“Mr. Wyatt, if this child is your daughter, you owe Daisy Sloan for saving her life.”
“So,” Dr. Rankin went on sternly, “I wouldn’t be too critical of her clothing.”
Daisy glanced down at her decrepit thongs, wrinkled shorts and juice-stained top. No wonder Daddy Big Bucks in his fancy suit had been so disapproving.
“If she’s my daughter?” Wyatt snapped. “What do you mean, if?” He pulled a leather case from his pocket and reeled out an accordion row of pictures. “See? Rebecca most certainly is my daughter.”
Wyatt’s attitude ticked Daisy off—although she was impressed that he carried so many pictures of his child. She found herself hugging Becca closer. “I’m a shrimper by trade,” Daisy informed Wyatt with a touch of pride. “I own a trawler that I usually contract to a larger fleet.” Her voice grew cool. “Sorry I don’t meet your dress code.”
Oh, she’d met his type before. Men who conquered worlds—and women. And, she told herself, she wasn’t impressed.
Dear Reader,
I can’t tell you how pleased I am to have been given the opportunity to write Temple Wyatt’s story for Superromance’s “Family Man” series.
Have you, by chance, ever heard a snippet on the news and not caught the end? That happened to me some time ago, while I was on vacation. I heard on a radio broadcast that a yacht had disintegrated in a sudden squall and that a woman—a “fisherman"—had, at great risk to herself, saved a young child believed to have been thrown from the yacht For whatever reason, the youngster was unable to give authorities any personal information and refused to let go of the rescuer. Broadcasters begged anyone who might know the craft or the child to please contact them.
I never heard how the story ended. For me, that poor child remained in a sort of limbo. Not only did worries about the actual outcome haunt me, but from time to time rd make up an ending. What if the child had been kidnapped? What if one parent had been searching all along? The Water Baby is that story.
By the way, the incident didn’t occur off Galveston Island. (But it’s such a beautiful place!) And there was no hint of foul play in the real episode. But I love an air of mystery. And a happy ending. I mean, what’s the use of being a writer if you can’t tidy things up in the end?
Roz Denny Fox
P.S. I love to hear from readers. I’ve moved—my new mailing address is: P.O. Box 17480-101, Tucson, Arizona 85710
The Water Baby
Roz Denny Fox
CHAPTER ONE
THE FIRST DAY Daisy Sloan let her Boston trawler stray into Rum Row, she was looking for solitude. Today, she’d come back deliberately—because she’d stumbled on the largest shrimp bed she’d ever seen.
As a rule, locals who contracted their boats to the larger Mosquito Fleet shunned the area. Daisy would be the last to deny there was an air of danger about the Row. She’d grown up listening to the legends of pirates’ booty and prohibition, from which the cove had derived its name and reputation. Currently a plethora of whispered rumors regarding the exchange of contraband out here kept the feelings of uneasiness alive. Drugs. Guns. Artefacts. Anything illegal.
Daisy wasn’t the type to thumb her nose at danger. If she’d seen anything suspicious yesterday, she’d have hightailed it back to Galveston faster than you could say “Papa Rose Maseo,” long-time boss of the Island’s underworld. And she certainly wouldn’t have come back a second day.
It hadn’t hurt that both days a cloudless blue sky met jade water without interruption. Daisy figured either the sinister stories were blown out of proportion or the people who traded illegally did so under cover of darkness.
Luckily neither Daniel Coletti nor his brother, Sal, who fancied themselves her protectors, had asked where she’d landed such a rich catch. Their egos had suffered when she’d weighed in higher than anyone in the fleet. Especially as she’d managed without the help of Loren Bonner, the college student who normally pulled nets for her. It was, in fact, her daring to shrimp alone that had made Daniel throw a royal fit and sent her seeking solitude in the first place.
They’d known each other forever and had fallen into a pattern of going dancing together on Saturday nights, but that didn’t give him license to be so bossy. Things were financially tight for her right now because of bills accrued during her father’s long illness. And then she’d had to buy out her sisters’ share of the house—even though Violet and Jasmine had both married men with lots of money.
As the hot June sun beat down on Daisy’s back, a gulf breeze scooted across gentle waves, cooling the air enough to make her chosen profession about as close to a permanent vacation as any paying job could get.
Uh-oh. Today it appeared she had company in the cove. A fancy yacht floated above her shrimp bed. The kind worth big bucks. Daisy cut her engines and eyed the anchored craft wanly. A little girl with shoulder-length blond curls hurried to the bow rail, leaned over it and waved. A man and a woman sat at an umbrella table in the stern eating what was probably breakfast. Equally wary, they studied Daisy for what seemed a long time. Then the slim dark-haired woman picked up a coffeepot and replenished the mug her companion held.
“Phew.” Daisy released her breath. A family. People bent on mischief surely wouldn’t bring their child along Relieved, she dropped her first set of nets. Strangely, the adults on the yacht seemed relieved, too.
The child watched the entire process with serious blue eyes.
Trolling slowly into the current—and closer to the yacht—Daisy felt the nets begin to swell. By the time she cranked the winch designed to hoist the heavy load, she’d gotten involved in a conversation with the curious child. The elfin-faced girl asked a million questions about the crustaceans Daisy pulled from the sea. The kid might look dainty in her flowered sundress, but she wasn’t the least bit squeamish. Grinning, Daisy tossed the girl a softshelled crab to examine up close.
At twenty-six, Daisy wasn’t so old she’d forgotten her own fascination as a child with sea urchins and the like. Fondly she recalled the patience with which her father had answered her endless questions.
The little girl’s curiosity about sea creatures reminded Daisy of an old story she’d loved when she was young. A wonderful, magical tale of the sea written by Charles Kingsley. The Water Babies. A much-read copy still claimed a prominent place on Daisy’s bedside bookshelf. So she was a bit disappointed, yet not really surprised, to learn that the child from the yacht had never heard of the story. Daisy knew children today spent much of their free time in front of a TV. That was certainly true of her own nieces and nephews every time she saw them—although that wasn’t often.
Daisy shot another surreptitious glance toward the girl’s parents. They’d cleared the table, donned sunglasses and now lounged close-by in deck chairs, soaking up the sun. If this was typical behavior, no wonder the girl’s knowledge of the ocean and its creatures was sadly lacking. Not that Daisy didn’t like to veg out. She did. But she wasn’t a parent. Parents should spend quality time with their kids.
Two hours sped by as Daisy entertained the wide-eyed child with excerpts from Kingsley’s yarn. As a result, her own workday passed quickly, too. She examined her catch for fish that needed tossing back, and at the same time, made a game out of pretending to search for the elusive water babies. Careful to point out that they didn’t actually exist, she painted a colorful fantasy about the marvelous fairy isles where the babies lived.
It seemed a harmless enough way to help a solitary child pass the time. Besides, Daisy hadn’t had so much fun in a long while. She felt a niggle of disappointment when the girl’s father called her for lunch.
Still enthralled, the girl skipped off, saying she couldn’t wait to share the tales of the water babies with her mother.
>
Daisy listened unabashedly as the dark-eyed beauty— who obviously wore the label Mom, in addition to those of top fashion designers—declared the whole notion of water babies to be utter nonsense. In the next breath, she ordered her daughter to go below after lunch and play with her dolls or puzzles. She did her best to quell any further contact with Daisy, bestowing her a dark look.
As it happened, neither Daisy nor the girl paid the woman’s decree any mind. If the child slipped below at all, she soon made her way back to the bow. “I wish I could swim,” she whispered loudly to Daisy. “I’d go find those water babies.”
“You can’t swim? For goodness sake, why aren’t you wearing a life vest?”
“They’re hot,” the girl complained.
“We humans need help staying afloat.” Daisy pointed to her own waist belt. “Water babies have gills, sort of like fish. Wait—I hear them talking.” She cocked an ear toward the sea. “They’re telling you to go get your life vest.”
The blue eyes clouded with doubt as the girl knelt in the very front of the bow. “Do you really hear them? Where are they? I don’t see them. My mother said there’s no such thing.”
Daisy was relieved to see the child jump up, dart away and shrug into a bnght orange vest. Her eyes, though, were still shadowed with disbelief when she returned.
Daisy had always believed in the power and comfort of imagination. So she felt no compunction in saying, much like the original storyteller, that just because people say there are no such things as water babies—just because you’ve never seen one—who’s to say there are none?
That chased the shadows from the blue eyes and made the girl laugh. Within a few minutes, she and Daisy agreed conspiratorially to keep the existence of water elves their special secret. She even blew Daisy a big kiss.
Daisy loved kids. They were totally guileless. However, being single, she had no immediate prospects of having a child of her own. Someday, when she found the right man to father them, she wanted a houseful of kids. In fact, if she could, she’d put in her request here and now for a daughter as charming as the girl from the yacht.
Becca was the name Daisy had heard the parents call her. The child was precocious, using a sophisticated vocabulary well beyond her years. She was five, six at the most, Daisy guessed. At that age, kids got bored easily. Daisy thought the parents should’ve invited one of Becca’s friends along, so the poor kid wouldn’t have to strike up conversations with strangers. Not that Daisy minded. For the first time, she wondered where the family lived.
It was pretty plain that the girl’s parents—a dark-haired man on the downhill side of forty and his beautiful wife, closer to Daisy’s age—were too wrapped up in each other to pay proper attention to the child. A second honeymoon, perhaps? The adults had the starry-eyed look of new lovers, and they tended to ignore everything around them for long periods of time. Including—after that first close inspection—Daisy’s trawler. A honeymoon would explain why the yacht had chosen to anchor in such a secluded cove, too.
Whatever the reason for the yacht’s presence, Daisy was glad of it. Now, she’d not only enjoyed a few hours of lighthearted banter, she’d managed to put her own problems on hold. If she hadn’t spent time telling the lonely child stories, she would likely have spent it juggling bills in her head—an exercise in futility.
Returning to Rum Row had netted her an extra-good catch and a pleasant day. But then, she believed wholeheartedly in serendipity. All things happened for a reason.
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, you lost her, Boggs?” Temple Wyatt, thirty-four-year-old CEO of Wyatt Resorts, shouted at the private investigator on the other end of the line. He paced his San Francisco penthouse, going as far as the phone cord would allow. “Friday you assured me that Miranda and my daughter were headed for Domingo DeVaca’s estate in Rio. I just finished filing a flight plan for Brazil. Five minutes more, and I’d have been out the door on my way to meet you there. What makes you think they’ve flown the coop again? If you somehow tipped them off, I swear I’ll wring your scrawny neck.”
Temple passed a hand over his freshly shaven jaw as he listened to Jack Boggs. Wyatt’s heart sank in despair even as he cursed his ex-wife under his breath. She had no right to take Rebecca. The courts had given him full custody. For weeks he’d had Miranda followed while waiting for her to name her game. Always before it’d been money. But now with Domingo in her corner, Temple didn’t know what her motive was. He knew it wasn’t a burning desire for custody of Rebecca; Miranda had made her lack of interest in motherhood quite clear from the outset. So her motive must still be money. More money. DeVaca made millions from his Monte Carlo casino, and his string of posh resorts were wildly successful. Counting family money, the Brazilian could buy and sell Temple twice over. God only knew why such a man would elect to help Miranda—except that she was beautiful and adept at lying.
“I see, Jack,” Wyatt murmured, listening more carefully. “You say the estate seems to be vacant today? Is there anyone you can question? I know you don’t speak Portuguese. I don’t, either. But I’ve visited Domingo’s place a few times and made do. He has a big staff. Some of them speak English.” He sighed. “Well, give it a try and call me back. I can always change my flight plan and intercept them elsewhere.”
He hung up the phone and dropped tiredly into the maroon leather chair that sat behind a battered oak desk. The chair was new, one of those ergonomic masterpieces made for busy executives. The desk was an antique. His mother had given him the chair and a matching modern desk last Christmas to improve his decor. She’d almost had apoplexy when he returned the glass-topped desk and kept the one that had been his grandfather’s.
Temple leaned both elbows on the scarred surface and raked his hands through his recently trimmed hair. He glanced up when the door opened and his housekeeper slipped into the room. Her crepe-soled shoes made no sound on the thick carpet as she collected a tray that held an empty coffee carafe and Temple’s uneaten breakfast.
“No breakfast again, Mr. Wyatt? It won’t do our little sprite a bit of good if you get sick.” She cocked her head and studied him. “Is something wrong? I thought you’d be on your way to get Rebecca by now.”
“Boggs tells me Miranda disappeared with her again. I’m fresh out of ideas, Maddy. I’ve been one step behind them for months. Domingo has properties all over the world. He could hide them indefinitely if he chooses.”
“Maybe it’s time to involve the police,” the woman ventured hesitantly.
Temple didn’t reply right away. He gracefully unfolded his rangy athletic body from the chair, straightened his tie and wandered over to stand beside a fully decorated artificial Christmas tree. The tree, loaded with bright lights and shimmering angels, looked out of place in the late-spring sunshine streaming through the window. Even more out of place because of the still-wrapped gifts beneath it. Temple knelt and picked up a package that contained a doll his daughter had begged Santa to bring. His thoughts drifted back to Thanksgiving weekend, when he’d stood in line at the mall for an hour just so Rebecca could tell Santa in person exactly which doll she wanted. He’d had no way of knowing it’d be the last weekend he’d spend with his child.
Damn Miranda. She’d never wanted the child she’d schemed to conceive—other than as a means to marriage. Nor had she shown more than a tepid interest in motherhood in the four years since the divorce. She’d ignored the open house at Rebecca’s kindergarten in October. And the school’s Thanksgiving feast, even though Rebecca’s teacher had sent her a personal invitation. Then, wham! During her routine monthly visit conducted at his mother’s condo, Miranda had taken off with their daughter.
Temple set the package carefully back where it belonged and moved away from the tree. Whenever he tried making sense of his wife’s latest escapade, his gut churned with fury. In the past she’d always dragged him into court hoping to increase the alimony he paid her. This time she’d made no such demand.
“I keep thinking this is a
bout money,” he mused to the woman who’d been his housekeeper since before his marriage. Before he’d stepped forward voluntarily and assumed responsibility for an unborn baby’s paternity—judging wrongly that babies brought out nurturing instincts in all women. “As you know, Maddy, from the minute Miranda discovered Wyatt Resorts’ net worth, she’s only ever been motivated by cash. Which is why I’ve tried so hard to keep this incident out of the news. But maybe it’s time to go public and offer a reward.”
“I wouldn’t know about that, Mr. Wyatt. I just know you can’t go on the way you have been. I haven’t seen you smile in months. You hardly touch your food. Dr. Davis has given up asking you to play handball with him. And your poor mother, cries her eyes out blaming herself.”
“I don’t know how else to reassure her, Maddy. I told her I probably would’ve let Miranda take Rebecca out to her health club, too. They were supposedly going to get one of those damned fresh-carrot, cultured-yogurt shakes.” He couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice, although he’d considered Miranda’s health-food kicks the least of his problems. “If only I hadn’t pushed for her to stay involved with Rebecca. I honestly never suspected she’d take our daughter on a… spree.”
“It’s kidnapping, Mr. Wyatt. You should call it like it is.”
He sighed. “I know, Maddy. Technically it is. I guess it’s past time to run this by my attorneys again.”
As soon as his housekeeper left the room, Temple placed the call. The Wyatt name opened doors in the law firm he kept on retainer. Temple was put through immediately to Patrick Marsh, senior partner of Marsh, Marsh and Schatz.
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