Chapter 2 #2
Yeah, maybe that would have been a good idea. But the trip took two days in good weather, and she’d wanted at least two decent days of diving.
So, “Not this time, bro.” She’d hugged him, and he’d growled.
Now, as she searched for the down line, his growl thundered through her.
She checked her compass again, aware of the beeping from her watch. Low air. Yeah, yeah, she knew.
Except, where was the line? Around her, the ocean seemed darker. She hadn’t noticed the change, thanks to the depth and her dive light.
She let out her BCD air and ascended to her safety stop. She must have mistaken her GPS point.
Three minutes later, she reached the surface and inflated her BCD to float.
Rain pinged down on her, and the ocean had turned wild, the waves cluttered, disorganized, pitching her.
The squall had rolled in quicker than she’d thought it could.
But where was her boat?
She searched the water, the sun darkened despite the daytime hour, and a realization climbed into her gut and squeezed.
Somehow, her anchor had broken free.
The Fancy Free was adrift in the Caribbean.
And so was she.
* * *
Finally, a blue-skied day, and Declan stood on deck, searching the Key West Bight harbor as the Invictus pulled into dock. Two days of dodging intermittent squalls on his voyage north from Mariposa cut precious time from his trip.
Aw, who was he kidding? He should have gotten on that plane with Ranger for a hop to the Keys. It would have at least cut down the two days of trial-and-error conversation replaying in Declan’s head.
“Hey, Austen. Thought I’d stop in and see if you want to have dinner.”
Weird.
“Hey, Austen, how are you? Haven’t heard ? —”
No. That was on him.
“Austen, what a surprise!”
Okay, so lying wouldn’t be a great way to ignite their relationship.
Relationship? He had clearly flung his hopes far and long, but a guy who didn’t have a vision couldn’t create a strategy, right?
So, he would settle for, “Hey, Austen. I thought maybe we could start over. I’d really love to take you to dinner.”
And if she wondered why he’d traveled fifteen hundred miles for a date, maybe that would work in his favor. Show her that, yeah, she meant something to him.
“Declan, you are a surprising man.” Her words, spoken while he’d danced with her two months ago under a moonlit night at his charity event. She’d smiled up at him, her green eyes almost magnetic, and right then, the sense of her had crashed into him.
This woman.
Like a brilliant star, she’d lit up the darkness inside, and it had been all he could do not to dance her into the shadows, ask her if he could kiss her.
But... he was her employer . At least for that weekend, so...
Not today. Today he was just a guy—how had Tia put it? Asking a girl on a date?
For starters.
Standing in shorts and flip-flops, the sun baking through his linen shirt, Declan held on to the bow railing, searching the Key West Bight harbor for the Fancy Free .
From the pictures Austen had shown him, it was an old fishing trawler with a blue canopy, maybe forty some feet long, and spiffed up as a liveaboard.
He spotted a few sailboats, their masts piercing the blue sky, a couple yachts, and a few dive boats, but no trawlers matching the description.
Maybe she’d put out for a day of diving.
He’d dock at his private slip, find hers, and wait her out. Not creepy at all.
“Sir, we’re about to dock. Would you like a car to meet you?” Jermaine Rhodes, his ship’s steward, had come out of the salon, sliding the door behind to keep the air-conditioning trapped.
Declan turned, his hands in his pockets. “No, thank you. I’ll wander around. Maybe grab a bite to eat at the Half Shell. I love Camille’s coq au vin, but I need something from the sea today.”
“Shall I ask her to pick up some fresh lobster from the market?”
Did Austen like lobster? Maybe. “And some shrimp and mahi-mahi, just in case.”
“In case?” Jermaine raised an eyebrow.
Declan shrugged. “In case... I’m really hungry.”
Jermaine offered a slight nod, then headed back inside, down to the kitchen.
Declan glanced up at the bridge, where his captain, Teresa, a petite, no-nonsense Portuguese woman in her mid-thirties, helmed his ship.
Her first mate, a Swede named Ivek who dwarfed her and had a quiet solidness about him, stood on deck, radio in his grip, directing the deckhands—two men and a woman—as they maneuvered the ship into one of the larger slips.
The woman had also helped in the kitchen and worked as a cabin steward.
She was new to the boat, but Declan left the staff hires to Ivek.
In his pocket, Declan’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out and then cupped his hand over the screen to read it. Couldn’t quite make it out, so he headed inside to the salon.
The cool air prickled his skin, the boat motor quietly humming through him as he left the chaos outside. He sank onto one of his white sofas.
An update from Zeus.
Zeus
Cargo acquired. Ships deployed. The game is on.
Declan shook his head, smiling as he sent a thumbs-up emoji. Okay, yes, it did feel like a clandestine operation.
A grand heist. Necessary, really, to keep the peace.
He pocketed his phone and headed back outside. They’d pulled alongside the outer docks jutting into deeper water, the deckhands busy securing the ropes to the dock cleats.
Ivek came over to him. “We’ll have the gangway out in a moment, sir. We’ll be ready to leave in about four hours.”
“Thanks. I’m not sure how long I’m staying. Can you ask Jermaine to contact the Jamesons and send a car? Ask them to meet me at the Half Shell.”
“Yes, sir,” Ivek said and moved away with his radio.
The voice of Declan’s former bodyguard raked through his head.
“I think someone is after you, sir.” Words spoken in Barcelona after he’d been sideswiped by a scooter.
Stein had suggested it wasn’t an accident but a woman after the contents of his cybersafe in the country of Montelena, a woman who needed his blood to create a bio key.
Crazy, but the theory contained enough what-if plausibility that Declan had moved the AI program to his own vault in Mariposa. And of course, the vault had been destroyed during the earthquake, so two months ago, he’d finally moved the hard-drive backup copy to his safe at his estate in Minnesota.
But that’s when Stein had gone missing and shown up shot, which had Declan a little unnerved as well. He’d airlifted his bodyguard to St. Kitts and then flown him home to Minnesota.
Maybe he should have replaced him, because Declan felt a little naked as he ventured down the gangway.
On the island, and even in Minnesota, his security blanketed him from the sense of being watched, stalked.
Whatever. Frankly, he’d thought Stein would return after he’d healed.
But repeated texts and a couple phone calls had netted Declan zippo. As if he’d been ghosted.
Which felt even more weird because he’d sort of thought they were friends. He missed Stein’s good-natured ribbing, his quiet confidence, his stalwart presence.
Declan simply didn’t let people that close, really, so...
Aw, he hadn’t had any trouble in two months, so maybe he’d imagined whatever danger had stalked him, his brain igniting paranoia after his cell phone was stolen at the Kingston family wedding. Lost—not stolen. See? Paranoid.
But if a guy didn’t stay alert, trouble could sneak up on him.
He walked down the dock, let himself out of the gated entryway and onto the sidewalk, heading toward the Galleon Resort. He kept a room on hold here for exactly these purposes—well, not these purposes—but nostalgia had him keeping the place.
It had been one of his first investments, his first dip into the millionaire mindset.
He worked his way toward the Galleon, then walked through the lobby with its trophy fish on the walls, the beige tiles, the rattan furniture, and stopped at the front desk. A woman named Wanda greeted him. Blonde hair, pretty.
“I have a garage. Penthouse suite.” He was reaching for his ID when Henry came out of the back, his hand outstretched.
“Declan. I didn’t know you were stopping by.” A tall mid-fifties Dutchman, Henry had just about been ready to close shop after Hurricane Irma when Declan had seen the potential.
“Just for a few hours. Came to pick up some friends. I should have called ahead.”
“Always glad to see you.” Henry grinned.
“Sorry I’m not staying. However, I’m going to pick up my scooter.”
Henry gestured to a porter, put a hand on his shoulder, and sent him to fetch it.
“I read your last report—sounds like you’ve recovered since Covid.”
“Doing better. We probably need a facelift, though.” Henry gestured to the island-themed decor. “Everyone wants the modern rustic style.”
“You stick with your plan, Henry. People like to get away, feel like they’re in a tropical setting.”
The porter arrived with the scooter, a Piaggio Beverly, white with a brown leather seat, freshly washed. “Thanks for taking care of her.”
Declan pulled out, headed down Front Street, then worked his way over to Greene and finally onto Lazy Way, which of course felt just right, the wind in his hair, the sun on his skin. He’d grab a table at the Half Shell, facing the wharf, and hopefully Austen would be back by sundown.
He passed a fifty-foot catamaran at the dock, then Schooner Wharf Bar, and headed out to William, through a side street, and over to Margaret Street.
Music lifted from the Half Shell Raw Bar as he pulled into the lot, found a space, and got out.
The scents of raw fish and the wharf settled as he walked inside, past nets, buoys, and ropes hanging on the walls, fresh fish in ice on display, probably caught that morning. The raw bar ran across one wall, facing the harbor, metal-mesh-gloved shuckers behind the bar, busy with their knives.