WIFE BY DECEPTION Page 10

  "You know, Mitch," she said in a pleasant, conversational tone, sounding more like a polite stranger than his wife—"ex" or otherwise—"I'm not an expert on commercial vessels, but I'm sure there's a way to carry a considerable amount of freshwater. I mean, think of how much cruise ships must carry. I realize your tanks couldn't possibly contain as much as a cruise ship's, of course, but maybe you should look into finding a bigger tank."

  Mitch sipped his coffee and studied her face. She seemed entirely earnest, as if she only wanted to help. As if she expected him to say, Wow, what a great idea. As if she honestly didn't know that they already carried three thousand friggin' gallons.

  Remy saved him from having to reply by distracting them with steaming plates of grits with rich, saucy grillades. He also set out a platter of golden-brown croissants, a dish of butter and a jar of homemade mayhaw jelly.

  The appetizing spread of food reminded Mitch of the significance of this breakfast. He'd almost forgotten. This would be Camryn's next test. He hoped the results would make things more clear than the shower test had. Her willingness to take the deck-hose shower—and her apparent delight with it—had only confused him more.

  He'd bet his bottom dollar she'd find a way to avoid Remy's grillades, and the mayhaw jelly, too. That alone might not prove enough to convince a judge that she was lying about her memory loss … but if she ate only a plain croissant, he himself would know that she damn sure remembered what happened the last time she tried these good old down-home Cajun foods.

  "Is this the grillades?" She regarded the heaping mound of beef, onions and tomatoes over grits with eager, wide-eyed interest.

  "Da best grillades, east or west of da Mississip," Remy assured her, taking the place beside her where his own cup of chicory coffee awaited him.

  "Mmm, grilled onions, I see. There's garlic in it, too, isn't there?"

  "Some."

  Inhaling the pungent fragrance of the unfamiliar dish, Kate closed her eyes and tried to identify the other spicy scent. Unable to recall where she'd last smelled it, she glanced at Remy, who was watching her with an expectant expression of a great chef awaiting approval of his newest creation.

  Oddly enough, she noticed a watchful expression on Mitch's face, too. Why?

  Was he simply doubting her inability to remember the grillades … or was he growing suspicious that she wasn't Camryn?

  No, surely not! But a mild sense of panic hit her at the possibility. She wasn't ready for her impersonation to end yet. Although she knew his family name now, as well as the name of his boat, and had a fairly good idea that he came from the swamplands of Louisiana, she hadn't learned enough about the man himself, or his community. Until she did, she needed a way to discover the all-important, intimate details of his personality, his temperament. His home. Otherwise, how could she know if he was fit to raise Arianne?

  She, who had worried only yesterday about the quality of Arianne's swim lessons, now had to decide whether this stranger was capable of giving her the love, guidance and support so vital to a child's future. No, Kate decided. She couldn't allow the impersonation to end yet.

  She couldn't let him get suspicious that she wasn't, in fact, Camryn.

  Had these grillades been a favorite dish of hers? Remy seemed to believe so. "You really don't remember my grillades?" he'd asked with an incredulous stare. If she didn't want to blow her impersonation, she needed to proceed with caution. A head injury might explain why she'd forgotten things that Camryn should have known, but it wouldn't have changed her taste in food.

  Determined to swear she loved the grillades and finish every bite, she picked up her fork and optimistically dug into the creamy, sauce-covered grits, tomatoes, onions and beef. She noticed that Mitch had already begun eating his. He seemed to be enjoying it.

  Kate's first taste was surprisingly delicious. No wonder her sister had loved the dish. She flashed a smile of approval at Remy.

  But before she'd thoroughly chewed the first mouthful, the burning began. A hot, peppery burn in her mouth and throat. And her nose, her eyes. Cayenne! That was the fragrance she'd been trying to pinpoint. He'd used quite a lot of it, too. And maybe some hot sauce. And roasted jalapenos. Good heavens, maybe liquid fire!

  She felt her face, her entire body, heat up to an alarming degree. With a tortured moan, she dropped her fork, grabbed her paper napkin and discreetly spit the burning mouthful into its folds. Her eyes watered and streamed, and the fire in her mouth continued to grow, as if she'd swilled pure acid.

  "Don't give her water," Mitch said, his face nothing but a blur to her. She frowned at that heartless, infuriating blur, until he added, "Get her an icy cola. It'll stop the burning faster."

  Remy, who had already left her side, fumbled around in the refrigerator and spoke in rapid French, his tone clearly remorseful, while Kate half rose from her seat, choking and coughing and fanning her mouth in growing desperation. A frosty glass was put into her hand, and she drank deeply of the contents. Slowly, much too slowly, the burning decreased, and she sank back down into her seat. But when she'd finished the cola, the fire promptly returned. Gasping, she reached for the ice-filled glass again.

  "Dat's it, Cam," Remy murmured encouragingly from somewhere beside her. "Suck on da ice. Dat'll help more'n anything."

  She followed his advice, and when the burning finally stopped—and the ice in her mouth had completely melted away—she drew in a breath, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and leveled a bewildered gaze at Remy. "This was one of my favorite dishes?" she managed to ask. She couldn't imagine her sister enjoying anything that peppery. Then again, in the course of her worldly travels—and her marriage to a hot-blooded Cajun—maybe Camryn had developed a taste for hot and spicy.

  That thought sent another wave of heat through her and provoked a spasm of coughing.

  Remy patted her on the back, his contrition palpable. "Maybe I put too much Tiger sauce and cayenne pepper in it dis time."

  "Maybe," she mouthed. Once her breathing capabilities had fully returned and the tears had cleared from her eyes, she noticed Mitch studying her again in that unsettling, unreadable way. "Or maybe I've just been away from Cajun cooking for too long," she croaked, happy to note that her voice had been only temporary impaired. "I've kept a pretty bland diet since the accident."

  "Yeah, dat's probably it," Remy agreed, removing her plate of grillades from the table.

  Incredulously, Kate watched Mitch help himself to another heaping forkful of his grillades. How on earth could the man eat anything so wickedly hot? Apparently noticing her fascination, he smiled slightly at her while he drew the fork from his mouth. Though he didn't say a word, she knew what he was telling her. The hotter, the better, chèr'.

  There was something undeniably sexy about a man with an appetite for hot. The wayward direction of her thoughts shocked her, and she felt her face heat up again, almost as much as it had from the pepper.

  "You still want a croissant, Cam?" Remy asked.

  Thankful for the distraction, she awarded him with a warm smile. "Oh, yes, please. I wouldn't miss your nainaine's homemade jelly for the world."

  He handed her a smaller plate than the one he'd removed, and she helped herself to a golden-brown croissant. After slicing open the flaky, crescent-shaped roll, she topped it with a sparkling scoop of jelly.

  "The jelly doesn't have pepper or Tiger sauce in it … does it?" she asked, only half joking.

  "Non, non, non," Remy assured her emphatically. "I promise, it don't."

  A hunger pang squeezed her stomach, reminding Kate that she hadn't eaten since lunchtime yesterday. Lifting the croissant from the plate, she opened her mouth to take a bite.

  A hand shot out from across the table and caught her wrist, stopping its forward progress. She stared for a brief, uncomprehending moment at the strong, large, sun-bronzed hand wrapped around her relatively delicate wrist, feeling the steely strength of his hold.

  Bewildered, she met Mitch's gaze. Wh
at the heck was he doing?

  "Is that mayhaw jelly?" he asked, maintaining his hold on her wrist. She nodded. "Don't eat it."

  "Pardon me?"

  "The mayhaw jelly. You're allergic to it."

  "Allergic?"

  "You tried it at my parents' house. Your mouth swelled up, and you broke out in hives."

  Their eyes held for a long moment as Kate digested the import of his words. Allergic! The thought made her shudder. Both she and Camryn had suffered allergic reactions to various foods, including strawberries and kiwi. She had no doubt that Mitch was telling the truth … and that she'd be just as allergic to mayhaw as her twin had been.

  "Thank you." She felt ridiculously moved that he'd saved her from unpleasantness. And ridiculously aware of his hand still gripping her wrist, where her pulse pounded much too fast beneath his hard fingers.

  Only when he'd released her and retracted his hand to his side of the table did Kate's good sense return. She dropped the croissant onto her plate and wiped her hands vigorously on the fresh napkin Remy had supplied. She owed Mitch another thank-you, she realized, for his timely intervention. Did that intervention mean he still believed she was Camryn? Was he starting to give credence to her claim that she'd lost her memory?

  "Enfin! I didn't know nothing about dat allergy," Remy swore, spreading his palms out in an expression of abject apology. "What a rotten breakfast I make for you, eh?"

  Kate blinked as she recognized a certain sheepishness in Remy's expression. Had he known about Camryn's allergy? More important, had Mitch known that the jelly was mayhaw? He'd allowed her to spread it on her croissant and lift it to her mouth before he'd stopped her. Maybe he'd wanted to test her, to see if she would eat it. Maybe the grillades had been a test, too.

  Kate suddenly felt as if she were stranded in the middle of a minefield. One false step, and she'd be blown to bits. A silly reaction, she supposed. As long as their tests always had to do with her memory loss, she'd be okay. She truly didn't know anything about Mitch or his life with Camryn, so he couldn't possibly trip her up into revealing more than her memory loss should allow.

  But what if he started testing her in regard to the real problem—the one she hoped he knew nothing about? The question of her identity.

  No. He had no reason to suspect that Camryn had an identical twin, let alone that she was now impersonating her. For the umpteenth time, she whispered a grateful prayer for the inspiration that had prompted her amnesia story. She never could have pulled off the impersonation without it.

  "Why don't you bring out some of your maman's blackberry jam, Remy," Mitch suggested. "It's always been a favorite of Camryn's."

  That much was true. "Blackberry would be wonderful." She made a move to slide out from her seat at the booth. "You don't have to wait on me, though, Remy. I'm perfectly capable of—"

  "Non, non," Remy insisted, gesturing her back down into her seat. "Now I know you're not kidding about dat memory loss. When I work wit' Mitch, dis kitchen is mine."

  "Oh! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

  "Da good thing about not rememberin', though," he cut in as he refilled her coffee cup with robust chicory brew, "is dat you get to taste my maman's blackberry jam for da first time again. Hooo, you gonna pass a good time now, chèr'."

  She couldn't help returning his grin.

  Rising from his seat and edging past the short, grizzled-haired deckhand, Mitch slanted him a glance. His gaze, warm with indulgent humor, then connected with Kate's … and for a moment, they actually agreed on something. Remy's okay, eh?

  The moment ended far too quickly. Mitch turned to the sink, placed his empty plate and cup in the soapy water. "Think I'll go relieve Darryl at the wheel," he said to Remy. "Thanks for breakfast, mon ami." He laid a hand briefly on the older man's back. "Tres bon." Without a word or even a parting glance for Kate, he sauntered toward the doorway that led to the captain's quarters and wheelhouse.

  "Um, Mitch," she called, stopping him near the doorway.

  He tossed a questioning look over one broad shoulder. "Can we call Joey to see how Arianne slept last night?"

  "Later."

  She smiled, relieved.

  His eyes dipped to her smile, as if compelled there against his will. Her heart tripped into double-time. "By the way," he murmured, his eyes slowly rising to meet hers, "I fixed the problem with the shower stall. No need for any more deck-hose showers."

  She blinked and frowned. "But I thought you didn't have enough freshwater for—"

  "Now we do."

  Mystified but pleased, she slowly nodded. He turned for the door. "Oh, and Mitch."

  He stopped again, looking rather reluctant to face her.

  "Thanks for saving me from a bad case of hives."

  His full, wide lips twisted slightly, which deepened a particularly attractive dimple to the left of his mouth. "I'm turning out to be quite the hero, ain't I?" The words, though softly spoken in true southern form, rang of self-derision. "Keep her out of trouble, Remy. I'd rather not slay any more dragons."

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  « ^ »

  He'd thought he had her pegged. Thought he knew her, through and through. Yet Camryn had managed to surprise him three times that morning—first with the saltwater shower, then twice over breakfast. He still couldn't believe she'd tried the grillades, and he had no doubt she would have taken a big bite of mayhaw jelly if he hadn't stopped her.

  As the sun climbed high into the vivid azure sky and the easterly wind kicked up a following sea, Mitch set the Lady Jeanette on autopilot and kept a casual watch on the radar, the depth recorder and the vast horizon as she sped across Alabama waters. He also listened to Remy and Camryn over the intercom.

  "Hey, Cam … how 'bout some poker? Fifty-cent limit, eh?" Remy proposed. "I think da deck of cards you left after our last game is still round here somewhere."

  Mitch expected her to jump at the chance to ream Remy in poker again. The cards he'd mentioned were marked, as Mitch had discovered during their marital separation while playing an idle game of solitaire. Remy hadn't been pleased to learn he'd been fleeced. On the other hand, he was a little too Cajun not to admire the smoothness of her scam. Mitch had settled the score by giving Remy the cards, with the understanding that he wouldn't get himself killed by using them in a serious game.

  Certain that Camryn would remember which deck Remy was referring to—and use the marked cards to her advantage again—Mitch nearly choked on his coffee when she turned Remy down. "I'm not really in a card-playing mood."

  Not in a card-playing mood. He never thought he'd hear those words pass her lips.

  "She knows we're testing her," Darryl muttered from the starboard doorway.

  "Maybe." Though he knew it was possible, Mitch didn't really buy that explanation.

  Moments later, she surprised them again. "I'd rather take a tour of the boat," she told Remy, "if you're willing to be my guide." With his usual gallantry, he assured her he'd be delighted. "Great!" she said. "Let's start on the afterdeck."

  The afterdeck. Why had she started calling the back deck by a term they'd never used? That detail was too subtle to be part of a plan. At least, any plan of Camryn's. But then, maybe the new man in her life owned a yacht or sailboat, and she'd picked up the lingo from him. The thought irked Mitch far more than it should have.

  "Afterdeck?" Remy repeated blankly. "Oh, you mean, da back deck?"

  Their voices faded as Remy escorted her out of the galley, then came in clear again from the intercom on the stern. "What are those arms called that hold the nets?" she asked with enthusiasm that sounded so damn genuine.

  "Outriggers."

  "They look like giant wings spread out over the water. I feel like we're riding on the back of some huge seabird that's soaring across a blue, blue sky."

  Mitch shook his head in astonishment. The only thing she'd ever waxed poetic about before had been an outstanding poker hand, or the thrill she'd milked fro
m trying something dangerous. But … outriggers? Nah. Had his aunt's voodoo spells summoned some dispossessed spirit to take over his wife's body?

  "What are those big slabs of wood beneath the outriggers?" she asked Remy.

  "We call 'em 'doors.' Dey drag da bottom and spread out da nets."

  "Drag the bottom? Is that where the shrimp live—on the floor of the Gulf?"

  "Mostly. When dey ain't migrating, dey burrow in da sand and mud."

  As she asked questions about locating the shrimp and Remy explained the function of the try-net, Mitch marveled over her interest in such technicalities. Never before had she expressed the slightest curiosity about the rigging or the process of shrimping. Her enthusiasm had always been reserved for things like rooftop sunbathing, poker games with his crew, chatting with captains of other boats over the radio, dining on ultrafresh seafood and the occasional sports fishing they indulged in when shrimp was hard to find.

  Another favorite pastime of hers had been guzzling from the flask Remy smuggled on board. That was the next test she would face—Remy's flask. Mitch awaited that all-important test with keen anticipation.

  He waited a good long while. Remy's tour lasted a couple of hours. When he'd finished explaining all the equipment on the back deck and had shown her around the engine room, he finally made the offer. "If you get thirsty for something stronger 'n water, chèr', my flask is in da same place it used to be. Just help yourself."

  Powerful temptation for a woman like Camryn. If she asked Remy to get the flask for her, he would invent some task that had to be done immediately, which would force her to seek out the flask herself. The moment she made her way to the crew's quarters and dug into his hiding place, they'd have her dead-to-rights. How could she explain knowing where he'd kept his flask if she'd lost all memory of their previous trips?

  Mitch held his breath while waiting for her reply.

  "Flask?" she said, sounding surprised. "You mean, like, booze?"