Dangerous Waters. Laurey Bright

liked women. He liked their bodies, softly rounded or slender and supple, and their silky smooth skin, and their hair—how they kept it shiny and sweet-smelling, sometimes curled and plaited and decorated. He liked the way they moved, the subtle roll and sway of their hips and behinds as they walked. And how if they liked a man back, they touched their hair and tilted their heads and peeked at him with shy, flirty eyes. Or boldly looked at him and smiled, inviting him closer.

      He specially liked their laughter, and their voices—light and pretty, or low and sexy. And how they listened, really listened when he talked. He liked the way they cared, about all sorts of things—children, the environment, their girlfriends’ problems.

      And he was awed by how capable they were. His mother had needed to be, but other women too seemed to just know things that men blundered through without a clue.

      He liked being with them. For a while.

      Sometimes a leisurely drink or two with a woman in a warm bar was as pleasurable in its own way as a wild romp in bed. Not that he wasn’t open to offers…

      He wondered if Ocean-eyes was around.

      Camille, he remembered. Her name was Camille. Nice. Yeah, and it suited her. Although she didn’t look consumptive like The Lady of the Camellias.

      It wasn’t easy escaping, and it was another hour before the brothers slipped through a side door and Rogan gulped in a lungful of fresh air.

      “Let’s walk,” Granger said.

      Putting some distance between them and the revelry inside, they strolled randomly along the nearest street, then uphill, where for a while they silently observed the view, and finally by a roundabout route made their way back into the heart of the town.

      Rogan told Granger about his conversation with Webby. “Do you think it’s possible Dad had stumbled on something valuable?”

      Granger snorted. “The old man chased after so many wild geese he could have started an egg farm.”

      That was certainly true. Except that he’d never actually caught one.

      Granger’s step faltered, then picked up, and Rogan said, “What?”

      “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