level against him. Unless, of course, she discovered that Mitch hadn’t been abusive. What would she do then? Give up Arianne?
The thought hurt too much to contemplate. And so far, she found it impossible to believe that he could love Arianne more or give her a better life than she would. In fact, she had only his word that he was her father. She couldn’t change her strategy now.
“Is Joey going to bring Arianne to the dock?” she asked, hoping against hope that she would.
“No. I don’t trust you anywhere near Arianne. And I don’t want her upset by anything you might do.”
She glared at him, and they nursed their mutual animosity in silence.
Nearly an hour later, the van veered off the rural highway onto a crushed-shell driveway that ran alongside an abandoned, boarded-up seafood-processing plant. Behind it, the outriggers and mast pole of a shrimp boat came into view. The van then rounded the corner to the back parking lot, where a weathered wharf bordered the glimmering, dark green waters of a small cove.
At the wharf was docked a large commercial trawler.
“Is that yours?” Kate asked in surprise. “A shrimp boat?”
Mitch answered only with a scornful quirk of his mouth. She supposed it had been a silly question. The trawler was, after all, the only boat at the dock. And as they drove closer, she saw the name painted on the stern. The Lady Jeanette.
The driver parked the van beneath scraggly palm trees near the end of the rickety wooden wharf, and Mitch reached for the door. “Stay here until I check out the boat, Darryl. Keep a close watch on our, uh, guest. Who knows how creative she might get? And don’t let her loose, no matter what she says.”
“Got ’er covered, Cap’n.” The cold-eyed man with thinning black hair, a full mustache, well-trimmed goatee and anchor tattoos decorating his impressive biceps leaned his back against the driver’s door and shifted a narrowed gaze to Kate. “She ain’t going nowhere till you’re ready.”
With a brisk nod for Darryl and one last warning glare at Kate, Mitch left the van and headed toward the shrimp boat.
Fear stirred in her at the thought of being forced aboard a seagoing vessel by hostile men and taken far beyond the reaches of civilization. Not to mention the fact that she’d never been on anything larger than a ski boat, and that had been during her college years, in the relative safety of a bay.
“I don’t understand why we’re going by boat,” she said, hoping to glean information from Darryl.
“Because Mitch is boss on da water. No one gets in his way.” He spoke in a heavier, more distinct version of the dialect she’d noticed in Mitch’s speech—a piquant blend of southern, French and possibly Canadian. It had to be Cajun.
“So his name is Mitch,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.
Her captor snorted. “You got some nerve, lady. Saying you don’t remember Mitch. If he’d let me, I’d take you way out yonder—” he jerked his head toward the sea “—and drag you in da try-net.”
The fear Kate had been fighting spiked sharply in her breast. She had no idea what a try-net was, but she certainly didn’t want to be dragged in one.
Undisguised animosity blazed from Darryl’s coal-black eyes. “You know what you did to him. We all know. You stole his daughter, wasted all his money and broke his heart. He don’t laugh. He don’t joke. He don’t dance at the fais do do. You took all da fun out of him. All his joie de vivre. He ain’t da same Mitch no more…because of you.”
Kate flinched at his hostility. Never before had she been the brunt of anyone’s hatred. She didn’t like the feeling. But surely a man who valued laughter, joking and dancing couldn’t be all bad, could he?
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
