Читать книгу Dangerous Waters - Laurey Bright - Страница 10

As Rogan and Granger crossed the lobby they were waylaid by a bunch of men erupting from the private bar. “Boys!” a solidly built man flushed with beer and bonhomie hailed them. He hooked an arm about Rogan’s shoulder. “Bloody good do, this. Barney’d be proud.”

The others milled around, one in an oversize suit asking peevishly where the effin’ can was until his fellows shoved him in the right direction. Propelled back into the thick of the wake and obliged to drink yet another toast or three to Good Ol’ Barney, it was some time before the brothers extricated themselves.

“What now?” Rogan asked.

“We could check over the Sea-Rogue,” Granger suggested. “Pack up Dad’s clothes, make sure there are no perishables on board. And decide how the boat’s going to be looked after until we sort out the estate.”

“Estate? He doesn’t…didn’t…own anything but the boat, did he?”

“It’s a legal term,” Granger said patiently. “You’re probably right, but a standard clause in the will covers anything not specified, like bank accounts, bonds or other assets. He could owe money, or have some owed to him.”

“Didn’t he buy salvage rights to a wreck years ago?”

Granger laughed. “I don’t suppose it’s worth anything. The Maiden’s Prayer. She disappeared in a storm in the 1850s with no survivors, carrying passengers returning from the Australian gold fields to America with the loot from their endeavors. There were chests full of gold on board—nuggets or bars—and several thousand dollars’ worth of gold and silver coins. Not counting what passengers had in their luggage.”

“A fortune,” Rogan commented.

“If it were ever found,” Granger said dryly. “The insurance company was happy to part with the salvage rights in return for a modest cut, particularly with the new laws about historic wrecks making recovery more difficult and expensive. Dad asked me to make sure his rights were solid and there’d be no counterclaims. The papers were with his will. But it’ll take more than a maiden’s prayer to pinpoint where she went down, with practically the whole of the Pacific to choose from.”

Camille had returned to her room feeling rather dazed at the idea she’d inherited a share in a boat worth thousands of dollars. And through the generosity of a man she didn’t remember even meeting.

Although he hadn’t really left it to her, but to her father. She wondered if Barney had discussed the bequest with his mate. And if so, whose idea it had been to provide for Thomas McIndoe’s family in the event of his death.

Staring out the window at the hill behind the hotel, she dredged up what she remembered about the seaport that had thrived in the days of sailing ships and sunk into obscurity with the advent of road and rail transport. One of the old houses crowding the slope featured a small tower with a railed enclosure around it. A widow’s walk, similar to those in other historic ports around the world, from which women used to watch for their men coming home from the sea.

Like so many of those men, Camille’s father had finally failed to return. But it was a long time since his wife had given up keeping vigil for him. Nobody had been waiting and hoping to welcome him home.

For a while she tried to work while the deep rumble of male voices penetrated the floor, and loud guffaws and occasional shouts or snatches of song floated clearly through the open window.

Distracted and restless, she left the room and ran down the stairs, her hand enjoying the smoothed curve of the baluster that ended at an ornate carved newel post, then hurried across the lobby into the dazzle of the sun.

Unthinkingly she directed her steps toward the seafront and then the old wharf, eventually finding the Sea-Rogue snugged against the massive wooden piles.

Camille didn’t know much about boats, but this was a weatherworn veteran compared to the elegant yachts in front of the hotel. The deckhouse had a higher, squarer profile, with two steps leading from the wheel well to a narrow door, not a lift-up hatch cover. A waist-high timber rail instead of wire lines guarded the afterdeck, and a slender bowsprit like those on old sailing ships tapered forward from the bow.

After a brief hesitation she stepped across the small space to the rail almost level with her feet, and jumped onto the deck, pushing aside an uneasy feeling of trespass. After all, she’d been told she owned half of the craft.

The boards shifted under her feet. She touched a sun-warmed spar—or was it a boom? She was hazy about modern nautical terms.

A screeching gull drew her gaze upward. Two masts soared against the sky, and the sun glowing through a gauzy layer of cloud made her eyes water. The boat appeared bigger now she was on board. She stepped down onto one of the slatted seats in the wheel well to reach its floor.

Two farther steps led to the closed door. The wood around the brass lock had been splintered, fresh raw wounds showing through the varnish. As she reached out to investigate, a male voice from the dock said, “It’s locked.”

Camille jumped, flushing when she turned to confront the Broderick brothers, standing above her on the wharf. Rogan looked faintly amused, curious, and his brother noncommittal but a bit austere.

“Not anymore,” she said. “It’s been broken into.”

“What?” Rogan jumped to the deck, followed by his brother.

Feeling she needed to apologize for her presence, she said, “I’m sorry, I just wondered…”

She didn’t know what she’d wondered, what she’d been thinking. Only that her father had spent a good part of his life on this boat, sailing the Pacific with Barney Broderick.

They weren’t listening to her anyway. Rogan let out one explosive word, Granger swung the door open and they plunged into the gloom inside.

After a moment’s hesitation Camille entered the tiny compartment inside the door and descended a short, ladder-like companionway after the men, taking a few seconds to adjust from the light outside. Then she gasped in shock.

The foam squabs by the table were askew and the covers ripped. Small carvings, shells and pieces of paper lay all over the place. Books had been wrenched from their shelves and some paperbacks torn in two, the matting on the floor shoved aside, and a conglomeration of sailing gear, food stores, ropes and objects that Camille couldn’t begin to identify hauled from storage compartments that gaped open. The railed galley shelves were empty, cupboard doors hung wide and drawers had been upended, the contents of food scattered over everything.

Standing between the two men under the low ceiling, Camille could feel the anger emanating from them both, chill and focused from Granger, hot and fierce from Rogan.

“Who…?” Camille began, but it was probably an unanswerable question.

Rogan swore again before he said shortly, “No idea.” He picked up a book, blowing a cloud of flour off its tooled leather cover, then rubbing his forearm over it. “Bastards.”

His brother’s expression was closed. “We probably shouldn’t touch anything until the police get here.”

The lone constable stationed in Mokohina surveyed the wreckage with Rogan and Granger before returning to the deck, where Camille waited to give him a brief statement.

“Probably teenagers,” he told them, turning to the men. “Can you tell if anything’s missing?”

Granger shook his head. “We were only here for a few minutes last night, and it was dark. Before that, as I told your detective yesterday, neither of us had been on board lately. But the police searched the boat on Tuesday.”

The constable said he would contact the Criminal Investigation Branch in Whangarei. “They might want to take a look, since they’re inquiring into your father’s death.” Suddenly thoughtful he added, “There’s a rumor that he struck it lucky recently.”

Granger gave a quiet, sardonic laugh. “My guess is his friends had some fanciful hindsight after he was…found.”

Nodding as if his own suspicion was confirmed, the policeman closed his book. “Well, I’ll secure the vessel and ask the wharf manager to keep an eye on it.” He glanced at his watch. “If they need a scene examination it’ll probably be tomorrow. We’ll let you know when they’ve finished.”

On the way back to the Imperial, flanked by the men, Camille didn’t like to break the silence, grim on one side and seething on the other.

They were nearing the hotel when Rogan spoke over her head to his brother. “D’you reckon this has something to do with what happened to Dad?”

“I doubt it,” Granger answered. “There are ghouls who study newspapers for death notices, and target homes when the families are at the funeral. This is probably the same sort of thing. Or maybe some young idiots heard the rumor and tried their luck, hoping to find a treasure chest on board.” His scathing tone implied what he thought of them and their gullibility.

When they entered the lobby the noise from the private room had lessened considerably. Granger said, “Time to shoo the diehards into the public bar, I think.”

The young Maori woman behind the desk called to Camille, “Miss Hartley…there’s a package for you.”

Camille excused herself from the men, and the receptionist handed her a small parcel and an envelope. “Have you decided how long you’re staying?” the girl asked.

Having left her departure date open, Camille had become interested in the town and its little-known history, and on learning of Barney’s death felt she should attend his funeral. Now things were complicated.

“We have a full house after the weekend,” the receptionist explained. “It’s the annual Mokohina big-game-fishing tournament. People come from all over for it.”

“I’ll remember that, thanks.”

Opening the envelope, she bypassed the ancient, creaking elevator and started up the stairs. She drew out a single sheet of thick, elegant paper and unfolded a note written in a precise, almost copperplate hand.

This may interest you, it said. Thank you for a very pleasant evening, which I hope to repeat before you leave.

The signature was a flourishing, curlicued James, and he’d added his telephone number.

In the upper hallway she found Rogan lounging against the wall. Startled, she said, “I thought you were still downstairs.”

He straightened. “Granger’s taking care of things. I wondered what you’re doing for dinner. We thought we’d try the Koffee ’n’ Kai café along the road. Care to join us?”

It was extraordinary, the effect he had on her. Whenever they were within meters of each other she was totally aware of his presence. She could feel now the warm prickling on her skin, although he hadn’t moved any closer.

He smiled at her and she reminded herself that Rogan Broderick wasn’t her type, no matter how dazzling his male charisma. “Thank you,” she said, “but I have other plans.”

What plans? her mind scoffed. A lonely dinner in a discreet corner of the dining room or a snack in her own room, and a boring evening making research notes, talking to her tape recorder?

“Maybe some other time?” Rogan suggested.

“Maybe.” She gave him a thin smile and went along the passageway to her room, telling herself not to hurry, and not to look back to check if her sense that he was watching her was right or wrong. But when she heard a door close as she unlocked hers she couldn’t resist a covert glance.

The passage was empty.

“James,” she said into the phone a few minutes later, “thank you so much! It’s a gem.” She placed the little volume on the night table, running her fingers over the gold-embossed pattern on the leather cover and the gilt title on the spine: Journals and Letters of a Lady in New Zealand, 1835-7. “I’ll be sure to return it before I leave.”

“No need,” James Drummond’s light, creamy voice assured her. “It’s a gift. How was the funeral?”

“Oh, that’s very generous. Um…” she said, “…crowded. Mr. Broderick had a lot of friends.”

“And did any relatives turn up?”

Chatting over dinner, she’d told him she didn’t know if Barney had relatives. “Two sons.” One who makes my hormones go crazy. And one who should but doesn’t. “They were in the dining room last night but I didn’t know who they were.”

“Those two big guys?” he asked curiously. “Have you spoken to them?”

“Yes, we had quite a talk.”

“Really? What about?”

“Apparently I inherit part of the boat—the Sea-Rogue—through my father.”

“How…interesting.” He sounded genuinely intrigued. “Anything else?”

“Well, what’s inside it, and possibly some outstanding payments from my father’s last voyage.”

“I’d love to hear all about it. Have dinner with me at my house?”

“Tonight?”

“Do you like fish? One thing about this town, you can always get good fish. And my housekeeper is a very good cook. Or,” he added teasingly, “do you have a date with the brothers Broderick?”

She’d turned them down, but felt guilty about claiming other plans. Having dinner with James would validate that excuse. And he’d be an antidote to Rogan Broderick.

Cultured, intelligent, charming, with interests similar to hers and an obviously sympathetic nature, James was a total contrast to the bold-eyed pirate who was occupying far too much of her mind.

“No,” she said, “I don’t have a date.”

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” he said, even though she told him she had her own car. “No need to dress up for me.”

A quick sortie through her bag and she settled on light-blue cotton pants and a loose knitted top. James arrived on time, and whisked her away in a low-slung, polished white car that looked as though it had just driven off the advertising pages of a glossy magazine. It covered the winding uphill road to his house in barely five minutes.

Designed in colonial style but incorporating modern touches, the building soared three stories high, with broad verandas and big windows to take in the spectacular views.

Inside, real crystal chandeliers glowed on varnished timber walls and highlighted a breathtaking collection of antique furniture.

“Antiques are my business,” James replied smilingly to Camille’s admiring comment. “Wholesale prices.”

“Your shop is very well stocked for such a small town.”

“Overseas visitors find prices here reasonable, and quite a few yachties get stuff shipped home. It’s been worthwhile keeping the original store open for that reason, and for the retirees and newcomers who are building. But I have another store in Auckland, and a nice little apartment, so I divide my time between here and the city. Summers are pleasant in the north, and I do some entertaining here.”

Obviously the antique business was a lucrative one, or perhaps he’d inherited money as well.

She followed with a glass of wine in her hand while he showed her stunning examples of craftsmanship in furniture and fine porcelain, and equally impressive works of art, and a small collection of historic coins and thimbles in a glass-fronted cupboard. Surrounded by mementos of days past, she was enchanted.

Dinner was served by a gaunt middle-aged woman on a sheltered corner of the wide veranda, and when James brought up the subject, Camille felt sufficiently relaxed to talk about her unexpected inheritance.

His light eyes bright and interested, he said, “I’d like to see your boat.”

“It’s not mine. Well, only a part of it is. At the moment no one’s allowed on board. It was burgled and police detectives from Whangarei may want to look at it.”

James looked surprised and concerned. “Were there valuables on board that would have interested a burglar?”

“Rogan and Granger didn’t seem to think so.”

He leaned over to pour her some more wine, and glanced up at her face. “They should know. If so, they might be keeping it to themselves.” He sat back and lifted his glass, regarding her steadily over it. “You should keep an eye on your inheritance.”

“What do you mean?”

“Would you know if they’d removed anything?”

“I suppose not, but I don’t think—”

James said, “You’d be surprised what I see in my business. Families stripping furniture and valuables from a house before the body of their loved one is cold. How do the Brodericks feel about their father leaving a share to you?”

“They seem okay with it. One of them’s a bit reserved, but I think that’s just his nature.”

“Still, it pays not to be too trusting.” He raised his glass again. “Here’s to your good fortune.”

James deposited her at the hotel well before midnight. If she’d given him the right signals he might have invited her to stay the night, but when she said she must leave he didn’t demur beyond a polite expression of regret.

Although she had talked more than she’d meant to about the Sea-Rogue and the Brodericks, at least for part of the time she had managed to push Rogan Broderick and her astonishing reactions to him into the back of her mind.

When she went down for breakfast the following morning the brothers weren’t about, and afterward she avoided the wharves, instead making a pilgrimage uphill to the tiny Settlers and Seafarers Museum run by a dedicated group of volunteers in an old missionary church. The elderly woman taking money from a desultory trickle of visitors was happy to impart her historical knowledge of the town and its environs, and Camille spent a couple of hours there.

After detouring to take a closer look at the widow’s walk she’d seen from the hotel, and visit some obscure historic sites the museum volunteer had recommended, she returned to the hotel.

It was lunchtime. A bus occupied part of the hotel parking area, and the dining room was full of tourists chattering loudly in a dozen different languages.

Camille retreated, bought herself a sandwich and a paper cup of fresh orange juice, and found a park seat under a tree on the waterfront. She was on the second half of the sandwich when she became aware of someone standing before her, and looked up into Rogan’s brilliant eyes.

“Hi,” he said. “I saw you from my room. The cops have finished with the boat, and Granger and I are going to clean it up. We’ll let you know if we find your father’s stuff.”

After a second’s hesitation, she offered, “Can I help?” And then wondered guiltily if that had arisen from the faint suspicion James had planted last night rather than a genuine desire to be useful. Hadn’t she decided to keep out of Rogan’s way? But his brother’s presence surely would dissipate the peculiar tension she felt around him.

Rogan’s doubtful glance passed over her clothes, the same cotton pants and top she’d worn the previous night at James’s house. “You don’t need to—”

“I’ll go and change,” she said, “and be with you in about ten minutes.” The sooner things were tidied up here and her father’s belongings identified, the sooner she could get on with her life and remove herself from this man’s disturbing orbit.

He gave her a slow smile, and oh Lord, it was devastating. “We’d appreciate that.”

Rogan tapped on his brother’s door. Granger opened it wearing a cream golf shirt and beige slacks that might have graced the pages of a fashion magazine. “What?” he asked as Rogan grinned.

“Nothing.” Rogan himself wore his shabby khakis. Stuffing his tongue firmly in his cheek, he said, “You look very elegant.”

“I wasn’t expecting to be playing charladies.”

“I could lend you something—” not that he had much in the way of clothes with him, his diving gear taking up most of the space “—but you probably wouldn’t be seen dead in—” He came to an abrupt stop.

Granger said smoothly, scarcely missing a beat, “Anything of yours, no.”

“You don’t have to stay, you know. If you need to get back to work. Leave this to me.”

Granger shook his head. “I’ll shoot off tomorrow and be in the office on Monday. Shall we go?”

“Camille’s coming too,” Rogan told him.

Closing the door behind them, Granger lifted his brows.

“She volunteered,” Rogan said. “She’ll meet us downstairs.”

They were waiting at the foot of the stairs when Camille came down, wearing sneakers and denim shorts with a pale yellow T-shirt. Watching her long legs descend toward them, Rogan swallowed hard, and noticed Granger too was staring with some interest, before he turned to Rogan to share a male moment.

On the boat the men surveyed the chaos with identical expressions of masculine cluelessness in the face of a mammoth housekeeping chore.

“Are there cleaning things on board?” Camille asked. And when they turned to her, “Brushes, cloths, detergents?”

Rogan said vaguely, “There’s a cupboard opposite the head.”

They worked for hours—stopping only briefly to have a drink, nibble on crackers that the vandals had surprisingly spared in the galley cupboards, or take short breathers on deck.

Rogan somehow managed to control his breathing and his blood pressure whenever he caught sight of Camille’s curvy feminine behind stretching the fabric of her shorts as she bent to sift through the jumble on the floor, or when he couldn’t help noticing how pretty and perky her breasts were as she reached to replace a book on a railed shelf.

When the daylight in the cabin began to dim, Rogan glanced at his watch. “Anyone hungry?” he asked.

Granger straightened from his task of mopping the galley floor. “Now you mention it…”

Rogan pulled off his sweat-dampened shirt and wiped his forehead with it, leaving a streak of something that might have been cocoa across the tanned skin. Camille dragged her gaze away as he lowered the shirt. “Shall we call it a day,” he suggested, “and go back to the hotel?”

Camille said, “Couldn’t we finish tonight?” The main cabin was no longer strewn with foodstuffs, and the men had dealt with the gear and miscellaneous sacks and boxes that had cluttered the hold in the bow. Although the two sleeping cabins tucked into the sides and the larger one at the stern had been vandalised, they weren’t as bad.

“Sure,” Rogan acquiesced, “but I need to eat.”

Granger surveyed his brother, then himself, and finally Camille. The spilled condiments mixed with sauces, spreads and the water and detergent they’d used had left them all the worse for wear. “No decent establishment would have us,” he deduced. “We’ll have to buy hamburgers or something.”

“You volunteering?” Rogan asked. “I’ll have a double burger with egg and bacon, and plenty of fries. And a couple of doughnuts.”

With good grace Granger accepted the request and turned to Camille, who asked for a cheeseburger. “You’d better start the generator,” he advised Rogan, “so we can have some light.” Then, throwing his brother a quizzical glance, he ascended to the deck.

Camille realized she and Rogan were alone. The cabin seemed small and increasingly dark, and he was gazing at her rather disconcertingly.

She put a hand to her hair, smoothing several strands that had escaped from their elastic band to fall stickily across her eyes. Pulling the hair tie off, she gathered up the ponytail again and secured it.

Rogan’s eyes glazed. He cleared his throat and said, “I’ll get that generator fired up.”

He disappeared, and a few minutes later she heard and felt the throb of an engine. A light flickered on, and soon afterward Rogan came back.

Camille was carefully wiping down an old copy of Dumas’s Les Trois Mousquetaires, handsomely bound in tooled leather. She glanced up. “Your father read The Three Musketeers in French?”

“He was fluent in French,” Rogan said. “And a few other languages, including Pidgin.” He nodded at the book in her hands. “I struggled through that when I was a kid.”

“You did?”

“I’d already read it in English—but it was a challenge.”

Camille could picture him welcoming physical challenges; it hadn’t occurred to her he might enjoy intellectual ones.

She placed the book with others on a shelf. A lot of them seemed to be about disasters at sea. “You must have seen more of your father than I did of mine.”

“He dropped by when he was in port—a couple of times a year—and took us sailing along the coast when we were old enough. My mother wouldn’t let him go out of sight of the land when we were on board.” Rogan laughed. “I stowed away once. I was fourteen, and when the old man found me he went ballistic. Turned right round and brought me back. He said if I ever did that to my mother again he’d flay the hide right off my backside.”

Camille looked at him curiously. “Didn’t she mind that he spent so much time away from her?”

“I guess she did. She went with him one time, before she had Granger and me, but she got so seasick they had to airlift her off before Dad could get her back to shore, because she was dangerously dehydrated. After that she couldn’t face a boat again. But Dad lived for the sea. On land he was a fish out of water. I don’t think she ever tried to change him.”

“Is she…?”

“She died,” Rogan said abruptly. “When I was nineteen.”

“I’m sorry.”

He looked down at the books still piled on the floor, waiting to be cleaned and replaced.

Camille picked up a copy of Treasure Island. “I suppose you devoured this?”

“You bet. And this.” He lifted another book and wiped the cover with his hand. “Coasts of Treachery by Eugene Grayland. Great yarns, full of mayhem and murder.” Meeting her level look, he added hastily, “I mean, very well written. Educational,” he told her. “You should read it.”

“I have.” She read every New Zealand history book she could get her hands on—those aimed at a general audience as well as weighty, heavily referenced tomes and professional journals. “I’m a history lecturer.”

“Is that right? Where?”

His eyes were brilliant with interest and, Camille saw with satisfaction, respect. “At Rusden.” It was a small campus in the lower half of the North Island, a satellite of one of the larger universities.

She couldn’t help noticing again what an unusual blue his eyes were, like the inner curve of an incoming breaker at certain blue-water beaches. And his mouth was quite beautiful in a masculine way, the curves well-defined, his lips firm but not thin. Catching a glimpse of white, straight teeth, she felt her blood thicken. Her own mouth softened and parted infinitesimally.

Disturbed by a quick heat that made her legs weaken, Camille turned back to the task in hand. She thought Rogan moved closer, her skin signaling a simmering awareness.

To break the silence she said randomly, “All these books about shipwrecks…not exactly comfort reading for a sailor.”

Rogan gave a quiet huffle of laughter. “Dad had a dream that he’d find a sunken treasure one day.”

“I guess my father shared it.”

They’d been cut from the same cloth. Both had neglected their families to drift about the Pacific, picking up cargoes and passengers, diving for pearls or beche de mer occasionally, working onshore only when necessary. And in between, hunting for an elusive, legendary prize.

Granger returned with their meal, and they went up to the cool air of the deck to eat. Rogan shrugged back into his shirt, to Camille’s relief. She’d found his bare torso shamingly distracting.

“Camille teaches history,” Rogan told his brother. “At Rusden.”

“Really?” Granger looked at her thoughtfully.

“Mmm,” she confirmed, swallowing a mouthful of cheeseburger.

Rogan asked curiously, “You enjoy it?”

“Very much.” Teaching was a nice, steady occupation. If she needed excitement she could find it between the covers of a book about former times. And her salary was enough to keep her in reasonable comfort and help pay the mortgage on the house she shared with her mother. “What do you do?” she asked Granger.

“I’m a solicitor. And barrister, though I don’t do a lot of court work.”

“He likes playing with rorts and torts,” Rogan said with a tolerant but puzzled air.

Granger slanted him a grin, and for a moment the likeness between them was extraordinary. “I bet you don’t even know what they are,” he said.

“Dead right!” Rogan agreed cheerfully, lifting one of the cans of beer that Granger had brought back from his foraging expedition. He drank thirstily, and Camille stared in fascination at the tilt of his chin, the tautness of his throat.

When she pulled her gaze away Granger was looking at her, his eyes assessing, attentive. “My little brother is a deep-sea diver,” he said. “Fighting off sharks and giant squid for a living.”

Rogan spluttered, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That’s a load of sh…sugar,” he said. “I’ve never had to fight off a squid, even a baby one. They’re not aggressive anyway. You can stroke them.”

Camille asked, “Does that mean you’ve fought sharks?” Her skin crawled.

“I’ve had some close encounters, but they’re pretty harmless underwater as long as you don’t do anything stupid.”

Granger mocked, “And of course risking your life half a mile under the sea on a regular basis isn’t stupid.”

“No more stupid than sitting behind a desk all day,” Rogan countered. “You’re just as likely to die from an ulcer or heart attack there as I am putting in piles for a new oil rig or salvaging a wreck.”

Sending a lazy grin in his brother’s direction, Granger lifted his beer in acknowledgment. Camille deliberately watched him, waiting for a repeat of the small thrill, but it didn’t come. They looked so much alike; in fact Granger was probably the better-looking one—less hard-edged, more sophisticated, well-groomed. And yet he aroused in her nothing more than mildly pleasant appreciation.

There was no doubt about Rogan’s raw attraction. She was chagrined at being so susceptible to it.

To distract herself, she spoke to Granger about the first thing that came into her mind. “Do you think your father…and mine, might have discovered some kind of treasure?”

Granger looked amused. “Do you believe in fairy tales?”

Camille shook her head. She never had, even as a child. Her mother had taught her there was no such thing as Happy Ever After.

“To those two,” Granger said, “finding sunken treasure was the gold at the end of the rainbow, the holy grail of the sea. And they had about as much chance of finding it.”

When they returned to work Camille paused once to arch her stiffening back against her hands, and caught Rogan staring at the jut of her breasts. Quickly straightening, she turned away, hoping he hadn’t noticed the peaks suddenly showing through her T-shirt, as if he’d physically touched her.

While she dealt with the rest of the books, Rogan and Granger cleaned up the two smaller cabins.

Then Granger emerged, saying, “Some things of your father’s, Camille.” He put a cardboard carton on the table as Rogan joined them. “There are clothes too. Do you want to—”

“No.” She didn’t want to look at them.

After a slight pause Granger said, “We could give them to the Salvation Army along with Dad’s, if you like.”

“Yes, thank you.”

He gestured at the box. “You’d better have a look in here. It’s all that was in his cabin.”

Reluctantly she stepped closer, peering into the box. On top of a jumble of books, papers and miscellaneous items was a mounted photograph of a young woman smiling at the camera, holding a solemn-faced baby wearing a pink dress, with a matching bow in her short blond curls. Her mother and herself. Camille blinked and swallowed. Slowly she stretched out a hand and picked up the picture before placing it on the table.

Underneath it was another. She was older in this one, her fair hair in two pigtails, and she wore a party hat and clutched a balloon and a toy rabbit. Her sixth birthday party. The rabbit was the last gift she’d ever received from her father, and although she had thought it babyish at the time she’d cherished it for years. Until she realized he was never going to come home again.

“You were blond?” Rogan queried.

“It darkened as I got older.”

Tucked to one side in the box were a number of envelopes, slit to reveal folded letters. She reached in and pulled out one. The address, care of a post office in Suva, was in her mother’s writing—small, precise. Unexpectedly her eyes hazed with tears. She started to tremble.

“Hey!” Rogan’s voice was in her ear, his arm about her waist. “Are you okay? Sit down.”

He guided her to one of the seats by the table. “Can we get you something? Granger—?”

“It’s all right.” Camille blinked rapidly, only succeeding in forcing a tear to escape and run down her cheek. Furiously she rubbed at it with her fingers. “I’m fine,” she reiterated loudly.

Granger said, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset! Just…surprised.”

It was a weak excuse. She couldn’t imagine why the sight of the meager keepsakes her father had hoarded should kindle a grief that was out of proportion. It wasn’t as if he’d ever been a real father to her.

Maybe that was it. He never had, and now it was too late. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess I’m tired.”

Another pathetic excuse, but it galvanized the men into a flurry of apologies and self-blame. She’d worked too long and too hard, they should have realized, and Rogan would take her back to the hotel right now. Should they call a taxi?

“For a ten-minute walk?” She laughed shakily, embarrassed at their anxious outpouring. “Of course not. And I don’t need an escort.”

But soon she was walking along the seawall in darkness while Rogan kept a firm though careful hold on her arm, and Granger stayed behind to switch off the generator, secure the boat, and bring along the box of Taff’s belongings.

As they reached the more populous area, where streetlamps glowed and were reflected in the water, Rogan said, “Granger shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that.”

“It wasn’t his fault. I’m sorry I was such an idiot.” She was mortified at her unexpected show of emotion.

“You weren’t an idiot.” He pushed a leafy twig aside as they walked under one of the pohutukawas, and in the shadow she stumbled on a root that had distorted the path.

Rogan’s grip tightened. “You okay?”

His breath was warm on her temple. She caught a whiff of his male scent, the salty tang of fresh sweat and the less sharp aroma of musk, earthy but strangely not repellent. Was there nothing about this man that was unattractive?

“Yes,” she said. “Thanks.”

They walked on, but now she was tongue-tied, intensely conscious of the hand that still circled her arm, the masculine bulk of Rogan’s body, the exact height of her head where it came to just above his shoulder.

She heard the intermittent slap of water on the seawall, its softer lapping about the anchored boats, the rhythmic splash and creak of someone rowing a dinghy back to their yacht. Music and the chatter of patrons at an outdoor café clearly carried on the night air. Nearby a bird chirruped sleepily, perhaps confused by the streetlights into thinking it was still day.

They reached the hotel and Rogan sighed, almost as if he were relieved. He released her arm and asked, “Would you like a drink? Brandy, maybe?”

Camille shook her head. “I need a shower.” She looked down at her stained shirt and shorts. “And then I’ll go to bed. I can get that box from your brother in the morning?”

“Sure. I’ll see you to your room.”

“You needn’t, really.”

But he steered her into the ancient elevator, and when it stopped he followed her out and padded down the corridor at her side, waiting while she unlocked the door.

“Thank you.” She turned to him. “I don’t know why he kept those things. They can’t have meant much to him.”

Rogan looked at her gravely. “They must have meant something.”

Camille lifted her chin, her skin cold. Stupid sentimentalism would get her nowhere. She was grown up now, in no need of a father. Or any other man. “I’ll go through them tomorrow,” she said, “and see if there’s anything that can’t be burned.”