And your deckhands found transportation home?”

“Dey went out wit’ another boat last night. But—”

“Then fire up the engine while I get the rest of our, uh, crew.” Mitch turned away, deliberately ignoring the protest he knew Remy would make about leaving the dock today. He was in no mood to argue. And since Mitch was acting as captain on this trip, Remy would concede to his wishes.

Mitch himself would breathe a lot easier when he had his wily prisoner safely offshore…on his turf, so to speak. She couldn’t cause much trouble out there.

As he disembarked from the boat and strode back toward the van, though, he suddenly wasn’t too sure of that. She probably could cause trouble if she put her mind to it. She obviously had depths to her character that he hadn’t seen before.

Maybe it was time to change his strategy in dealing with her. Maybe he should follow her lead and play the game her way. If she believed herself to be winning him over, she’d be less likely to try something rash at sea. After all, if hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, he didn’t want to court that fury while captaining the Lady Jeanette.

He’d simply have to hide his scorn. He’d treat her with the respect he’d show any woman—under normal circumstances—and engage her in conversation. He’d even play along with her amnesia tale if she persisted in it. Maybe he could get her talking. The more he knew about her life since she’d left him, the better prepared he’d be in court. And, of course, the more she talked, the better chance he had of tripping her up in the lie.

Before they reached port in Terrebonne Parish, he’d give her plenty of rope to hang herself.

KATE NOTICED a subtle difference in him the moment he returned to the van. It had to do with the open, friendly way he met her gaze as he settled into the back seat beside her and the warmer tone of his voice when he addressed her. “The boat’s ready. The weather’s holding out. The sea is calm. We should have a pretty smooth start to our trip.” He almost smiled at her. Though his mouth didn’t actually curve, the very end tilted slightly upward. His new amiability was enough to make her gape at him. “Let’s go.”

Darryl muttered something agreeable in the front seat, gathered things together and climbed from the van.

Kate scooted across the seat toward the door, her mind reeling. She’d barely recognized Mitch without his usual hostility and coldness. He seemed years younger, and a thousand times more…civilized. What had caused the change in his demeanor? Maybe the fact that they’d soon be out to sea, and on their way to “his neck of the woods.”

Regardless of what had caused the difference, she devoutly welcomed it. She hadn’t realized until this moment how much she’d been longing for a break from the anger directed at her. She simply wasn’t used to being treated with hostility. Even if his pleasantness went no deeper than common courtesy, she welcomed the comparative warmth like a flower starving for sunlight.

When she reached the doorway where Mitch stood, Kate peered at him to see if she’d imagined the softening in his attitude. This time, he smiled. A slow, lazy smile—one that bracketed his mouth with deep dimples and emphasized the vertical cleft in his square chin; one that lit golden highlights in his eyes, like sunshine glinting on a dark green sea.

Kate roused herself from a sudden stupor to realize her heart was pounding and her breathing had stopped. Good heavens, his smile transformed him. He had to be one of the most handsome, sexiest men she’d ever seen—all rough-hewn masculinity, sun-bronzed flesh, contoured muscle…with a breathtaking smile, yet. Even the laugh lines fanning from the corners of his green eyes added a rugged appeal.

“I’ve been a little…brusque, haven’t I?” he said.

Still dazed from his smile, she blinked, unsure she’d heard him correctly.

The smile mellowed into one of thoughtful contrition. “Camryn, I’m sorry for how I treated you today. I shouldn’t have been so…rough. I guess I overreacted.”

Astonishment left her momentarily speechless. He was apologizing. When she found her voice, all she thought to utter was “Y-yes.”

“We have a serious matter to settle, but there’s no reason we can’t act civilized while we settle it.”

“Civilized,” she repeated, nodding in wholehearted agreement and tenuous relief. Surely a man who looked you straight in the eye and apologized with such sincerity wouldn’t take you out on the high seas and murder you. Or drag you in a try-net. Would he?

With a satisfied nod, he reached out and settled his hands on her upper arms.

The unexpected contact startled her. Was he going to seal their presumed truce with a hug, or a kiss? A dizzying heat rushed through her at the thought.

His callused hands swept down her arms, brought her wrists together…and held them fast in one large palm while he reached beside him for the handcuffs. “I know you don’t like being cuffed,” he said in the same warm, amiable tone in which he’d apologized, “but it’ll only be until we leave port and clear the channel.” The cuffs locked around her wrists with an annoying click.

That effectively dispelled her stupor. “I thought you said we were going to act civilized. Do you call this civilized?” she demanded, lifting her bound wrists for emphasis.

“Until I know you won’t try to escape, I have to take precautions.” He somehow managed to make that seem reasonable. “Once we’re at sea, I’ll release you.”

Annoyance stirred in her, and she wondered if he’d keep that promise. “I won’t try to escape. I want to see the judge as much as you do.”

“Good.” He flashed her another smile, and she noticed the whiteness of his teeth against the bronze of his skin, and the golden highlights in his hair. Before she knew what he was about, he hooked his hand around her waist and scooped her up into his arms.

“I can walk!” she protested.

“No need.”

She glared at him, resentful of the handcuffs, distrustful of his new friendliness and flustered by his physical closeness. With iron-strong arms, he held her tightly against his chest as he carried her. He smelled of sea salt, the summer Gulf breeze, exotic places and clean male sweat—an intensely masculine scent, somehow. Enticing.