Still Waters: The Island / Below the Surface

Why? He didn’t know.

“Because I said so.”

“But, Dad—”

“Because I said so,” he repeated.

He turned away, because he really didn’t have a better explanation to give his daughter. As he paused to look down the beach, his frown deepened, and he tried to tell himself there was nothing to worry about.

But everyone, it seemed, was looking out to sea.

Not too far away, Matt was standing by one of the palms. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he was looking toward the yacht.

Down farther, Amanda Mason was posed in almost the exact stance, staring out over the water, hugging her arms around herself.

And even farther down...

It was Brad. Staring out at the water, at the little boat nearing the majestic yacht.

A sense of unease filled him, like a little inward shiver.

He literally shook himself, irritated.

He dealt with the scum of the earth, so why was he so bothered now?

With a slight groan, he turned away. Good God, Keith’s buddies—including the owner of the yacht—were right there. The Masons were down the beach. Brad and Sandy were unknowns, but what the hell, they were there, too.

Beth was as uptight as an old schoolmarm, worse than he was himself.

Everything was fine.

“Hey there!”

He turned. Lee Gomez was waving to him, heading toward the interior of the island.

“Looking for a few good coconuts,” Lee called to him. “Want any?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” he returned.

Down the beach, Sandy had moved to stand behind Brad. She slipped her arms around his waist and rested her cheek on his back.

Brad didn’t seem to notice. He was intent on the yacht. Then he turned, as if aware that he was being watched, and saw Ben staring at him.

Ben waved.

Brad waved back, then turned his attention to Sandy.

It’s all just fine, Ben assured himself.

And it was. They would be getting off the island.

He was amazed to realize he was glad the weekend was nearly over. He usually dreaded going back to work after a break. What the hell. There ought to be some saying about the scumbag you knew and the scumbag you couldn’t quite recognize.

He looked good rowing, Beth decided.

She purposely turned her gaze to the yacht they were approaching, dismayed that she seemed to be doing little other than appreciating the physical assets of the man.

Around boats, guys wore trunks, cutoffs, T-shirts, even no shirts. They tended to be bronze, and the club attracted a slew of well-toned, healthy, fit specimens of masculinity.

Keith Henson just seemed to have it all and carry it off just a little bit better.

This morning he was in blue-and-black swim trunks, the kind a million surfers wore, the kind that shouldn’t have been the least bit erotic. He had eschewed a shirt, since the day was hot—nothing unusual in that. But his skin seemed to be an unreal masculine shade of bronze, and his muscles flexed with each tug on the oars. Shades hid his eyes from her view, and she certainly hoped her own hid her thoughts equally well. Suddenly she blushed. She had been thinking about how he was dressed, but now realized that she, too, was skimpily clad in a bathing suit and sarong—an outfit that she would have thought nothing of if she weren’t with him.

But there was something between them.

She couldn’t stop herself from thinking of it as chemistry, though she was sure she never would have felt such a draw if it hadn’t been for his smile. Or the darkness of his eyes. Or the keen mind that seemed to lie behind his every word.

His every lie.

“Well, do you like her?”

They had reached the yacht. He stood, rocking the little dinghy, and tied on. The aft ladder had been left down, and he swung on, reaching out a hand to her. With the dinghy bobbing on the waves, she accepted. She found herself noting the ease with which he helped her. The man was strong. Did that make him some kind of a criminal? And if he was, what kind of an idiot was she to be here with him?

She landed on deck with ease and looked around. She estimated the original price of the boat at more than six figures.

“Really, really nice,” she assured him.

“Come on. I’ll show you around.”

He took her around the upper deck, then to the flybridge, and finally down to the cabin. She whistled softly.

“It’s like a luxury-hotel suite,” she told him.

“The great thing is that she can do anything. Despite her size, she’s got top speed, and she’s rigged for fishing as well as pleasure cruising.”

“That’s why there’s the global positioning system, sonar, radar, communications—and whatever else is up there and down here?”

“We all like to fish,” he said with a shrug. “What can I get you? Juice, soda...water? Want coffee? It will only take a minute.”

“I’d love coffee,” she told him.

He seemed to be involved in the task, but she had the feeling that he was watching her all the while. For her reactions?

Or to make sure that she didn’t notice something she shouldn’t?

“Make yourself at home,” he said.

“Thanks.” She took a seat on the sofa in the main salon area. She might have been sitting in the salon of a resort. Beyond the windows, she could see the sea, the sky and a glimpse of the island.