He took the knife into the sitting room and wrapped it in the tissue paper he’d brought the scarf in.
He closed his eyes, grabbing onto the memory of the ecstasy they’d very nearly shared. God, he ached for her, literally. But his hard-on for Ava Santori was the least of his problems now.
Yet it didn’t feel like pure physical craving. It didn’t feel like something that could be satisfied with the kind of sex they were headed toward on that bed. But there was something else bothering him. Talking to her, looking at her. Son of a bitch, just being in the same room with her made him feel something. Whole. That’s what it was. She made him feel whole.
He jerked the sliding glass door open and stepped onto the balcony to erase the ridiculous thought with fresh sea air. Whatever was going on in his head, and other places, would wear off and the inevitable would happen. His walls would come up and his alarm would go off. She deserved more than that. All her spunk and determination, all her hotwired passion. Those enigmatic eyes and that soul-wrenching mouth. She deserved a guy worthy of it all. Not him.
Impossible as it seemed ten minutes ago, he’d have to keep his hands off her. Then, she’d leave the islands. And once she did, the memory of her would fade before the next full cycle of the moon.
11
T he shrill tones of his pager yanked Max Roper from an icy dream of shoveling snow uphill, on the steeply angled driveway of his childhood home. His arms ached from scraping metal against the frozen mountain, the white flakes turning gray as they danced through the polluted air of Billy Buck Hill in Pittsburgh. Bitter cold burned his lungs. Shoveling snow uphill, he thought as his mind cleared. A perfect metaphor for his life.
He tossed back the sheet and reached for his pager. Or maybe the dream was due to the fact that he’d set his air conditioner to “freeze your balls off” so he could sleep in the miserable heat and humidity of Trinidad. A dismal attempt to stay cool and dry so that mold didn’t grow in his ears before he ever got the hell home, to the USA.
He peered at the orange glow of his digital pager’s display. Nine-one-one followed the familiar digits of his office. Good. Things had been pretty damn dull down here, and he hadn’t accepted the assignment for the pure fun of sweating in Satan’s playground. No way, man. Special Agent Maximillan P. Roper III wanted to kick some scum-sucking drug-dealing ass. But, so far, the only ass getting kicked since the Drug Enforcement Administration moved him to this inferno six months ago was his own.
He reached his desk in one swift movement and picked up the secure phone line to call his office. Come on, man, gimme something good. He hit the speed dial.
The line was answered instantly by the poor schmuck who pulled the unenviable overnight duty at the DEA’s office in Port of Spain, Trinidad. Someone even more desperate than Max Roper.
There were no niceties exchanged.
“Pack, Roper. We just opened up a warehouse in Grenada and hit a mother lode.”
“Grenada? Is there anything left up there?” He frowned in the dark and scratched his crotch with his free hand. “I thought everything was wiped out by the hurricane.”
“Somebody got sloppy when they had to move about nine hundred kilos of coke out of St. George’s after the storm hit. It ended up in some dumpy town called Sauteurs about twenty-five miles north. Wilson and Dombrowsky tracked them over the last couple of days and they finished the raid about two hours ago. We got about nine kilos of smack, a miniarsenal, and the makings of a fine science lab. They made six arrests. You definitely want to talk to these morons.”
Max’s heart skipped a beat. There was only one reason to bring him in to grill some drug flunkies in Grenada after the undercover agents had handled the raid: Operation Carib. It was finally going to start.
“Port Salines still closed?” Grenada’s airport, located in the southernmost tip of the island, had been mowed down by the vicious winds of Hurricane Carlos. He doubted that those slow-as-molasses islanders had it up and running yet, even though legions of Red Cross and disaster volunteers had descended after the storm.
“Oh, yeah. And St. George’s is done in for months too,” the agent told him, referring to Grenada’s capital city. “Nothing but dead and dying left around there. The place is a mess. They opened up the old Pearls Airport on the northeastern shore and you can drive through the mountains to Sauteurs. Wilson or Dombrowsky will meet you. They smell the link you’ve been looking for, Roper.”
Max hoped so. He spent six months doing housekeeping after his predecessor had racked up twenty-three hundred arrests and seized enough coke, heroine, morphine base, and marijuana to keep every junkie east of the Mississippi high for three months. Operation Conquistador was one of the most successful campaigns in the history of the DEA, and he had done a lousy job of maintenance after the cleaning crew went home.
Those shrewd Colombian bastards had pulled the whole system back together as fast as lightning and Max hadn’t even been able to find a single new transshipment point. This was only the second respectable bust on his watch. Resources were fewer than white women down here, and no decent agents wanted to pull this duty, even with the incentives the DEA had packaged up for them.
And he was never going to get back to snow and blessed cold and Steelers games if he didn’t figure out how these mothers were shipping the shit and who was behind it.
The DEA had not officially sanctioned Operation Carib. It was his baby, named for the bloodthirsty warriors who controlled the Caribbean for more than three hundred years before old Chris Columbus made a wrong turn into paradise. Fierce and vicious, Caribs preferred eating their enemies to fishing. Just like the animals who did the dirty work for the Cali Mafia all over the Caribbean.
He packed in the dark, like he had a million times. He knew better than to bring any attention to his tiny apartment by turning on the light. The locals knew he was the head guy for the DEA in the Caribbean. They respected him and kept their distance. Still, he didn’t need to broadcast his middle-of-the-night departures.
He slapped a clip in his forty-caliber Baby Glock and checked the safety. Probably wouldn’t need it for interrogation, but he never left home without it.
He hadn’t focused too much on Grenada lately. His mistake, maybe. Wilson and Dombrowsky had been awfully quiet, and he’d assumed the hurricane had slowed down their undercover work on the Island of Spice. Instead, it had led them to a sting. Good work, boys.
Over the last sixty days, DEA and the Coast Guard had picked up two dozen go-fasts tearing through the Caribbean. All empty. Somehow, they were getting shipments moved. In the last six months, they’d changed their typical delivery patterns. The sons of bitches created new transshipment points overnight, bribed the longshoreman and ticket counter agents, and corrupted every law enforcement officer. They were unstoppable and hiding in every corner of every island. Like cockroaches that just wouldn’t die.
Someone in the Caribbean was masterminding this, but none of the suspects they’d been watching for months checked out.
Maybe these new jokers would give them a clue.
He threw his bag over his shoulder, quietly closed the door behind him, and headed for the airport.
The faint aroma of salt and soap clung to everything in Dane Erikson’s cabin. The sheets were fresh, but Ava could still pick up his scent. It made her want him. It made her restless and hungry and confused.
They hadn’t spoken much once inside his L-shaped cabin. In the bathroom, she put on a T-shirt and running shorts and then climbed tentatively into his bed while he settled on a love seat around the corner. She doubted he slept much more than she did. She heard the click of keys on a laptop, then paper rustling, and eventually, silence. Plotting and planning, scheming and strategizing. That was Dane Erikson.
She took a deep breath and the scent conjured up the taste of his mouth and the power of his hands, forcing her to bite her lips to keep from moaning at the memory. That took her back to the gruesome image of the knife stuck in her headboa
rd.
She turned over quietly, not wanting to draw his attention. But the potent sensations assaulted her again at the thought of him just a few yards away. By dawn, the weight of sleep deprivation made her body ache. She got out of bed, brushed her teeth, and prepared to face him.
In the early morning light, she could see the dusting of golden hair on his long, tan legs and his bare feet hanging over the side of the love seat. His arms embraced his own chest, probably to keep from flopping off the undersize sofa. A tangle of honey-streaked hair fell softly around a not so cleanly shaven face. She turned away, unwilling to wake him.
“How’d’ya sleep, princess?”
She started. Like a caged animal in heat. “Fine.”
He opened his eyes and shot her a grin far too pronounced for a man who’d really been sleeping. As he dropped his legs to the floor to sit up, she noticed he still wore last night’s khaki shorts and pullover shirt. She wondered if the scarf was still in his pocket.
“Want some coffee?”
She shook her head. “Am I allowed to go back to my room?”
His gaze darkened into a cobalt blue that matched the water behind him. “You’re not a prisoner, Ava. I’m just trying to make sure you’re safe.”
“Fine. Can I go pack or do you want to do that for me?”
Evidently, he chose to ignore her sarcasm. “You’ll need to meet me on deck at ten. After we drop anchor in Nevis, we’re going straight to the airport. The Utopia plane will be waiting for us.”
“And when we get to St. Barts?”
“You can stay with me.” At her reaction, he added, “I have a separate guesthouse on the property, Ava. And guest rooms in the house.”
More of his scent to assail her. “All right. I’d like to go back now.”
He slowly stood, his gaze never leaving her face. “Ava, I’m not fooling around with your personal safety. Believe me, you’re better off with me than in a hotel somewhere.”
She bit her lip and avoided looking directly at him.
“Hey.” He reached across the space that separated them and nudged her chin up. “Did I come anywhere near you last night? I can control myself.”
She felt her cheeks heat but managed to glare at him. “I don’t want to be under constant surveillance and protection, Dane.”
“That’s not what’s bothering you, Ava,” he said softly.
“It certainly is,” she lied.
“It’s a mutual attraction. Very natural.” He moved to a small wet bar and began making coffee. “You’re fairly easy to read.”
She stared at his back. She didn’t want to be easy to read. She wanted to be fascinating. Mysterious. The kind of alluring, worldly woman he no doubt entertained regularly in the mornings. She sighed. Not in this lifetime.
The coffeemaker bubbled, starting up its task.
“That’s a fact, Dane. What you see is what you get. I’m a cook. A daughter of a chef, a granddaughter of a chef, the great-niece of a chef, and maybe, someday, I’ll be the mother of a chef.”
He turned toward her, but she didn’t let him speak.
“I’m not here to have some kind of island fling. I came here because I had a hand in screwing up my brother’s life and then found out he was dead. I got on the plane to put some sort of closure on a very painful chapter of my life. I’m going to stay until you or I or the FBI or the CIA or someone figures out what the hell happened on that ship. Then I’m going back home to be a cook again.”
“So, why aren’t you married?”
“Why aren’t you?” she shot back.
“You’re the one making speeches about baby chefs.” A sparkle danced in his eyes. “I am well known as a solitary man.”
“Solitary, but not celibate.” The words were out before she could swallow them.
He raised an eyebrow and leaned on the counter. “At this particular moment I am.”
She said nothing, consciously silencing the questions and retorts that rang in her head.
“And you?” He frowned a little, as though he didn’t want to ask and, maybe, didn’t want to know. Would her response make any difference to him?
“Both. Solitary and celibate.” At this particular moment.
“I’m surprised you haven’t found a nice Italian boy to help make baby chefs.”
She smiled. “They’re all scared of me.”
“You hit them, no doubt.” He laughed a little and held her gaze, then turned back to the hissing coffeemaker. “And while I’m sure you’d be able to swat your way out of any danger, I do believe you’ll be safer at my house when we get back.” He flipped a white mug over to pour. “Sure you don’t want a cup?”
“No, I don’t.” She did, but she wanted to get away from him more. “I’m going to get my things.”
She dressed in less than five minutes, refusing to look at her face in the mirror or consider a drop of makeup. This wasn’t a romantic morning after, and she didn’t want to mull over his solitude or celibacy one minute longer. Finger combing her curls, she gathered her cosmetic bag and the clothes she’d slept in and found him in the sitting area, finishing his coffee.
Ava held up her hands in protest as he stood to join her. “No, please. I can find my way back. Not even knife-carrying criminals are up this early.”
“I’m going to the cabin with you to make sure no one has been in there overnight.” Despite her exasperated sigh, he angled his head toward the bathroom. “Give me one minute. I’ll be right back.”
“Can I at least wait outside?”
“Don’t run away.”
Like hers, Dane’s cabin opened to a passageway along the main deck. Stepping out, she heard a soft rumble to her left, and she snapped her head toward the sound. Cassie grinned from behind a rolling cart of linens and towels. Immediately, Ava realized how she must look. Guilty.
“Well, well. That didn’t take long, luv.”
“No, Cassie.” An unwelcome heat wave rushed to Ava’s face. “It’s not what you think. I had to…someone…it’s not what you think.”
Cassie’s smile broadened. “I don’t care, sweetie. It’s the ship. Happens all the time.”
“No, it’s not how it looks,” Ava said lamely. “It’s…not fun.”
“Well that’s a pity.” Cassie shook her head. “It’s supposed to be fun.”
There would be no convincing Cassie that she and Dane hadn’t just shared every imaginable intimacy. And she didn’t feel like trying.
“Listen, Cassie. I’m going back to St. Barts with Dane. Today. From Nevis.”
Cassie stopped the cart in front of Dane’s door and frowned. “Why?”
“Long story. But I’ll stay with him—in his guesthouse—until you return from this cruise. Is your offer still good? Could I stay with you when you get back?”
Cassie’s penetrating green eyes swept over Ava’s face, ignoring the question. “You don’t look so great. Not like you should after a night with him.”
Ava shook her head. “I’m fine and it really isn’t what you think. Trust me.”
“I do, luv.” Cassie rubbed Ava’s arm with reassuring warmth. “We’ll be home in a couple of days. Of course you can stay with me.”
How much could she tell Cassie without terrifying her? “Cassie, listen. A lot is going on. It’s too complicated to explain, but it will all come out eventually. Then you’ll understand.”
Cassie leaned on her cart, a rare serious expression on her face. “Just be careful, luv. He’s a heartbreaker.”
The cabin door opened and Dane came out. He lifted his eyebrows in surprise at Cassie. “Good to see housekeeping’s up and at it early,” he said.
“And management too.” She winked at him and pushed the cart away.
Before he left for the deck, Dane tried Genevieve’s cell phone again. Voice mail. Where the hell was she? He didn’t want to go to the constable or alert anyone to the situation until he’d had a chance to talk to her; he owed her that much. Hell, he owed her grandfathe
r a whole lot more. He called his secretary, Claire, who hadn’t heard from Genevieve either, and then he tried her home phone repeatedly. Nothing.
Ava waited for him near the tender embarkation, in intimate conversation with that dog Arnot, who obviously wanted more from her than a little assistance in the galley. They stopped talking as soon as he approached.
“It is a disappointment that my new sous-chef is leaving, Monsieur Erikson.” Arnot peered at him with his beady brown eyes. The bon vivant French chef act really annoyed Dane. Especially when it worked so well on Ava, who all but melted into a puddle around the little twerp.
“I’m sure you two have had a chance to exchange recipes,” he said dryly and turned to her. “You all set?”
She hugged Arnot. “Merci beaucoup, Chef. I’ll see you on dry land, I promise.”
“Ah, cherie, I leave this ship and go right back to Valhalla, then Celestia. Eventually, I will get a holiday. Hopefully before you leave for home.”
Ignoring Dane’s watchful eye, Arnot air kissed both Ava’s cheeks and then planted one right on her lips. The little son of a bitch.
“Okay, kids. You’ll only be separated for two days.” Dane put his arm around her with a deliberate squeeze and guided her toward the platform. “We need to go.”
They hadn’t settled on the seats of the launch before she attacked. “Why are you so rude to him? He’s a—”
“Genius. I know.”
She tapped his forearm. “Yes, as a matter of fact, he is. And a very nice man. Unusual for great chefs, you know.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met any.” Dane pulled his sunglasses out of his pocket and polished the lenses with his shirt before putting them on. “Present company excluded, of course.”
She stewed for a minute, blessedly quiet, letting him think. But all he could envision was Arnot and Ava together on the deck, whispering and serious. She couldn’t be attracted to that little geek, could she? Or perhaps they were talking about something other than ingredients.