Tropical Getaway

  Panic flashed in her eyes, and something else. Passion, maybe? Something that she was fighting with every ounce of strength she had. He knew he had to stop.

  He took a step back, ending the contact. But not the burn that he’d started. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, hearing the husky frustration in his own voice.

  Her breath was ragged, but her inky eyes stayed steady. “I didn’t ask for that.”

  “I know.” He took another step back. Damn, she turned him on. Hot and sexy, but definitely not to be tampered with. “You’re a very attractive woman.”

  Distrust and disbelief showed in her eyes.

  “You think I’m lying?” He glanced down to the vicinity of his pants. “I’m not faking this.”

  “I think your reputation, as you put it, precedes you.”

  He ran his hand through his hair, wondering exactly what she’d heard. “I’m a normal red-blooded man, Ava, and if the feeling is mutual…”

  She shook her head. “I think you’d better go.”

  He backed into the sitting room. “Okay. I’m leaving.” He hadn’t meant to come on so hard, so fast. Damn his hands. Damn his mouth. Damn every womanly, mouth-watering inch of her. She didn’t trust him and maybe she was right. She was no pet he could adopt for a few weeks and wrestle around with until he got bored. And he didn’t really know any other way.

  “G’night, princess.”

  Ava stayed on the balcony after the door shut into place behind him. The ship rocked from left to right, lights from islands danced in the distance, a sliver of a new moon hung sleepily on its side. The rich sea air worked like smelling salts, calming her, clearing her head.

  She took deep breaths to stop the quivering that started in the most feminine part of her and electrified every cell in her body.

  Why was he doing this to her? To distract her from the lawsuit? Or from the drug-running, shipwrecking, life-threatening problems they’d uncovered? He couldn’t just want to seduce her.

  Oh, but he nearly did, she thought with a shiver. With one kiss. One astounding, earth-shattering kiss. She could still feel the weight of his hand on her breast. The pressure shot hot signals down her body, making her weak and damp and sinfully excited. She nearly melted at the thought of how hard he’d been against her. Her thigh still burned where his hand had been, where his fingers had started a brief journey up her leg. She closed her eyes as the quiver started again.

  The phone in her cabin rang, sharp and demanding. She knew it would be him.

  “Hello?” She tried to sound in control, not breathless and full of lust.

  “Bon soir, cherie. I hope it is not too late to call to see how your dinner was?”

  Maurice Arnot. Not the man she’d been expecting. Wanting.

  “Chef! No, it’s not too late. It was delicious.” Except I was almost dessert.

  “I heard you ate in, and I hope everything was just right.”

  “Yes. Perfect. Thank you.” She couldn’t think of anything to say; small talk was too far from where her thoughts had been.

  “Did you have a lovely day in Antigua?” he asked.

  Oh, yeah. Especially the visit to the local crack house. “It was fine. It’s a colorful island. Did you stay on board all day?”

  “For the most part. Can I get you to join me in the kitchen again tomorrow, cherie? I enjoyed your help and had many compliments on the tapenade.”

  She had seriously considered doing some of her own investigation of the island, but common sense prevailed. And there was plenty to learn on board that didn’t involve the menacing underworld of the Caribbean. “That would be lovely,” she agreed. “I’ll come down tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Bien, cherie. Sweet dreams. Bon soir.”

  “Bon soir, Chef.”

  She set the receiver down gently, relieved for the distraction and touched by his thoughtfulness. Sweet dreams, he’d said. Well, they wouldn’t be sweet tonight. She fluffed the white silk comforter on the bed and thought of how Dane’s blue eyes and honey-colored hair would look against it. Sweet dreams? Not a chance. Hot, sweaty, lusty dreams were the only thing on the menu.

  9

  T here was nothing Dane liked about Guadeloupe. The port city, Pointe-à-Pitre, offered none of the Old World charm of most Caribbean capitals. Just narrow streets filled with slow traffic, and rows of shacks awash with lavender and canary yellow paint that couldn’t disguise the poverty within. The smell of pungent outdoor cooking mixed with the stench of sewage permeated the whole town. If it weren’t for the impressive volcano, La Soufrière, tropical forests and crescent-shaped white beaches, he’d have taken it off the Utopia itinerary long ago.

  He rented a car from a local who refused to speak anything but thick, unintelligible Creole until Dane showed a willingness to part with cash. No special license necessary in Guadeloupe. Just currency, and he’d brought plenty of that, anticipating that it would be the only way he’d get what he wanted. In the rusty twenty-year-old Peugeot, he managed to navigate the rugged terrain to the tiny fishing village of Le Moule, buried on the coast of one of Guadeloupe’s two main islands.

  After spending an awkward and unpleasant hour speaking halting Creaole to a bitter Paradisio widow who’d already met with Boyd, Dane left Le Moule. He wrapped a bandana around his head and straightened his sunglasses. He didn’t think he’d be recognized by the locals, but he didn’t want to take any chances of running into Nirvana’s passengers or crew, unlikely as that would be in the seedy sections of Guadeloupe.

  In Pointe des Châteaux, Genevieve’s list led him to ramshackle huts where an intrepid visitor could snag dope. But he had a hard time finding someone as willing to talk as they were anxious to sell. He bought nothing, preferring to tempt someone high enough in the food chain to discuss major shipments. He judiciously slipped cash to a few who might know anything about the connection to Utopia, but he got nothing in return.

  As he put the key in the ignition to leave, a skinny, scared kid who had tried desperately to unload some ganja suddenly stood next to the rented car. He stuck his head in Dane’s open window.

  Dane held up his hand. “No, man. I told you. I don’t want it.”

  “You wan a name, missur? Thas wha’ you wan?” His frightened gaze darted across the street to where a few others sat on barrels, watching the man in the rental car trying to score dope.

  Dane nodded.

  “’spensive.”

  Dane knew it would be. Two United States hundred-dollar bills passed through the open window.

  The kid didn’t count it, just stuffed it into his pocket and wiped his nose on his arm with another furtive glance across the street. “You wan’ Estaphan Calliope. At La Soufrière.”

  “The volcano?”

  “A bar. In Point-à-Pitre. You find him.”

  The kid disappeared as quickly as he had materialized. Dane started the car and drove back to Guadeloupe’s capital to find Estaphan Calliope. There was no such name or location on his list.

  He stopped at a shop filled with French scarves, perfumes, and quality crystal that catered to the tourists looking for the well-known discounts on brand names. On a whim, Dane picked up an exquisite peach and black Hermès scarf, the colors reminding him of Ava’s skin and eyes, the material as soft as a breath in his hand. He asked the shopkeeper where he could find a bar called La Soufrière.

  Her eyebrow shot up at the question, but once he paid in cash for the scarf without negotiating the price, she told him in flawless French where he’d find the place.

  When he arrived, he suspected very few tourists buying Hermès and Chanel asked how to get to this particular joint. He kept his sunglasses on despite the darkness and sat at the bar, drinking a beer. It took less than ten minutes for a young native to approach him.

  “You wan’ something, mon?” The question came in thick island Creole.

  “Yeah. Estaphan Calliope.”

  “Wha for?”

  “Business. Shipping business.”
>
  He looked Dane up and down, deliberately and slow. “Venez.”

  Dane knocked back the rest of the beer and followed the man out of the room.

  When Dane laid eyes on Estaphan Calliope, his gut lurched, and he blessed the bandana and sunglasses. They were his only hope that the fat Frenchman wouldn’t recognize him. Damn, the man had been on a Utopia cruise. On Paradisio, if he remembered correctly. Dane struggled to remember the date, the circumstances. He stood stone still against the wall of a filthy office as Calliope eyed him suspiciously.

  “Oui?”

  Dane took a chance. He knew he only had one. “Genevieve sent me.”

  Calliope narrowed his eyes. “You’re too late. Her man just left.”

  “Bien! Merci! C’est parfait!” Maurice Arnot’s squinty brown eyes twinkled with genuine delight as his musical French compliments warmed Ava. He took another taste of the jambon Mornay sauce. “Parfait!”

  “Thank you.” She smiled proudly, secretly certain that it was perfect.

  He put his arm on her shoulder. “Come and see my pastries. They are a delight today.”

  “Tell me, Chef, why don’t you write cookbooks?” she ventured as they crossed to the other side of the galley. “You could make so many people happy. And you could make a fortune.”

  He waved his hand in dismissal. “I leave the books to your daddy, cherie. I am not a writer, not a publisher. I do not want any business but food and my restaurant.”

  “Then why did you come here?”

  The hint of a shadow crossed his face. Damn, why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut? It was none of her business. But it was out now.

  “The weather. The naturel beaches with glorious women.” He winked at her. “And the Viking pays me lots and lots of money.”

  Before she could change the subject, his gaze fell on the door as Philippe Basille walked in, looking hot and tired from his travels to the island.

  “Ah, merci, mon ami,” Maurice said as Philippe approached and handed one of his heavy paper bags to Maurice. “How did you do? Did you score, as the Americans say?”

  Ava’s stomach fluttered and she stifled a surprised gasp at the expression. Score? As in drugs? Could these two be drug runners?

  Philippe grinned. “Blazing hot, Chef. You’ll love them.”

  “Ah, bien.” Maurice turned to Ava. “Tonight we treat the passengers to island heat. Guadeloupe’s guajillo is hotter than the house of the devil. We need to soak the peppers for half an hour in boiling hot water. Would you like to help?”

  She nodded, relief flooding through her. “Absolutely.”

  “Let’s get your packages into the back and we will start immédiatement.” The little man led Philippe away and Ava returned to her jambon Mornay. She was too jumpy, too quick to conclude. She wasn’t going to find the bad guy in the kitchen while Dane was off…wherever he was.

  Philippe approached her, adjusting his toque blanche and apron, a friendly grin on his face. “We can work on this one together, Ava. Do you mind?”

  “Love it.” She grabbed the stockpot he handed her and went to the oversized stainless sinks. “I’m surprised to see you, Philippe. I thought you said you only did prep and hated to sail.”

  “C’est vrai, yes. I do not like to sail. But the seas are calm and Arnot needed help. He is missing the help of my cousin, I’m afraid. And schedules have been juggled, calling some galley hands to Valhalla for the last cruise. So, I agreed to come.” With a colander full of deep red peppers, he joined her at the sink. “And I am likewise surprised to see you, I must admit. Have you made a decision about the lawsuit?”

  She flipped the faucet toward his peppers after filling her stockpot. “It’s complicated, Philippe. I came on this cruise to meet some of the families on the islands so that I could talk to them personally.”

  He raised both eyebrows. “Really?”

  “Dane wanted to give me an opportunity to see how they really live. To see if Boyd’s claims are true.” She hoisted the heavy pot. “And if I still believe Utopia should be sued, he told me to go ahead and enlist them.”

  “I saw him on the launch to Guadeloupe. Why didn’t you go to meet Monique Jaillet?” He shook his colander with a grunt, the last of the rinsing water falling out of the holes.

  She knew Dane wouldn’t want her talking about their suspicions, even to another cook who’d lost a cousin on Paradisio. “Dane had some other business on Guadeloupe, so I decided to stay and take the chef up on his offer to visit the galley.” She sensed he was testing her about the lawsuit. “I’m not convinced that Utopia was responsible for the shipwreck, Philippe, and it seems to me the settlements he’s offering are generous and sympathetic.”

  He said nothing as he loaded up another colander with peppers.

  “How about you? What have you decided?”

  He walked over to the iron cooktop where she’d started the water and looked directly at her, his smile gone. “I’d like to see the whole chapter closed. Stop the search, stop the lawsuits. I want to bury my cousin and move on.”

  She wondered what he’d say if he knew the shipwreck could be the result of drug running, and his cousin could be a murder victim.

  “Philippe,” she whispered, ignoring a voice that told her to shut up. “It may not be that simple.”

  He shot her a sharp look, confusion and curiosity on his face. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean…” She looked around the galley. “There might be more to the accident than bad navigation.”

  Philippe opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Maurice appeared behind them, wooden spoons flying, his usual entourage of three cooks in tow.

  As Maurice launched into a lecture in mixed English and French on who should handle the grilled lamb with guajillo peppers, Ava’s conscience berated her. She tried to tell herself she hadn’t revealed anything, but she knew she’d planted questions in Philippe’s mind. In a few minutes, the activity level soared and everyone was too busy to talk. She was relieved not to have to finish her conversation with Philippe but got lost in the dizzying pace and physical labor of cooking for over a hundred people.

  The dishes clanged against stainless steel; the aromas of seafood and vegetables and savory sauces filled the galley. Maurice stood beside her, arranging a marinated white bean and chipotle chili salad that was in keeping with the evening’s hot pepper island theme.

  “Magnifique!” He kissed his hands like a cartoon character French chef. “And you did not break the beans with overcooking! A common error.”

  “But I’m not common,” she teased flirtatiously, wiping a damp spot on her temple with her wrist.

  “That would be obvious to a blind man.” Dane’s voice came from right behind her, and she whirled around.

  “Oh! You’re…you’re back.” His hair was sweaty and stuck to his head. His T-shirt was filthy and he…well, he smelled. Bad. “You look like you had a rough day.”

  No smile curled his lips in response. His gaze darkened and he lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “Can you tear yourself away from here for a few minutes?”

  “Of course. I’m just helping out.”

  “Come on.” He reached for her hand and then seemed to notice the dirt on his own. He just tilted his head toward the back door. “Let’s go.”

  Maurice stopped cooking long enough to shoot an unfriendly look at Dane. “She is quite talented, you know.” His eyes softened as he looked at Ava. “But he is right. You should not be working, cherie. Go upstairs and dine. You’ve done enough.”

  “Thank you.” She reached behind her to untie the apron. “I’ve had fun. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  She dropped the apron onto a pile of soiled linens and followed Dane out of the galley. Without a word, he strode down a hallway to a set of stairs that led up two levels, to a deserted corner of the main deck where they sat on a cushion meant for sunbathing. Her heart thumped at his silence.

  “Have you said anything to anyone?” he demande
d.

  His sharp tone grated on her. “For God’s sake, Dane. How about ‘how are you’ and ‘hello.’ Or do you just think you can grab me from whatever I’m doing and tear me away like I’m some kind of wayward child—”

  “Have you talked to anyone at all? Ava, I need to know.”

  “No. I’ve been in the galley.” Just a few words to a sous-chef. Nothing he needed to know. “Do you suspect the cooks?”

  “I suspect everyone until I know differently,” he said. “Did you tell anyone in there about what we saw yesterday? About what you heard on Valhalla?”

  “No.” It wasn’t a lie. She watched him run a hand through his hair, which didn’t help how disheveled it looked. She knew the sign by now; he was troubled. “What did you find in Guadeloupe?”

  “More than I bargained for. I have to talk to Genevieve right away. I’ve called to have the Utopia plane in Nevis tomorrow. I hope it’s not too late.”

  She cursed the disappointment that tugged at her. They weren’t on vacation together, so why did his leaving make her feel cheated? Then she realized what he’d said.

  “Too late? Too late for what?”

  “I’m certain my poking around the drug lords of Guadeloupe is going to get out. I’m worried about her—”

  “About her? She is the drug lord, for crying out loud! She knows what happened on that ship and is letting you take the rap for it. Go to the freaking police, Dane!”

  “I will, Ava. But not here. The police have probably been bought. This kind of corruption can go up to the highest level.”

  He stared at her, but she could tell his mind was far away. Processing. Planning.

  “I’ll start with the constable in St. Barts. I think that’s safe. If there are Americans involved, it will go to the FBI. Europeans will be Scotland Yard or Interpol. And certainly the DEA.” He sighed heavily. “What a mess.”

  “You’re a mess too,” she said. “What happened?”

  He plucked at his ragged T-shirt and grinned. “Well, I got out before anyone shot me.”

  Her gaze widened at the words. “What did you find out?”