Dangerous Embrace

by Nora Roberts

  “Below, you see the wreck of a forty-passenger Convair airliner lying upside down.” She slowed the boat so that her passengers could examine the wreck and the divers out for early explorations. Bubbles rose from air tanks like small silver disks. “The wreck’s no tragedy,” she continued. “It was sunk for a scene in a movie and provides divers with easy entertainment.”

  Her job was to do the same for her passengers, she reminded herself. It was simple enough when she had a mate on board. Alone, she had to captain the boat, keep up the light, informative banter, deal with snorkel equipment, serve lunch and count heads. It just hadn’t been possible to wait any longer for Jerry.

  She muttered to herself a bit as she increased speed. It wasn’t so much that she minded the extra work, but she felt her paying customers were entitled to the best she could offer. She should have known better than to depend on him. She could have easily arranged for someone else to come along. As it was, she had two men on the dive boat and two more in the shop. Because her second dive boat was due to launch at noon, no one could be spared to mate the glass bottom on a day trip. And Jerry had come through before, she reminded herself. With him on board, the women passengers were so charmed that Liz didn’t think they even noticed the watery world the boat passed over.

  Who could blame them? she thought with a half smile. If she hadn’t been immune to men in general, Jerry might have had her falling over her own feet. Most women had a difficult time resisting dark, cocky looks, a cleft chin and smoky gray eyes. Add to that a lean, muscular build and a glib tongue, and no female was safe.

  But that hadn’t been why Liz had agreed to rent him a room, or give him a part-time job. She’d needed the extra income, as well as the extra help, and she was shrewd enough to recognize an operator when she saw one. Previous experience had taught her that it made good business sense to have an operator on your side. She told herself he’d better have a good excuse for leaving her without a crew, then forgot him.

  The ride, the sun, the breeze relaxed her. Liz continued to speak of the sea life below, twining facts she’d learned while studying marine biology in college with facts she’d learned firsthand in the waters of the Mexican Caribbean. Occasionally one of her passengers would ask a question or call out in excitement over something that skimmed beneath them. She answered, commented and instructed while keeping the flow light. Because three of her passengers were Mexican, she repeated all her information in Spanish. Because there were several children on board, she made certain the facts were fun.

  If things had been different, she would have been a teacher. Liz had long since pushed that early dream from her mind, telling herself she was more suited to the business world. Her business world. She glanced over where the clouds floated lazily over the horizon. The sun danced white and sharp on the surface of blue water. Below, coral rose like castles or waved like fans. Yes, she’d chosen her world and had no regrets.

  When a woman screamed behind her, Liz let off the throttle. Before she could turn, the scream was joined by another. Her first thought was that perhaps they’d seen one of the sharks that occasionally visited the reefs. Set to calm and soothe, Liz let the boat drift in the current. A woman was weeping in her husband’s arms, another held her child’s face protectively against her shoulder. The rest were staring down through the clear glass. Liz took off her sunglasses as she walked down the two steps into the cabin.

  “Please try to stay calm. I promise you, there’s nothing down there that can hurt you in here.”

  A man with a Nikon around his neck and an orange sun visor over a balding dome gave her a steady look.

  “Miss, you’d better radio the police.”

  Liz looked down through the clear glass, through the crystal blue water. Her heart rose to her throat. She saw now why Jerry had stood her up. He was lying on the white sandy bottom with an anchor chain wrapped around his chest.

  * * *

  The moment the plane finished its taxi, Jonas gathered his garment bag and waited impatiently for the door to be opened. When it did, there was a whoosh of hot air and the drone of engines. With a quick nod to the flight attendant he strode down the steep metal stairs. He didn’t have the time or the inclination to appreciate the palm trees, the bursts of flowers or the dreamy blue sky. He walked purposefully, eyes straight ahead and narrowed against the sun. In his dark suit and trim tie he could have been a businessman, one who’d come to Cozumel to work, not to play. Whatever grief, whatever anger he felt were carefully masked by a calm, unapproachable expression.

  The terminal was small and noisy. Americans on vacation stood in groups laughing or wandered in confusion. Though he knew no Spanish, Jonas passed quickly through customs then into a small, hot alcove where men waited at podiums to rent cars and Jeeps. Fifteen minutes after landing, Jonas was backing a compact out of a parking space and heading toward town with a map stuck in the sun visor. The heat baked right through the windshield.

  Twenty-four hours before, Jonas had been sitting in his large, elegantly furnished, air-conditioned office. He’d just won a long, tough case that had taken all his skill and mountains of research. His client was a free man, acquitted of a felony charge that carried a minimum sentence of ten years. He’d accepted his fee, accepted the gratitude and avoided as much publicity as possible.

  Jonas had been preparing to take his first vacation in eighteen months. He’d felt satisfied, vaguely tired and optimistic. Two weeks in Paris seemed like the perfect reward for so many months of ten-hour days. Paris, with its ageless sophistication and cool parks, its stunning museums and incomparable food was precisely what suited Jonas Sharpe.

  When the call had come through from Mexico, it had taken him several moments to understand. When he’d answered that he did indeed have a brother Jeremiah, Jonas’s predominant thought had been that Jerry had gotten himself into trouble again, and he was going to have to bail him out.

  By the time he’d hung up the phone, Jonas couldn’t think at all. Numb, he’d given his secretary instructions to cancel his Paris arrangements and to make new ones for a flight to Cozumel the next day. Then Jonas had picked up the phone to call his parents and tell them their son was dead.

  He’d come to Mexico to identify the body and take his brother home to bury. With a fresh wave of grief, Jonas experienced a sense of inevitability. Jerry had always lived on the edge of disaster. This time he’d stepped over. Since childhood Jerry had courted trouble—charmingly. He’d once joked that Jonas had taken to law so he could find the most efficient way to get his brother out of jams. Perhaps in a sense it had been true.

  Jerry had been a dreamer. Jonas was a realist. Jerry had been unapologetically lazy, Jonas a workaholic. They were—had been—two sides of a coin. As Jonas drew up to the police station in San Miguel it was with the knowledge that part of himself had been erased.

  The scene at port should have been painted. There were small fishing boats pulled up on the grass. Huge gray ships sat complacently at dock while tourists in flowered shirts or skimpy shorts strolled along the sea wall. Water lapped and scented the air.

  Jonas got out of the car and walked to the police station to begin to wade through the morass of paperwork that accompanied a violent death.

  Captain Moralas was a brisk, no-nonsense man who had been born on the island and was passionately dedicated to protecting it. He was approaching forty and awaiting the birth of his fifth child. He was proud of his position, his education and his family, though the order often varied. Basically, he was a quiet man who enjoyed classical music and a movie on Saturday nights.

  Because San Miguel was a port, and ships brought sailors on leave, tourists on holiday, Moralas was no stranger to trouble or the darker side of human nature. He did, however, pride himself on the low percentage of violent crime on his island. The murder of the American bothered him in the way a pesky fly bothered a man sitting contentedly on his porch swing. A cop didn’t have to work in a big city to recognize a professional hit. Th
ere was no room for organized crime on Cozumel.

  But he was also a family man. He understood love, and he understood grief, just as he understood certain men were compelled to conceal both. In the cool, flat air of the morgue, he waited beside Jonas. The American stood a head taller, rigid and pale.

  “This is your brother, Mr. Sharpe?” Though he didn’t have to ask.

  Jonas looked down at the other side of the coin. “Yes.”

  In silence, he backed away to give Jonas the time he needed.

  It didn’t seem possible. Jonas knew he could have stood for hours staring down at his brother’s face and it would never seem possible. Jerry had always looked for the easy way, the biggest deal, and he hadn’t always been an admirable man. But he’d always been so full of life. Slowly, Jonas laid his hand on his brother’s. There was no life there now, and nothing he could do; no amount of maneuvering or pulling of strings would bring it back. Just as slowly he removed his hand. It didn’t seem possible, but it was.

  Moralas nodded to the attendant. “I’m sorry.”

  Jonas shook his head. Pain was like a dull-edged knife through the base of his skull. He coated it with ice. “Who killed my brother, Captain?”

  “I don’t know. We’re investigating.”

  “You have leads?”

  Moralas gestured and started down the corridor. “Your brother had been in Cozumel only three weeks, Mr. Sharpe. At the moment, we are interviewing everyone who had contact with him during that time.” He opened a door and stepped out into the air, breathing deeply of the fresh air and the flowers. The man beside him didn’t seem to notice the change. “I promise you, we will do everything possible to find your brother’s killer.”

  The rage Jonas had controlled for so many hours bubbled toward the surface. “I don’t know you.” With a steady hand he drew out a cigarette, watching the captain with narrowed eyes as he lit it. “You didn’t know Jerry.”

  “This is my island.” Moralas’s gaze remained locked with Jonas’s. “If there’s a murderer on it, I’ll find him.”

  “A professional.” Jonas blew out smoke that hung in the air with no breeze to brush it away. “We both know that, don’t we?”

  Moralas said nothing for a moment. He was still waiting to receive information on Jeremiah Sharpe. “Your brother was shot, Mr. Sharpe, so we’re investigating to find out why, how and who. You could help me by giving me some information.”

  Jonas stared at the door a moment—the door that led down the stairs, down the corridor and to his brother’s body. “I’ve got to walk,” he murmured.

  Moralas waited until they’d crossed the grass, then the road. For a moment, they walked near the sea wall in silence. “Why did your brother come to Cozumel?”

  “I don’t know.” Jonas drew deeply on the cigarette until it burned into the filter. “Jerry liked palm trees.”

  “His business? His work?”

  With a half laugh Jonas ground the smoldering filter underfoot. Sunlight danced in diamonds on the water. “Jerry liked to call himself a free-lancer. He was a drifter.” And he’d brought complications to Jonas’s life as often as he’d brought pleasure. Jonas stared hard at the water, remembering shared lives, diverse opinions. “For Jerry, it was always the next town and the next deal. The last I heard—two weeks ago—he was giving diving lessons to tourists.”

  “The Black Coral Dive Shop,” Moralas confirmed. “Elizabeth Palmer hired him on a part-time basis.”

  “Palmer.” Jonas’s attention shifted away from the water. “That’s the woman he was living with.”

  “Miss Palmer rented your brother a room,” Moralas corrected, abruptly proper. “She was also among the group to discover your brother’s body. She’s given my department her complete cooperation.”

  Jonas’s mouth thinned. How had Jerry described this Liz Palmer in their brief phone conversation weeks before? A sexy little number who made great tortillas. She sounded like another one of Jerry’s tough ladies on the lookout for a good time and the main chance. “I’ll need her address.” At the captain’s quiet look he only raised a brow. “I assume my brother’s things are still there.”

  “They are. I have some of your brother’s personal effects, those that he had on him, in my office. You’re welcome to collect them and what remains at Miss Palmer’s. We’ve already been through them.”

  Jonas felt the rage build again and smothered it. “When can I take my brother home?”

  “I’ll do my best to complete the paperwork today. I’ll need you to make a statement. Of course, there are forms.” He looked at Jonas’s set profile and felt a new tug of pity. “Again, I’m sorry.”

  He only nodded. “Let’s get it done.”

  * * *

  Liz let herself into the house. While the door slammed behind her, she flicked switches, sending two ceiling fans whirling. The sound, for the moment, was company enough. The headache she’d lived with for over twenty-four hours was a dull, nagging thud just under her right temple. Going into the bathroom, she washed down two aspirin before turning on the shower.

  She’d taken the glass bottom out again. Though it was off season, she’d had to turn a dozen people away. It wasn’t every day a body was found off the coast, and the curious had come in force. Morbid, she thought, then stripped and stepped under the cold spray of the shower. How long would it take, she wondered, before she stopped seeing Jerry on the sand beneath the water?

  True, she’d barely known him, but he’d been fun and interesting and good company. He’d slept in her daughter’s bed and eaten in her kitchen. Closing her eyes, she let the water sluice over her, willing the headache away. She’d be better, she thought, when the police finished the investigation. It had been hard, very hard, when they’d come to her house and searched through Jerry’s things. And the questions.

  How much had she known about Jerry Sharpe? He’d been American, an operator, a womanizer. She’d been able to use all three to her benefit when he’d given diving lessons or acted as mate on one of her boats. She’d thought him harmless—sexy, attractive and basically lazy. He’d boasted of making it big, of wheeling a deal that would set him up in style. Liz had considered it so much hot air. As far as she was concerned, nothing set you up in style but years of hard work—or inherited wealth.

  But Jerry’s eyes had lit up when he’d talked of it, and his grin had been appealing. If she’d been a woman who allowed herself dreams, she would have believed him. But dreams were for the young and foolish. With a little tug of regret, she realized Jerry Sharpe had been both.

  Now he was gone, and what he had left was still scattered in her daughter’s room. She’d have to box it up, Liz decided as she turned off the taps. It was something, at least. She’d box up Jerry’s things and ask that Captain Moralas what to do about them. Certainly his family would want whatever he’d left behind. Jerry had spoken of a brother, whom he’d affectionately referred to as “the stuffed shirt.” Jerry Sharpe had been anything but stuffy.

  As she walked to the bedroom, Liz wrapped her hair in the towel. She remembered the way Jerry had tried to talk his way between her sheets a few days after he’d moved in. Smooth talk, smooth hands. Though he’d had her backed into the doorway, kissing her before she’d evaded it, Liz had easily brushed him off. He’d taken her refusal good-naturedly, she recalled, and they’d remained on comfortable terms. Liz pulled on an oversized shirt that skimmed her thighs.

  The truth was, Jerry Sharpe had been a good-natured, comfortable man with big dreams. She wondered, not for the first time, if his dreams had had something to do with his death.

  She couldn’t go on thinking about it. The best thing to do was to pack what had belonged to Jerry back into his suitcase and take it to the police.

  It made her feel gruesome. She discovered that after only five minutes. Privacy, for a time, had been all but her only possession. To invade someone else’s made her uneasy. Liz folded a faded brown T-shirt that boasted the wearer had hiked the
Grand Canyon and tried not to think at all. But she kept seeing him there, joking about sleeping with one of Faith’s collection of dolls. He’d fixed the window that had stuck and had cooked paella to celebrate his first paycheck.

  Without warning, Liz felt the first tears flow. He’d been so alive, so young, so full of that cocky sense of confidence. She’d hardly had time to consider him a friend, but he’d slept in her daughter’s bed and left clothes in her closet.

  She wished now she’d listened to him more, been friendlier, more approachable. He’d asked her to have drinks with him and she’d brushed him off because she’d had paperwork to do. It seemed petty now, cold. If she’d given him an hour of her life, she might have learned who he was, where he’d come from, why he’d died.

  When the knock at the door sounded, she pressed her hands against her cheeks. Silly to cry, she told herself, when tears never solved anything. Jerry Sharpe was gone, and it had nothing to do with her.

  She brushed away the tears as she walked to the door. The headache was easing. Liz decided it would be best if she called Moralas right away and arranged to have the clothes picked up. She was telling herself she really wasn’t involved at all when she opened the door.

  For a moment she could only stare. The T-shirt she hadn’t been aware of still holding slipped from her fingers. She took one stumbling step back as she felt a rushing sound fill her head. Because her vision dimmed, she blinked to clear it. The man in the doorway stared back at her accusingly.

  “Jer-Jerry,” she managed and nearly screamed when he took a step forward.

  “Elizabeth Palmer?”

  She shook her head, numb and terrified. She had no superstitions. She believed in action and reaction on a purely practical level. When someone died, they couldn’t come back. And yet she stood in her living room with the fans whirling and watched Jerry Sharpe step over her threshold. She heard him speak to her again.