Hot Mercy (Affairs of State Book 2) (15 page)

Mercy recalled snatches of Margaret’s final briefing back in Georgetown.

“We’ve put you in the Ritz because it suits your life style. Tickles is in the capital city, Charlotte Amalie, so you’ll need a taxi to take you there. Which is actually good. Your connection to the dead drop shouldn’t be too obvious.”

“And I can use the excuse of my fascination with yachts for wandering around the marinas in Charlotte Amalie?”

“Exactly.” Margaret Storey had studied her through narrowed eyes. “Sea Turtle, the codename for the third member of our team, is working in a shipyard near the Ritz. That will make it easier for him to contact you, if necessary.” It hadn’t been clear to her why Margaret refused to tell her Sea Turtle’s real name. Did all clandestine organizations take such delight in silly code names?

Her attention returned to her driver, who was introducing himself as George. He pointed out breath-taking beaches along a sparkling turquoise sea. Mercy stared out the cab’s window transfixed by the passing landscape—blue-stone ruins rimmed with red hibiscus blooms, the old West Indian Company docks, a rusting ESSO station, a drab armory made exotic by flamboyant orange and red bougainvillea vines. Then came Cowpet Bay, ringed with modern condominiums and, finally, the elegant Ritz-Carlton complex.

Located on Great Bay at the eastern tip of St. Thomas, within sight of its neighbor island, St. John, this playground for the very rich spread over 25 acres, according to the online travel guides she’d consulted. Mercy glimpsed a startling infinity pool, its crystal water spilling over a cliff into a manmade tidal pool. Signs along a garden path pointed toward Coconut Grove and Great Bay beaches. A gorgeous sailing catamaran rode undulating waves at a private dock.

“Does the cat belong to the hotel?” she asked.

“Ah, the Lady Lynsey.” George shot a toothy grin over the seat at her as he pulled to a stop. “She takes guests on day sails and sunset cruises. You can entertain your friends on her, too, but you must arrange with the concierge.”

The doorman had the rear passenger door open almost before they’d ceased moving. Mercy intentionally over-tipped George and wished him well.

“You need a ride anywhere, mum, you call George, personal.” He handed her a homemade card without the limo company's logo. “I come five minutes. Five,” he repeated, holding up the fingers of one dark-skinned hand.

Mercy tucked the moonlighting George’s card away for future reference.

Her suite was extravagant but not as large or stately as Sebastian’s rooms at the Hay-Adams. Her heart pinged at the memory of their brief time together. Sebastian seemed like an island in his own right—a man larger than life, still only superficially explored. But he had left her, apparently not wanting to have to say goodbye that morning. She couldn’t blame him. She’d already told him she couldn’t reveal the details of her trip. If he’d stayed to see her off, they both would have been tense and sad. But she also read frustration and anger in his unannounced departure. And that hurt.

She reminded herself that the sooner she delivered the information Red Sands and Interpol wanted, the sooner she could return to DC. By then, they might have located Talia, might even have brought her home. Hope warmed her soul.

Mercy stayed in her Ritz suite only long enough to change clothes. She chose Sacred Fish silk pants and top—gorgeous in swirls of flowing aqua, purple and rose hues. Delicate white heeled sandals completed her costume. Mercy stroked sun block over her face and arms to ward off the intense tropical rays, pulled on a wide-brimmed straw hat to shade her face, and donned Prada sunglasses. She headed for the lobby.

“Ah, Ms. O’Brien, is it? So happy you’ve arrived.” One of the hotel’s concierges, she saw from the badge on his breast pocket. “Is there anything I can do to make your visit memorable?”

Point me toward the opal smugglers?

She smiled. “I wouldn’t mind a recommendation. You see I’m interested in shopping for—.”

“Of course. Shopping. Excellent!” he interrupted her, beaming. “I will arrange for a driver to take you to all of the very best duty-free establishments.” He whipped a brochure from a nearby cabinet. “For perfumes I suggest La Tropicana. For all else, my favorites are Mombassa African Imports, Erno Laszlo, Colombian Emeralds and the Bernard Passman Gallery.”

“Actually, I wasn’t thinking of that kind of shopping. At least not at the moment.” Mercy let her eyes drift toward the Lady Lynsey, the yacht's white hull bobbing sublimely at dock. “I’m in the market for a boat. And crew, of course. Friends have often told me that the Virgin Islands are a good place to start looking.”

“Ah.” His eyes sparkled. “To charter for the duration of your stay?”

“No. To purchase and have delivered to Washington, DC.”

If he was shocked he didn’t show it. Perhaps Ritz guests frequently informed him they wished to drop a cool million or more on a new plaything.

“Well then, I can recommend two brokers. My personal preference would be Mr. Clive Boyle. His office is in Charlotte Amalie.” This time he went for his wallet, which looked more like a discreet leather file packed with business cards. He plucked one from his collection and held it out to her “Mr. Boyle will take the very best care of you. Please do mention my name.” He pointed to his name tag, no doubt anticipating a fat finder’s fee.

“Perfect.” She tucked the card into her purse. “Thank you.”

No doubt the hotel staff would now spread the word that the heiress-daughter of a famous U.S. Senator with a taste for luxury items had arrived on the island. All the better should anyone want to verify her identity.

                                          15

Boyle himself appeared later that day to spirit her off to the island’s marinas—Boater’s Haven, Sapphire Beach, Pirate’s Cove, Fish Hawk Marina, Crown Bay.  He appeared to be in his 50’s and had dressed to be visible on the docks. His bright red blazer, white cotton pants, and skipper’s cap announced an upscale, if not particularly fashion conscious, representative of the yachting business. He escorted her along one wharf after another, offering a hand to help her step onto then off of a score of brokered motor yachts, two of which were over 50 feet in length, all luxuriously appointed. During the day’s journeys around the island, Mercy kept an eye out for the Mystic Voyager, but didn’t see the Australian yacht.

At the end of a long afternoon, with the sky darkening prior to the customary afternoon showers she’d been told would last less than an hour, she told Boyle with a wistful sigh, “I’m afraid I’ll need to keep looking. Nothing we’ve seen today strikes me as quite right.”

“Not a problem,” he declared, still in fine spirits. Probably because she hadn’t blinked at the outrageous prices he’d been quoting. “Take some time to relax. Enjoy our island hospitality. If you see anything that interests you, call me. Even if there’s no for-sale sign, the ship may be privately listed. Meanwhile, I’ll take another look at recent listings and see if we missed anything that matches your requirements.”

For the next two days Mercy browsed gift shops, boutiques, art galleries, and marinas on her own. She asked the dock masters at St. John’s Yacht Club and at each of the other marinas if the Mystic Voyager had put in an appearance. Nothing. She phoned the Charlotte Amalie harbormaster and was assured the boat had not come into port. Finally, at the Crown Bay Marina, she discovered that a double-sized slip had been reserved for pleasure cruiser due in the next day.

Putting her waiting time to good use, Mercy visited three more galleries and purchased four excellent oil paintings to display at Passions. She arranged for the art to be shipped back to the Georgetown gallery. Discovering local, undervalued artists was her passion. She indulged herself happily.

She still hadn’t been contacted by Sea Turtle, whoever that was. She grew more and more impatient for something, anything to happen. Each message she left for Margaret under the stool at Tickles was the same.
Nothing yet
.

The following day she again visited Crown Bay Marina. And there, floating in the glorious sunshine, an elegant white power yacht sat in large slip that had been vacant the previous day. Mercy strolled the long wooden dock, eyes fixed on the boat’s stern. When she was close enough to read the name, her heart gave a victorious leap:
Mystic Voyager.

Geddes had said the yacht was about two hundred feet in length. This yacht’s sleek white fiberglass hull stretched every inch of that. Expansive glass windows curved around the salon in a mid-level deck. A wide foredeck of teak was fitted with a whirlpool large enough for six. The aft deck, she could see even at this distance, included a wet bar, tables, and comfortable chairs. No passengers were visible at the moment.

Mercy moved closer. Two of the crew were at work. A young man with a Scandinavian-fair face polished stainless steel handrails leading up to the bridge. A mocha-skinned woman, wearing short-shorts and a navy-blue jersey that matched the man’s, leaned over the toe rail, touching up paint on the bow where the hull must have rubbed against a dock edge. Apparently, even tiny blemishes weren’t allowed to remain for long.

“Excuse me,” Mercy called up to them. “I’m looking for friends who are supposed to arrive today. I was wondering if this might be their yacht.”

The woman wiped her hands on a rag. “What is their name, madam?” she asked in a rich Jamaican accent.

Mercy actually did have friends who sailed, although she doubted they’d be here. “Carson. Richard and Ellen.”

The woman shook her head. “Sorry. Not this ship.” She went back to work without volunteering further information.

Mercy lingered. “This is such a beautiful yacht. I’m looking to buy. It isn’t by any chance for sale, is it?”

“You need to see a ship’s broker,” the woman said, without looking up.

“I’ve seen one. He’s shown me nothing I like as well as this.”

“The owner isn’t selling,” the male crew member spoke up, his tone sharp.

Mercy tried another approach with the woman, who seemed marginally friendlier. “Maybe the captain wouldn’t mind talking to me. You know, give me a few tips on the specifications I should look for.”

“He very busy.”

“No, he isn’t,” a deep voice interrupted. Mercy looked up to see a tall, ebony-skinned man in a starched white officer’s uniform. Amber eyes focused on her as he leaned over the rail directly above her. “How can I help you, miss?” His tone was polite, but he was frowning and didn’t appear particularly welcoming.

Mercy gave him her most charming smile. “I’m interested in purchasing a yacht that I can have delivered up north, in the Chesapeake Bay.”

“And you like this one,” he said, his tone skeptical.

She had never seen such piercing, strangely colored eyes. They reminded her of the merciless eyes of a raptor.

“Who wouldn’t?” She forced herself to sound chipper. “I guess I didn’t really think it would be for sale. But this boat looks perfect for what I had in mind.” Rich people were often pushy.  She pushed. “I’d like to look around if you don’t mind. Maybe if I made the owner an offer…is this where I board?” She started toward a metal gangplank.

The captain cut her off. “We don’t give tours.”

She observed him coolly from beneath the brim of her hat. “Tours?” She laughed. “It’s not as if I’m a common tourist.”

His frown deepened to menacing. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Whatever you are, miss. You’re not coming aboard.”

Mercy glared at him. “So much for island hospitality!” she snapped. She swung around on the dock and took one step straight into the path of a couple dressed in the tackiest tropical duds she’d ever seen.

“You lookin’ for somebody, honey?” the man said with a cheerful Aussie twang. He reached out a hand to steady her after their near collision. Middle-aged, swarthy, he wore his thinning brown hair pulled back in a hippy ponytail.

“I was just admiring this lovely ship.” She cast the captain, still standing above them, a black look. “Until the ogre standing guard rudely told me to shove off.”

The man looked up at the captain who hadn’t moved or altered his combative stance. “Jobson, you keep chasing away all the pretty women, what sorta fun can I have?”

To Mercy’s shock the stranger flung an arm around her waist and gave her a playful squeeze. “I’m Amos Bellamy, and this is my little wife Kristen, and that is my boat. You like her?”

“Very much,” Mercy said.

The pert redhead at his side popped a wad of chewing gum and gave Mercy a speculative once over that was less friendly than her husband’s. “Hi,” she said. “Amos, hon, let’s get this ice cream in the freezer before it melts in the sun.” She held up a plastic shopping bag.

“I told you to let the boy deliver it with the rest of the groceries.” He turned back to Mercy with a gleam in his eyes. “You want to see my baby?”

Was she imagining his leer? Probably not. “I’d love to see your boat,” she said brightly.

“Amos, really, the ship’s a mess.”

“That’s all right,” Mercy quickly reassured the woman, “I don’t want to intrude. I’ve been yacht shopping. My broker hasn’t turned up anything as yummy as this. I just thought maybe—”

“You buying?” Amos asked, sounding impressed.