Or why.
“Nope.” Nimbly he leaped from the dock to the deck of the gleaming white ship with Nefarious emblazoned on its bow.
She took a moment to wonder if the ship had been named when he’d bought it or if he’d christened it himself. And if he had, what the name symbolized. But frustration edged out curiosity. “Would you mind telling me why?”
He sent a glance her way, then bent forward to more tightly secure the ship’s mooring. “No, I don’t mind.” His sudden verbosity should have warned her. He’d been maddeningly reticent up to now. “Number one—I gave the other party my word. That might not mean much to folks like you, but it does to me. And two…” He looked at her then, really looked at her. An insolently thorough once-over that left her flesh tingling as though he’d stroked her skin with one callused palm. “…you look like trouble. I don’t like trouble.”
There was a definite glimmer of satisfaction in his pale gray eyes as he took in her gaping jaw, before he turned his back on her.
When she found her tongue again, she managed, “Trouble? What kind of trouble could I possibly cause?”
“You’re a woman, aren’t you?”
Her answer, if she’d been able to form one, would have fallen on deaf ears. He’d gone below deck and left her, jaw hanging open and temper on the rise, to bake in the tropical sunshine.
Well, damn. Crossing her arms over her less-than-ample chest, Analiese snapped her mouth shut and fumed. Of all the possible scenarios she’d imagined, somehow this one had failed to occur. Belatedly aware of the interested stares from people on ships docked nearby, she turned, raised her chin and stalked away. The man was being a bit more recalcitrant than she’d anticipated, so she’d have to go back to the motel. Regroup. Form a new strategy. She had until dawn tomorrow to do so.
Because none of the other charter services would do, of course. It had to be Jones. Just Jones.
A cool shower and a complimentary rum punch in the hotel bar did wonders for Ana’s optimism, and she got down to the Machiavellian task of changing Jones’s mind. Staring blindly at the useless paper parasol adorning her drink, she gave the matter careful consideration. Thwarting bullheaded men was an area in which she did have a great deal of experience—again, thanks to her three older brothers, who, without frequent reminders, were apt to treat her as though she were a rather dim house pet. But Jones had already proved immune to her famed perseverance. Which meant that the situation called for a bit more creativity.
Idly she watched the area fill up with people, as many locals as tourists. The tiny South Pacific island country of Bontilla was, according to the travel agent, a little-known gem of a tropical paradise with a budding tourism trade. This hotel was the only decent one on the island. Staring through the open-air walls toward the shattering blue of the ocean beyond, Ana couldn’t help but think it would be a shame to see its beauty marred in a few years with hordes of stressed-out stockbrokers and their discontented wives.
A loud burst of laughter interrupted her thoughts, and she looked up at the group of half a dozen men sitting nearby. No one would mistake them for locals. Each sported painfully sunburned faces and loose shirts with loud prints. Their conversation centered on their drinking prowess and fishing. Wrinkling her nose, Ana turned away.
She brought the glass to her lips and considered moving to another table as another loud bout of laughter assailed her.
“Wanna lay a little bet on that, Stevo?”
She barely noted the words. There was a small table for two open near the railing, so she started to rise, intent on changing places.
“We’ll see who’s the master fisherman tomorrow when we board Nefarious. You’ll be begging me to share my secrets then.”
Ana stopped and turned back to eye the men speculatively. One of them noted her interest and nudged the one nearest him, and their words tapered off as each turned to look at her. She had only a split second to plan before she smiled brilliantly, moved toward them. “You fellas aren’t planning on going out with Jones tomorrow, are you?” At their agreement, she reached for a chair and pulled it up to their table. “Mind if I join you for a few moments?”
With six beers under his belt and a hot, willing woman on his lap, Jones’s mood was still on the surly side. Losing a three-grand charter fee was enough to sour the most affable of temperaments, something he couldn’t claim at the best of times. Business, which had already been slow, had recently gotten slower. Steve Fisher, the spokesman of the group, had been vague about the details, but the message had been clear enough. They’d canceled the fishing trip they’d booked with him.
Lexie, the bar’s full-time waitress and his part-time bed partner, whispered a suggestive remark in his ear. Ordinarily it would have earned her a laugh and a lusty hug, but only garnered a half smile. The beer had done little to soothe his resentment. Some checking had shown that Fisher and the others had chosen to forfeit their deposit in order to go with Ranachek, another service on the island. And although he knew there was little that Emil Ranachek wouldn’t do for a fee, Jones still couldn’t figure out what he could have promised the men to convince them to make the switch.
Lexie leaned over him, providing him a view of her impressive bosom. “Maybe I can help chase that mood of yours away,” she whispered suggestively. Her fingers stroked over the jaw he hadn’t bothered to shave that day. “I get off in an hour. And I can get you off about fifteen minutes after that.”
“In an hour I plan to be drunk.”
Her laugh was low and sultry. “Lover, that’s never stopped us before.”
As if he needed a reminder, she planted a long wet kiss on him, one that caused definite signs of interest to stir in his groin, despite his mood. Since it seemed a shame not to show his appreciation, he cupped her breast and nipped at her neck. “See you in an hour.”
With visible reluctance Lexie got up, smoothed her short skirt and gave a toss of her long, dark hair. With one last, smoldering look, she swayed back in the direction of the bar, leaving Jones to his beer, his temper and what must certainly be an alcohol-induced hallucination.
He lowered the bottle, squinted across the smoke-hazed space. If he hadn’t been the wrong side of sober he’d have sworn the woman sitting near the entrance was the same one who’d spent the better part of an hour today pestering him about a charter. Which was ridiculous, of course. Because there was no way a lady like that belonged in a place like this.
The tavern he occupied didn’t even have a name. It was little more than an open-air shanty with a couple of beer signs flickering on the walls. It damn sure wasn’t frequented by tourists, which was one of the reasons he preferred it. After hours or days onboard with paying customers, he liked to spend his free time as far away from their type as possible.
He watched the woman toy with the straw in her drink, while she looked around interestedly. Damned if it wasn’t the woman from this afternoon. What had her name been? Something ordinary. Johnson. Smith. Yeah, that was it. He ran his thumbnail under the label of his bottle, his attention riveted on the female several yards away. Ann Smith, with the wispy blond hair that was shorter than his own by several inches, and the big innocent blue eyes.
His mouth curled derisively. It had been a long time since he’d believed in innocence, especially when it came to women. So it must be sheer stupidity that had led her here, far enough off the beaten path to spell risk for a single woman on her own.
