Renegade Player (10 page)

Anticlimactically, Dotty was alone, sitting at the chart table with her books open before her as she sipped from a steaming mug. “’Morning,” she murmured. “Have a good swim last night?”

“Oh, damn,” Willy uttered under her breath, turning away to locate a mug. She ate her breakfast silently while Dotty pursued her studies, and finally, when she could no longer fight the dreadful compulsion, she wandered up to the cockpit, studiously looking at the placement of her feet on the well-kept deck. Better to get it over with, she told herself, and since she was such a glutton for punishment, she raised her face deliberately and stared at the man at the helm. He had obviously watched her reluctant approach and now, breaking the ice with a generosity she grudgingly acknowledged, he asked if she’d mind bringing him a mug of coffee.

The hard knot inside her unraveled and she scurried to obey, adding milk and no sugar, as he liked it, and when she retraced her steps to place it carefully in his outstretched hand, he looked her directly in the face, his eyes crinkling into a slow, achingly familiar smile. “I thought we might as well take a run out to the Inner Diamonds since we’re this close. Then, if we decide to poke around the village tomorrow instead of following the fleet on out, you won’t have missed it.”

The atmosphere nicely defused between them, he went on to tell her about the
Lightship
that had been the predecessor to the present Texas Tower. “It’s called the Graveyard of the Atlantic, but anything less spectral, I’ve yet to see. Picture a bright red hull with mustard-colored superstructure floating in a royal-blue sea with the shoals flashing like pale emeralds alongside. The first time I saw it, I was barely old enough to see over the sides of the boat, but I’ve never forgotten it. There was a crewman aboard the
Lightship
playing a bull dolphin on the top of the water and the fish was indescribably beautiful. . . nothing at all like those you see dumped out on the docks when the fishermen bring them in.”

“How can anyone stand to catch those creatures, or any other fish, for that matter, and haul them up to drown in the air?”

“That from a girl who can put away two or three big filets at one sitting?” Kiel teased. “The game fish, though, are as often as not just tagged and released.” He looked at her and the light on his dark eyes rendered them as opaque as cabochons of hematite. “Do you know what it is to feel the thrill of the chase, Willy? It gets in a man’s blood sometimes, but some remnant of humanity allows him to be satisfied with tagging and releasing.”

She moved restlessly, watching the billowing sail against the cobalt sky, and then from behind her, his feet bare and braced against the moderate roll of the
Tern’s
deck, Kiel said, “Go on up forward, Willy, and lie down on the bow. If you’re lucky you might see a few porpoises or a flying fish.” When she moved to obey, needing to get away from his disturbing nearness, he called after her, “Keep one hand on the pulpit stanchion, though. We wouldn’t want to lose you.”

Feeling almost as if she were one of the flying fish that broke the surface to skim the waves ahead of her, Willy spent most of the next hour watching the hypnotic curl of transparent green water as it parted before the slicing white bow. She saw the incredible colors of the Gulf Stream and the furious shallows of Diamond Shoals some twelve or thirteen miles offshore. After lunch, she sat contented against the main mast and watched the slow trolling of the fishing boats, losing them in the troughs, seeing them reappear again like so many matchbox toys. If anyone caught anything, she wasn’t aware of it, nor did she want to know, for in the back of her mind lurked a finger of disquiet when she remembered the words Kiel spoke about tagging and releasing.

She couldn’t help but think they had some personal significance and she tried to put them out of her mind as she took the helm and felt for herself the silent power of wind and water. “I could get addicted to this,” she said over her shoulder, where Kiel stood watching her.

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Late in the afternoon, as they approached the bell buoy, he got on the radio and raised the Eldorado and Dotty spoke to Bill. They arranged for Richy to run out and collect her when they finished up for the day and Willy was left victim to all the familiar tantalizing doubts, knowing she and Kiel would be alone together.

By the time both anchors were out and the standing lights lighted outside the breakwater at Hatteras, the sun had dropped well below the horizon, leaving behind a mirror of clear amethyst with no line of demarcation where sky met water. Against this, the dark mass of Hatteras village lay low and shadowed, with a fringe of white boats along its edge stained with a gold wash by the memory of the sunset. Across the dead calm water came various homey sounds from ashore as well as a drift of hickory-scented smoke from someone’s grill. Dotty was monopolizing the head, applying makeup to her pert round face and trying to calm the unmanageable curls that the salt air had sent into violent convolutions.

“My turn to cook tonight,” Kiel announced, emerging with two tall, frosty glasses. He had changed into fresh white ducks with a dark red shirt and his hair glistened with wetness from a recent shower.

When Dotty finally came up to await her transportation, Willy took her own shower and changed quickly into the one dress she had brought along, a gauzy cotton caftan of brown, black and white batik. She rejoined the others in the cockpit in time to see Richy roar up and stop just short of the
Tern
. He cut the outboard and greeted them with a wide, toothy grin, and while Dotty went below for still further last-minute preparations, he entertained Willy with the day’s happenings, chatting excitedly about the various contestants, some of whom had come from as far away as South Africa.

Kiel watched with what Willy considered unnecessary condescension as the younger man explained the importance of a mate’s position in the scheme of things and described in gory detail the sewing on of mackerel and squid for bait. Willy listened indulgently, not because she was interested but because she knew how very fragile Richy’s masculine ego was. It was Dotty who broke up the monologue when she asked impatiently if she was expected for dinner aboard the
Eldorado
or should she make herself a sandwich.

“Oh, golly, Skipper’ll peel my hide off! He sent over to the fire department fish fry for fish plates and he’s probably eaten ’em both by now.” He ripped the evening quietness apart with the pull of a rope while Kiel helped Dotty into the tender, and then almost ran into the breakwater when he turned to wave good-bye a third time.

“And I thought
I
was robbing the cradle,” Kiel muttered derisively, ducking into the galley to begin dinner preparations.

Almost an hour later, with the scented darkness closing down around her, Willy listened to her stomach rumble and called down the companionway that if he didn’t get a move on she was going to fix herself a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich.

“Just do that thing,” he warned, “and I’ll put you out on Oliver’s Reef and eat your broiled sturgeon steaks and buttered artichokes myself.”

Her bare feet slapped the deck and she pattered down the three shallow steps, looking avidly at the chart table, where two place settings of pewter and ironstone waited to be filled. The two wineglasses of straw-colored liquid were already dewed on the outside and she said plaintively, “I’m starved!”

“Then have a seat and start on this, glutton, and I’ll have the sturgeon ready in a minute.” He placed a lined pewter bowl before her and she purred at the sight of the delectable petals swimming in a lake of butter.

The meal was eaten to the accompaniment of appreciative murmurs and only when Kiel stood to serve the cheese course and pour small cups of espresso did Willy lean back, replete and marvelously happy. “You’re a fantastic cook, Kiel. Where’d you learn?” she asked.

“Picked it up here and there. Why?”

She moved her shoulders in an offhand way under the gauzy covering. “I dunno . . . seems a funny talent for a man of your type.”

“Oh?” He finished off the thick black coffee and leveled a sardonic glance at her. “And what talents would you expect of a man of my type?” He put quotes around the last four words.

She grinned lazily at him, far too relaxed to rise to his baiting, and when she answered, her voice was colored with humor. “Things like sailing, of course . . . dancing, probably . . . driving good cars extremely well, and . . .oh, the usual things a practicing playboy goes in for.”

“Making love?” he mocked.

“Mmmmm, that goes without saying,” she teased.

“If I were a playboy it might.”

“And aren’t you?”

“I’m a hardworking
man
, with little enough time to
play
, in case you hadn’t noticed,” he reminded her, lighting a slender cigar and rising to adjust the porthole over his head. The movement brought into relief the beautiful conformation of his muscular arm and she nodded to it.

“You didn’t get muscles like those manipulating a slide rule.”

His lips curled with what might have been humor. “Are you by any chance hinting for the story of my life?”

“I’m all ears,” she purred with overdone eagerness.

“So I noticed when that young sprout was regaling you with the romantic details of sewing baits together and you fell for his line, hook and sinker.”

She groaned. “If that’s a pun, I’ve heard better.”

“It is, and you haven’t,” he cracked. “Come on, let’s put these things in to soak and get out of here before your adolescent Lothario comes back.” He refused her help and she wandered out on deck, inhaling the odd but not unpleasant mixture of gardenias, fish and diesel fuel that drifted out from the shore; and when he came up behind her quietly and placed his hands on her shoulders, she leaned back against the warm solidity of his body as naturally as she drew her next breath.

“The trouble with these compact designs,” he murmured against her ear, “is that there’s only one place with room enough for two.”

She couldn’t bring herself to ask, but he told her anyway. “The forward cabin.”

Picturing the V berth where Kiel had slept last night, Willy didn’t answer, but he must have felt het pulses jump before he went on. “You were about to tell me the story of your life, weren’t you?”

At that, she stirred, and he took advantage of the movement to turn her and hold her to him with both arms. “You were about to tell
me
,’’ she corrected.

“What about a trade-off?” He punctuated his suggestion with a kiss on each comer of her mouth and another on the tip of her nose, and when her arms, of their own accord, wound around his neck, his mouth found hers and began a taunting seduction that left her weak and trembling.

“See?” she whispered shakily when he lifted his lips from her soft, wanting mouth, “I told you that went without saying.”

“In the vernacular . . . you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” He rubbed the tip of her nose with his and his soft laughter played on her skin like some exotic breeze, and then he led her to the widest of the two benches and sat down in one comer, drawing her down to lean against him. When she put up her bare feet and snuggled comfortably against his chest, he held her loosely, his hand splaying out on her stomach to bum through the thin stuff of her dress. “All right, begin. You were born, right?”

“You’re absolutely right! How clever of you to guess!” she crowed softly, and he flicked his cigar over the side and brought his hand up to capture her chin and turn her face to his.

“Shall I fill in the details for you?” he asked, and she nodded, too affected by his nearness and the scent of coffee, cigar and clean, healthy maleness to do more.

“You were born in Florida . . . central, I’d say, because you don’t strike me as a girl who grew up on the water, yet you’re not altogether unfamiliar with it. Let’s see . . . father, a doctor, a dentist, or maybe a businessman who spoils his little girl by indulging her taste for pretty cars. Mother . . . ?” He shrugged and Willy felt the play of muscles beneath his dark red knit shirt. “Not a very dominant figure in your upbringing. You show much more influence of men. Sisters? I’d say none, but brothers, perhaps—much older and also prone to indulge in baby sister. How’m I doing so far?”

“It’s your story; you tell it.”

“All right, now, let’s see. Girl comes of age, having conquered every male within range, wants to expand her territory. Dad doesn’t like it, but he’s a pushover, and so girl sets out on her own and soon finds out she can turn any man she wants to upside down and wrong side out. Can’t resist playing little-girl games—lead ’em on, turn ’em off—but still waits for something trophysized before bringing out the heavy ammunition. The question is, has she spotted her trophy yet?”

The night air grew chilly and Willy shivered. Suddenly, it wasn’t so much fun anymore. She stared broodingly at the fingers that twisted together on her lap.

“Willy? No comment?”

She twitched a shoulder expressively, not knowing what to say without revealing the hurt she felt at his unflattering portrait. Somehow, she hadn’t expected him to consider her a mercenary flirt. She said as much.

“Did I say that? I only meant— Well, you have thrown more than a few men for a loop. There’s the Willits kid, for one. Hardly legal size, of course, and so you throw him back, but surely there’ve been a few who qualified as keepers. What about my predecessor RENEGADE PLAYER at CCE? Someone mentioned that you’d seen a good deal of him.”

“Randy?” she exclaimed, startled. “I’d hardly call him a keeper.”

“Why not? He was certainly in the keepable income bracket.”

“There you go again, insinuating that all I could possibly be interested in is a man’s pocketbook! I don’t think I like this conversation very much, Kiel,” Willy asserted, wrenching herself away from Kiel’s arms. She sat huddled over defensively, fighting a demeaning urge to cry.