Dangerous Waters

She’d turned them down, but felt guilty about claiming other plans. Having dinner with James would validate that excuse. And he’d be an antidote to Rogan Broderick.

Cultured, intelligent, charming, with interests similar to hers and an obviously sympathetic nature, James was a total contrast to the bold-eyed pirate who was occupying far too much of her mind.

“No,” she said, “I don’t have a date.”

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” he said, even though she told him she had her own car. “No need to dress up for me.”

A quick sortie through her bag and she settled on light-blue cotton pants and a loose knitted top. James arrived on time, and whisked her away in a low-slung, polished white car that looked as though it had just driven off the advertising pages of a glossy magazine. It covered the winding uphill road to his house in barely five minutes.

Designed in colonial style but incorporating modern touches, the building soared three stories high, with broad verandas and big windows to take in the spectacular views.

Inside, real crystal chandeliers glowed on varnished timber walls and highlighted a breathtaking collection of antique furniture.

“Antiques are my business,” James replied smilingly to Camille’s admiring comment. “Wholesale prices.”

“Your shop is very well stocked for such a small town.”

“Overseas visitors find prices here reasonable, and quite a few yachties get stuff shipped home. It’s been worthwhile keeping the original store open for that reason, and for the retirees and newcomers who are building. But I have another store in Auckland, and a nice little apartment, so I divide my time between here and the city. Summers are pleasant in the north, and I do some entertaining here.”

Obviously the antique business was a lucrative one, or perhaps he’d inherited money as well.

She followed with a glass of wine in her hand while he showed her stunning examples of craftsmanship in furniture and fine porcelain, and equally impressive works of art, and a small collection of historic coins and thimbles in a glass-fronted cupboard. Surrounded by mementos of days past, she was enchanted.

Dinner was served by a gaunt middle-aged woman on a sheltered corner of the wide veranda, and when James brought up the subject, Camille felt sufficiently relaxed to talk about her unexpected inheritance.

His light eyes bright and interested, he said, “I’d like to see your boat.”

“It’s not mine. Well, only a part of it is. At the moment no one’s allowed on board. It was burgled and police detectives from Whangarei may want to look at it.”

James looked surprised and concerned. “Were there valuables on board that would have interested a burglar?”

“Rogan and Granger didn’t seem to think so.”

He leaned over to pour her some more wine, and glanced up at her face. “They should know. If so, they might be keeping it to themselves.” He sat back and lifted his glass, regarding her steadily over it. “You should keep an eye on your inheritance.”

“What do you mean?”

“Would you know if they’d removed anything?”

“I suppose not, but I don’t think—”

James said, “You’d be surprised what I see in my business. Families stripping furniture and valuables from a house before the body of their loved one is cold. How do the Brodericks feel about their father leaving a share to you?”

“They seem okay with it. One of them’s a bit reserved, but I think that’s just his nature.”

“Still, it pays not to be too trusting.” He raised his glass again. “Here’s to your good fortune.”

James deposited her at the hotel well before midnight. If she’d given him the right signals he might have invited her to stay the night, but when she said she must leave he didn’t demur beyond a polite expression of regret.

Although she had talked more than she’d meant to about the Sea-Rogue and the Brodericks, at least for part of the time she had managed to push Rogan Broderick and her astonishing reactions to him into the back of her mind.

When she went down for breakfast the following morning the brothers weren’t about, and afterward she avoided the wharves, instead making a pilgrimage uphill to the tiny Settlers and Seafarers Museum run by a dedicated group of volunteers in an old missionary church. The elderly woman taking money from a desultory trickle of visitors was happy to impart her historical knowledge of the town and its environs, and Camille spent a couple of hours there.

After detouring to take a closer look at the widow’s walk she’d seen from the hotel, and visit some obscure historic sites the museum volunteer had recommended, she returned to the hotel.

It was lunchtime. A bus occupied part of the hotel parking area, and the dining room was full of tourists chattering loudly in a dozen different languages.

Camille retreated, bought herself a sandwich and a paper cup of fresh orange juice, and found a park seat under a tree on the waterfront. She was on the second half of the sandwich when she became aware of someone standing before her, and looked up into Rogan’s brilliant eyes.

“Hi,” he said. “I saw you from my room. The cops have finished with the boat, and Granger and I are going to clean it up. We’ll let you know if we find your father’s stuff.”

After a second’s hesitation, she offered, “Can I help?” And then wondered guiltily if that had arisen from the faint suspicion James had planted last night rather than a genuine desire to be useful. Hadn’t she decided to keep out of Rogan’s way? But his brother’s presence surely would dissipate the peculiar tension she felt around him.

Rogan’s doubtful glance passed over her clothes, the same cotton pants and top she’d worn the previous night at James’s house. “You don’t need to—”

“I’ll go and change,” she said, “and be with you in about ten minutes.” The sooner things were tidied up here and her father’s belongings identified, the sooner she could get on with her life and remove herself from this man’s disturbing orbit.

He gave her a slow smile, and oh Lord, it was devastating. “We’d appreciate that.”

Rogan tapped on his brother’s door. Granger opened it wearing a cream golf shirt and beige slacks that might have graced the pages of a fashion magazine. “What?” he asked as Rogan grinned.

“Nothing.” Rogan himself wore his shabby khakis. Stuffing his tongue firmly in his cheek, he said, “You look very elegant.”

“I wasn’t expecting to be playing charladies.”

“I could lend you something—” not that he had much in the way of clothes with him, his diving gear taking up most of the space “—but you probably wouldn’t be seen dead in—” He came to an abrupt stop.

Granger said smoothly, scarcely missing a beat, “Anything of yours, no.”

“You don’t have to stay, you know. If you need to get back to work. Leave this to me.”

Granger shook his head. “I’ll shoot off tomorrow and be in the office on Monday. Shall we go?”

“Camille’s coming too,” Rogan told him.

Closing the door behind them, Granger lifted his brows.

“She volunteered,” Rogan said. “She’ll meet us downstairs.”

They were waiting at the foot of the stairs when Camille came down, wearing sneakers and denim shorts with a pale yellow T-shirt. Watching her long legs descend toward them, Rogan swallowed hard, and noticed Granger too was staring with some interest, before he turned to Rogan to share a male moment.

On the boat the men surveyed the chaos with identical expressions of masculine cluelessness in the face of a mammoth housekeeping chore.

“Are there cleaning things on board?” Camille asked. And when they turned to her, “Brushes, cloths, detergents?”

Rogan said vaguely, “There’s a cupboard opposite the head.”

They worked for hours—stopping only briefly to have a drink, nibble on crackers that the vandals had surprisingly spared in the galley cupboards, or take short breathers on deck.