Dangerous Waters

“Nothing.” His brother looked grim. “That’s the street where he…”

Died. Rogan stopped, looking back. The alley would be a shortcut from the hotel to the Sea-Rogue, a more direct diagonal route behind the buildings that meandered along the dog-leg line of the shore. “Show me.”

Granger halted too. “There’s nothing to see.”

“Do you know exactly where?”

Granger studied the set of Rogan’s jaw, and said tersely, “Come on, then.”

It was a service alley between the unwindowed back walls of several business premises. Bags and boxes of rubbish sat against some, and a heavy smell of fish wafted from a rattling air-conditioner, mingling with the aroma of decaying fruit and vegetables spilling from an overfilled bin a little farther along where fat black flies droned lazily about.

“Here.” Granger stopped at big double doors with peeling paint. On the wall, a faded sign above identified the premises as Tench and Whiteburn, Sailmakers Since 1899. A heap of sodden and stained canvas, rotted rope and collapsed cardboard boxes gave off a moldy fetor, and a couple of stubborn tufts of grass that had fought their way through uneven cracks in the tar-seal lent the only sign of life except for the flies.

“I told you,” Granger said. “There’s nothing to see.”

A van roared into the alley, slowing as it lumbered by with barely enough room to pass them.

Rogan turned away, his throat tight. “Let’s go,” he said in an almost normal voice, leading the way and heading blindly toward the hotel. “I want to get out of this bloody suit.” He stripped off the jacket that was stifling him and threw it over his shoulder, pulling irritably at the dark tie about his throat and stuffing it into a trouser pocket.

“It’s my second-best suit,” Granger told him. “And I’ll thank you to treat it with respect.”

Rogan snorted. “I don’t know how you stand wearing them all the time.”

“I guess your shoulders are wider than mine.” Granger gripped one of them. “All that muscle-bound machismo stuff you do for a living,” he mocked gruffly.

Rogan’s reply was even less polite than before. Scowling, he shrugged off his brother’s hand. He needed a stiff drink. Never mind that he’d already had more than enough beer. A whiskey was what he was after. Harsh, strong whiskey. Neat. Undiluted alcohol.

They reached the hotel, warily peering into the deserted lobby before entering.

Rogan headed for the doorway labeled Bottle Store, ignoring his brother’s lifted eyebrow. “See you in fifteen minutes,” he muttered.

He did too, feeling considerably better as he rapped on Granger’s door exactly one minute early, having broached a bottle of Black Watch in his room.

“Here,” he said, thrusting the borrowed clothes at his brother. “Thanks.”

Granger took the suit and tie and motioned him in, going to the wardrobe.

“She’s still here,” Rogan said.

“Who? Oh—Whatsername McIndoe. You’ve seen her?”

“No, but I checked at the desk.” He’d half expected her to have bolted. At the chapel she’d seemed uncertain, ambivalent. “Shouldn’t we talk to her before we do anything else? And she’s Camille Hartley, remember.”

“Oh, yeah, Taff’s illegitimate daughter.”

“She can’t help that.”

“I wasn’t being snide, Rogue.” Granger finished hanging the suit and closed the wardrobe. “Facts are facts.”

“Does that mean she doesn’t inherit half the Sea-Rogue?”

“Extramarital children do have some rights. It’s not my field, but she might have a case, if only morally. Did you get her room number?”

Rogan shook his head. “They wouldn’t give it to me. Even wearing your suit.”

“You weren’t, any more,” Granger pointed out, picking up the bedroom phone. “You’d already hauled half of it off.” He’d taken off his own jacket but still wore shirt and tie.

He spoke into the receiver, asking to be put through to Miss Hartley’s room.

After a brief conversation he reported, “She’ll meet us down in the Garden Lounge in five minutes.”

Somehow that made Rogan feel considerably lighter than he had all day.

The Garden Lounge looked seldom used. Its small, multipaned windows were curtained with loops of white lace, and when the men entered, Camille was in a cane armchair by a low table, watching them cross the carpet toward her. Her legs, neatly tucked to one side, were encased in dark green trousers. What a waste, Rogan thought regretfully, remembering those legs emerging from her dress last night.

Her gaze flicked across Granger and lit on Rogan. For some reason she looked apprehensive, and as the men drew closer her eyes grew larger, darker.

He was no Adonis, but surely he wasn’t that intimidating? Suddenly he felt taller and bigger, as if he’d somehow expanded under her eyes, and he wondered if he should have put on something a bit more reputable than thin-kneed camouflage trousers and a khaki shirt with the sleeves ripped out.

Army surplus clothes were cheap and hard-wearing. And comfortable, for gosh sakes.

Heck, now he was even censoring his thoughts. As if she’d know what he was thinking.

He remembered her flushing last night as he watched her. She’d known what he was thinking then, all right. The gist of it anyhow.

Granger said, “Thank you for coming,” and she actually smiled at him—not a wide smile, but a smile of sorts, and now she wasn’t looking at Rogan at all.

The men sat down and a waiter brought coffee for three. Rogan would have liked a beer but his head was already floating inches above its normal position. And he figured, when Granger cast him a firm look before he ordered for them both, that as usual his big brother was right. He’d had enough to drink. At least for the next few hours.

“Why did you want to see me?” Camille asked.

She kept her attention on Granger while he explained the terms of Barney’s will.

He reached the bit about Taff’s descendants, and for a moment her delicious, tempting mouth fell softly open, making Rogan’s blood stir as he wondered how it would feel to close it with his own.

“You may be able to make a claim,” Granger was telling her, “if you have proof of your relationship.”

She blinked at him.

“For instance, is his name on your birth certificate? Even though your parents weren’t married—”

Her chin tilted. “My parents were married.”

Rogan interjected. “Taff was married?”

She glanced at him with a hint of scorn. “He seems to have forgotten it, but he was once.”

Granger said, “I’m sorry, I misunderstood.” He fished in his pocket. “In that case you’d inherit half the boat and its contents—plus half of any profit still outstanding from voyages Taff made with our father. As executor I need your address and phone number.” He handed her a card. “This is my office address. You’ll need to produce your birth certificate to prove your right to your inheritance, and—”