A Woman With Secrets. Inglath Cooper
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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.