“Right. As if we’re incapable of being ridiculous,” Victor said dryly.
“Oh, my God, I didn’t mean to create this big a deal. I’m sorry,” Genevieve said. “I’ve lived here my whole life. I’m only a few blocks away. I’ll be just fine.”
“It’s not a bad idea to let Thor walk you home,” Jay said. “Or I can walk with you, if Thor wants to get back.”
Genevieve shook her head. “I’m going, guys. Later!”
She started down the street. But she could hear them talking as she left.
“It’s all right. I’ll walk her,” Thor said, and in a split second he had caught up with her.
She glanced at him, shaking her head. “I’m okay. Really.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not following you. I’ll just see you to your door. There is a killer out there.”
Genevieve shook her head. She knew she should be more concerned about the very real dangers out there. But she wasn’t. She just didn’t want to see any more ghosts. “The streets are full of people. You don’t need to do this.” She hesitated. “Sadly, and most likely, we’ll find out she was a prostitute, or running with a drug crowd. Or she was a trophy wife seeking excitement on the side. I doubt that, since we’re not in any of the same circles, we’re in any of the same danger.”
“Just walk. We’ll be there before we finish discussing the situation.”
He led her straight to her door. She unlocked it and looked up at him. He was standing very close. Large, powerful. She felt almost as if they were touching. She breathed the scent of him, a pleasant cologne, something of the sea, something of bronzed flesh. Her heart was pounding far too quickly. There seemed to be something magnetic, electric, in the space between them. She was sure he was going to touch her, and if he did…
“Lock your door once you’re inside,” he said sternly, stepping back. “Go on. Get in.”
She nodded and opened the door. “Thanks.”
That was it; he was gone, and she was surprised by the measure of loss and disappointment she felt. She didn’t want to question her feelings too closely. It had been so much more comfortable to hate the man. He didn’t become involved; he didn’t date where he worked. So Bethany had said. She had read it. Then again, he had bet his boat against a night with her. A whim? Or sheer ego? Surely that meant the man at least found her appealing….
There was a difference between sex and love. She didn’t want to become a number in a list. She gritted her teeth. She wasn’t going to torture herself over a man any more than she was going to torture herself over…
Ghosts.
She checked her doors, but first she got out one of her dive knives, and then she searched the house, down to the closets. She felt a little like a fool, but at least she knew she was alone. She felt resentful; she’d never been afraid in her own house before. She had wished once upon a time that there were ghosts, so her parents could have appeared, could have come to her and whispered that they were okay, that they were together and watching over her.
No such ghosts had ever come to her, though.
After a while she felt more comfortable with being home, though most of the lights in the place were on. This was home. Everything was real and familiar. No ghosts, she was certain, would darken her door.
She went through her mail and paid bills, then studied some of the copies she had made of documents regarding the Marie Josephine. Her interest was drawn not so much to the ships involved, as to Gasparilla the pirate. He’d had a real streak for cruelty, it seemed.
Had he fallen in love, been rejected…and murdered the beautiful young woman who was the object of his affection? Thrown her into the water, her body weighted…
As the current killer had apparently done?
Even if he had, what could be the possible connection to what was happening now?
Coincidence, she told herself. Or sheer insanity.
She didn’t want to think about it, and she pushed the papers away. Then, after she’d walked away once, she returned and slammed them into the drawer of the desk. She fixed herself a cup of tea and headed into the living room. She intentionally kept the television off. She knew about the murder. She doubted she was going to hear any good news.
At last, she went to bed. She was surprised to find herself critically studying her choice of night attire. A large T-shirt. Cotton, worn, extremely comfortable. Dopey on the front, holding a cup of coffee. Hardly the apparel of a femme fatale.
The same thing she always wore, she reminded herself. And, anyway, she was sleeping alone.
But in bed, just as she had for the past several nights, she couldn’t bring herself to turn the lights out. And she wanted the noise of the television. She turned it on, careful to choose a station that didn’t carry the news.
She was desperate to sleep and simultaneously terrified to do so, but at last she drifted off.
The pirates came again. Tattered and filthy as they walked through the water. Ragged clothing fell from skeletal arms. Shimmering weapons were raised. Rotted teeth showed through decaying lips.
They encircled her. Staring at her, moving closer…
And then the woman came. With her drifting hair, long white gown. Her sad smile. Her whispered word.
Beware…
Sheer panic set in, rousing some instinctive place where the human psyche fought to survive.
She awoke, gasping, sitting up.
The room was empty. The lights were still on.
The TV was showing an ancient sitcom.
Shaking violently, she forced herself to breathe. And then to rise.
And as she did, she saw the water.
Gallons of it, surrounding her bed.
8
Thor didn’t go straight to bed. On the walk back to the resort, he discovered that Jay Gonzalez had stayed with the group, which was making a final stop at the tiki bar before splitting up for the night. And Jay interested him.
He was able to get a seat next to Jay at the bar and ask, “So, what do you think?”
Jay, sipping a beer, stared at him, well aware what he was talking about. “What do I think?” he murmured. “I think there’s a maniac out there. Of course, there’s always a maniac out there, but this one is close to home.”
“Do you think the killer is local?”
“No, I don’t. But then, I don’t want the killer to be local. There’s no reason to expect the perp to be from here, of course. These waters are a playground for a lot of South Florida.” He hesitated, lifting his beer. “But was she killed around here? Yes. For the body to have surfaced where it did…she was killed somewhere off the islands, close to Key West. But she was definitely dumped off a boat, and that boat could have come from almost anywhere.”
“She was weighted down. Surely that gives you some clues.”
“Pieces of rope, but I have a feeling we’re going to discover it’s the kind that can be found at any hardware store or any boating-supply place in the country. We have no idea what kind of weight was used to keep her down.” Jay stared at Thor with serious eyes. “I’ll send police divers down again at the coordinates where Genevieve first saw the body. If we can find the weight that was used, it will be another piece in the puzzle. Of course, finding out who she is should help a lot, too.”
Thor kept Genevieve’s conviction that this body was not the woman she had seen in the water to himself. “We’ll be keeping an eye out, as well,” he assured Jay grimly. He hesitated. “Any chance I can see the body again, speak with the medical examiner?”
Jay seemed surprised, and he studied Thor for several seconds. Then he grimaced. “I imagine I can arrange it. Since you’re in charge of the hunt for the Marie Josephine, what you discover underwater could be as important to our current crime as to your own search. I’ll get back to you tomorrow.” He handed Thor his card, and Thor returned the gesture.
At that point Bethany crawled off her bar stool and said good-night. Alex and Victor had followed suit, along with Lizzie and Za
ch. Marshall, too, yawned and left, and only Jack, Jay and Thor were left. Jack groused over the fact his beloved home had been besmirched by a vicious murder, and then, shaking his head, departed. The bar was empty—even Clint had gone to bed—when Jay and Thor said their goodbyes.
Thor was back in his cottage barely long enough to shower when there was a knock on his door.
It was two in the morning. Not so late for island barhoppers, but still…
A towel wrapped around his waist, he went to see who it was.
“Thor?”
He was stunned to hear Genevieve’s voice.
He opened the door. She shot in, apparently not noticing the fact that he wasn’t exactly dressed.
But then, she looked a little strange herself. Her hair was wild, as if she had been asleep, the rich auburn length sexy with just-out-of-bed appeal. She was wearing a long, cotton nightshirt similar to one he’d seen her in before. She had on sandals with heels, and she was carrying a casual evening bag.
“Uh…yes?” he asked.
She sailed past and right on to the futon in the living area, taking a seat and staring at him.
“I…couldn’t sleep. I was hoping you were up.”
“Did something frighten you?” he asked.
“No,” she lied with a flat smile.
“I see. You left your house, where you were safely locked in, and walked back through the city—where the victim of a nasty murder was recently found—because you felt chatty in the middle of the night?”
She stared straight at him. “Yes.”
“Okay.” He stared straight back at her. “Well,” he said after a moment, “I guess I’m flattered.”
She looked a little startled, as if suddenly realizing how strange it was that she had come to him, of all people.
She was frightened, he could tell, no matter what she said.
“Did something happen?” he asked.
She shook her head slowly, as if considering. “No.”
“I see.” He sat down on the futon, a foot away from her, folding his hands idly. “You just couldn’t stand being away from me?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re actually fine,” she murmured, “when you’re not being insufferable.”
“Wow. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You’re actually okay, too,” he said.
Her eyes shot to his. “When I’m not being insane, right?”
He smiled at that. “You’re a lot more than okay, but I’m sure you know that. You not only look like you walked out of some teenage boy’s wet dream, you have a smile that lights up a room, you’re bright, curious and—” he smiled “—an excellent diver.”
Her eyes widened as he spoke, as if she were genuinely surprised at the compliment.
“What? You know I’m attracted to you. Very attracted. I wouldn’t bet my boat for a night with just any woman,” he told her with a wry smile. Maybe he shouldn’t have spoken quite so honestly while wearing a towel, he thought.
She flushed and looked away. “As if you have difficulty with women,” she murmured. “The magazines call you…what was it? Oh, yes. A bronze god. A Viking adventurer. Indiana Jones of the sea.”
“I’m careful never to believe the press,” he assured her.
She smiled.
“But you didn’t come here to sleep with me, did you?” he asked softly. “Or maybe you did. Except I really don’t want you to decide to sleep with me only because you’re afraid and it’s a better alternative to sleeping alone.”
That brought a deep flush to her cheeks, and she didn’t look at him. “There’s the fact that I really did lose the bet,” she murmured.
“I admit that’s debatable. And that’s not an easy admission, because I’m not good at admitting defeat,” he assured her.
“What if I admitted that I find you attractive?” She turned to him at last.
He was a fool, he thought. A sad excuse for the male of the species. Here she was…smelling divinely, alone with him, inches away. Her body warmth and that scent seemed to reach out to him, attack his senses. But for some stupid reason he just didn’t want her this way. Though he did want her. He felt the blood throbbing in the erection beneath his towel.
He damned himself. Her skin was golden. As soft as the cotton of the thin T-shirt that covered her body but did nothing to disguise the shape and curve of it. What the hell was the matter with him? He’d never made such ridiculous rules for himself before. If a woman he wanted wanted him, that had always been enough.
“You can stay here, sleep here,” he said softly, “without having to sleep with me.”
He could almost feel her heart beating. A few inches, and he could touch her. A few minutes, and he could have her, take her with the kind of excitement that swept away time and circumstance, that pounded and pulsed with carnal pleasure. Had he lost his own sanity?
She looked up at him, something that might have been a wistful, even poignant, smile curving her lips. “I thought you found me attractive?” she said. Her voice was a whisper, as if he wasn’t already in enough agony. The sound seemed to touch him. Reach out, seep into his bloodstream, brush against the inside of his flesh.
“I don’t believe in sex for any reason other than pure desire,” he told her.
“You don’t desire me?” she asked.
Again that sound in her voice. Something husky, almost like purring.
“I like the concept of being wanted for myself,” he said.
“Who wouldn’t want a bronze god?” she inquired.
“I’m trying to be a decent human being, which isn’t all that easy right now,” he told her.
To his astonishment, she stood up and pulled the T-shirt over her head. She wore a delicate lace thong beneath—and the strappy, low-heeled sandals. Her auburn hair, like a cascade of night fire, fell over her naked shoulders and curved around the fullness of her breasts. She was long and sleek, with curving hips, a concave abdomen, and a tan line that seemed as provocative as all get-out.
It was the shoes that did it, he decided, emphasizing her long legs and…upward.
“A woman doesn’t usually bet a night of sex with a man unless she finds him appealing,” she informed him, and smiled, a come-on smile that rocked his libido and bit into his soul. And with that, she strode into the bedroom area of the cottage, where her silhouette, dimly outlined, beckoned insanity into his mind.
He was so stunned that for a second he just sat there. Then he shot to his feet and followed.
The bedside light glowed softly. They stood across the bed from each other. She stepped out of the sandals and walked around to his side of the mattress, straight up against him, her arms snaking around his neck, fingers threading into his hair. The towel fell. He made no move to retrieve it.
She barely had to stand on her toes to find his lips. He dipped his head, allowing her to ease back to her feet. She could have no doubt of his desire for her as they seemed to meld together, the toned flesh of her body hot and vibrant. He caught her chin, formed his lips over hers, pressed deep into her mouth with his tongue, and felt the spiraling tightness within himself. Purely sexual sensations ripped through him like a storm surge at sea. He felt as if he were consuming her mouth, his blood electric with the response to her taste, scent, touch…. She was sweet, so sweet, everything his dreams had whispered and he had been so determined to deny. Vital and passionate, the shape of her body was simple sin.
He kissed her, felt that he died a little with the pleasure, his hands sweeping over her. He felt her quivering and he drew his lips away from hers.
“You’re not afraid?” he asked softly.
“Of you?” she whispered. “Oh, definitely.” It was a teasing statement, but it was the truth, though in what way, he wasn’t certain.
“Of…the night?” he persisted.
“That, too,” she admitted.
He wanted to know why. What demon plagued her. But stark desire overrode sanity. He didn’t ca
re. At that moment…screw decency. His mouth found hers again. He felt her fingertips riding down his back, over his buttocks. He held her fiercely. Dragged her down to the bed, rose above her. Her breath was coming in heady bursts. Her eyes were glittering as they touched his. And that smile curled her lips again, an expression of pure sex. She reached for him. Her fingers swept down his chest, curled around his erection. He gave a low groan, then lay against her again, catching her mouth as his hands swept over her skin, his lips following suit. He caressed her with fascination, finding the line of her collarbone, touching it with the delicate brush of his fingers and tongue. His hand curved over her breast just before his mouth fastened over her nipple, his lips circling the peak. His palm slid over her midriff, felt the tautness of her abdomen, lowered to feel the curve of her pelvic bone and the delicate lace of the thong. His body rubbed erotically against hers as he lowered himself, fingers sliding beneath the lace, tongue moving sensually atop the thin wisp of fabric between her flesh and himself.
She rocked beneath him. He caught the slender strand of lace, removed it, found her again beneath it. Caressed, ravished…felt the shiver of excitement that ran down the length of her, moved to spur her to an ever more desperate fever. She cried out and was up, meeting him, crashing into his arms, seeking his mouth with her own. They held each other while the world thundered out the beat of their passion. He caught her thighs, wrapped them around him, and thrust into her with a staggering hunger. Locked with her, he felt her inner pulse reach a frantic edge, fought his own desire to explode, felt the fantastic, delicious agony soar, felt her stiffen, shudder, shake in his arms, and allowed himself to catapult into final climax. He couldn’t let her go, nor did she seem to mind. Tremors rippled through her as he embraced her, adjusting himself to lie beside her, to allow himself to grow soft within her, still hungry to touch, to maintain their connection. His body cooling at last, he felt the slickness of heat that covered them both and cradled her even closer. He listened as the pounding of their hearts lowered to a normal speed, felt every little quiver and movement within her, buried his face in the wealth of her hair.