She found it hard to visualize these tough, hard-edged men doing any of those things, though. And she wondered if what he'd said was true. Maybe Camryn had broken Mitch's heart. She doubted that. More than likely, he was merely furious because he'd lost control over her.
"Better hope when we get home." Darryl said, "his maman don't get her hands on you. She'd take you way back in da swamp and feed you to da gators."
Great. Just great. If she survived the boat trip, she'd have to contend with a family—or entire community—of hostile Cajuns. In the swamplands yet.
The thought of Arianne being held in the swamplands frightened her. She'd heard stories of people disappearing into the swamps of southern Louisiana, never to be seen again. Her panic served to revitalize her sense of purpose. No matter how afraid she was to board this boat, she had to do it. Even if she could find a way to escape from muscle-bound Mitch and his burly cohort, she might lose all contact with her niece. She couldn't risk that.
Come what may, she had to keep her link to Arianne intact.
As Mitch strode across the parking lot toward the dock, crushed oyster shells crunched beneath his boots, the late-afternoon sun glared in his eyes and a slight gulf breeze riffled through his hair, mercifully diluting the ovenlike July heat.
He breathed a grateful prayer at the sight of the Lady Jeanette awaiting him. At least something had gone as expected.
Although he'd hated to interrupt the shrimping trip of the crew he'd hired to run the Lady Jeanette, he'd called them in yesterday from Alabama waters. Remy had reported that they hadn't found much shrimp, anyway. "A waste of a good holiday," he'd grumbled. Less than a hundred pounds in two days, and mostly seventy-ninety count. Too small, too few, to even pay expenses. Which, of course, was the last thing Mitch needed on the heels of an expensive marriage, separation and hunt for his daughter.
For now, though, he was glad to have the Lady Jeanette at his service. She'd been his first and favorite boat, a seventy-five-foot, relatively shallow-drafting wood hull built in North Carolina. Although his three other boats were newer, faster steel hulls, none handled the sea with the same lilting grace as Jeanette. She also had the most comfortable quarters.
More to the point, she'd been the boat nearest to this isolated old dock between Panama City and Pensacola, a few hours' drive from Tallahassee down densely wooded highways and unpeopled back roads.
As he'd hoped, the dock was deserted. If Camryn screamed while he brought her aboard, no one would come to her rescue.
After drawing his cell phone from his pocket, Mitch keyed in the number for the private investigator. He had to disprove Camryn's ridiculous claim before they went to court. A few rings and he reached the investigator's recorded greeting. Irritated at the delay, he left a message for Chuck Arceneaux, relating the bare facts of his newest problem. He then dialed his attorney, who was also unavailable. Not too surprising, he supposed, considering it was suppertime on a Friday. July 5, no less. A holiday weekend. He suspected that neither his attorney nor the investigator would be available before Monday.
At least Chuck would have a definite starting point this time. Now that he knew Camryn's address and alias, he could probably trace her activities fairly easily. If those activities didn't include an automobile accident and serious head injury, she'd be facing a perjury charge as well as breaking the custody order … assuming, of course, she intended to tell the same story to the judge. Mitch believed she did. Why else would she bother to concoct such a tale, if not to defend herself in court?
Tense with anxiety, Mitch climbed a set of sun-bleached wooden steps and crossed the weathered planking to the Lady Jeanette. He couldn't wait to get out to sea again. At least there, he could think straight. Breathe easy. Make sense of his thoughts.
As he stepped over the bulwark and onto the back deck, a short, grizzled-haired figure strutted out from the wheelhouse. "Ca va, Mitch. How you makin'?" Remy, his long-time employee who usually captained the Lady Jeanette, sauntered to the back deck with a wide grin.
A tiny inset diamond glittered between his front teeth. This newest affectation never failed to amuse Mitch. The ugly, swarthy, ponytailed son of a gun was determined to draw the ladies' eyes. It seemed he'd found a surefire way. "You have your wife wit' you?" Remy asked, gazing curiously toward the tinted windows of the van.
"Don't call her my wife. If you're talking about Camryn, yeah. I have her."
Remy muttered a Cajun epithet about her to show moral support for Mitch, as his family often did. Not that Mitch encouraged hostile feelings toward her. Everyone in his tight-knit community knew she'd stolen his daughter, though. Many thought she'd also broken his heart. No one would forgive her those sins any time soon.
Except, perhaps, Remy. The middle-aged seaman always took joy in beautiful women. If he hadn't proved his loyalty over the years, Mitch wouldn't have included him in this voyage. Although Remy would take endless delight in Camryn's company, Mitch knew he'd help deliver her to the Terrebonne Parish authorities. To Remy, duty and loyalty to his captain at sea always came before pleasure. He was one of Mitch's best men.
"And your fille … you found her, too, eh?"
Mitch nodded and glanced out over the glistening, pickle-green water of the cove, not wanting to talk about his daughter. Too many emotions clashed within him.
For six months he'd agonized, wondering where Arianne was, whom she was with, how she was being treated. His relief at finding her washed through him in overwhelming tides, but his anxiety still burned. Though she seemed to have come through the ordeal okay, he couldn't be sure she hadn't suffered.
And his need to see her, hold her, reestablish his connection with her, hadn't yet been filled. He'd caught only a glimpse of her in Camryn's garage before Joey had whisked her away—a precaution Mitch had insisted on. In case some well-meaning lawman interrupted his plans for taking Camryn to Louisiana, he wanted Arianne safe at home with his family. He also saw no sense in exposing her to the inevitable animosity between her mother and him. He would not intentionally add to his daughter's distress.
All he could do now was hope that Joey and a longtime family friend had a safe trip back to Terrebonne Parish. If anyone could calm a distressed baby, it was Joey. She'd have her smiling in no time.
Wishing he could be there to see it, Mitch swept his gaze distractedly over the neat back deck of the shrimp boat. "Are we ready to go, Remy?"
"Mais, oui, Cap'n." A frown etched deep grooves in his forehead. "Da boat's ready, yes, but…"
"And your deckhands found transportation home?"
"Dey went out wit' another boat last night. But—"
"Then fire up the engine while I get the rest of our, uh, crew." Mitch turned away, deliberately ignoring the protest he knew Remy would make about leaving the dock today. He was in no mood to argue. And since Mitch was acting as captain on this trip, Remy would concede to his wishes.
Mitch himself would breathe a lot easier when he had his wily prisoner safely off shore … on his turf, so to speak. She couldn't cause much trouble out there.
As he disembarked from the boat and strode back toward the van, though, he suddenly wasn't too sure of that. She probably could cause trouble if she put her mind to it. She obviously had depths to her character that he hadn't seen before.
Maybe it was time to change his strategy in dealing with her. Maybe he should follow her lead and play the game her way. If she believed herself to be winning him over, she'd be less likely to try something rash at sea. After all, if hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, he didn't want to court that fury while captaining the Lady Jeanette.
He'd simply have to hide his scorn. He'd treat her with the respect he'd show any woman—under normal circumstances—and engage her in conversation. He'd even play along with her amnesia tale if she persisted in it. Maybe he could get her talking. The more he knew about her life since she'd left him, the better prepared he'd be in court. And, of course, the more she talked, the better chan
ce he had of tripping her up in the lie.
Before they reached port in Terrebonne Parish, he'd give her plenty of rope to hang herself.
Kate noticed a subtle difference in him the moment he returned to the van. It had to do with the open, friendly way he met her gaze as he settled into the back seat beside her and the warmer tone of his voice when he addressed her. "The boat's ready. The weather's holding out. The sea is calm. We should have a pretty smooth start to our trip." He almost smiled at her. Though his mouth didn't actually curve, the very end tilted slightly upward. His new amiability was enough to make her gape at him. "Let's go."
Darryl muttered something agreeable in the front seat, gathered things together and climbed from the van.
Kate scooted across the seat toward the door, her mind reeling. She'd barely recognized Mitch without his usual hostility and coldness. He seemed years younger, and a thousand times more … civilized. What had caused the change in his demeanor? Maybe the fact that they'd soon be out to sea, and on their way to "his neck of the woods."
Regardless of what had caused the difference, she devoutly welcomed it. She hadn't realized until this moment how much she'd been longing for a break from the anger directed at her. She simply wasn't used to being treated with hostility. Even if his pleasantness went no deeper than common courtesy, she welcomed the comparative warmth like a flower starving for sunlight.
When she reached the doorway where Mitch stood, Kate peered at him to see if she'd imagined the softening in his attitude. This time, he smiled. A slow, lazy smile—one that bracketed his mouth with deep dimples and emphasized the vertical cleft in his square chin; one that lit golden highlights in his eyes, like sunshine glinting on a dark green sea.
Kate roused herself from a sudden stupor to realize her heart was pounding and her breathing had stopped. Good heavens, his smile transformed him. He had to be one of the most handsome, sexiest men she'd ever seen—all rough-hewn masculinity, sun-bronzed flesh, contoured muscle … with a breathtaking smile, yet. Even the laugh lines fanning from the corners of his green eyes added a rugged appeal.
"I've been a little … brusque, haven't I?" he said.
Still dazed from his smile, she blinked, unsure she'd heard him correctly.
The smile mellowed into one of thoughtful contrition. "Camryn, I'm sorry for how I treated you today. I shouldn't have been so … rough. I guess I overreacted."
Astonishment left her momentarily speechless. He was apologizing. When she found her voice, all she thought to utter was "Y-yes."
"We have a serious matter to settle, but there's no reason we can't act civilized while we settle it."
"Civilized," she repeated, nodding in wholehearted agreement and tenuous relief. Surely a man who looked you straight in the eye and apologized with such sincerity wouldn't take you out on the high seas and murder you. Or drag you in a try-net. Would he?
With a satisfied nod, he reached out and settled his hands on her upper arms.
The unexpected contact startled her. Was he going to seal their presumed truce with a hug, or a kiss? A dizzying heat rushed through her at the thought.
His callused hands swept down her arms, brought her wrists together … and held them fast in one large palm while he reached beside him for the handcuffs. "I know you don't like being cuffed," he said in the same warm, amiable tone in which he'd apologized, "but it'll only be until we leave port and clear the channel." The cuffs locked around her wrists with an annoying click.
That effectively dispelled her stupor. "I thought you said we were going to act civilized. Do you call this civilized?" she demanded, lifting her bound wrists for emphasis.
"Until I know you won't try to escape, I have to take precautions." He somehow managed to make that seem reasonable. "Once we're at sea, I'll release you."
Annoyance stirred in her, and she wondered if he'd keep that promise. "I won't try to escape. I want to see the judge as much as you do."
"Good." He flashed her another smile, and she noticed the whiteness of his teeth against the bronze of his skin, and the golden highlights in his hair. Before she knew what he was about, he hooked his hand around her waist and scooped her up into his arms.
"I can walk!" she protested.
"No need."
She glared at him, resentful of the handcuffs, distrustful of his new friendliness and flustered by his physical closeness. With iron-strong arms, he held her tightly against his chest as he carried her. He smelled of sea salt, the summer Gulf breeze, exotic places and clean male sweat—an intensely masculine scent, somehow. Enticing.
Shaken by her suddenly sensual awareness of him, she concentrated on her resentment. She should find nothing about him appealing. He'd handcuffed her, for God's sake, and was bodily carrying her aboard a boat. And he'd taken her baby.
That thought renewed her anxiety. "If you're serious about treating each other with civility," she said, studying his face from an intimately close distance, praying that she might sway him, "may we please call your sister before we board the boat?"
His lips compressed slightly, and she knew he would refuse.
Before he had the chance, she raised her handcuffed wrists and lightly touched his face with her fingertips. Surprise flickered in his expression. "Please, Mitch. I really want to ask Joey about Arianne. And maybe … talk to the baby. Let her hear my voice, and … tell her everything will be okay." To her dismay, her throat tightened on the last few words.
He didn't slow his stride, and his jaw hardened with some emotion, as if her words had reminded him of unpleasantness. But after a silent moment, he murmured, "We'll call ship-to-shore, tonight."
She nodded and pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling. She couldn't think about Arianne if she didn't want to cry. "Thank you."
Averting his gaze from her, he carried her up a short flight of steps, strode across a weathered dock and climbed with remarkable ease over the railing of the boat, like some Viking warrior returning to his ship with spoils of war.
A feeling of unreality came over Kate. She was well and truly on her way out to sea. How could that be? Just hours ago, she'd been strolling in her subdivision with Arianne, chatting with neighbors, discussing swim lessons, enjoying the holiday weekend. And now she'd been kidnapped, held prisoner and forced aboard a seagoing vessel.
Things like this didn't happen in her ordinary, darn-near-boring life. She, who'd never missed a day of school or work until she'd taken family leave, who'd never acted without thorough planning of every detail, who'd never experienced anything close to adventure, suddenly found herself shanghaied … by a man who believed her to be his wife.
Oddly enough, when she thought of her upcoming journey, it was the memory of his smile that caused her the greatest foreboding.
* * *
Chapter 5
« ^ »
The steady rumble of a huge engine beneath the floorboards vibrated through Kate as she sat propped against pillows on the bed where Mitch had left her, still bound by the handcuffs. The oak-paneled captain's quarters consisted only of the neatly made double bed and a large chart table, with a narrow central walkway between.
Fore of the captain's quarters was the wheelhouse. Directly aft, the galley. Mitch had left the doors to both rooms open, allowing the slight breeze to flow through the stifling cabin. The dense Florida humidity, the pervasive scents of sea brine and diesel fuel, the ceaseless vibration of the motor and the keen anxiety building in the pit of her stomach conspired to make Kate feel queasy.
And the boat hadn't even left the dock yet. How would she fare when the motion of the sea added to the mix?
The activity in the wheelhouse helped to distract her. From where she reclined on the bed, she could see Mitch standing with his broad back to her. Stationed at the wheel, he adjusted gadgets on a panel of electronics and issued orders to his crew—the surly, burly tattooed Darryl and a stout, gray-haired, ponytailed man whom Mitch had called Remy. Kate caught only glimpses of him i
n passing. Neither man had accorded her so much as a glance since Mitch had carried her aboard and situated her in the captain's quarters with a promise to release her from the cuffs as soon as they were "outside." "Outside?" she'd asked him.
"Outside the channel and the Intracoastal Waterway," Mitch had explained. At her blank stare, he'd clarified further, "In the open Gulf."
The open Gulf. An intimidating prospect to a landlubber like her. Even if Mitch had no murderous intentions, she knew that nature often posed a formidable danger for any boat venturing offshore. She couldn't help but wonder if Mitch was experienced enough as a captain to bring them safely through any storms or complications they might face.
A fast-paced masculine voice with a saucy Cajun dialect drew her attention to Remy, who appeared beside Mitch in the wheelhouse. "You know better 'n dat, Cap'n. Last time we left da dock on a Friday, we had all kind of bad luck. Da rudder fell off and da transmission went out. Why you want to risk it again?"
"The rudder fell off because you ran us onto a reef, and the transmission would have blown no matter when we'd left the dock. It had nothing to do with bad luck. I'm not postponing this trip."
"Enfin! You'll be sorry. Why not wait till after midnight? It's already seven-thirty. Just a few more hours, and it won't be Friday no more."
"No one's forcing you to come with me, Remy. But I'm leaving now."
"How you like it if I whistle in your wheelhouse, eh?" he threatened. "You won't be so cocky then."
"You won't whistle in the wheelhouse. You'd be more worried about it than I would."
Remy muttered something in Cajun French. Mitch responded in kind. The deckhand shook his ponytailed head, curtly jammed a shabby purple sports cap in place and trudged out of the wheelhouse.
Curiosity flared in Kate, reviving her usual hunger for knowledge—an addiction every bit as strong as Camryn's craving for fun, and only piqued by her eight years of college. She longed to ask about Remy's fear of leaving the dock on a Friday, and about whistling in the wheelhouse, which, it seemed, made Mitch nervous, too. She wondered what else allegedly caused bad luck on a boat … and if the superstition about leaving the dock on a Friday could possibly be true.
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