Captain's Paradise (3 page)

He was shaking his head, an impatient frown drawing his flying brows together. “No. Everybody in these waters is jumpy as hell right now, and it’s no time to play detective. Look, I’m sorry. I’ll take you back to Miami, and that’s all I’ll do.”

She searched his face for a moment, looking for something she didn’t find. No softening, no hesitation. He seemed almost angry, definitely
brusque. He was also, she realized, worried about something, and he was tired. Very tired.

Robin looked down at the cup she was still holding. The coffee was cold. “They’re so alone.” She wasn’t trying to convince him, just talking. “We all had that in common, being alone. And being afraid. And there was—” She stopped suddenly, remembering. “There was someone else, I think. At least one other girl. I heard her crying one night, in the next cabin. She sounded awfully young, like a kid …” Her voice trailed off, and she blinked back the hot pressure of tears. When she looked at Michael Siran, his face seemed to waver, to grow indistinct.

Robin blinked harder and felt her heart lurch oddly. He was looking at her, a sudden pallor obvious beneath his tanned face. His gray eyes were chips of steel, and his lips were pressed so tightly together they seemed carved of granite. She almost shrank away from him, conscious of an instinctive fear that was primitive, as if she had stepped into a cage where some savage beast crouched in wait.

It took only that instant for Robin to realize that he wasn’t seeing her at all. It was something else he saw, something dreadful. But before she could begin even to guess what it was, the terrible expression was gone.

“All right,” he said flatly.

Robin wasn’t entirely sure she had done the right thing in asking Michael Siran for help. Something about the man bothered her, made her wary. He neither moved nor spoke quickly, yet there was something almost electric about him, like a force of nature imperfectly contained. And all her senses reacted to that force, even in her dazed state, just as they would have reacted to a storm. She was aware of him on some level deeper than thought, curiously made more aware of her own body, her own beating heart. She didn’t trust the sensation.

She didn’t really trust him.

Still, there wasn’t much she could do alone, so there had been no choice. But she was disturbed
by the entire situation. It would have been nerve-racking enough to try fighting her way through this mess alone; being unexpectedly partnered with a strange man who had had a sudden and inexplicable change of mind about helping her was even more unnerving. And he didn’t offer to explain his change of mind. Immediately after agreeing to help her, he told her she could join him on deck if she felt up to it, and that she could find clothing to fit her in one of the built-in drawers beneath the bunk.

Left alone, Robin slid off the bunk and stretched sore muscles. She didn’t know how long she’d been in the water the night before; it had been dark when she’d jumped overboard. The sleep had done her good, but she was still a bit tired and groggy.

In the bunk drawers, she found a pair of cutoff jeans that were close to her size—obviously not Michael Siran’s—and a black T-shirt. The clothes fit her better than the baggy sweatpants and flannel shirt he’d dressed her in the night before, and she changed with relief. The evening gown
she had worn had been ruined by the saltwater; she felt no regrets at losing it, but she wished now that she had been wearing a bra.

Still, she acknowledged wryly to herself, it hardly mattered. After all, Michael Siran had stripped her naked. The realization made her a bit self-conscious, and she pushed the feeling away only with effort.

She went slowly up on deck, finding herself on a relatively small cabin cruiser. The sun was still low in the east, and she saw no other ships near them. As far as she could tell, they still headed in the direction of Miami. The inboard motor started as she stood gazing around, and she made her way toward the small bridge. She paused only once, catching sight of an old-style life preserver hanging beside the cabin door. The name of the boat was stenciled on the white doughnut shape, and it made her pause in more ways than one.

Black Angel
.

Great. That was just great. Robin wasn’t overly suspicious of omens, but it struck her with a
chill that she was involved in a dangerous situation, partnered with a stranger she hardly trusted, and aboard a boat named for the angel of death.

She blamed the chill on her still-groggy state, squared her shoulders, and went on to the bridge. He was at the wheel, gazing ahead with a slight frown. She took the opportunity to study him unobserved, unsettled to discover that she was abruptly aware of her heartbeat again. There was something compelling about this man, something that kept her gaze on him like iron filings on a magnet. Tall, lean, and hard, he reminded her again of a storm, caught in a moment of stillness, like lightning in a photograph. It was hard to breathe suddenly, and she fought off the sensation with determination.

“Are we going to Miami?” she asked.

He glanced at her, the brief look taking in her change of clothing without comment, then looked ahead again. “Yes.”

“Why? The yacht wouldn’t have sailed toward a congested port—”

“There’s someone I have to get in touch with.”

Robin waited, but he didn’t elaborate. She stifled impatience, beginning to realize that this man wasn’t going to be very communicative. “Who?”

For a moment it seemed he wouldn’t answer, but then he said, “Someone who may be able to tell us something.”

At least he had said “us,” she thought. “You mean something about the yacht I was on?”

“Possibly.”

Robin folded her arms beneath her breasts and leaned back against the doorjamb. “For instance?”

He glanced at her again, one eyebrow rising. “You sound annoyed,” he noted dryly.

“I am annoyed. I’m not just along for the ride, you know.”

After a moment he said, “You lost the first bout with these animals; sure you want to try for two out of three?”

Robin kept her voice even with an effort. “No, I don’t want to do that. I want to beat them this
time. I don’t want them
in
jail, I want them
under
it. I asked for your help, I didn’t ask you to do this alone. I can—”

“What can you do?” he interrupted. “Can you handle a gun?”

“If I had to, I’m sure I could.”

“If you had to? Life or death, you mean?”

“Yes, I suppose that’s what I mean.”

“And when will you make up your mind about that?”

She frowned at him. “About what?”

“About when this becomes a life-or-death situation.” He didn’t wait for her to respond. “You were kidnapped, drugged, beaten, and shot at when you tried to escape. Now you intend to look for those same men and put them away for the duration of their natural lives. Needless to say, they won’t accept that fate meekly. They may decide, given the chance, to shoot at you a bit more. Is that when you plan to shoot back?”

“If it comes to—”

He swore roughly. “Little fool.”

Robin stiffened. Angrily she said, “You have
no right to say such a thing! You don’t know anything about me or my abilities.”

He half turned to stare at her, keeping one hand on the wheel. “No, I don’t know you,” he agreed flatly. “But I know
them
. I know their kind. They don’t give a sweet damn about the sanctity of life, Robin. They solve every problem with guns and violence, and they’ll solve the problem you present the same way.”

She almost flinched from the hardness of his voice—especially with the memory of too many other hard voices still rawly alive in her mind—but made herself remain still. Her chin lifted. “And I know
that
. I’m not a fool, whatever you think, and I’m not stupid. But whether you like it or not, I’m a part of this. For one thing, I know what that yacht looks like.”

“Do you? One yacht looks pretty much like another.”

“I can identify some of the men.”

“If you get close enough.”

Robin’s frustration grew, and she tried to keep her voice calm and level. She felt cold inside, and
afraid and alone, and the thought of facing those men again terrified her, but she couldn’t let him see that. “Mr. Siran—”

“Michael,” he interrupted, adding sardonically, “since we’re in this together.”

She ignored the tone. “Michael, you weren’t with those girls. I was. I felt the needles, and the cruelty, and the terror of being kidnapped. I felt the horror and anguish of believing I’d be bought and used and sold like a piece of merchandise.” Robin was hardly aware that her voice had gone flat and steely, but it didn’t escape the man beside her.

She took a deep breath. “This is my fight a hell of a lot more than it is yours. I’ll do anything I have to do to stop those men. Anything. That’s something you can
count
on.”

“I see.”

Robin wondered if he believed her. She wondered if she believed herself. She was so afraid. And this time her fear could endanger others rather than just herself. This time her fear could get someone killed.

“Robin …” He hesitated. “I understand how you feel. You were degraded, even dehumanized, by what happened to you. And now you’re mad, and you want to get even.”

“I want justice.”

“Be honest with yourself.” He turned his head to give her a long, steady look. “You want to get even.”

Reluctantly she admitted, “That’s part of it. But not all. I want to help those other girls, and I want those men stopped.”

Michael turned his gaze forward again. “All right. But this isn’t a game for amateurs.”

Her curiosity about this man had been growing, and she took advantage of the opening. “Which you aren’t?”

He was silent for a moment, and then shrugged. “Which I’m not,” he agreed flatly.

“You’re an—expert at dangerous games?” When he remained silent, she probed determinedly. “You weren’t surprised by white slavers; most people would be. You talk about men of violence as if you know them well. You sail a
boat named for the angel of death. Tell me something, Michael. What do you do for a living?”

He smiled. “I run a charter service.”

Robin silently weighed his tone, which was flippant, and studied the quick, somewhat menacing smile. Oddly enough, she wasn’t afraid of him, but she thought a great many people would be. “Are you a smuggler?”

Michael didn’t seem surprised by the question. “No.”

“Gun runner?”

He shook his head slightly, and seemed amused. “I notice you’ve placed me squarely among the bad guys,” he commented.

“Am I wrong in that?”

His look of amusement faded. “No. No, that’s where I generally tend to be. Among the bad guys.”

On impulse she said, “But you wear a white hat?”

He glanced at her, and his face hardened. “Dirty gray, maybe. White hats don’t stay clean very long, Robin. Filth rubs off.”

It was a disturbing comment, but because of her own background Robin was less unsettled than many would have been; she came from a long line of police officers, and knew what Michael meant. It
was
a dirty business, policing your own people, especially when the minority of those people, the lawbreakers, were often in the filthy business of using their own kind as a means for profit.

But it nonetheless bothered her that this man could well be the kind of man prevalent in her own family: the tough, fearless, confident kind of man who was a born police officer. In the last few years she had learned to resent some aspects of that kind of man, particularly the trait of fearlessness. They made it look so
easy
, those men, and at times she had hated them for it.

Because what came so easily to them was something Robin would have given anything to possess: courage.

She looked at his big, powerful hands on the wheel, and felt her throat tighten, her mouth go dry.
Damn … Oh, damn …
She dragged the
traitorous thoughts back into hiding, refusing to give in to this mad attraction. Fiercely, she concentrated.

“Are you a cop?” she asked, almost hoping for a negative response.

Michael seemed to consider for a moment, then shrugged. “Something like that.”

“DEA?” she asked, remembering his knowledge of the “rumored” shipment of drugs in these waters. If he was one of
those
men, she thought painfully, then he certainly had courage in spades. The people who worked in drug enforcement had the dirtiest, most dangerous jobs of all.

“I’ve done work for them from time to time. Miami has been known to be a center for drug trafficking, and this boat gives me a certain amount of mobility.”

“Are you working for them now?”

“You’re a very inquisitive lady.”

Robin refused to be put off. “On a need-to-know basis, I think I need to know. Is that why you suddenly decided to help me find that yacht?
Because those animals could be running drugs as well as being slavers?”

“I’m not working for anyone at the moment,” he answered finally. He was gazing forward, frowning.

“But you aren’t a captain.”

“Of course I am. I even accept charters occasionally.” His voice was dry again.

Robin’s journalistic talents were at the forefront now, and she probed with careful concentration. “So it’s just a cover?”

“What were you doing in Miami?” he parried.

“Vacation. Are you based here?”

“If anywhere. Where are you from?”

“San Francisco. And you?”

“The East.”

“The Far East?” she asked gently.

He smiled a little. “No. East Coast.”

Robin reflected that he was adept at not answering questions, but that only increased her curiosity. “About your work,” she began determinedly, but was cut off.

“Miami is a long way to come for a vacation,”
he said smoothly, “when you’re from the West Coast. Why here?”

She gritted her teeth, but her voice remained calm. “You know what they say about summers in San Francisco; I wanted to bask in the heat down here.”

“L.A. would have been closer.”

“Smog,” she dismissed promptly.

“There are other cities on the West Coast.”

“I wanted to visit Miami,” she said irritably, even more annoyed that she was losing her calm. “Look—”