In Too Deep (8 page)

Michael grinned companionably. "I'll
need
all the help I can get. I'm good with a line and sail, but all thumbs with anything mechanical."

"Is that right?"

" 'Fraid so," Michael lied again cheerfully.

"Mosey up to the building over there and ask for some help, then. Tell 'em Brian said to give you top priority. I'll order your parts this arvie, after they've told me what you'll be needing. We'll have ya shipshape in no time."

Michael took his sweet time walking toward the marina building, feeling Kenyon's suspicious gaze stabbing him between the shoulder blades. No more mention of Bouchard.

Either Kenyon didn't give a rat's ass his boss had drowned, or the Australian was holding his cards close to his chest. Either way was irrelevant. One less person to deal with.

The marina was well-equipped. A boatyard, with a Quonset building off to the side, doors open, housed the equipment to maintain and repair some good-size boats.

Three eighty-footers bobbed inside. Tucked into the slips were half a dozen yachts and boats of various sizes. All top of the line, and well-maintained. Of course there was no sign of the tourists who under normal circumstances would've owned them.

Among other, far more sinister activities, Trevor Church's Paradise Island was a glorified chop shop.

Michael shaded his eye and looked around. His gaze climbed the hill and settled on the overblown white monstrosity nestled with a bird's-eye view of the bay. Church's home.

Bile backed up his throat.

Hugo. I'm back, man. The bastard's gonna pay. I swear to God, that son of a bitch is gonna pay in a spectacular way for what he did to you.

He overheard a smattering of French, the pidgin English the locals used, a bit of Australian-accented English, and some guy swearing colorfully in German. Michael waited a few seconds for his eye to adjust to the relative dimness, then approached two guys painting a brand-new, hundred-foot Mangusta motor yacht with the words
Beautiful Dreamer
on the bow.

The boat was magnificent. Big bucks, big ego, small dick kind of magnificent.

"C day, mate. What can I do ya for?"

"Hey," Michael said companionably. "Michael Wright. How're you doing? That's my Oyster out there. Needs some repairs. Just talked to Brian, and he said a couple of you could give me a hand. I have a list of what I think I might need."

Tally squinted, shielding her eyes with her hand. The sun shone directly overhead, shortening shadows and beating down on her unprotected head. Not a breath of wind disturbed the grasses and palm trees on either side of the path. Hard to believe less than twelve hours ago she was clinging to the side of Michael's boat thinking she'd drown at any second.

She rubbed a hand over her tired eyes. Oh, she was glad to be away from Michael's force field. She felt hot and prickly all over just thinking about last night. God. What had she been thinking to crawl into his bed like that?

She grinned.
Technicolor, huh
? A gallant lie, of course. But sweet of him to say it, anyway. Men didn't normally drop at her feet like autumn leaves in the fall. She was usually the one men confided their love lives to. The little sister, the friend, the office Dear Abby. The one whose advice they asked before they went out with someone else.

But Michael Wright… Tally groaned. He must think she was a moron. God only knew, she was probably going through adolescence at twenty-seven. He literally made her hot. Tingly. And because he was so… male, he made her hyper-aware of
herself
.

Tally sighed again. What did it matter? He was only here for a couple of days. They'd go their separate ways and never see each other again. Besides, he was the
last
man she should get attached to.

Not that she hadn't had her share of dates over the years. She'd even had two fairly long-term relationships. Rory Foster had lasted almost a year. Until he'd taken that job in South America building the dam two months after he'd returned from Central Africa building a bridge. Then there'd been Ben Collins. She'd adored Ben. But so had many other women in airports all around the world on his international flights.

In the last couple of years she'd made a pleasant home for herself. Built a comfortable environment. She was ready to share her life with a man who was equally stable and responsible.

Michael Wright? She snorted. Not even close.

Obviously she was a sucker for traveling men. Not a good thing when a woman wanted hearth and home, two point nine children, and pot roast on Sunday nights.

Of course there'd been her brief walk on the wild side with Arnaud that time in London when she'd been a nineteen-year-old virgin. Tally groaned. The unmentionable-never-to-be-thought-about aberration when she'd spent several sweaty hours in Arnaud Bouchard's bed. Ugh!

It seemed that the men she attracted, when she attracted men, were the
wrong
men. She really needed to get a handle on that when she got back to Chicago.

Tally trudged up the hill to the small village on the rise overlooking the marina and the picture-perfect bay.

Hotel, boardinghouse—either was a rather grandiose name for a bar with a couple of bedrooms above it. Still, it was comfortable for a short stay, and the bathroom was large, with plenty of hot water. If her father wanted her up at the house he'd correct Arnaud's mistake when he arrived. Arnaud had indicated that Trevor might prefer that Tally stay with Auntie.

Not being welcome in her father's home had hurt. Her father had invited her, not Auntie, a woman she didn't even know. The fact had nothing to do with comfort and everything to do with what was right and hospitable.

It was impossible not to feel an ache when, once again, her father had given with one hand while he had taken away with the other. She'd fantasized about living with him since she was a small child. God. This was only a
visit
, yet he still kept her at arm's length.

They'd had an uneasy relationship her whole life. He was a mystery to Tally, and she was clearly a disappointment to him. It no longer hurt as it had when she was a child. Just because they had a biological connection didn't mean they had to have feelings for each other. But it was past time for her to at least attempt to forge some sort of link with the stranger who was her biological father.

Her relationship, or lack thereof, with Trevor Church had colored her life in countless ways. One of which, Tally was sure, was her relationship with men. Her mother's example of loving Trevor unconditionally, almost obsessively, through the years had saddened and confused Tally.

How could her mother so adore a man who was never there? Because that, and a million other questions, had confounded and puzzled her forever, she pushed aside her mental list until they were face-to-face.

She wasn't sure having a sexy stranger stranded here with her was going to make it any easier.

When she returned to Chicago she'd reshuffle her life a bit. It was getting a little staid. Even for her.

Until then, she had Paradise. Her father's Tudor mansion was nestled at the base of the inactive, she hoped, volcano. The white walls and black trim of the medieval architecture looked incongruous looming over the small, whitewashed houses and surrounded by tropical vegetation. Although a road wound up to it, there didn't appear to be any vehicles on the island besides a few golf cart-type thingies like the one Arnaud had driven to pick her up at the landing strip… Could that only have been three days ago?

The air was redolent with the heady scent of flowers—just breathing was intoxicating. Tally narrowly avoided a confrontation with two feuding chickens as she walked. The chickens cackled around her feet for a few moments before dashing off in the opposite direction.

"Hooo-eee!"

Tally glanced up to see the woman who ran the hotel bearing down on her with open arms. "Baby girl!
Haere mai!
You be alive!"

She found herself enveloped in Auntie's ample arms. The Tahitian woman smelled of white ginger and the minty hand lotion she favored. Though Tally had only met her three days ago, she was delighted to see that the other woman was hale and hearty.

Today, "Just-call-me-Auntie-baby-everybody-does" 's muumuu was bright blue with yellow plumeria on it. Deep ruffles flapped over her ample, coffee-colored bosom and bare feet. She had arms like a sumo wrestler and a heart as big as her beloved island.

Tally hugged her back, needing the human contact, then let go. It didn't pay to cling. It was a lesson she'd learned early and well. She gave Auntie a smile and blinked back the moisture in her eyes. "
Eaha to oe hum?
Are
you
all right? Did the storm damage anything here?"

The large woman tucked Tally's hand under her arm and started up the hill. The sun shone brilliantly, reflecting off the white walls of the buildings. "Everything A-okay. Big mess to clean up, but nothing too bad broken." Her wide, white grin exposed a gold tooth. "Not people, anyhows." She grabbed Tally again for another squeeze. "Everybody say you drownded, baby girl!"

"Reports of my death were greatly exaggerated," Tally said. "Arnaud and Lu didn't make it. It was quite an adventure. Walk with me, and I'll tell you all about it."
With a strategic bit of editing
.

From her second-floor bedroom window, Tally had a magnificent view of the bay. French doors led to a long, narrow lanai that looked too rickety and fragile to bear the weight of anyone over six years old. Yet it was obvious someone carefully tended the pots of flowers and greenery scattered higgledy-piggledy between the rattan chairs and wobbly looking tables placed to catch the shade and any breeze.

The view was just as good from inside her room.

Tally ran her fingers through her salt-sticky hair and winced. She desperately wanted a shower, but the incredible view from the window was a siren's song. Directly below were Auntie's gardens, which surrounded the two-story building in a wild profusion of exotic colors and scents.

A shell path wound down the hill, flanked by shrubs, fern, and wild orchids. It divided, one branch headed to the marina, the other to the beach.

She'd done enough traveling as a kid to last her two life-times. As beautiful as Paradise might be, she much preferred home and hearth to foreign ports and exotic locales. Been there, done that. "Got the neurosis to prove it."

"Talking to yourself?"

Tally spun around. "I thought so. If I'd known I had an audience I would've been more amusing." Just looking at Michael Wright put a lilt in her heart.

"Door was open. I'm going to take a shower."

Now didn't
that
invoke lascivious thoughts. "Thanks for the update." She returned his smile. "I'll alert the media."

The pirate gave her a slow, wicked smile. "Want to save water?"

The room got a lot smaller as he advanced inside. Tally crowded against the open window and clutched a handful of bright cotton drape. Then she realized she must look like one of the heroines in an old 1920s movie. All she needed was to be tied to the railway tracks and have the words spelled across the screen at her feet… "No, Black Bart, not
that
." She could practically hear the piano music. She dropped the drapes.

"There's no shortage of water. Knock yourself out. Did Brian help with your repairs?"

"Yeah, finally. More thanks, I suspect, to your intervention than to my dubious charm. Looks like I'll be accepting your father's hospitality for a couple days or so until they get the parts ordered."

"The beach looks worth a lengthy visit."

"I'm not that much of a sun lizard. Dinner, later?"

Tally felt each separate beat of her heart under the hand she had up to her throat. "Sure. I'd like that."

Said the fly to the spider.

Chapter Five

«
^
»

The new mast had to be ordered from Papeete.

Although it had pained him, Michael had made sure there were fist-size holes in the stringer-reinforced GRP hull; the rigging was FUBAR; the ship's radio appeared shorted out, and several dozen 6mm stainless bolts were gone; the sail-drive unit, if anyone was interested enough to check, was out; and he needed a new backup 88-amp-hour, 12-volt battery.

Appearances were deceiving.

Right this minute the
Nemesis
could outsail, outrun,
outwit
anything in the water.

Her owner was as adept with a screwdriver as he was with a Sig Sauer automatic. By the time he'd spent an hour "helping" Brian's guys fix his boat, they had all but begged him to go away and leave them to their jobs.

Now all Michael had to do was wait.

There was plenty to do. A thorough recon of the island was in order. He had to know
exactly
where Church had the arms hidden. It was tempting to blow the entire island to hell. But there were innocent civilians living here. And he wasn't a murderer. He was here for justice. Not wholesale slaughter.

Michael rolled over on the fiber mat, the sun hot on his back. Anyone looking would believe he had nothing better to do than laze about all day. Later he'd continue romancing Tally Ho.

If ever a woman was having second thoughts it was Church's daughter; he'd seen it in her eyes. Oh, she'd enjoyed the hell out of their wild monkey sex last night. But in the clear light of day she was remembering she wasn't "that sort of girl." It wouldn't be hard to change her mind. Last night had merely whetted her appetite. He had a few more tricks of his own with the pubococcygeal muscle he was eager to show her.

However innocently it had begun,
she
had instigated their first mattress tango. What man wouldn't say hoo-yah to waking to find a half-naked woman sprawled on top of him?

Yet her morning-after honesty had surprised him.

He'd expected recriminations, and the excuse that she'd been too sleepy to think clearly; or that he'd forced himself on her. Instead, while she'd been sweetly embarrassed by her enthusiastic response, she'd been clear-eyed and frank.