Deadly Tide. Sandy Curtis
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'What?'
'If you don't go to the police, you can take my place.' Tug's heart was in his eyes as he pleaded with her. 'Your mother's not strong enough to handle the shock, Sam. If she finds out what happened, she'll blame me. But she'll also blame herself. I'd rather risk going to jail than have her find out.'
Sam brushed at her eyes. He was right, damn him. And he knew she would do anything to protect her mother. Marcy Bretton had won her fight against cancer eleven years ago, but a year later a stroke had paralysed her right side and affected her speech. As she'd struggled to regain her health once again, her family had shielded her from any stresses that may have affected her adversely. Now only a slight limp and an occasional hesitation in her speech were indications of her long battle.
Tug was tough, and stubborn enough to have gone back on board the Sea Mistress and run the whole operation from the skipper's chair in the wheelhouse, but the bail restrictions prevented this. Three times a week he had to report to the police. So now he thumped about at home, fuming over the wasted sea time and fretting at the worry he knew he had caused his wife.
'Tell Bill to meet me at the wharf at nine in the morning.' Sam walked towards the front door. 'Oh, I got the boat keys off Mum before she went out. Now I'd better go and get some provisions on board.'
'What about a deckie?'
'Don't worry, I'll find one.' Her smile was grim. 'One with more guts than Eddie.'
As she pushed open the screen door, it nearly hit a man with his hand rising as though to knock. In the split second it took for her to register his striking good looks, she also noted the complete stillness of his body and the swift reflexive motion of his arm.
Her instincts told her she would have sensed his movements if he had walked across the patio as she'd reached the front door. How long had he been standing there, she wondered. And how much had he overheard?
'I'm looking for Tug Bretton.'
Warmth lit eyes the colour of polished mahogany. Wavy light brown hair, a long straight nose, chiselled bone structure and perfectly shaped lips - the kind of classic handsomeness she distrusted on sight. She guessed his age to be early thirties.
'What do you want to see him about?' She watched interest flash briefly across his face at her curt tone, but his friendly expression didn't falter.
'I need a job, and a bartender said Tug Bretton might be hiring. Said your deckie quit.'
Sam slowly looked him over. The faded jeans and T-shirt were clean, and he wouldn't be mugged on a Sydney train for his ancient Reeboks, but an old resentment flared. 'You don't look like a deckhand.'
'I'm not. But I work hard and I need the money. And I did a stint of prawn sorting in Brisbane.'
Muscle rippled under the cotton knit across his chest as he crossed his arms to match hers, and she realised she had instinctively adopted a defensive stance. Casually, she moved her hands to her sides. 'Did the bartender also tell you that if you have a drug problem or you're trying to hide out you're wasting your time because the Sea Mistress is being watched by the police?'
'Doesn't worry me. I'm clean. I just need to earn some money so I can pay for my car repairs. A kangaroo used it as a trampoline just outside town. It's not insured, and the panelbeater won't start on the repairs until he sees the colour of my money.'
'Which you don't have.'
'Nope. Not that much anyway. I have prospects of work in Townsville, but I'll need my car when I get there.'
'Inexperienced deckies don't get paid a lot.'
'So long as I have somewhere to sleep, and I'm earning money, I'm better off than staying in the pub and using up what little I have left while I search for work.'
'There's tomato picking.'
'I'd prefer to be on the water.'
If she had the time to search for another deckhand, or if she could find one willing to sign on with a raw female skipper whose father had been arrested for murder, she thought bitterly, then she would tell the man in front of her she didn't need him. The mid-afternoon sun slanted heat onto her bare legs as she closed the screen door and walked out onto the patio. He moved aside, but not enough for her to feel comfortable. Sam was tall, but even wearing medium-heeled sandals, she had to look up at him. She took a step back. 'I suppose the bartender told you my father has a broken leg and won't be the skipper.'
He nodded. 'He thought the other deckie, Bill Marvin, would be taking over.'
'Bill has the sea time, but he never went for his ticket.'
A dark eyebrow raised in query.
'He doesn't have a Skipper 3 ticket, the necessary qualification to skipper a boat.' She watched the understanding on his face, then threw him the crunch line. 'I'll be skippering the Sea Mistress.'
The other eyebrow rose as well, but he simply nodded. 'Okay. Am I hired?'
She wanted to say no, but expediency forced her to say, 'Yes.'
'Great.' He smiled as he held out his hand. 'I'm Chayse. Chayse Jackson.'
Sam had thought she was immune to devastating smiles from good-looking men, but her heartbeat seemed to skitter as she reluctantly reached out to grip his hand. Heat engulfed her palm and the skittering increased. 'Sam Bretton.'
She resisted the urge to rub her hand down the side of her shorts when she drew it back from his grasp. She didn't want, didn't need, to feel any attraction for this man.
'Meet me at the Sea Mistress at six tomorrow morning.' She gave him a brief description of the wharf where the boat was moored, then walked towards the front steps.
'Are you going into town?' he asked, nodding at the keys in her left hand, then adding, 'I'd appreciate a lift back. It was a long walk out here.'
It would be churlish to refuse, but Sam was tempted. At the moment she didn't want company. In spite of her bravado with her father, it had been nine years since she had been behind the wheel of a trawler, and she was worried she wouldn't remember everything she needed to know. At least she had the reassurance of Bill's twenty years working for her father. 'Okay. I have one stop on the way, but that should only take a few minutes.'
'Fine. I don't have much to organise. Perhaps I can give you a hand getting the boat ready?'
She shook her head. 'Bill's been looking after it. All I have to do is buy some stores. Any food preferences?'
'I like my steak thick. Otherwise I'm easy to get along with.'
'I hope so,' Sam said with meaning. 'It isn't easy living and working in a confined area with the same people for weeks at a time. Bill doesn't talk much, and I won't have time to hold your hand if you can't get the hang of things straight away.' At the instant gleam in his eyes she realised the literal meaning of her words, and was grateful she hadn't blushed, a trait that sometimes plagued her. But he only said, 'I'm a fast learner.'
Although his expression was serious, the gleam deepened.
The Bretton house was situated about four kilometres from the city, but that wasn't the only reason Chayse had asked Samantha Bretton for a lift. If she was now skippering the Sea Mistress, she was the person he needed to get close to. Not that getting close to the long-legged blonde would be a hardship. The photo taken by the surveillance team hadn't captured the spirit in her green eyes, or the way the irises were ringed with gold and hazel streaks. Short, wispy hair framed a face more square than round, and her slightly fuller bottom lip teased Chayse with thoughts more carnal than professional.
When she parked in the shade of a large camphor laurel tree, she flicked him a quick look. 'I won't be a minute,' she said, then hurried across the footpath to a lowset timber home and rang the front doorbell. A small child dashed past the woman who opened the door and flung himself at Sam. She swept the boy into her arms and hugged him, her face alight with love. Watching her obvious pleasure tightened Chayse's chest.