Tropical Getaway

  Since the Grenadians still loved Americans for saving their asses from Castro back in the 1980s, the locals offered some space in their pathetic little precinct station to use as jail cells and interrogation rooms. The poor slobs didn’t even have concrete on all the floors, but they spoke English and made coffee and had a working phone system. It was all Max and his little crew needed to get the job done.

  Max spent all day and all night with four of the six goons they found baby-sitting the warehouse, but they told him little that he didn’t already know. This French kid, though, he was hiding something. This one had potential.

  “You ever been in jail, kid?” Max spun the used ashtray in circles, not looking directly at his target.

  “Je ne comprends pas.”

  He didn’t understand. Max would bet a bunch that he did.

  “You’re going to rot in one, my man. You are going today. No one’s going to fly up from Colombia and save your French butt.”

  A shadow crossed the young, tough face. He definitely spoke English.

  “Of course,” Max said slowly, still twirling the ashtray. “We might be able to arrange something else for you.”

  Their gazes locked.

  Jack Wilson stuck his head in the door and signaled for Max, who leaned closer to the stinky kid. “Think about it, garçon.”

  Max closed the door to the room and spat on the dirt floor. Little French bastard. “’Sup?”

  “We ran an id on this one. He’s been picked up twice in Paris for dealing and left the country about four months ago to work on some cruise ship.”

  Max nodded. Could be something there. Who would hire a known dealer to work on a cruise ship, but someone who wanted to use him to do what he did best? It was a clue to the high-quality luggage and possibly the crates of spices.

  “But there’s something else.”

  “What?” A flicker of anticipation burned in Max’s belly at the look on Wilson’s face.

  “The owner of that very same cruise line called every damn DEA office in the Caribbean and Miami yesterday to report some illegal drug deliveries being made from his ships.”

  Max scratched his day-old beard. “He called to report what?”

  “According to the Port of Spain office, he’s left urgent messages for you.”

  “Who is he?”

  Wilson nodded, as if expecting the question. “Erikson. Dane Erikson. Owns a bunch of fancy passenger sailing ships out of St. Barts. Utopia Adventures.”

  “Utopia?” Max frowned. “Didn’t they just lose a ship in the hurricane? I read about it. Twenty-some crewmen died in the storm.”

  “Want us to call the guy?”

  Max glanced at the door to the interrogation room. His gut was on fire and it wasn’t the lousy coffee he’d been drinking. It was intuition. “No. Could scare him into hiding. He could be a missing link, a mole, a decoy. Who knows? Get some agents to pick him up and get him here. Maybe PePe LePuke will talk to his boss.”

  Dane covered Ava with a blanket just as he heard the engine in his driveway. She stirred and turned into the wool with a soft moan. He tucked back a strand of long, dark hair that had fallen over her cheek.

  Before someone could ring the bell and wake her, he went to the door and peered out the glass sidelight. Two clean-cut white men in oxford shirts and long pants were getting out of a Gurgel. They didn’t look like drug mafia. They looked like preppies with an attitude. He walked out to meet them.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Are you Dane Erikson?” The taller one looked directly at him while the other one surreptitiously checked out the house. At Dane’s nod, they both reached into their jackets, and for a millisecond Dane wondered if he’d made a mistake and was about to be shot. id badges with giant red letters came out instead of guns. DEA.

  “Special Agent Quinn MacPherson,” one of them identified himself.

  “It’s about time,” Dane said, looking from one to the other. “Do you have men at the ships already?”

  They ignored the question, and the agent named MacPherson stepped closer to him. “Mr. Erikson, do you know a man by the name of Jacques Basille?”

  A body. They must have found Basille’s body. “I did.”

  MacPherson lifted his brows. “Did?”

  “He’s dead.” Dane closed his arms across his chest. “He went down in a shipwreck off the coast of Grenada in the hurricane last month. What’s this about? Are you here for an investigation of my ships?”

  With a deepening frown, MacPherson shook his head. “He’s not dead. He’s in a jail cell in Sauteurs, Grenada.”

  Dane felt every ounce of blood drain from his head.

  “That’s impossible,” he choked. “He was on a ship that went down in Hurricane Carlos. He was one of twenty-one men who died.”

  “Maybe only twenty,” MacPherson said with a shrug. “We need you to come with us, Mr. Erikson. Now.”

  A spark of hope ignited. “Is he by himself? Were there others…others from Utopia with Basille?”

  “Others, but not with the same background checks.” The agent looked down at Dane’s feet. “You probably want to get some shoes on, Mr. Erikson. We’re leaving in five minutes for Grenada.” A piercing gaze sent his message. “With you.”

  “Do you realize I’ve been trying to reach you guys for twelve hours?” he barked at them. “I’m on your side, for Christ’s sake.”

  The other agent finally spoke in a gruff tone. “Let’s go, Mr. Erikson.”

  Ava. He couldn’t leave her here alone, and she certainly wasn’t going to some town in Grenada. “I want someone to watch the house. I’ve got a house guest and I think we might be in danger.”

  “We’re not bodyguards, Mr. Erikson.” MacPherson’s words were delivered with more than a hint of malice. “We’re here to get you to Grenada. You have five minutes.”

  The other agent took a step to follow Dane into the house.

  “Look.” Dane turned on him and pointed his finger in his chest. “I’m coming with you. You don’t need to coerce me. Let me take care of something in here and I’ll be out with three minutes to spare.”

  Without a word, the agents backed up and Dane went into his house. From the study, he telephoned Claire to get people to the house to stay with Ava. Then, he crouched on the floor next to the sofa and set a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Wake up, princess.”

  Her dark lashes fluttered and lifted.

  “I have to leave.”

  A flash of fear crossed her face, but she hid it immediately. “Okay. Where are you going?”

  He couldn’t possibly give her hope that might be dashed so badly that she’d have to start mourning Marco all over again. Anyway, he had no idea where he was going.

  “To the Paradisio search and rescue command center.” It wasn’t too far from Grenada, he rationalized. Just twenty miles off the coast.

  She started to sit up. “Did they find something?”

  “No, yes. Maybe.” He tugged the blanket up to her shoulders. “You just stay here. Some people from Utopia will be here any minute. You’ll never be alone.”

  “What did they find?”

  He looked away, hating to lie right into her gorgeous, trusting eyes. “A body.”

  She sucked in air. “Was it—”

  “We don’t know who it is,” he said hurriedly. “I’m going to make an identification. I’ll call you.”

  “What about the ships? The investigation?”

  “Just stay here, please.” He cupped her delicate jaw. “Ava, please don’t leave. Don’t try to take matters into your own hands.”

  A slight frown deepened her eyebrows. “Sometimes I can’t help it.”

  He leaned across the small space between them and kissed her cheek softly, willing her to listen to him. “My woman of action. Please stay put until I call you.”

  She touched the spot on her cheek where his lips had been. “I’ll try,” she whispered.

  “Promise?”

 
She just smiled and closed her eyes.

  She couldn’t have broken the promise if she’d wanted to. Within minutes, Utopians started to arrive. Ava found the guest room with her bag in it, then she showered and dressed for another day of waiting and wondering. Two sleepless nights had taken their toll. The shadows under her eyes were nearly black and her skin looked drawn and pale. Some vacation in paradise, she thought wryly as she brushed her hair.

  “Hello, luv. You in there?”

  “Cassie!” Ava threw the brush on the bathroom counter and flung open the door into the bedroom. “What are you doing here?” She embraced the tiny woman with a flood of relief.

  “The ships have been called back, don’t you know?”

  “Yes, of course,” Ava answered. “But it was so fast.”

  Cassie sat down on the queen-size bed. “No kidding. We spun around and motored back like a race was on. We’ve got some very unhappy passengers in Gustavia, I can tell you that. They’re still trying to sort it all out, but I came to find Dane as soon as I heard.”

  “He’s gone to the search site. He said they found a body.”

  “Oh, God.” Cassie put her head in her hands and sighed from her heart.

  Ava sat next to her and wrapped a comforting arm around her. “Are you okay? Do you feel all right?”

  Cassie smiled and put her hand on her tummy. “Yes. But Junior’s moving, Ava. I thought it was a bit of gas, then I realized it must be a wee foot or hand!”

  “Oh!” Ava brightened and put her hand on Cassie’s stomach as well.

  “He evidently doesn’t like solid ground, since I’ve felt it about six times since I got off the ship.”

  They laughed at the marvel of it, but the mood disappeared quickly. “Dear Lord, it’s so horrible about Genevieve,” Cassie groaned. “What is going on in our little company? Are we cursed?”

  “Evidently, quite a lot is going on in your little company,” Ava ventured. She needed to talk to someone. That didn’t break her promise.

  Cassie frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “Drugs.”

  “What?”

  “Someone’s been shipping drugs on Utopia cruises, Cassie. I…we…think it might have had something to do with Paradisio. And Genevieve.”

  Cassie froze; her jaw dropped in complete shock. “What? What are you talking about?”

  Ava told Cassie everything she knew. It was sheer relief to unburden herself to a willing and attentive audience. She relayed the conversation she’d overheard, described the trip to the crack house, and highlighted Dane’s discoveries in Guadeloupe. She even told her of the knife in her bed.

  “I had no idea anything was going on. I’m sure if Marco suspected, he would have told me.” Cassie began to pace the room. “Who could it be, Ava? Who are the drug runners within Utopia? I know and trust everyone.”

  “Cassie, who could have gotten into my cabin to stick that knife in the headboard?”

  Cassie crossed her arms. “Just about anyone, luv. It’s a well-kept secret in the business, but master keys are frightfully simple to come by. Even the Owner’s Suite, I’m afraid. You’ve got to keep the chain lock on while you’re in there, and when you’re gone…who knows?”

  “How about Spanish-speaking crewmen? On Valhalla?”

  “Dozens of them.” She leaned back against an antique dresser, deep in thought. “I don’t want to say anything bad about the dead, but Genevieve always hated Marco. She was as jealous as a mad cat of anyone who spent time with Dane. Consequently, she had it in for Marco. She’d have done anything to see him leave this company.”

  “Really? Was she that bad?” Ava tucked her legs under her and studied Cassie. “She seemed so self-assured and, I don’t know, poised.”

  “Raised with money, yes. But self-assured?” Cassie shook her head. “I always thought she was a bit touched, if you know what I mean. And Dane was blind to it.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, she did an awesome job of marketing the company and managing the details when it got too big for one person to handle. And he’s always felt he owed his entire success to her grandfather. I suppose it was best for him to try to ignore her…eccentricities.”

  “He wouldn’t ignore suspicions of drug running,” Ava said, defending him.

  “No. But he refused to face the fact that she followed him around like a lovesick puppy and turned into an evil witch every time he took up with another woman.”

  Ava’s heart sank at the comment. “How often was that?” she asked casually.

  “Oh, I guess not that often. But enough to make life hell for the staff of Utopia where Genevieve was concerned.”

  “How…how long did they last? These women?”

  Cassie’s face softened as she looked at Ava and then pointedly at the bed that had obviously not been slept in. “Oh, boy. Too late for you, huh?”

  Ava fought a guilty smile. “No, it’s not like that.”

  “Oh, darlin’. You are so wrong. It is like that.”

  Ava shook her head in a denial she didn’t know how to voice.

  “He is an attractive man.” Cassie dropped next to Ava on the bed, taking her hands. “And he’s good as gold, really. It’s just that…”

  “What?” She wasn’t at all sure she wanted to know.

  “I don’t want to see you fall for him and get hurt.”

  It had been a long night in the living room. During it, she began to understand the influences that had shaped him as he let her peek into his heart and head. She began to appreciate his deliberate and methodical approach to situations. And the entire time, she saw him fight the same overwhelming physical urges that plagued her.

  “Too late, luv?”

  Ava just smiled wistfully, unwilling to admit that she was in danger of falling hard for Dane Erikson.

  The discomfort of a turbulent two-hour flight in a rickety government plane followed by a forty-five-minute drive through the mud and mountains of Grenada numbed Dane’s sleep-deprived body. He tried to let it do the same to his mind, but it wouldn’t stop. He could think of nothing but the remote and outrageous possibility that Paradisio had survivors.

  His traveling companions said little to him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that MacPherson and Dombrowsky were treating him as a suspect, albeit with kid gloves. Dane concentrated on the sunrise over the Caribbean and thought through every imaginable scenario. How the hell did Jacques Basille get to Grenada?

  He remembered the moment he and Stuart O’Rourke made the decision to keep the cook onboard. Every single crewman left on Paradisio had a critical role. Feeding them while they got back to safety was critical too, he’d argued with the captain. In the end, when the list of twenty-one was complete, Basille had made the cut. Since then, Dane had a hard time looking at Philippe Basille, sensing the anger from Jacques’s cousin.

  Maybe not anger, Dane thought with a start. Maybe fear. Maybe guilt.

  The truck rumbled into a quiet village and stopped at one of the rundown buildings on the main street. Wordlessly, they got out, and the agents took a position on either side of Dane. He fought the urge to shove them each away, keeping his arms at his sides as they entered what appeared to be a police headquarters, jail, and courthouse combination. His gut tightened.

  In a dimly lit entranceway, a solid bull of a man leaned against a worn metal desk, handling a Glock as though the weapon were a toy. His deep brown eyes met Dane’s, and the two assessed each other silently. He was easily Dane’s own height of six feet, maybe a little more, with broad, square shoulders and a muscular neck. His clean-cut black hair revealed a few salted strands. A fierce shadow from a couple days’ growth of whiskers toughened what would probably be a passably good-looking face. His square jaw was set tightly as his gaze traveled over Dane.

  “Mr. Erikson.” He stuck the gun into his shoulder holster. “I’m Max Roper. Nice of you to come on such short notice.”

  “I tried calling first,” Dane said dryly. “I wa
nt to see Basille.”

  Roper nodded but made no move. “Why were you calling me?”

  “Does the name Estaphan Calliope mean anything to you?”

  Roper rubbed his whiskers, his dark brown gaze steady and clear. “It could.”

  “Let’s not play games, Roper. I’m not your man. I don’t deal in drugs; I run a cruise business. But I seem to have let a few of the wrong people work for me, and I’d like to help you stop it.”

  “That’s fine, Mr. Erikson. But I have a few questions for you.”

  Dane felt the muscles in his neck tense. He inhaled a calming breath before he spoke. “I want to go see the son of a bitch who I thought was dead with twenty other of my men, and find out what the hell happened to them. Then I will answer all of your goddamn questions.”

  “Why’d you think he was dead?”

  “We lost contact with the ship when it was close to a hurricane. We never found so much as a piece of wood from it after weeks of searching the area. The U.S. Coast Guard has classified all remaining crew as presumed dead.”

  Roper grinned. “Those guys have been known to presume wrong.”

  Dane shot a look that matched Roper’s sarcastic tone. “That’s what I’m hoping to find out.”

  “Are you?” Roper crossed his arms. “I understand some people think you navigated the ship into the storm. Perhaps you wanted it lost for some reason? Insurance money? To pay off drug debts?”

  If he hadn’t been so anxious to get to Basille, Dane would have laughed. “Roper, you got the wrong goddamned man. I don’t know who you’re looking for, but I might be able to help. Want to let me?”

  Roper’s solid block of shoulders relaxed a little. “I want to know where the rest of the transshipment points are and who’s the top guy in the Caribbean behind this. If you can get him to tell you what happened to your ship, that’s fine. But the first two things are what I really care about.”

  Dane reached into his pocket and handed Genevieve’s list to the agent. “Here are your trans shipment points. Let me talk to him and I’ll find out the rest.”

  After Cassie left, Ava was too emotionally drained to make small talk with the few Utopians who wandered about. Marj showed up early and busied herself with chores. She didn’t seem to mind Ava’s browsing through the bookshelves in Dane’s study.