WIFE BY DECEPTION Page 11

  "Yeah, you know. Da good homemade kind. Like I always say, 'Laissez les bons temps rouler.' In case you forgot, dat means, 'Let da good times roll.'"

  "Oh, Remy! Drinking on board a boat can't be safe. Mitch told me he forbids it. What if we have an emergency? Oh, my goodness … you don't take a turn at the wheel if you've been drinking, do you? I'm sorry, I don't mean to sound judgmental, and I probably seem hypocritical to you, if I used to drink with you, but—"

  "I won't tell Mitch," Remy cut in. "It'll be our li'l secret, I promise."

  "I'm sorry, Remy. Alcohol on board a vessel like this is simply too dangerous. I'm going to have to insist that you pour that liquor out."

  Mitch exchanged an incredulous glance with Darryl, who looked as stunned as Mitch felt. She, a hardcore adventurer and suspected alcoholic, wanted him to pour the whiskey out? Had she given up drinking? Was that the miracle behind the profound changes in her?

  "Aw, no, Cam," Remy said.

  "Then at least tell Mitch you have it."

  "But he'll t'row it overboard."

  They argued for a while, and to Mitch's astonishment, she and Remy soon appeared in the port-side doorway of the wheelhouse. "Uh, Cap'n, I need to talk to you," Remy mumbled.

  Switching off the intercom, he asked a slack-jawed Darryl to step out of the wheelhouse. Under Camryn's watchful eye, Remy then "confessed" to having a flask on board—which Mitch didn't believe he even had. He'd agreed to make the offer to Camryn only to see if she'd know where to find the flask. Had she looked, she wouldn't have found one.

  "Thank you, Remy," Mitch replied to his confession, trying to sound sufficiently stern despite his shock at Camryn's actions, "for, uh, coming forward."

  "Wasn't my idea." He glanced tellingly at Camryn.

  "Yeah, well, you and I will discuss this matter later." He then dismissed Remy and turned to search Camryn's face for signs of cunning. He saw only earnest concern.

  "I … I'm sorry if I embarrassed him, but you did say you prohibited drinking, and I understand why. It doesn't take much alcohol to impair a person's judgment," she said, "or make him lose his balance. He might get hurt, or even killed. He might fall overboard!"

  Stunned, Mitch acknowledged her words with only a nod. Safety had never been a concern of hers. She'd been a consummate risk taker. Not only had she shared a flask with Remy, she'd then climbed out onto the outrigger and balanced above shark-infested waters. Mitch swore he'd lost ten years of his life, trying to force her in to safety.

  That had been the last trip he'd allowed her to take. It had also been the last time Remy had brought whiskey on board, as far as Mitch knew. If he hadn't sworn on his beloved mother's grave to never bring another drop, Mitch would have fired him.

  He now found it almost impossible to believe that the woman who had climbed out on that outrigger was reporting Remy's offer of whiskey. Yet, she was.

  "I'll take care of the matter," Mitch promised, feeling as if he himself had sustained a blow to the head. "While I do, why don't you just, uh, relax? Sunbathe on the roof, or … or something." As an afterthought, he added, "But don't try diving off, and keep your clothes on."

  She gaped at him as if he'd gone crazy.

  It was then that an awesome certainty gripped him. She didn't remember. She honestly didn't remember sunbathing naked on the roof or diving overboard, just as she hadn't remembered eating Remy's grillades … or that the Lady Jeanette carried enough freshwater for showers. Had she really been in an accident that robbed her of her memory? And if so, had that accident caused her to give up drinking and gambling … and all the other wild behavior that had driven him crazy? He found that hard to believe. But what else could account for the changes?

  "Coffee," he mumbled, trying to bring some semblance of order to his chaotic thoughts. "I'd like some coffee. Would you mind making a fresh pot while I talk to Remy?"

  She assured him that she wouldn't mind at all.

  The moment she left the wheelhouse, Mitch closed the doors for privacy, reached for the radio and placed a ship-to-shore call to an old buddy who happened to be a cousin of the investigator he'd used. "I know Chuck is probably spending the holiday weekend with his family, but could you find him for me? I need to talk to him. It's important."

  The investigator returned his call within the hour, and Mitch told him about the newest complications. "I have to know if she's been in a serious accident. Chuck, and if she sustained a head injury that could cause amnesia. It sounds unlikely as hell, I know, but I have reason to believe it."

  "I'll do what I can, Mitch, but I'm in the Bahamas with my wife. Plus, it's a holiday weekend in the States. Offices are closed, people are off from work. Don't expect much information any time soon."

  "I'd appreciate any information you can find, Chuck. Any at all."

  An hour later, while his crew kept Camryn occupied in some distant area of the boat, Chuck called back. "I had an associate do a computer search in the Florida county where we found her. He dug up some interesting info under the alias she's been using. You know, 'Kate Jones.' A car registered in that name was involved in an accident, and the driver was Camryn."

  Mitch's hand tightened around the radio transmitter. "When?"

  "January. Two weeks after she skipped town."

  "Was it a serious accident?"

  "A head-on collision. Both vehicles were totaled, and there were fatalities."

  "Fatalities? My God." A feeling of unreality settled over him. "Who died?"

  "Well … uh—" Chuck let out a short, dry laugh "—that's where the information gets confusing." He sounded oddly hesitant. Almost embarrassed. "As a matter of fact, all of the information is confusing. Whoever keyed the data into the computer must have been celebrating some holiday or another. Made a lot of mistakes. The report left me asking things like, when did she register the car under her alias, and how did she do that when her driver's license still had her as Camryn. And who exactly was killed? You just can't depend on computerized reports for a clear picture. I'll check out the details as soon as I get home. That won't be until Thursday. My wife will have my head if I cut our vacation short."

  Mitch forced a lightness to his voice. "Relax and enjoy your vacation, Chuck. Sorry for interrupting it. I'll talk to you when you get back." He then thanked him for the information he'd related, disconnected from the call and stared off into space.

  Camryn hadn't been lying about the accident. And if the collision had been serious enough to include fatalities, she could have easily sustained a severe head injury. The experience could have caused some life-altering realizations, too.

  It seemed that things were very different from what he'd been assuming. He had to talk to her. Learn all the facts. Set aside his preconceived ideas about her. The accident had happened only two weeks after she'd left his hometown, which meant she might not have deliberately kept Arianne from him for those six months.

  She might have honestly forgotten that he existed.

  After many hours of listening to her, observing her, testing her, he no longer found that notion as preposterous as he once had.

  Kate was glad that Remy wasn't holding a grudge against her for insisting he report his whiskey to Mitch. He smiled at her with his usual cheer while he served a supper of boudin, which he pronounced "boo-dan," a delicious Cajun sausage made of pork, rice and onions that she found only slightly spicy, and croissants left over from breakfast.

  After supper, Kate wandered out to the back rail, stared at the churning wake and thought about the danger Camryn had put herself in. Diving off the roof. The very idea sent angst shooting through Kate's stomach. She was glad she hadn't known of her activities at sea, or she would have lived in a state of constant anxiety.

  Actually, she had lived in state of constant anxiety … at least, whenever she'd contemplated her sister. Distancing herself from Camryn, physically and emotionally, had been her only means of staying sane. That realization only worsened her sense of guilt. If she'd tried
harder to remain a part of Camryn's life, could she have changed her?

  Too troubled by the question, she thought, instead, of the main source of joy in her life—Arianne. How was she faring with Joey? Was she being fed the right foods, and kept clean and dry? The need to hold her again throbbed like an ache. How she missed the lively weight in her arms; the softness of her rosy skin and silky blond hair; the fragrance of formula, baby powder and vanilla wafers…

  "Hey, Cam," Remy greeted her, strolling up to stand beside her at the rail. "How you making?" The gray ponytail trailing from the back of his shabby purple sports cap riffled in the breeze, which had cooled slightly since midday.

  "How am I … making?" she repeated, blinking herself out of a reverie to focus on the deckhand's craggy, weathered face.

  He shrugged and grinned, which made the diamond between his crooked front teeth glitter in the slanted rays of late-afternoon sunshine. "It means, how you doing? What's up? How you making out?"

  "I'm fine," she replied with a slight smile.

  "You look like you lost your best friend."

  In a way, she supposed she had. And she wasn't sure she'd get her back, either. "Guess I'm just thinking about my … my daughter." The term suddenly seemed fraudulent. Since Camryn's death, she'd intended to adopt Arianne, which would give her the right to call her "daughter." She doubted she'd ever have a legal claim to Arianne now. She couldn't envision Mitch Devereaux signing away his parental rights, especially to a woman who had deceived him. And she still knew so little about his character, his home, his way with children. "I miss her."

  Remy looked uncomfortable with the confidence. "Yeah, Mitch missed her, too." The comment held no rancor or accusation. It was just a simple statement of fact. Maybe that was why it shook her more than Mitch's earlier ranting about Camryn kidnapping his daughter. Had he felt the same sense of loss, worry and pain that now had Kate on the verge of tears?

  She had to change the subject if she didn't want those tears to break through her composure. "Remy, I hope you're not too upset that I told Mitch about your whiskey."

  "Who, me … upset? Nah! He took my flask away, but dat's okay. 'Specially since we left da dock on a Friday. Maybe you saved me from a bad accident, eh?"

  "Maybe you should worry more about da woman on board bringing you bad luck dan leaving da dock on a Friday" came a morose grumbling from behind them. They turned to find Darryl climbing out of the hold—the cavernous storage room belowdecks—with an armload of sand-encrusted netting. A strong smell of fish and sea brine emanated from the massive load of heavy twine. "She brought Mitch plenty bad luck, no?"

  "Aw, don't start no problems." Remy clearly disliked conflict, while Darryl seemed itching for a confrontation.

  "No, please, tell me." Kate paced toward Darryl as he set the load of netting down on the deck. Maybe by encouraging him to vent his anger, she'd relieve him of some of his hostility. "How did I bring Mitch bad luck?"

  "You mean, besides costing him his life's savings, his joie de vivre and his best boat?"

  Ah. New information. "I cost him his best boat?"

  Darryl squinted at her with cold dark eyes, while the anchor tattoos on his meaty arms moved with the tensing of his muscles. "You gambled away all his money, den cost him a fortune to track down his daughter. He had to sell da Miss Josette to make ends meet."

  "Was a nice vessel," Remy lamented. "A freezer boat. Wit' an air-conditioned cabin."

  An illogical pang of guilt assailed her. Although she herself had had nothing to do with Mitch's loss, she believed her sister had. Had he been forced to sell a better boat and settle for this one to make his living? She wondered how much of his money Camryn had spent. If she'd returned to gambling, she could have blown incredible amounts.

  And a man prone to violence might have been pushed beyond his limit. She hated to think that Mitch might have taken his anger out on her.

  "But you know it ain't all Cam's fault dat he's in a jam," Remy protested. "Times are bad. Chemical spills mess up da water. Fuel and ice cost too much. Shrimp are hard to find."

  "And some boat owners get messed up wit' women who bleed 'em dry." Darryl sat on the hatch cover, withdrew a small knife from the pocket of his jeans and grabbed a fistful of netting. "If you don't call dat bad luck, I don't know what is."

  "You ain't seen bad luck till you leave da dock on a Friday," Remy retorted. "I'm hoping I'm wrong, but … we'll see."

  After that ominous pronouncement, Remy took a seat across from Darryl on a low stool and reached for a handful of netting. Kate settled onto another stool and watched the men work with knives and sewing tools to repair tears in the net. To Remy, she said, "Yesterday you mentioned that whistling in the wheelhouse brings bad luck, too. Are there any other no-no's?"

  "A few. If you're working in da galley, never open a can wit' da label upside down. Don't leave da hatch cover upside down, either. And never say da A word on board a shrimp boat."

  "The A word?" She glanced at Remy with lively interest. "And what would that be?"

  "Don't say it," Darryl cut in sharply.

  Surprised, Kate studied his stern, dark face. "So you, too, believe in these 'rules of the sea'?"

  He didn't answer but scowled and returned his attention to his net repairing.

  "He only believes in dat one," Remy explained. "Da last time he said da A word on board a boat, we got a bad phone call. Da woman he loves married another man."

  Darryl glowered at him. "Dat's no one's business but mine."

  "Now she's a widow, and he has a second chance, but he ain't taking it."

  "Shut up, Remy."

  Alarmed at the menace on Darryl's face, Kate turned the conversation to safer channels. "Can you spell the A word for me, Remy?"

  "Don't even spell it," Darryl warned him, "'cause she'll say it."

  "No, I won't," she vowed. "I want to know what it is so I don't say it. Is it a navigational term?" Remy shook his head, and she asked, "Something children would consider to be bad?"

  "No, it's a common, everyday word. Something you might have around da house."

  Overcome with curiosity, she resorted to guessing. "Is it … a-p-p-l-e?"

  Remy repeated the letters. "Dat spells apple, right?"

  She nodded, mildly surprised that he hadn't been sure.

  "I thought so." He looked highly pleased with himself for having deciphered the word. She remembered then that he hadn't attended school very often. "But dat's not da A word." At a glare from Darryl, he added, "You better ask Darryl about it, not me. Don't want no trouble, eh?"

  "Camryn." The deep, vibrantly masculine voice blared across the deck from the intercom. Kate's heart did an odd little flip. "Come to the wheelhouse, will you please?"

  "Sure. I'll be right there." She'd managed to sound nonchalant, although her pulse had sped up and her knees felt weak as she rose from the low stool … and all because Mitch had called for her. Not a good sign. Definitely not a good sign.

  Why had he called her? Was he ready to telephone Joey? Hoping so, she left Darryl and Remy toiling on the back deck and made her way to the wheelhouse.

  As she stepped through the starboard doorway, Mitch leveled her a long, bracing glance that brought a disturbing warmth to her cheeks. Wearing tight jeans and a dark, cotton Henley that allowed a glimpse of chest hairs curling just below his strong throat, he sat low in the captain's chair, his legs extended comfortably before him, his muscular arms crossed over his chest. He looked perfectly at ease, but Kate sensed tension in him. The intensity of his gaze left no doubt that something important was on his mind.

  Something to do with her.

  "Come sit down, chèr'."

  Chèr'. It meant "darling" or "dear." He hadn't called her that in quite a while. And when he had, he'd meant it sarcastically, of course. This time, it had sounded different. Warmer, softer. But she couldn't imagine why his attitude toward her might have softened.

  To subdue her own growing tension, she took
a seat beside him and forced a nonchalant smile. "So, how you making?"

  He blinked at the Cajun greeting, but continued to search her face. "What injuries did you suffer?"

  She frowned. "Pardon me?"

  "In the accident. The one that caused your memory loss. In what ways were you hurt?"

  His sudden interest in the accident gave her pause. Was he asking because he'd come to believe her story about the memory loss, or because he doubted it? Either way, she didn't want to talk about accidents. She'd been grasping at straws, like a person sinking in quicksand, when she'd mentioned an accident in the first place.

  "I don't remember much about it. And my other injuries are irrelevant. I see no sense in discussing them when we could be calling Joey."

  "What happened, Cam. I want—"

  "But I want to call Joey, and find out how Arianne is doing. She's in a strange place, with people she doesn't know. I want to … to hear her voice, and let her hear mine." Her throat had tightened, and she pressed her lips together while she collected herself.

  Slowly, Mitch nodded and rose from his chair. He towered above her, lean and broad shouldered, and smelling of chicory, sea breeze and soap. His purposeful, green-eyed gaze fairly pinned her to the chair. "Okay. We'll call. Then you and I will talk. Agreed?"

  She didn't like the "talk" part but had no choice, really. "Okay."

  He called Joey. Her soft, southern voice with its pretty Cajun cadence sounded more relaxed than the last time Kate had heard it over the ship-to-shore radio. She assured Mitch that Arianne had slept through the night, was eating the foods he'd specified and having a wonderful time playing with Claude, whom Kate assumed was another child.

  Joey's voice lost its softness, though, when Mitch told her that Camryn wanted to speak to Arianne. "Absolutely not. Dat would only make her cry again. I don't want her upset."

  Kate wanted to argue, but she had to admit that Joey's reasoning was sound. She had no choice but to take Joey's word for it that Arianne was fine … until she herself had the chance to see the kind of care she was receiving.

  Joey went on to describe the baby's delight with a bubble bath, then said in rather awed tones, "She really surprised me just before bedtime. She found one o' dem fancy French cookbooks Mama likes to give for Christmas, brought it to me and climbed up onto my lap. I swear, Mitch … someone must have been reading to dis child!"