Between Roc and a Hard Place Page 8

  “Right,” she agreed.

  Connie lifted her hands. She was carrying a bundle of clothing.

  “More goodies. A few are from Marina—she has a few things I’m missing. Like boobs,” she said a little mournfully, and Melinda laughed.

  “Hey, yours are just fine. Remember that one day most of the world’s big-breasted women will be sagging, but you’ll keep a nice shape your whole life.”

  Connie laughed. “I’ll try to look at it that way! Anyway, there’s a whole lot of stuff here—bras, panties, shorts, shirts, a few beach cover-ups. Not more than a few days’ worth, but we have a washer and dryer in the galley, and Marina says just throw your laundry to her whenever you want.”

  “Thanks,” Melinda said softly.

  When Connie threw the pile of stuff on Roc’s bunk, Melinda studied her for a moment, her heart racing.

  The woman just couldn’t be having an affair with Roc. She wouldn’t be so blasé about a suddenly returned ex-wife—who wasn’t really ex at all—sleeping in Roc’s cabin if there had really been anything between them.

  “May I ask you a personal question?” Connie said, hesitating.

  “Ask anything you like. Whether you’ll get an answer or not …” Melinda said, and shrugged.

  Connie grinned. “Are you spying? Did you know that this was Roc’s boat? I mean, the dolphin thing—”

  “I love dolphins!” Melinda promised vehemently. “And I am involved with a number of groups trying to educate fishermen in ways not to snare them and yet still manage to make their living from the sea.”

  Connie laughed. “Oh, I believe you love dolphins. I love them, too. So do most people. But, well, what were you really doing in our net?”

  Melinda hesitated. “I had an idea that this boat wasn’t a real fishing vessel. I thought that it might be searching for the Contessa.”

  “So you were spying!”

  Melinda shook her head. “Not really. I want Roc to find this treasure. I don’t know if you can believe me or not—I certainly don’t expect you to—but I want this claim to be his. I’m not working for anyone.”

  “Not even your father?”

  Melinda grinned. “You don’t know my father, Connie. He doesn’t need anyone spying for him. He’ll do his own searching, in his own way. Except that I think—”

  “Yes?”

  Melinda shrugged again. “Actually, I think my father wants Roc to make this claim, too. Maybe we owe him. Both of us.”

  Connie watched her for a moment. “Actually,” she said after a moment, “I do believe you.” She turned, then paused at the cabin’s doorway. “Hey, get dressed. We’re taking the dinghy over to the island as soon as Roc brings the Crystal Lee a little bit closer in. It’s a celebration!”

  Connie left, closing the cabin door behind her. Melinda went to check out her new wardrobe, and chose a checked crop top and navy shorts. She felt the boat getting underway even as she buttoned her last button.

  She turned to the dresser by the wall near the captain’s bunk and found Roc’s brush. She hesitated a minute, then began to stroke it through her drying hair. It took some time to work out the tangles. When she finished, she set the brush down and stared at her face, at her still too-wide eyes.

  Don’t look vulnerable! she warned herself. More than that, don’t be vulnerable.

  But she was.

  They all seemed to think that she was protected by some kind of armor, that Davenport’s daughter had to be as tough as nails. Well, good, let them think it. She did wear armor—her pride.

  But there were chinks in that armor. Lots of them.

  The boat had come to a stop again. She felt the rocking movement as it settled.

  Roc shouted to someone to cast the anchor. Connie shouted to someone else to come help her with the bags.

  Melinda set the brush down and hurried out, determined to help Connie.

  After all, they were celebrating tonight.

  It wasn’t really night. It was the most beautiful time of day, the very beginning of sunset.

  They brought the dinghy over to the uninhabited island just as the sun dipped to the water, throwing rays of gold and vibrant red across the blue of the sky and that of the sea.

  Barefoot, like the rest of the group, Roc jumped into the water to drag the dinghy ashore. Peter leaped out swiftly after him, reaching in to grab a few of the bags Connie and Marina had packed. The rest followed quickly. Roc noticed that Melinda was fitting in annoyingly well, just as if she had been hired to hunt for treasure the same as they had been.

  With the dinghy pulled up on shore and the others starting to dig a pit for the fire, he paused for a moment, staring from the beautiful sunset to the scene before him, Melinda down on her hands and knees alongside Marina, scooping up the sand and getting ready to lay the coals they’d brought.

  The tension was getting to him again.

  Her outfit didn’t help.

  She should be dressed in rags, ill-fitting things like potato sacks.

  No, not even potato sacks could make her look unappealing.

  But they wouldn’t be as bad as what she had on. Short, short blue shorts, and a blue and white checked midriff thing that barely covered her. It hadn’t been so long ago, of course, that he had seen her in nothing at all, so it was easy to imagine what lay beneath the wisps of clothing.

  He gritted his teeth.

  His ex-wife—all right, his wife—was definitely managing to create havoc in his life.

  He kept staring at her, watching as Bruce said something, to which she smiled quickly in return.

  The poor boy was going to trip over his own tongue if she kept smiling at him like that.

  Roc started to walk a little way down the beach. When he stopped, he sat with his feet in the water, looking out on the horizon.

  They’d spent so many nights like this, under red and gold sunsets, staring out at the endless sea.

  Strange. Once he had known the lure of the sea was so totally in his blood, he’d never expected to meet anyone like Melinda. A woman who could live happily and easily aboard ship, swim like a fish—and look like an angel. He’d been sure he was meant to be a loner, but then he’d met Davenport’s daughter.…

  Not that things had been smooth. Melinda had always been determined, as he was reminded again and again now. They’d had a tendency to fight over the fact that she could be reckless—especially when she was determined. He’d hauled her out of the water a few times when she’d gone on some search alone, and they’d both yelled and argued, and he’d usually won, because he’d been right. But he’d also had his ways of making it up to her softly in the darkness, where the anger that had spurred him so hotly became a passion made all the sweeter by what had gone before.

  And so things had gone—until the wreck of the Infanta Beatriz.

  Like the Contessa, she had sailed for the New World from Spain. Legend had it that she sank off the northern tip of Cuba, and it was rumored that if she were found, she would yield little, because she had gone down in shallow waters and been stripped of her wealth long ago.

  Still, Roc had read everything he could about her, fascinated by the promise of an unusual horde of jewels that might—or might not—have been aboard.

  He had talked with Jonathan Davenport about the ship, had thrown all his enthusiasm into pleading that they hunt for her.

  Davenport had been unconvinced, so Roc had spent his free time searching for her, out on his own.

  The lure hadn’t really been the value of the treasure, nor even the idea of showing off what he had steadfastly sought and discovered, despite the skepticism of others.

  After all, in the end, he dived for the love of diving, not for gain. Like any hunter, his thrill was in the chase.

  But he had by chance been with Davenport when he discovered a lady’s chest from the ship, deeply encrusted, yet yielding a startling cache of perfect golden coins. He had barely managed to clean a few when he discovered that Davenport had call
ed a press conference and laid claim to the Infanta Beatriz. And when Roc protested in anger, Davenport insisted that the search vessel had been his—damn the long days Roc had searched alone!—and that Roc was simply working for him. He had known, of course, that they were looking for the ship.

  Despite the fact that he had refused to do so.

  Roc could never forget the anger he’d felt. Or what had awaited him after he’d hurried to his cabin, assuming that Melinda would be equally outraged.

  Oh, she had been outraged, all right. But not on his behalf. It was her father’s ship, she insisted.

  “How can you be so ungrateful? Everything you’ve done, you’ve done with my father!”

  “Melinda, he didn’t want to be bothered with the Infanta. He did everything he could to keep me from even looking for her!”

  He could still remember her behavior that night. She had undoubtedly overheard the wild argument between her father and her husband, but she had simply showered, then sat before the small dressing table in a white terry robe and brushed her hair. She had barely turned when he had walked in, instead meeting his eyes in the mirror.

  He should have known then. She might be his wife, but first and foremost she was Davenport’s daughter.

  “Roc, what difference does it make? His find, your find. There will be more ships—the sea is littered with them.”

  He had walked over to her then. “No more ships together,” he said softly. “We’re leaving in the morning.”

  She’d set the brush down at last. “Don’t be ridiculous! Of course you’ll find more ships together. My father’s humored you all along, searching for the Beatriz. Roc, you have to give him his due. I think—”

  “I think your father’s mad that I was right, and he just can’t admit it.”

  “And I think you’re acting like a spoiled two-year-old. My father said he gave you his blessing, that he traveled where you suggested, that he put as much energy into the search as into any other. My father—”

  “Your father is a liar and a cheat—”

  Suddenly she was on her feet, her hand cracking across his chin. He couldn’t remember having been more furious in all his life, but he managed just to catch her up, his fingers wound around her wrists, and tell her succinctly, “I’m leaving first thing in the morning. You have tonight to decide if you’re my wife or his daughter.”

  She paled at that. Her head back, her eyes sizzling, she insisted, “You have no right to walk out! I am your wife—but I’m his daughter, too.”

  “We’re leaving.”

  “We’re not! You’ll make up in the morning.”

  “No, Melinda, we will not. I’m leaving.”

  And he was. He knew it with complete certainty. Everything inside him ached as if a limb were being detached. Davenport had been his boss, his mentor, his best friend—and his father-in-law. But he couldn’t accept what Davenport had done. He was too damn good at what he did to be ridiculed—and then used.

  “Are you with me?”

  She’d wrenched away from him, and he had known her answer. She wasn’t with him but with her father.

  The ache within him deepened. He had loved her. Really loved her. Loved her raw determination, her wild reckless spirit, the way she was so swift to teach others, to help them, to give to them. So aloof at times, so independent, and yet so quick to come to him, to curl against him and trust in him, to dream with him beneath a star-laden canopy over a gently rolling sea.

  No more. Her trust was in her father.

  So this was it. Their last night.

  He was still seething with anger, besieged with pain. But she stood with her back to him, her shoulders square, as if determined to keep the argument going.

  But he knew it was over. He walked across to her, lifted her hair, kissed her neck. She turned to argue; he slipped his hands beneath the neckline of the terry robe and sent it floating to the floor. She opened her mouth to speak, and he closed it for her with the seal of his own. For brief seconds she was rigid.… Then she returned his passion wildly, sweetly.

  Perhaps she was trying to convince him to stay.

  Just as he wanted her to ache in the night once he was gone.

  He didn’t sleep. He rose at dawn and packed his belongings, leaving most of his equipment. She was still asleep. He sat by the bed and woke her at last, feeling once again as if he were losing some piece of his body. Perhaps his heart.

  Perhaps his soul.

  She woke slowly, eyes so beautifully dazed, body sleek, hair tumbling all about her.

  “Are you coming?” he asked simply.

  “You can’t just walk out on him!” she cried, aquamarine eyes suddenly wide and ablaze.

  That was it. He turned and started out the door.

  “Don’t you ever, ever come back!” she cried fiercely.

  He turned once. “If you decide to choose me over your father, you’re welcome to come after me.”

  “You’re really leaving? Just like that? After all that he’s done? After last night?”

  “Yes.”

  Her chin went up. “I hate you!” she whispered fiercely.

  Her lower lip was quivering, the sheet falling from her shoulders. Her eyes were glittering. With fury? With tears?

  He dropped his bag and found himself beside her again, taking her into his arms, unable to keep from touching her. Her fists slammed against his shoulders and his back; then her fingers began to dig into his flesh. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” she cried. But she held him. Held him as he kissed her, touched and savored the length of her, tried to tell himself that there were other women in the world. He knew that he had come back this time because he couldn’t bear to go, that he had to remember her, each curve of her, each taste of her. Yet, once again, the passion and the fury were finally spent. And she whispered softly, “I couldn’t believe that you would really leave me.”

  “I’m not leaving you. I’m leaving your father.”

  She went still, then became a whirlwind of motion, sweeping the covers around her, drawing to the head of the bed, staring at him with eyes as hard as gemstones. “You mean that you—”

  “Melinda, I’ve said it a dozen times now. I’m leaving! I’m leaving your father’s employ, I am not leaving you. If you insist on staying, you are the one who is leaving me.”

  He turned his back on her; he had to. He dressed methodically, not turning around.

  “I hate you!”

  The words burned into his back.

  “Melinda—”

  “If you’re going, go. Get out!”

  He reached for her, but she jerked farther away, as if she could merge with the wall.

  “Go!” she whispered.

  It was the only thing left to do. He turned, and that time he left for real. But all the while he walked down the dock, he prayed that she would appear behind him, perhaps yelling, perhaps indignant, telling him again that he had no right, telling him anything, trying to convince him to stay.

  But she didn’t appear. Still, they were in Key West, and he made his every move for the next few days just as obvious as possible. Anyone could have found him—if they had wanted to.

  Melinda hadn’t wanted to.

  I hate you, she had said. Words of passion, of anger, spoken in a rush. She couldn’t have meant them.

  But perhaps she had.

  Because two days later her father’s ship headed out to sea, and Melinda sailed with him.

  He hadn’t seen her since. He’d heard about her, of course. She’d made a few finds of her own over the last few years, and every time her father was mentioned, she was, too, of course. The press loved Davenport and his beautiful daughter. Everyone loved a mermaid.

  He pulled himself to the present and discovered that the sun had nearly set.

  They’d gotten a nice fire going on the beach, and its yellow flames were competing with the colors in the sky. Roc frowned suddenly, staring past the fire.

  Joe had the grill set up ove
r the coals in the sand pit, and Connie and Marina were busy setting fish fillets and chicken pieces atop it. Peter was stirring some concoction in a pan at the edge of the heat, and Bruce leaned back on a bunched-up towel, a beer in his hand, supervising the lot of them.

  “Careful with the fish now, Marina. Those fresh fillets don’t need more than five minutes a side!”

  Marina’s dark eyes rolled his way in warning.

  Roc leaped to his feet, aware that Melinda was nowhere to be seen. He strode to the fire. “Where is she?” he asked, a scowl knitting his brow. He was amazed at the worry, the fear, the anguish, that had seized hold of him.

  Bruce seemed startled by the tension in his voice. They all stared at him for a moment.

  “She just went for a walk around the island,” Bruce said. “There’s nowhere for her to go from here, Roc. I mean, she can’t possibly be reporting to anyone.”

  “No, the little fool could be in the water again!” he muttered darkly. “Which way did she head?”

  Bruce pointed down the beach to his left.

  “The waters are calm, not much current, and the cove on the other side is well protected,” Marina reminded him quietly.

  He nodded briefly, then turned and started down the beach.

  His strides were long. There wasn’t much daylight left. The red streaks were now being overtaken by the darkening grayness of the swiftly coming night.

  They simply didn’t know her. It was one of the things they had fought about the most. She always taught others never to siwm or dive alone, but she seemed to think herself invincible, and whenever she was upset, which undoubtedly she was right now, she always seemed to go straight for the water. There were so many dangers at night. On a dive in the daylight, they both knew how to deal with curious sharks. But at night, there could easily be some hungry predators ready to find her appetizing. Makos, lemon sharks, hammerheads, blues and more frequented these waters.

  He lengthened his strides. His heart thundering, he passed a big clump of trees, but he didn’t see her yet. He walked over a sand dune and into a cove protected on all sides by brush and hills of sand. It was getting so damn dark!