Читать книгу Breathless - Sharron McClellan - Страница 11

O ne For The Money. The name made Jess smile. It was appropriate for a salvage boat that hunted sunken treasure. The eighty-foot Swiftship had definitely seen its share of years, but it appeared well maintained. The twenty-foot span of open deck in the back was clean, with gear stowed. There were no oil stains or suspicious spots that hinted at larger problems.

Unfortunately, it also looked deserted.

Jess carried a FedEx box containing her gun in one hand, her duffel tossed over her shoulder and her dive bag in her other hand. Setting box and bags on the pier, she adjusted her black-and-white Hawaiian-print tank top and walked toward the stern hoping to find someone on board. Anyone.

But the deck remained empty. Silent. She frowned, loathed going aboard without permission. Perhaps some people wouldn’t think twice about it, but she equated walking onto a ship with walking through the front door of someone’s house.

You didn’t turn the knob and barge in.

“Hello!” she shouted, cupping her hands around her mouth. She waited for a reply, but the only answer was the slight rocking of the boat. “Hello! Zach, are you there?” Arms crossed, her frown deepened. “Anyone?”

“Can I help you?” a voice inquired. She turned to see the questioner on the opposite side of the pier watching her from the upper story of a double-decker luxury yacht.

Despite her sunglasses, she still shielded her eyes against the tropical sun. “Thanks, but I’m looking for Zach Holiday.”

His blond hair sticking up, the man on deck looked younger than her and ready for a beach party. The drink in his hand completed the effect. “Zach? You don’t want him. That boat’s a piece of crap.” He lowered his sunglasses and gave Jess a once-over. “Come on up here, and I’ll show you what traveling in luxury is like,” he finished, his words slurred.

Rolling her eyes in exasperation, Jess turned away. She didn’t have time to deal with a drunk.

“Come on, honey, I got enough for two,” he wheedled.

“Jeez.” Trust-fund baby.

Trust Fund started whistling at her, and she eyed Zach’s boat. The whistling turned into hooting and catcalls. “Time to barge in,” she muttered. Hoisting her gear onto the deck, Jess stepped over the railing. Ignoring the drunk’s continuing comments, she made her way toward the open door that led below. “Hello? Anyone there?” she shouted down the stairway.

Again, no answer, but from the opposite end of the ship came the distinct sounds of swearing and the clinking of metal.

Walking down the stairs, she made her way to the stern, following the loud clanging noise. Reaching the engine room, she found the origin of the swearing.

Whoever he was, he was on his back, his upper body hidden by the engine. Tools lay scattered at his feet.

“Hello,” Jess said.

He jerked upward at the sudden sound of her voice, banging his head with a resounding clunk.

“That’ll leave a mark,” she said, wincing.

“You think?” the male voice replied. Sliding out, he stared up at her from the ground.

Wearing grimy khaki shorts, a once-green Sex Wax T-shirt, his hands coated with who-knew-what and a greasy red mark on his forehead, he looked like the boat’s mechanic.

She knew better.

Zach Holiday. She’d looked him up on Google before she left her apartment, and he’d come up on a number of pages. An independent computer programmer, he solved problems that others couldn’t. His skill and business savvy had left him wealthier than most self-employed geeks.

Even more interesting was that he wasn’t just a cerebral know-it-all that lived in front of a computer 24/7. He did a lot of physical activities, including extreme sports. Mostly, he used his monies to take time off with his father and hunt for gold in the warm waters off the coast of the Americas.

He presented an intriguing duality of intellectual and adrenaline junkie.

Along with the articles were pictures, which were what gave him away now, despite the grime.

Dark brown hair. Tall, strong body.

And emerald eyes that were so green it was impossible to look away. She stared into them, mesmerized.

He met her steady gaze and raised a brow. “Can I help you, or do you prefer to stare?”

Heat rose in her cheeks, but she blinked, regaining her composure as fast as she’d lost it. “You must be Zach.” She held out her hand. “Sorry, I didn’t expect to see you working on the engine.”

“You’re Jessica?”

“Jess.”

He took her hand, using her as leverage to rise. Once on his feet, he shook her hand. His grip was firm. Warm. He nodded toward the engine. “I like to work with my hands, and it’s not that different from computers,” he said. “Logic and patience will get you what you need.”

She gave a brief nod. Interesting man. “Sorry I just walked on board,” she explained. “I called out but the only person who answered was some drunk across the way.”

“Blond? Invited you on board?”

She nodded. “I guess that’s his modus operandi?”

Zach grinned, his teeth bright against his tanned skin. She couldn’t help but smile back. “That’s Eric. His family has more money than God, but he’s harmless.”

That was her impression, as well. “What’s going on here?” she asked, now that the niceties were complete. She looked past him to the engine.

“Broken belt,” Zach said. “One of those parts that are neither expensive nor difficult to install, but essential if we plan to use the ship. So, since we’re waiting for Liz to return with parts, how about we get a cup of coffee and talk about this project of yours.”

It was a standard request—nothing out of the ordinary— but the shield Jess worked so hard to cultivate rose. Delphi said she’d provided Zach with minimal information. Was he going to try and pump more out of her?

Probably. It was what she’d do under the same circumstances. She remembered Delphi’s words: Need to know. That was her modus operandi.

But Zach didn’t need to know that. She smiled at him. “Sure, I’ll tell you everything I know.”

Her gun loaded and on the bunk, Jess unpacked her bags. Her cabin, eight feet in length and ten feet wide, was small compared to her bedroom at home, but she knew it was probably one of the bigger ones on board.

She glanced around, wondering where to put her clothes, and noticed there were drawers beneath the bed. Bending down, she tucked her few items below.

The door squeaked open. Jess rose and grabbed her gun in one fluid motion. By the time she was upright, she was in ready position and staring at the startled face of a blond girl in a one-piece, red Speedo and a pair of cargo shorts.

“Hi. I’m Liz.” The blonde glanced at the gun’s barrel and gave a weak smile.

Liz? That was the girl Zach mentioned. Jess set her gun on the pillow—within her reach but not Liz’s. “Sorry about that, but you startled me. Ever hear of knocking?”

“I didn’t think you were here. I was just dropping off some clean sheets.”

Jess noticed the folded cotton in her arms. “Oh.” She took them, setting them on the bed and feeling like a fool, even if her actions were justified. “Thanks.”

“Anyway,” Liz said, leaning against the doorway and giving Jess a curious glance. “What are you doing for dinner? A bunch of us were heading out in a few minutes. Want to go?”

Jess shook her head. “I’m beat.”

“You might want to rethink that,” Liz said in a singsong voice. “It’s kind of a tradition that we take the P.I. out for drinks before we leave.”

“P.I.? Private Investigator?” Jess asked.

“Primary Investigator,” Liz said with a flip of her waist-length, ponytail. “The crew is waiting, if you want to go. It’s just dinner. At the bar.”

Delivering sheets? Jess didn’t believe it. The invitation was the reason Liz was here. They wanted her to go drinking. In other words, initiation.

She raised a brow as she considered the request. She’d gone through initiation rites in boot camp when she first entered the Marines then later when she trained to become a combatant diver.

As a Marine, it had included testing her endurance and pain threshold.

She couldn’t imagine that initiation to this team was similar, but Liz did make a good point. She should consider going. Part of working with any team was bonding, and it was best to get in good with the crew as opposed to remaining an outsider.

Hell, she might be with these people a few days or a few weeks, there was no way to tell. “I take it this is some kind of tradition?” Jess asked.

Liz smiled, and her face lit up. “Yes.” She nodded at the bunk. “But you might want to leave the gun.”

Jess glanced at the Sig. She’d feel better if it was with her, but under the circumstances, it seemed a bit like overkill. “I’ll see if Zach has a safe.”

“He does. Meet us on deck in ten,” Liz said with a wicked grin as she shut the door behind her.

When Jess emerged onto the deck, sans weapon, Liz was waiting, a sandal-clad foot tapping on the deck. “Hi.” She almost skipped over, took Jess’s arm. “We never have another woman on board,” she whispered as they walked. “You have no idea how much I’m going to enjoy this. That’s Nate,” she pointed to an older man. Short and stocky, his head was shaved but his goatee was as blond as Liz’s sun-washed hair.

“And that’s Diego,” Nate said, gesturing at a young Caucasian man with short dreadlocks who walked toward them with Zach.

“Ready for dinner?” Zach asked.

Jess didn’t miss his sly grin or the way each member of the crew caught his eye, and she bit her lip in an effort not to laugh at them. They actually thought they had the upper hand. They believed she didn’t know what they were doing.

She returned his smile. This was going to be fun. For her. “Born ready,” she said.

The bar wasn’t what she expected. No tacky swordfish or old nets with the occasional ornamental starfish graced the dark paneled walls.

Instead, it was small. Dimly lit. And crowded with what she thought were locals since there wasn’t anyone dancing on the table or doing body shots. Heads turned as they walked past the tables and shouts of recognition followed before everyone returned to their drinks.

She’d called it right—this was a local hangout.

Zach herded the crew toward a long table at the back of the room, and in seconds, two pitchers of beer and a round of shots filled with something dark were in front of them. Jess raised a brow.

“What’s wrong?” Zach asked. “You don’t drink?”

She looked him up and down. She might have believed his wide-eyed innocence if his grin didn’t scream troublemaker.

If she had to guess, she’d peg him as the instigator. “I’m a Marine. I can drink you under the table,” Jess snapped back. “But we’re leaving in the morning. Aren’t shots a little excessive?”

“Excessive would be if we made you do all the shots,” Liz said. She held the tiny glass in the air. “To the ship!”

They all raised their drinks then paused, watching Jess. She knew that if she refused, she’d always be the one who backed down.

The Marine who backed down.

She raised her shot glass high and toasted the group. In one smooth movement, she downed the drink. Rum. The strong liquid burned her throat, but she swallowed the urge to cough. “Smooth,” she croaked.

The crew shouted and whistled, as she set her glass upside down on the table in front of her, then all downed theirs in unison.

She glanced at Zach, silently asking him if they were going to push her to get drunk. She hoped not. She’d hate to waste good rum by pouring it on the floor under the table.

Zach handed her a beer, winking at her when the others weren’t watching.

She relaxed, confident he wouldn’t let her initiation go too far. He was an islander in many ways, but she sensed that his “island attitude” didn’t go all the way to the bone. In fact, watching him and how he held himself, she’d bet her weapon that beneath the carefree attitude was steel.

There had to be. Zach was a successful computer genius that worked with the government. Successful men knew when to play. Knew when to work. And knew the line between good fun and excessive stupidity.

It would serve her well to remember the steel beneath the surface, she realized as she caught herself smiling back, and once again, staring into his emerald-green eyes. She turned her attention to her drink.

“They’re like emeralds,” Liz whispered in her ear.

Jess found herself flushing. “What is?” she asked, playing dumb.

“His eyes.” She giggled.

Jess flushed deeper and was grateful for the dim lighting of the bar. She realized there was something else she could learn while she was here—how these people related on a more personal level. “Um, are you and Zach…”

Liz’s nose wrinkled. “What?”

“You know?” She nodded toward Zach and wiggled her eyebrows. “You? Him? Involved?”

“Oh,” Liz said with a start, realizing what Jess was getting at. “Oh, God no. That’s just icky.”

Icky wasn’t how Jess would describe sleeping with a man like Zach. Not at all. Sensuous. Fun. Erotic.

But not icky.

Liz nodded toward Nate. “I’m married.”

“To Nate?” He was probably twenty years the girl’s senior. At least. She glanced at Liz’s bare left hand.

“I kept losing it,” Liz said, following Jess’s line of sight. “It was simply getting too expensive.” She leaned in. “I know. He’s older. But he knows things, if you know what I mean.”

“I get it,” Jess said with a knowing nod, praying the young woman didn’t elaborate.

“Besides,” Liz said, “He’s as smart as Zach, and I love smart men, don’t you? You seem like you’d need a challenge. Like Zach.”

“Um, yeah,” Jess replied, not sure she wanted to go where this conversation was heading.

Nate’s muscled arm pulled Liz away, saving Jess. “No more girl talk. It’s time!”

At the announcement, a cheer rumbled through the bar and the chant of, “Jess. Jess. Jess!”

Heat flamed Jess’s cheeks as she realized that getting her drunk wasn’t the objective. There was more, much more, and it seemed to involve not just the crew but everyone.

“Sorry!” Liz called out over the chanting. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a rolled-up piece of paper. “Here.” She handed it to Jess.

“What’s this?” Jess asked, opening it. The original paper was stained but covered with something shiny and smooth. Jess ran her hand over it. Laminated.

She brought it closer to the light. There was a poem printed on it. A badly written poem, both in content and penmanship. “What am I suppose to do with this?” Jess asked, waving the paper, fairly sure she was going to hate the answer.

Zach leaned in so she could hear him. “It’s a song. We want you to sing it.”

Jess’s smile faded. “Sing this?” She’d rather do rum shots.

“Yes. It goes to the tune of ‘Row Row Row Your Boat.’”

For a moment, Jess stared at the crowd, her mouth open. “Of course it does,” she finally managed to say.

Zach grinned at her, daring her to back down.

Oh, hell no. She was not going to give him the satisfaction. She gave a curt nod, and he motioned for the bar to be quiet. The chanting died back. She glared at him. He was a dead man. Later. Taking a deep breath, she sang, “Sail, sail—”

“Wait,” Liz cut her off.

Jess stopped. “What? Was it that bad? I never said I could sing.”

“It’s not that,” Liz said, looking to Zach.

Zach took Jess’s hand. “You have to stand up on the seat. The bar needs to hear it.”

Horrified, Jess shook her head. “No. I draw the line at standing on chairs.”

The bar started clapping and Zach shrugged. “Okay. It’s a bench. Not a chair. And you’ll disappoint everyone.”

She shook her head. “I’m not doing it,” she said through clenched teeth.

“It’s tradition,” Zach countered, his hand tightening around hers.

Tradition. The one phrase he knew she’d give in to. She glared at him. He’d better have steel beneath all that charm, because after this, she was going to beat the hell out of him, given half a chance.

“You’re a dead man, Holiday.”

The threat only made him smile wider.

She pulled her hand away. “I can get up by myself.”

Liz shoved another shot in her hand. “This helps.”

Jess downed it and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Wobbly with the second shot, she managed to stand on the rickety bench. She waved to the room, and they grew silent.

“I’ll get food,” Liz said. “When you’re finished, we’ll eat.” She scooted out but not before kissing her husband.

Nate held up a globe candle, spotlighting her. “So you can see,” he explained.

“If that’s your story.” She turned her attention back to the sheet of laminated paper. There were six stanzas. It was signed Diego.

She glanced down at him. The quiet ones. They were the worst.

Diego grinned and gave her a thumbs-up.

“Sing!” an unknown voice called out.

God, she hated this. “Sail, Sail, Sail a boat, above the briny deep. Watch out for land, watch out for crabs, and never fall asleep.”

She stopped. “Crabs? This is stupid. I mean, really, really, stupid.”

“Louder!” someone shouted.

“Fine.” She rolled her eyes. “Catch, catch, catch a fish from the ocean green. Make it fresh, make it large, with scales like aquamarine.”

God help her, Diego couldn’t write to save his life.

She began the next stanza, and the crowd joined in, their loud, enthusiastic voices overriding her. Despite the fact that her face still burned from embarrassment, Jess smiled.

The room was hers, and she loved it. And apparently, they were pleased with her, as well.

On the fifth stanza, with the crowd still drowning her out, a sudden movement at the bar caught Jess’s attention.

Liz. Her movements were jerky. Wrong. Jess’s voice died and the crowd kept singing. Had Arachne followed her here? Jess stood on her toes to watch for trouble.

Liz was trying to make it back through the crowd, and then someone grabbed her arm. Jess stiffened then realized it wasn’t an assassin. It looked like Trust Fund. And the idiot was trying to kiss Liz—his friends egging him on.

Another movement caught her eye.

Nate, pushing his way through the crowd to his wife.

She hadn’t seen him leave, but from her vantage point, he looked pissed.

Jess shoved Zach’s thigh with her foot, catching his attention. “Problem,” she mouthed, nodding toward the bar.

Zach jumped up, pushing his way through the sea of people with Diego in his wake. With the crowd still singing, Jess jumped down and followed, arriving just in time to see Nate draw back his arm, and then his fist connected with Trust Fund’s jaw. In seconds, Nate was lost in a pile of flailing bodies, and Liz jumped on top to save her husband.

“Get her,” Zach said, turning to Jess as he entered the fray.

In his expression, she saw the steel she’d wondered about, and more. Grabbing Liz, she pulled her off the men. Behind her, she heard the distinct sound of fist hitting flesh. “Stay here,” she said, turning back.

When she turned around, the brawl was in full force, and she spotted Zach and his men at the opposite end of the bar.

“I swear,” she muttered. Why did initiations always seem to end with bruises and blood?

Calmly, she worked her way through the mob, taking time to dodge an uppercut, grab the fist to use its momentum and pull the owner to the ground. She kicked him in the ribs to make sure he stayed down.

Jumping over the moaning man, she reached Nate first. He was standing now, his face dark red as he punched Trust Fund. A few more blows, and Nate would put him in the hospital. “Enough,” she said, grabbing his arm.

Nate hesitated, then let go of the man’s shirt. He fell to the floor in a heap. “Get Liz out of here before she gets hurt,” she shouted, knowing if there was anything that would get Nate’s attention, that was it. Nate nodded and went to find his wife.

Around them, the brawl escalated. She spotted Zach as a fist came out of nowhere, clocking him in the jaw.

Jess winced.

Zach shook his head, stunned, and by the time he moved to retaliate, the man was gone.

“You okay?” Jess asked, keeping her head down.

“Get Diego,” Zach shouted.

She grabbed the dreadlocked boy and was pulling him to safety when an air horn sounded, cutting through the din like a bell at a prizefight. People stopped, fists midair and then dropped them to their sides. A beefy man stood at the bar.

“That’s enough!” he shouted. “You people,” he pointed to the group that caused the ruckus, “get out before I call the cops.”

They had the sense not to protest.

“You,” he pointed to Jess.

“Me?”

“Sing.”

Zach thrust the laminated paper back into her hands with a shrug. “You heard the man.” Around her the bar chanted, “Sing! Sing! Sing!”

Zach grinned. “And you thought this was over?”

She looked into his dark green eyes. “Bar fight. Rum. Singing. This is some initiation.”

With a low chuckle, he wrapped his broad hands around her waist and sat her on the bar.

She leaned forward. “Payback’s hell,” she whispered in his ear.

She’d make sure of it.