Hot Mercy (Affairs of State Book 2) (39 page)

“And into a cave, like we thought?” Mercy said.

“I guess, but I couldn’t get close enough to see. I was afraid the divers would spot me and get suspicious.”

Neither Red Sands agent would look at her now. She felt useless. Worse than that, she felt stupid for having been duped by Amos Bellamy. “So I blew it after all. I’m so sorry. I was sure I’d searched every inch of that boat.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Glen said after a moment, his tone less accusatory. “I’ll bet there’s one place you couldn’t possibly have gotten into.”

Desolate, Mercy shook her head. “I don’t see where.”

“The keel.” He looked at each of the two women for a reaction. “Remember, the yacht was docked in Adelaide for repairs before it set to sea. Along with other maintenance in preparation for a lengthy cruise, they were supposed to be repairing a damaged keel. I bet if we check it out we’ll find that someone in that marina’s working yard, who had access to the keel repair job, is connected with Chameleon.”

Mercy felt a ripple of relief. This finally made sense. An ocean-worthy catamaran the size of Bellamy’s yacht, she knew, had to have a full lead keel that weighed over a ton to keep it stable in high winds or rough seas. “The opals could have replaced some of the lead ballast for the duration of the ocean voyage.”

“Right,” Margaret said. “And they would have completely sealed the top of the keel where it met with the hull. You couldn’t have gotten inside. It’s the only thing that makes sense. I’ll notify headquarters and the assault team.  They're on standby. It’s going to take more than the three of us from here on.” She looked at Mercy, not quite smiling but less like she was going to kill her. “Looks like your job here is done, O’Brien. As soon as our people have the opals in hand, we’ll arrange for your flight home.”

Mercy nodded. But the guilty lump in her throat remained, no matter how many times she swallowed. Twice she’d let her team down. Once by ditching them. A second time by letting Amos Bellamy outfox her.

An hour later they were waiting for an ETA on the Red Sands assault team when Mercy’s cell phone rang. 

Glen frowned. “Who would be calling you here?”

Mercy reached for her phone on the vinyl seat cushion and checked the screen. “Damn. It’s Kristen. What do I do?”

Margaret looked at the yacht, across the cove, then at her. “You have to answer it or she might think something’s wrong. She could very well be in on this plot, might already suspect you. What did you tell her about this boat, about us?”

"That you were just friends but I didn't like hanging out with you that much."

Margaret nodded at the still ringing phone.

Mercy clicked it. “Kris!” she said cheerfully. “What’s up?”

“Hey, girlfriend, come on over for drinkies.”

“I don’t know—cocktails? Now?” She glanced at Glen, then at Margaret as they exchanged puzzled looks. “I’m kind of pooped.”

“Oh, ple-e-e-e-ase,” Kristen begged so loudly that all three could hear. “I’m sorry I was so silly about Amos this afternoon. I want to make up for being such a bitch. I know you’d never try anything with him. Come on over.”

Go,
Margaret mouthed. But Glen was shaking his head, looking worried.

Mercy made up her own mind. They couldn’t afford to do anything to tip off Bellamy that his multi-million dollar shipment was about to be yanked out from under him.

“Want me to send Amos or one of the boys for you in the dinghy?” Kristen offered when Mercy didn’t immediately answer her.

“No, no. I’ll swim over.” Mercy started to turn off her phone when she had another thought. “Is Amos there now?”

“Yeah, and he’s in a much better mood.”

I’ll bet he is. He’s made his delivery.
“Great. I’ll be right over.” She pushed the end-call button. Glen was watching her, his expression a cocktail of concentration, panic, and glee.

“This is good—maybe.” He paced the deck. “Having a guest onboard will distract Bellamy. He’s less likely to notice anything happening elsewhere in the cove.” He checked his watch. “The team should be here in thirty minutes. An hour tops.”

Mercy stripped down again to her bathing suit. Margaret replaced the waterproof body mike they’d removed earlier. “If Amos turns out not to be on board or any of his crew leave, I’ll warn you,” she promised.

“Just be careful,” Margaret cautioned. “Seriously. Amos and whoever is working with him have a lot to lose. Chameleon slaughtered twenty-eight people in their attack on the Coober Pedy mine. They won’t hesitate to kill again.”

“I’ll stand ready here on Sarah Lee,” Glen said. “If you feel threatened and can’t get away, just say ‘sea turtle’ and I’ll come get you.”

                                          44

Mercy sipped her Champagne. Kristen guzzled hers while voicing her frustration with the island’s shops, which she’d decided were severely wanting. She’d talked non-stop ever since Mercy arrived on the yacht, growing increasingly agitated.

Meanwhile, Amos sat reading a magazine, nodding his head in calm agreement every now and then, as if used to his wife’s rants and willing to wait out the drama. Mercy watched them with concern. Something was very wrong. Amos, for one, wasn’t drinking at all. In itself, that was unusual. But maybe in these final critical moments of his delivering the opals to Chameleon, he’d wisely decided to stay sober. That meant that the nearly empty bottle in the ice bucket beside her hostess’s chair, from which Kristen poured whenever her glass was empty, was Kristen’s doing.

“I mean, after all,” Kristen wailed with a sloshy wave of her glass, “it’s like where the fuck else in civilization can you go and
not
find a pair of Papagallos?”

Amos smiled. “I promise, sweetheart, Bar Harbor will have your favorite shoes. You’ll see.” He laid his sports magazine across his lap, popped a fried calamari ring into his mouth, and smiled. “Right, Mercy? You been to Maine. Lots of great stores there.”

“Yes,” she agreed warily, wondering what the hell was going on here. She felt an undercurrent of emotion that she couldn’t define. Not yet.

The ship’s chef brought out a huge platter of steamed rock lobsters—fresh-caught earlier that day, he announced—fried fillets of a delicate white fish, a tropical fruit salad, and creamy tiramisu for dessert.

Amos dug in with voracious delight. Kristen poured herself yet another flute of Champagne, declaring she’d lost her appetite and, anyway, she needed to start watching her weight. Mercy picked at a lobster tail, dunking bites into melted butter, responding with a few words to Kristen every now and then, to let her know she was still listening.

Half an hour later, Kristen’s head started to wobble and her eyes drifted closed as she leaned back against her lounge chair, Champagne glass still in hand.

Amos immediately shot to his feet, removing it from his wife’s limp fingertips before the remaining beverage could spill. “Woman can’t hold her liquor,” he chuckled and winked at Mercy.

His sudden animation sent warning prickles up her spine. “I should go,” she said loudly enough for the mike between her breasts to catch her words, “Kris is out cold. You’ll want to get her into bed.”

“Party’s just getting started, little sheila.” Amos flashed her a wolfish grin. “You should wear a bikini with that body of yours. Why cover it up with a one-piece?”

Mercy wrapped the shortie cover-up Kristen had loaned her more snugly around her body. “I’m tired, Amos. Besides you already know I can’t afford to fool around. If my fiancé ever found out—”

“Good grief, I wasn’t talking about fucking you. Get your mind out of the gutter, girl. I just want to show you something special I picked up in Charlotte Amalie.” The Australian moved with unexpected speed to her chair and offered her a hand up.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What?”

“It’s in the salon. I had one of the boys set it up while we ate.”

Mercy drew a slow breath and cast a sideways glance toward the Sara Lee, bobbing in the blue cove a few hundred feet away. She saw no sign of activity on the little fishing boat where she’d left her partners. Had the assault team arrived yet? If they had, they were doing a damn good job of keeping quiet about it. Margaret had told her that most of them were former Navy SEALS, adept at underwater missions.

“All right, Amos. Let’s go see your new toy.”

The salon was softly lit by miniature brass oil lamps. The gleam of their flames reflected off the teak paneling, varnished to a high gloss. She remembered the first day she’d come aboard—admiring the crimson-and-ivory Oriental carpets that stretched the length of the 30-foot room, amazed at the richness of the furnishings including the twelve high-back chairs that surrounded the long oak dining table. A floating executive board room. This was meant to scream money, to impress.

Then Mercy saw it. At the far end of the salon a framed painting had been propped against the wet bar. She, of course, recognized it immediately.

Cherry Trees and Reflecting Pond
. It was one of her larger pastel paintings. And her heart stuttered on seeing it here, on the boat of a criminal who consorted with terrorists.

But maybe this was okay. After all, she’d used her real name for the mission. She was supposed to be Mercy O’Brien—artist and gallery owner in search of art for her shop while shopping for a yacht. It was the meaning behind Amos’s acquisition of her art that troubled her. She felt a sudden chill.

“I discovered it in the Adelphi Gallery in town.” Amos looked pleased with himself.

What sort of game was the man playing?

“I’m amazed you found one of mine on the island,” she said, still trying to play the game, as if the painting held only the vaguest interest for her. “I’m curious. How much did you pay for it?”

“Thirteen thou.” He walked over to the bar and poured himself a double shot of bourbon.
Now he’s drinking?
“My guess is, I got a bargain. Might have cost me twice as much in a Manhattan gallery.”

“That’s very possible,” she admitted. Her insides turned to jelly. She drew a breath, let it out, sucked down more air. Breathing had become work.

He studied her over the rim of his glass, his eyes shrinking to reptilian slits. “Makes me think,” he said.

She swallowed. “About what?”

“Seems strange to me that a woman who gets that kind of money and more for her art, whose universe centers around Washington, DC, should come all the way to the VI to shop for a boat. Why not just drop in on a broker in Annapolis. Just down the road from DC, and chock full of marinas and ship designers.”

“I thought I might get a better deal here. No harm in that,” she said coolly. Her mind churned out questions. Where was he going with this conversation? And why mess with her now? Shouldn’t he be preoccupied with getting himself, his wife, and his yacht as far away from the stolen ore and terrorist operatives as possible? “Just like you, Amos—buying art here instead of Manhattan. Everyone loves a bargain.”

Amos set down his glass with a firm hand, turned, and looked at her as he moved a step toward her. She waited. He took another step. She stood her ground, unwilling to admit anything to him—least of all her fear. If she kept her head, she might still talk her way out of whatever suspicions might be brewing in that nasty head of his.

“I like classy art,” Amos said. He stopped barely two feet in front of her. He lifted his hand, ran a fat fingertip down the inside of her bare arm. She controlled the impulse to cringe or slap him away. “If you were friendlier, I might not mind that you’ve been lying to me, Mercy dear.”

“I haven’t lied to you.” Her throat had gone so tight she could barely force out the words. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Amos.” She glared at him. “As to your type of friendliness—I like Kristen and I’d never do anything to hurt her.”

“I like her too. That’s why I married her. She’s a good kid.”

Mercy fell back a step from him, her skin still crawling from his touch. “She deserves a man who respects her. Not a womanizer and—” She’d almost said criminal.

“—and a drunken fool?” he guessed, his eyes darkening, no longer playful. As sober as rain. “Or do you think I’m something worse than a fool?”

He knows! Oh, God, he knows!

She was trying to figure out how to slip the words ‘sea turtle’ into a sentence when the door separating the salon from the outer deck slid open. Amos spun toward the intruder. Jobson stepped through.

“What?” Amos snapped irritably. “What do you want now!”

“You said, sir, you intended to leave before sunset. It’s almost that now.”

“I changed my mind. I’ll let you know when it’s time.” He shot a sly look at Mercy. “Ms. O’Brien and I are discussing her art. It is lovely, don’t you think, Jobson?”

“Yes, sir,” the ship’s officer replied without looking at the painting. His eyes shifted to meet hers, locked for an instant and she thought she saw a question in his. But before she could say anything, he’d walked back out the door. Leaving her alone with Amos.

Mercy’s entire body tensed, fight-or-flight instinct kicking in. But where was she supposed to go?