“You can’t be serious,” Remy declared the following morning at the marina as they stared at the large rusted fishing vessel with the name Fallen Angel across its transom.
Jeanne checked the plunge of her heart at the sight.
The paint job looked more like a battleground of brush versus rust, with patches of white paint making a stand against mounting forces of corrosion. The windows were opaque with salt accumulation. Some were cracked and patched with duct tape.
On the bright side, there was a nice flying bridge and the stern deck had ample room for the installation of a deployment arm. In fact, it looked as though one had been mounted there at one time. And the pilothouse would easily accommodate their equipment.
“Look at it this way,” she said. “Aside from cosmetics, she’s perfect.”
Remy cocked his head, staring at the ship’s stern. “Isn’t she listing?”
“Remy,” Jeanne chided, taking a second look just in case. To her eye, the ship simply rocked with the lap of the tide. “Stop being such a nitpick.”
“I will remind you of that undeserved aspersion when we are suspended by our life preservers on the Caribbean,” he shot back.
Jeanne walked out on the ramp that separated the Angel’s slip from the empty one on her starboard side. Okay, the Fallen Angel looked like a last chance, but the truth be told, it really was their last chance. She’d tried every reputable captain on the Yucatán. No one would put up his boat and services for less than a daily charge, despite offers of prospective fortune and paid expenses.
“Hello? Is anyone home?” she called out, knocking on the low rail of the stern deck.
No answer.
“Perhaps we should have checked the Cantina Gaviota first.”
“He said he’d be here.” Gingerly placing a foot on the deck, she boarded the vessel with an easy spring. “Well, come on,” she said, waving at Remy. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“Between the pages of a good book,” he replied, looking as if she’d just asked him to jump off a cliff without a parasail.
“Hello?” Jeanne shouted again as she climbed the short steps to the pilothouse level and knocked on its partially closed door. “Is anyone home?”
Through the film-covered glass of its weathered wooden doors, she could see that what the Fallen Angel lacked in money spent on aesthetics, she more than made up for in technical equipment. Eager to get a closer look, she called back to Remy. “Maybe he was called away and left the boat open for us.”
The sliding door hung at first, but with a little more exertion, Jeanne opened it. “Jeanne, honestly,” Remy whined from the deck. “What if that beast is aboard?”
“Knock, knock, anybody home?” she said above Remy’s protest. From what she’d seen of Nemo, he was more playful than fierce. And besides, the dog would be barking if he were on board.
Her attention was immediately drawn to a bridge that would make any marine enthusiast drool. There was a state-of-the-art radar system, depth sounder, GPS Plotter, autopilot, a VHF radio, and other gizmos that Jeanne had never seen. Pablo hadn’t told her that Gabe Avery was a techno-addict—another plus in the tall-dark-and-dashing’s favor.
Not that the tall, dark, or dashing part mattered, she reminded herself. This was business, nothing more. Gabe Avery could look like Ichabod Crane and she’d be just as glad to have him.
“I should hate to have to bail you out of some south-of-the-border calaboose for trespassing, Dr. Madison.”
Oh dear. Remy is getting seriously impatient. But he’ll get over it, Jeanne thought, noting the large navigation table. Overhead was a rack filled with charts. As for the salon part, a tatty canvas-upholstered sofa lined the starboard bulkhead, while its mate, judging from the shadow on the sun-bleached wood on the opposite wall, had been removed and replaced by a homemade combination storage chest with a padded seat for a lid.
Must be for his diving parties, she thought, tempted to see if there were tanks stored inside. But that would be going too far . . . although a peek couldn’t hurt. It wasn’t as if she intended to make off with them. Tiptoeing over, she lifted the lid. Sure enough, there was Gabe Avery’s diving equipment. Nothing skimped there either, she mused, recognizing the name brands.
Unable to resist, Jeanne bent over for a closer examination when a husky voice sounded behind her.
“Sweetheart, you’d best have good reason for rummaging about on my boat.”
With a start, Jeanne pivoted away from the chest, the lid slamming down behind her. In the companionway, a bare-chested, sleep-ruffled Gabe Avery peered at her, eyes narrowed against the assault of bright morning light. Most of his raven-dark hair had escaped his ponytail and framed his scowling face.
“Where’s N-Nemo?” Jeanne stammered as he fully emerged from below. Thankfully, the rest of his magnificent torso was clad in low-hanging sweatpants. “I did knock,” she said, backing away from the one-eyed peek of his navel over the waistband. She tore her wayward gaze away. “It’s me, Captain . . . Jeanne . . . I mean, Dr. Madison.”
Not trusting his ears, Gabe shaded his eyes from the light blinding him through the open double doors. Recognition shoved its way between the drums pounding in his temples. The more he saw of the lady doctor, the less she looked like one. Certainly the long golden legs that ran all the way from her deck shoes to the stretched edge of her pink jogging shorts didn’t belong to one. He’d thought some flaky college coed had wandered aboard looking for charter.
“Well, well, it rises from its drunken sleep to the light of day,” Remy Primston jeered, drawing Gabe from his wonder to where the man stood on the lower deck, looking ready to abandon ship at any moment. “Best move, Jeanne, before he or that dog of his drools on you. Where is the beast?” he asked, the starch crackling in his voice.
Last night, Gabe had felt sociable. So after changing into dry clothes, he’d gone back to the cantina to celebrate his good fortune. Today, head pounding and stomach growling, he felt anything but. “You know, Primston, you are an—”
“Is Nemo aboard? May I take a look inside?” Jeanne interrupted quickly. “I mean, everything looks fine up here, but I’d just like to see the rest of the boat.”
Gabe twisted his lips, mentally shifting from assault to politeness for pretty-in-pink. “Nemo went home with my first mate . . . he’s got divided loyalties when there are kids to play with,” he explained. With a sweep of his arm, he motioned to the companionway. “Be my guest.”
As Jeanne descended the curved stairwell, Gabe turned to Primston, who started up to the bridge to follow. “Remember, Prim. She’s the boss, not you,” Gabe growled out the side of his mouth. “You stay topside like a good professor until I finish showing the boss around.” It wasn’t polite, but frankly, Gabe couldn’t care less what Primston thought.
By the time Gabe entered the small galley, Jeanne had already wandered down the forward companionway. “Sorry about the housekeeping,” he called out, walking over to the small stainless sink and filling a glass of water. After ferreting two aspirin out of a bottle stored in the built-in cabinet behind the faucet, he took them. The water from the Angel’s water purification system wasn’t the best, but it was safe and was wetter than his mouth.
“What happened to your second stateroom?” she asked.
“I converted it to storage, which I needed more than a second pair of beds.”
Leaving the near-empty water glass on the counter, Gabe started down the forward corridor, combing his hair off his face with his hands. As he bound it at the nape of his neck, Jeanne closed the open stateroom door and turned into him, her upturned nose slamming into his breastbone.
“Oh—”
Gabe caught her by the shoulders as she fell back. “Whoa, doc. No traffic lights here, so proceed with caution,” he teased.
Color sufficient to match her shorts outfit climbed to her cheeks as she backed away into the open door of the forward cabin. “It-it’s just perfect.” She cleared the nervousness from her throat. “I mean, we don’t need staterooms, since we’re operating from the base at Punta Azul. And the extra room will be perfect for storing artifacts when we find them.”
“When?” She was confident, Gabe would give her that.
“When,” she replied, jutting a stubborn chin in the air. “‘If ’ is not an option.”
Gabe placed a hand over her shoulder, leaning against the bulkhead. “What makes you so certain?”
Shoving her hands in the pockets of her shorts, she examined the unmade bed in the vee of the bow as if the answer were there. When she met Gabe’s skeptical appraisal, she decided to just jump in.
“Because a chance like this comes along once in a blue moon, and while it may sound crazy to you”—she took a deep breath—“I know it came from the hand of God.”
Gabe straightened and backed away. “Next I suppose you’ll declare yourself to be on a mission.”
“Every day is a mission, Captain,” she told him. “I’d rather think that going after the Luna Azul is a leap of faith.”
“More like a calculated risk,” Gabe said with a skeptical snort. “At least to your sponsors.”
Suddenly at ease, Jeanne folded her arms across her chest. A gold cross hung from her neck, catching the light through the porthole as though to jump in the face of the cynicism that had riddled Gabe’s thoughts the night before . . . until he’d drunk away the silk of Jeanne’s voice whispering over and over in his mind: We might find more than a ship. All things are possible. Given a choice, he’d have opted for that We are both passionate comment.
“And what is this expedition to you, Gabe Avery?”
A smirk pulled at his mouth. “My redemption, golden girl. But not the kind you and your likes are so fond of. It’s the redemption of my career as a treasure hunter. It’s like you said”—he looked at the cross against her collarbone—“a chance like this comes once in a blue moon, and I’m going to take it all the way to the bank.”
To his surprise, his companion laughed, soothing to the ear and abrasive to the ego. “You might have more faith than you think, Captain.”
With that, she sidled past, brushing against him in the narrow confines. Why Gabe didn’t show the doctor just how wrong she was and wipe that I-know-something-that-you-don’t grin from her lips with a kiss was beyond him. It’s not as if he wasn’t tempted, he thought, watching the sway of her retreat and the bounce of her ponytail as she bounded up the companionway to the bridge.
As Gabe reached the galley, Jeanne reappeared in the companionway. “And you’re sure you can meet us on the fourteenth of March at Punta Azul?”
Had they discussed a date? Regardless, Gabe nodded. “Aye, aye, doc.”
She grinned, an annoyingly happy show of white against a healthy tan. As Gabe moved toward her, Jeanne held up her hand. “No, no . . . finish your nap. Remy and I can see ourselves off.”
That was the best idea he’d heard all day. Going out into the sunlight again could be the catalyst that blew his head to smithereens. “Hasta marzo, then.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “Until March, Captain Avery. Adiós.”
Gabe heard his visitors’ retreating footsteps and felt the slight dip of the Angel as they disembarked.
March.
A deep growl rumbling in his throat, Gabe grabbed the water glass from the counter and emptied it over his head. At least the pain would be gone by then.