A Woman with Secrets Page 2

  “I know I’ve told you I was close before,” Sam said, his diplomacy failing to coat Cole’s irritation, “but I’ve managed to connect with a discarded boyfriend of your ex-wife. Apparently, she dumped him, and he’s not too happy with her.”

  Cole had no trouble believing this. Casting people aside, after all, was Pamela’s forte. “And he said he knows where she is?” he asked, trying not to let himself get too hopeful.

  Lately, he’d begun to think he would never see Ginny again. And in a way, it had become easier to let himself believe that than to believe in something that might never actually happen.

  “Said he does.”

  “And what does he want in return for that information?”

  “Twenty thousand dollars.”

  “Then give it to him,” Cole said without hesitation, glad for once of the investments he’d made early in his law career, the returns on which he now lived. “I’ll make a transfer to your account as soon as we hang up.”

  “Done. But I’ll have to wait for him to call me.”

  “Are you telling me you can’t get in touch with him?” he asked, incredulous.

  “That’s the way the guy wanted it.”

  Disbelief blasted through Cole, skepticism fast on its heels. “Are you sure he’s on the up and up?”

  “He insisted on playing things his way. Look, Cole, I know how anxious you are to find your daughter,” the detective said, “but you’ve waited this long. Don’t give up now. I have a really good feeling about this lead.”

  Cole wanted to believe him. And what choice did he have but to go along? If this Pamela castoff could help locate Ginny, then Cole could stomach the idea of doing it his way. “I’ll be going out for the next ten days this afternoon,” he said. “You have the numbers to reach me. The reception’s decent once I get out of port. Call as soon as you hear anything at all, okay?”

  “Will do,” Sam said and hung up.

  Cole placed the receiver back on its hook, but didn’t immediately let go. Some inner quirk of superstition kept his hand where it was, as if to sever the connection would also sever the possibility that he might actually find his daughter this time. It had been almost two years since he had seen Ginny. Nearly two years of wondering where she was. If she’d missed him. If she thought he was the one who’d abandoned her. The thought cut like a knife in his chest. To think his child might actually believe he didn’t care about her, that he’d walked away from her…

  Using his phone card, he dialed the number for his bank and made a transfer to Sam’s account. He turned then and headed back down the boardwalk to the Ginny. A migraine loomed at the periphery of his vision like a hurricane off south Florida, hanging back and building up force.

  Just short of his boat, he spotted Harry Smith spread-eagled across the bow, adding another layer to his suntan. The pounding in his temples gained momentum.

  Harry showed up with predictable frequency, usually accompanied by a couple of string-bean-thin blondes, one of which he always offered to Cole—generous guy that he was—despite the fact that he had yet to take him up on his offerings.

  Harry raised his head now and squinted in Cole’s direction. “The love boat’s back in port,” he said, getting up and jumping onto the dock, his smile chastising. “And it’s a wonder, after you all but sank it.”

  Cole shot him a look. “You’re the one who can’t function without a woman on each arm. I’m managing just fine.”

  Harry hailed from Savannah and everything about him suggested old money. At thirty-six, he thoroughly enjoyed his reputation as a playboy and did whatever he could to further it. Heir apparent to a silver fortune, he spent his days cruising around the Caribbean on his father’s yacht, his deck decorated with sun-adoring women who were drawn to him like honeybees to ice cream.

  “Unlike you,” Harry said, “I’m not cursed with an aversion to the female gender. You’re the one living like a monk. Don’t you think there’s a little something wrong with a guy who never takes advantage of the fruit just waitin’ to be picked off the trees?”

  “Have you ever noticed how fruit can be fresh one day and rotten the next?” Cole asked.

  Harry rolled this around a moment, and then said, “You know, you should move to Alaska. They wear parkas there instead of bikinis.”

  “It’s a thought,” he agreed, refusing to rise to the bait. He had to give Harry credit for tenacity. Harry couldn’t understand how any red-blooded male could survive two years without a woman. As someone with skid marks on his heart, Cole wasn’t real keen to repeat the experience. The only thing he cared about was getting his daughter back and making sure Pamela never saw her again. As for the rest of his life, he was just biding time.

  “You see, Cole,” Harry said, “you’re not playing the game by the right rules. Nobody said you’ve got to fall in love. I walked that plank once myself, and if anybody knows there are sharks below, I do. This is all about fun. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

  “You really buy that crap?” he asked, amused.

  “Sure I do.”

  Cole shook his head. “Somebody always wants more, Harry. That, you can count on.”

  “Fine, fine,” he said. “But next time you get lonely for a little female companionship, don’t come looking for—”

  “I won’t.” He picked up the bottle of water sitting by the rail of the boat and took a long draw on it. “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were going to be out for a while.”

  A shrug accompanied Harry’s reply. “Met up with a little blond-haired gal who needed a lift.”

  “The Triple A of the Caribbean.”

  “I do what I can,” Harry said with a slightly wicked grin.

  “Excuse me.”

  The voice turned them both around. A woman stood on the dock, a pull-handle suitcase beside her, an expensive-looking leather satchel in her left hand. Harry’s disgruntled expression disappeared behind an orthodontically correct smile.

  “Can I help you with something, miss?” he asked with the charm that was part and parcel of his genetic code.

  She glanced down at the sheet of paper in her hand and frowned. “This is Tracer Harbor, isn’t it?”

  Harry bolted forward as though a pot of scalding water had been tossed at his back. He took the paper from her hand, scanned its contents and shot Cole a rejuvenated grin. “Yes, ma’am. And this is the Ginny. Looks like you’re in the right place.”

  The woman tipped her head and peered past them at the boat. “I—There’s been some kind of a mistake, I’m afraid. I’m supposed to be booked on a cruise—”

  “So you are,” Harry squinted at the piece of paper, before saying, “Miss Winthrop. You’re looking at the captain.”

  The woman’s perfectly arched eyebrows drew together over a look of suspicion. “You’re the captain?”

  “Ah, no. I’m Harrison Smith. Friends call me Harry.” Harry directed her gaze toward Cole, giving him a thumbs up signal behind her back. “Captain Cole Hunter, at your service. On that note, I have a few things to do. Down the dock,” he said, pointing. “Over there. Well out of hearing range.”

  Ignoring Harry, Cole looked at the woman and said, “You’re Tyler’s friend?”

  “Ah, yes. Kate Winthrop,” she said. “Tyler spoke highly of your cruise.” She shot a glance at the Ginny, then corrected herself. “Boat.”

  Cole had gone to law school with Tyler. He and his wife Peg had been booked on the trip out of Miami today. He’d called and said they had a change of plans, but a friend would be taking their place. According to Tyler, this friend needed a vacation and wasn’t opposed to a little roughing it.

  Looking at her now, Cole strongly suspected roughing it for Ms. Winthrop meant getting booted from the Four Seasons to the Ritz-Carlton. She had that look. Diamond solitaires impressive enough to be her only jewelry. The kind of straight blond hair whose upkeep could probably support several mortgages. And blue jeans with designer holes in the knees.

>   “Passengers aren’t supposed to arrive until later this afternoon,” Cole said, glancing at the satchel she held in a death grip at her side.

  “I’ve been driving for the past twenty hours,” she said. “I thought maybe I’d be able to board early.” She glanced at the boat behind him, crestfallen, as if she’d been anticipating a version of the QEII and had just realized she was getting a tugboat.

  “Tyler did tell you this is a working vacation, didn’t he?”

  She shifted from one foot to the other. “Working vacation? No, I just assumed—”

  “Look, Ms. Winthrop, there’s nothing fancy about what you’ve signed on for,” he interrupted, his patience waning. “Everyone is expected to do his or her part whether it’s helping out in the kitchen or fishing for dinner. I have one crew member, but the idea is it’s pretty much your boat for the duration.”

  She blinked hard, her grip on the satchel tightening. “But I…don’t know anything about boats.”

  He bit back a sigh. Before the day ended, the hurricane pounding at his temples would no doubt hit land. He decided then and there that he would be far better off with a cancellation on his hands than taking Ms. Kate Winthrop on this excursion. Hitching a thumb back toward town, he said, “Try the Fontainebleau. It’s a full-service hotel. Room service. Great big pool. The works. Much more your style, I’m sure.”

  * * *

  THE WORDS RANG of insult.

  Married to Karl for three years, Kate certainly knew one when she heard one.

  Standing there in the bone-melting Florida heat, she stared at the back of the tall, sun-bronzed man now striding across the boardwalk toward his boat. Anger swelled inside her. Long overdue, without question. Life had landed her enough blows of late, and she had no intention of letting some overgrown Tom Sawyer with his shaggy hair, ragged cutoff jeans and bare feet change her plans.

  Not that this was turning out at all as she had expected. She’d assumed the Bennetts’ cruise plans would involve nothing more taxing than days spent by the pool sipping piña coladas. This particular vessel couldn’t have been mistaken for a cruise ship in pitch dark and high seas.

  But the likelihood of getting on a real ship at this late date was next to nil. And she wasn’t about to let this boat sail without her. When Karl arrived back in Richmond, she intended to be somewhere in the middle of the ocean where he wouldn’t stand the remotest chance of finding her.

  “Captain Hunter!” she called out in the most humble voice she could muster.

  He turned around, looking surprised to find her still standing there. “Was there something else I could do for you?” he asked.

  She faltered under the set look on his face, cleared her throat, then said, “I’m not interested in a hotel. I’m booked for this cruise. I don’t intend to change my plans.”

  He didn’t say anything for several seconds, but merely stared at her as if she were a child for whom he had to find a convincing argument. “Look, Ms. Winthrop, you can’t expect the rest of the group to carry your weight—”

  “Captain Hunter,” she interrupted, digging her heels in. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I don’t expect anyone else to do it for me.”

  He watched her for several drawn out moments. Resisting the unfamiliar urge to fidget under his level gaze, she stood her ground. To her surprise, he let out a deep sigh and said, “Fine.”

  Relief whisked through her, followed quickly by a surge of indignation. Why did she care what he thought of her anyway? It wasn’t as if he were what she’d expected. What had Tyler said about his old law school buddy? “Smart guy. Summa cum laude at Yale…”

  This was what a summa cum laude from Yale did with his life? She’d assumed “running the cruise” meant from some skyscraper in New York City or wherever such types operated their investments. Not “running the boat,” as in, sailing it, cleaning it, docking it.

  And the man wasn’t exactly dressed like the captain of a boat. His white T-shirt and cutoff jeans said Rebel with a capital R. So maybe he was handsome in a who-cares-what-the-rest-of-the-world-thinks sort of way. His dark blond hair had streaks of light in it. And his eyes were blue, like sea water.

  She put a stop to her observations. She’d had enough of handsome men to last her a lifetime. Karl had been handsome. GQ. Drop-dead. Turn-your-knees-to-water handsome. He was also a slug.

  The man with the city-block-wide smile jogged back down the dock, his expression expectant when he called out, “You two get everything squared away?”

  With his return came the realization that, unfortunately, she needed Cole Hunter and his less-than-cruiselike boat. Her disappearance would give Karl time to cool off and accept the fact that where their farcical and now dead marriage was concerned, she would be the one to have the last word. And she really, really wanted the last word. “Yes, I think so,” she said.

  Harry Smith sent a victory fist into the air. “Great. You don’t know what you’re in for, Miss Winthrop!”

  She somehow suspected that he was right.

  She waited while the two men held a huddle a few yards away, their voices low and hushed. Ignoring them, she stared off into the distance, concentrating on the sounds of sails snapping into line, laughter ringing from a yacht headed out of the harbor, a black French poodle barking from its guard post aboard an enormous catamaran.

  The conversation behind her built to a crescendo. Harry Smith’s voice carried a note of appeal, while Cole Hunter’s rumbled resistance to whatever his friend was suggesting. Finally, the captain took the distance of the dock between them in a few swift strides, commandeering her two suitcases without saying a word. Her heart leapt into her throat. She shot after him, protesting, “That’s all right. I can carry those.”

  But he kept walking, long, marked strides that said a good deal about his level of agitation. She slowed her pace and drew in a calming breath, reassuring herself that he had no idea what was inside the bag.

  Even so, she frowned at his back. She didn’t care if the man was Tyler’s friend. He was rude. And she had a feeling that before this so-called vacation was over, she would tell him so.

  She followed him down narrow stairs, through a doorway barely wider than her own body and into a cabin the size of a large closet.

  “This is where you’ll be staying,” he said abruptly, plopping her two suitcases down by the bed.

  With him in it, the room seemed Alice-in-Wonderland small. It was neat and clean though, the bed crisply made, the air tinted with the remnants of furniture polish.

  “Anything you need?” he asked, obviously anxious to go.

  “A pitcher of iced tea and a sandwich would be nice,” she said, infusing the request with politeness.

  His smile said you’re kidding right?

  Actually, she wasn’t. She hadn’t eaten in twelve hours. Something told her she should let this one go though.

  “Dinner’s at seven,” he said and turned to leave.

  “Captain Hunter?” she called out.

  He ducked back inside the doorway with a look of restrained impatience. “Yes?”

  “The other passengers. When will they be arriving?”

  “Couple hours,” he said.

  “Oh. Good, then,” she answered, reassured to know she wouldn’t be sailing off alone into the sunset with Captain Grump and his sidekick.

  After he left, she sank down on the bed, her stomach rumbling. Was she crazy? Maybe she should just get off the boat now. Maybe she should have stayed and confronted Karl. Taken the lizard to court and let him explain to a judge where the million dollars in his closet had come from. But she hadn’t relished the idea of handing out a chunk of her father’s already depleted funds in legal fees. Besides, Karl would need a little time to come to grips with the fact that he’d have to find some other means of financing Tiffany’s decorating habit.

  And, too, she told herself, spending the next ten days on a boat headed through the western Caribbean could only be so bad.
At least she wouldn’t have to worry about Karl finding her. For now, at least, that was all she cared about.

  * * *

  FROM THE CORNER of the deck, Cole watched the lovely Ms. Winthrop struggle with the tarp he’d asked her to fold.

  He could have done it himself. He hadn’t needed to call her up from her cabin to do it, but he was holding out the hope that she’d change her mind and leave before the rest of the passengers arrived. He didn’t have a good feeling about this woman.

  Not to mention that Harry’s matchmaking antennae had been on high alert since the moment he set eyes on her. He was certain God had finally taken pity on poor sex-starved Cole Hunter and sent him a woman no man could resist.

  A breeze caught the end of the tarp and jerked one end of it from her grasp. Her dark navy pullover had started to cling to her arms and shoulders in wet patches. Sweat glistened on her forehead and upper lip. Several strands of blond hair had escaped the barrette at the back of her neck and stuck to her cheek.

  He crossed the deck and reached for one end of the canvas. With a pointed look at her navy shirt, which now clung to her skin in some interesting places, he said, “By the way, dark colors draw the sun.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Man has a thousand plans, heaven but one.

  —Chinese Proverb

  CLEARLY, HE THOUGHT she was an idiot.

  Folding a tarp. As though the boat would have sunk if she hadn’t accomplished the task posthaste. She patted the final edge into place and managed an even reply, “Thanks for the tip.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he said.

  From the other end of the dock came a lilting, “Yoo-hoo!”

  Two older ladies with bluish, salon-set hair walked toward the boat, both wearing excited expressions. Behind them, a black-capped chauffeur wheeled a cartload of luggage. One of the women waved coral nails in their direction, the color picking up the floral background of her silk jumper. “Captain Hunter?”

  He studied the two women through narrowed eyes. “Could I help you with something?”