The cooks didn’t notice them walk in. Four of them, dressed in classic white aprons, were gathered around one burner like kids in a science lab.
“Mon Dieu! Qu’est-ce que ce passe?” a gentle French voice questioned. “Non, non, Jean Paul. Do not boil this poor salmon. She must poach gently. Bring her to a slow, steamy simmer. Like you would heat up a woman, non?” The group chuckled like sixteen-year-old boys at that one. “Slowly, slowly build to the exquisite pink, soft and moist, non? Ah, voilà!”
A small figure in white flourished a wooden spoon at the stove and grinned with satisfaction. Ava bit back a laugh.
The chef turned, his eyes widening at the sight of Dane. Despite thinning brown hair, his youthful face revealed Maurice Arnot to be no older than his mid-forties. He tilted his head in apology as he stepped forward and wiped his hands on a spotless apron.
“Monsieur Erikson! You surprise me in my kitchen, non?” It might have been an apology, but a note of accusation was buried there.
A half smile lifted Dane’s lips. “Next time I’ll call ahead. I’ve brought a guest to meet you.”
Maurice turned his attention to Ava with an appraisal as intense as he might give a cut of prime tenderloin, searching for flaws. She must have met with his approval, because he offered a wide smile, his front teeth charmingly misaligned, a genuine sparkle reaching his soft brown eyes.
“Bienvenue à la monde du Arnot, mademoiselle.” He swept his hand to indicate a welcome to his world, then reached out and took her hand, turning it over to kiss her palm. “Enchantée.”
Dane shifted from one foot to another and crossed his arms with an exaggerated sigh. “Ava Santori, this is Chef Arnot, but we are in St. Barts, not Paris, so feel free to call him Maurice.”
Maurice Arnot lifted his head and a frown deepened the lines across his broad forehead. “Santori?”
She nodded.
“Marco?”
“My brother,” she replied.
“Let me extend my deepest sympathies for the loss, mademoiselle.” He squeezed her hand and pulled her imperceptibly closer. “It was devastating for all of us.”
“Thank you,” Ava whispered and returned his genuine smile. “It’s an honor to meet you, Chef Arnot.”
“Non, non. The honor is mine. You are related to two great men, so you must be a very special woman.”
“Do you know my father?” They seemed such worlds apart in cooking. Arnot was the epitome of haute cuisine. Dominic appealed to everyman, the couch potato and amateur cook.
“Of course, ma cherie, I know of your father. And your brother! He invaded my galley and made a mess with his pasta and anchovies. Every cruise, at least once! But Marco, he was very skilled at cooking, like your father, non?”
“He was skilled at everything,” she responded quietly. “My father and I hold your work in the highest esteem, Chef.”
He clasped his hands, as delighted as a child with the compliment. “You are a chef too?”
“Yes,” she said, nodding, but held up her hands to keep his expectations at bay. “Not exactly in your league, sir. And, of course, I’ve done most of my work at Santori’s, my family’s restaurant, so I am far more schooled in Italian cooking than French.”
“That is a shame,” he said with a devilish grin and a wink at Dane, who stood silently observing their conversation. “And do you plan your own flashy TV show and slew of expensive cookbooks also?”
The thinly veiled sarcasm made her laugh at the little man who stood barely her height but was regarded as a legend. “No, I concentrate on the restaurant.”
“Good for you, cherie. All that other stuff…” He waved his hand in dismissal. “It is marketing. Just fluff, n’est ce pas?”
“I’d love to look around your kitchen, Chef.”
“But, of course. I would be delighted to show you everything.” He stepped back and put both hands on his hips, as though struck by a brilliant idea. “Perhaps you will come and cook with me sometime. I do not know how long you are staying in St. Barts, cherie, but we can teach each other, non? Your Italian and my French, eh?”
She wasn’t sure if her mission to enlist more families in the lawsuit included getting cozy with the head chef and settling in for a nice lesson on preparing a roux. “Perhaps,” she answered vaguely.
Dane stepped in. “I think that’s an excellent idea, Arnot.”
“Très bien.” Maurice nodded as though it were done. “I must sail on Valhalla tonight. I will return by plane in three days, after I am certain the kitchen is running perfectly. Then I must prepare the next ship.” He tossed an exasperated look at Dane. “The Viking is a slave driver, you know.”
Dane laughed and put his hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. “Not exactly slave wages you’re getting, Arnot.”
Maurice moved away from Dane’s hand. “It might as well be slave wages when a man can’t get decent white truffles—not a single one in two weeks! How am I supposed to make the demanding customers happy, eh?”
Dane rolled his eyes. “I know you need truffles. We’re a thousand miles from France, and I have every contact working on it. Use a mushroom, for God’s sake.”
“A mushroom?” He spat the word as though it were lethal and turned to Ava to share his incredulity. She smiled in empathy. “Mon Dieu! He knows nothing of food, ma cherie. Only the water, only the boats.”
Dane chuckled at the insult. “I’ll leave the culinary delights to you, Arnot. Genevieve told me one of the vendors you suggested came through. You’ll get the truffles delivered when you reach St. Kitts tomorrow morning. I have to go back to the bridge to meet with Captain Jack now. Would you like to stay for a while, Ava?”
Before she could respond, Maurice waved Dane away with his wooden spoon. “Allez, allez. You are not needed here. I will take care of the lovely lady.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” His blue eyes flashed with amusement, but Ava could swear she saw something else too. Jealousy? She dismissed the impossible thought and returned her attention to Maurice.
After two hours with the disarmingly sweet Frenchman, Ava understood the “groupie” mentality of the cooks who surrounded him. A natural teacher, a hopeless flirt, and a complete genius with every ingredient, Maurice Arnot defied every stereotype of the temperamental chef.
As the activity level rose, she reluctantly prepared to leave. Nothing was more intrusive than visitors breathing down a cook’s neck in the middle of a tricky deglaze. More importantly, she’d arranged to meet Grayson Boyd for lunch and it was nearly noon. Ava scanned the room for Maurice, but he had stepped away.
“Someone just grabbed him a minute ago, ma’am,” a prep manager deveining a small mountain of shrimp told her. “He should be back soon. Things are getting crazy in here now.”
Ava responded with a grin and a knowing nod. “I see that. Just tell him I said good-bye. By the way, can you tell me how to get to housekeeping?” She’d find Cassie and tell her she would take the launch back to Gustavia.
“Go to the port side of the clipper deck. That’s up one level. The main housekeeping offices and storage are there.” He held up a shrimp in one hand and a paring knife in another with an apologetic half smile. “I’d take you, but…”
“No, no.” She waved in dismissal. “I understand. I’ll find it. Thanks.”
As she started toward the galley doors, they swung open, Arnot barreling through with a frown.
“Oh, Chef—”
A quick smile broke in response. “Ah, Ava. I am so sorry. Are you leaving?”
“Yes, you are busy. I promise I’ll try to see you again while I am here.”
“Bien. Bien.” He studied her thoughtfully, a small frown creasing his forehead.
“What is it?”
He took a step closer to her and spoke softly. “You are not taking part in this lawsuit against the company, are you?”
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “I’m here to figure that out.” Another kitchen worker rush
ed by, reminding her that this wasn’t the time or place to discuss it. “Thank you for the personal attention.”
“Mais oui. You come to see me on Nirvana, non?”
“I’ll try.” Impulsively she put her hands on his shoulders and pressed her cheek to his. “Thank you.”
He grinned like a little boy.
The first floor of the dining room barely received a trickle of the natural light from the upper-level portholes. In the shadows, Ava lingered at the beautifully set tables, admiring the china and crystal already set for an elaborate dinner. As she approached the grand white marble and wrought iron staircase, she heard a man’s voice coming from a room off the dining area. The angry tones made her pause. A response hissed in the distinct clipped tones of Genevieve Giles stopped her cold.
“Don’t be a fool. Nothing has changed. They are expecting you at the warehouse. Make the delivery and get back to the ship.”
Ava dropped into the shadows at the foot of the stairs, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping.
“They are expecting more this time, señorita, and you know it,” a man said. “There are complaints about our service.”
“I am not interested in their complaints and neither are the people we work for.”
Did Genevieve talk to all the employees that way?
“You are being very foolish, señorita,” he insisted. “That ship carried four hundred thousand dollars’ worth of precious cargo. And it’s a miracle it hasn’t been found yet. Before it is, you better figure out how to pay for what was lost when the ship sank.”
When the ship sank. They were talking about Paradisio. She tiptoed closer toward the voices.
“It’s impossible,” Genevieve responded.
“Nothing is impossible, señorita.” Spanish. It was definitely a Spanish accent.
“That is. Anyone involved is gone and so is the profit. It’s over and done with and the consequences have to be accepted. Now, get back to your station and don’t talk to me again.”
Anyone involved is gone. Involved in what?
“Genevieve. Surely you’re smart enough to know why that ship went down,” the man insisted.
A chill as cold as death itself slivered through Ava, and she froze in her spot.
“You asked a boy to do a man’s job, that’s why.” Her voice oozed with hate and accusation.
“Is that what you think?” The Spanish man’s voice stayed low and Ava strained to hear his words. “It wouldn’t be the first ship to vanish without a trace. It won’t be the last.”
“Well, next time get your precious cargo off before it disappears. Forget it this time. It’s a write-off.”
“Erikson’s going to get forty million dollars. You work the books. Get it.”
“I can’t just take four hundred thousand dollars. And don’t be so sure he’ll get the money. There’s a lawsuit pending, you know.”
The man’s scornful laugh resounded through the empty dining room. “As if anyone would believe Erikson is responsible. He’ll just take the insurance money and build another damn hospital in Jamaica so the papers can call him a hero.”
A wave of dizziness threatened Ava’s stability.
“There will be lots of settlements and lawsuits, Genevieve. Get the money. Pay it to a family member who doesn’t exist. Steal it outright if you have to. Erikson trusts you.”
“You’re an idiot and he’s not. He’s already suspicious. He’s been combing the logs and inventory. God, I know him. He’s not going to rest until he has some answers. Just give it up. We all make plenty on every other trip. We just lost on that one.”
Silence. Then a moan, a throaty wheeze of pain, made Ava’s stomach roll.
“We don’t lose, señorita. You understand what this idiot is saying now? Fuck Erikson. And fuck you if you think you can back out of this now.”
A fresh gasp from Genevieve.
“We got a good thing going, señorita. And you’re in too deep to get out. Unless you want to end up like the poor sailors left on that ship. Is that clear?”
Ava heard a scuffle, the sound of a chair, or something, being pushed.
“Don’t you touch me again, you bastard.” The acrimony was back in Genevieve’s tone, but Ava’s pulse banged in her ears, making it nearly impossible to hear. “Just leave me alone. I’ll handle it.”
“You’d better.”
Ava heard footsteps and panicked—adrenaline firing her limbs. Clinging to the railing, she flew up the stairway, stumbling once as her sandals slipped on the smooth marble. She longed to know if someone saw her, but the possibility of locking onto the gray eyes of Genevieve Giles or meeting the mysterious ones of her vicious cohort kept her from looking back.
She reached the top, her heart thumping and her breath coming in quick short spurts, relieved to see the artificial light of a hallway. Breaking into a run, she saw a small brass sign. PURSER’S OFFICE. She threw open the door without thinking.
Help. God, she needed help.
The slightly balding man pouring over charts and papers and the person in the chair facing him both jumped at her unexpected entrance. Ava opened her mouth to speak, not caring that she must look like a dazed maniac. But before the first word could come out, she recognized the man in the guest chair.
“Ava!” Dane stood as he stared at her. “What’s wrong?”
He’s already suspicious. He’s not going to rest until he has some answers. The words exploded in her brain. I am not interested in their complaints and neither are the people we work for.
“I—I—I got lost.”
“You look frightened.” He immediately came to her side, his eyes dark with concern, his strong arm reaching out to steady her. When his hand touched her arm, she jumped as though he’d burned her.
“No! No, I’m just…completely disoriented. And a little seasick—”
“That’s unusual when we’re not under way,” Dane said. He nudged her into the chair. “Sit down. Let me get you some water.”
She gasped for air, terror still denying her a deep breath. Should she tell him? She looked at the man behind the desk, who stared back with unabashed curiosity. Not yet. Not here. Think, for once, Ava, before you blurt.
“No, thank you. I just want to find Cassie. I was looking for housekeeping and got completely lost.” She tried to laugh and knew it sounded false and forced.
Before either man could respond, the door opened, and Genevieve Giles, slightly flushed but still elegant in a linen suit, swept into the room.
“Ava! There you are.”
Ava swallowed, certain she was suffocating. “Were you looking for me?”
“I heard you were in with Chef Arnot, dear, and I wanted to say hello. But I got distracted with an employee.” She turned to Dane, who looked questioningly at her. “Nothing serious. Just a new hire a little confused about his job.”
Dane seemed to accept the explanation and turned his attention back to Ava. Don’t you know what’s happening on your own ships? She bit her tongue to keep from screaming.
Dane regarded her closely. “I’ll take you to the deck and you can take the launch back to Gustavia.”
Genevieve looked down at Ava, tilting her head in sympathy. “Had enough heaven for one day, dear?”
An angry response bubbled up, but Ava choked it back as she saw the red finger marks just under Genevieve’s chin, not quite hidden by the thick blond strands. She stood and kept her gaze on the woman, fighting the quaking inside.
“I do need to leave. I have an appointment with my lawyer.” Ava took a step toward the door as Dane opened it for her.
“That should make you feel better.” She heard the sarcasm in Genevieve’s voice, so different from the terrified gasp of pain she’d heard earlier.
Ava spun around and faced Genevieve, her eyes flashing with the anger and fear that burned in her. “I won’t feel better until I figure out who’s responsible for my brother’s death.”
4
G rayson Boyd looked
nothing like the overweight, balding older man Ava had expected. His thick head of auburn hair and compact, muscular body surprised her when he rose to greet her at the entrance of L’Hibiscus.
“Miss Santori.” He flashed a quick smile and watery blue eyes peered at her from behind rimless glasses. She hated those kind of eyes.
“How do you do, Mr. Boyd.”
He guided her to a corner table of the patio. “Please call me Grayson. And may I call you Ava?”
His southern charm was wasted on her. She hadn’t had a moment alone since leaving the purser’s office with Genevieve and Dane. The launch had been crowded with Utopia employees who chatted with her, and one had even shared her cab. She ached to analyze what she’d heard. But she still had to deal with Grayson Boyd.
“So…” He settled in across from her and flipped his napkin back on his lap with a quick glance around the restaurant. “You got here yesterday. Quite a place, St. Barts. Don’t you think?”
“It’s lovely.” She bit back the temptation to tell him to get to the point. And that he might have the wrong guy. Dizzy, she leaned back in her chair.
“Would you like some iced tea? A glass of wine?” He lifted the wine list from the table and offered it to her.
She shook her head. “Have you filed anything yet?”
“Not officially. We’re meeting with some of the families tomorrow and as soon as I have five or so signed up, we’ll draw up the suit. I’m counting on you.”
She paused in the act of opening her linen napkin. “I haven’t decided for sure if I’m going to participate in the suit.”
The smile went out of his liquidy eyes. “Of course you are. Not just for the memory of your dead brother or for the money. Although those are two compelling reasons,” he added with a hasty smile. “Think of these poor island people, living in the depths of poverty, scraping together to live on the few pennies Erikson paid their husbands and sons.”
Tropical Getaway Page 5
