Blue Moon (19 page)

Gabe stiffened.
Dive barges.
Somehow Arnauld had found out about their plight and knew a great deal more than a casually interested party should know. Even worse, it appeared that Jeanne was considering his proposal. The only thing more distasteful than working against Marshall was working with him.

“That's very kind of you to offer, Marshall,” Jeanne replied affably, as the waiter placed her soup before her. “We'll definitely keep your offer in mind . . . if and when we have such a need.”

Good girl
. Gabe relaxed marginally.

“It's been a pleasure to see you again,” Jeanne added sweetly.

Gabe extended his hand with a grimace. “Wish I could say the same.”

Together, they watched Marshall Arnauld's exit into the lobby before Gabe turned to Jeanne.

“He no more went to Belize than I did,” Gabe averred. “I can guarantee you that he's already called a team of lawyers to see if there's some loophole we've overlooked. The man's a shark and he's smelled blood.”

Jeanne drew her thoughtful gaze from the exit. “Is that how he made such an enemy of you? Did he use a legal loophole to steal a find of yours?” Jeanne asked. “Because if you want me to believe that such a charming man is a snake, then you're going to have to give me reason.”

Gabe's fists clenched. It went against his grain to admit he'd been outfoxed and swindled. Still, while Jeanne ate her bisque, he told her the story of finding the
Mariposa,
all the while being watched in the distance by Arnauld and the crew of the
Prospect
. He explained how Arnauld had presented a relic from another wreck and jumped Gabe's claim for rights to dive for the ship.

“It was all within the boundaries of the law, for all I could prove,” he finished. “Money talks.”

Now Jeanne understood Gabe's paranoia, his rush to get Pablo to Mexico City and secure their rights. She reached across the table and placed a hand on his arm. “It must have been terrible for you.”

Something more sense-riddling than her touch welled in her look. Compassion? Whatever it was, it warmed Gabe to the toes. It never would have occurred to him that running into Marshall Arnauld might herald anything but bad news, but this feeling, whatever it was, was worth it.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Once they crossed Highway 307, the van's engine groaned on its uphill climb into the town of Akumal, set away from its seaside hotel zone. On the right, they passed a market, a
lavandería
where women folded clothes while their children played on the side of the road outside. Nearby was a restaurant where a man grilled chicken on the walk. The smell wafted on the air enough to make Jeanne's mouth water, even though she'd just eaten a delicious meal.

Awash with mixed emotions, she replayed Arnauld's intrusion on their meal. She'd not missed Arnauld's smug demeanor as he lorded his success over Gabe, nor could she help but feel for the captain, outspent in the tangle of maritime law after he'd invested everything. Most of all, she didn't like the way Arnauld had rubbed salt in the wound every chance he had. It had been a struggle to curb the impulse to counter Arnauld's smoothly delivered disdain.

Protective instinct?
She barely managed to keep from rolling her eyes. She was obviously misguided beyond reason. Gabe definitely needed no protection—or defense for that matter—from her. Gabe had a lot of good in him . . . but when he was bad, he was very bad.

Lord, who is this man?
she wondered as they passed a police station with a white pickup marked
Policía
in red lettering parked outside its green door.
And how can I feel both anger and compassion for
him at the same time, not to mention the urge to beat some faith into
his thick head with my fists?

She studied the residential dwellings to the left of the main street, predominantly made of concrete block with thatched or corrugated tin roofs. Since the coming of tourism, concrete—which held up better against the hurricane—had rapidly replaced the wattle and daub thatched cottages with their bellied gable ends.

But here and there, between the block houses, were a few traditional Mayan casas with stick sides—kitchens perhaps. Many yards had neat gardens beyond stone walls and iron gates, but most were parched, with more dirt than grass.

“Now, if I remember correctly, the Cantina Loca is one of his favorite hangouts,” Gabe said as he pulled to the right side of the main road and parked. As he got out, he sized up the faded pink building across the street.

From her seat, Jeanne did the same. An awning of thatch sheltered the iron bars protecting its windows—from tropical storms, she hoped. Over it was painted a happy, mustached hombre in a sombrero, lifting a bottle in grinning, toothy delight. Lettered in cactus green and black on the brim of his hat was the name Cantina Loca.

“I think you should stay here in the van,” Gabe said after some contemplation. “The music has already started.” He seemed surprised.

Jeanne dubiously studied the window bars with their artfully knotted middles. There were people idling on the street, including the chicken cook, but the thought of being left under the dim street lamp did not sit well with her, and it showed.

Gabe rushed to assure her. “I won't be long.”

Jeanne nodded reluctantly. “Although,” she said, arguing with herself as much as Gabe, “it's my responsibility to discuss the project with him.” She wasn't thrilled about going into the dingy cantina.

Gabe held up his hands to reassure her. “Agreed. But I have to find him first. Since he owns part of the cantina, I expect to find him here. I'll be back in a flash.”

When Gabe's
flash
had run close to an hour, Jeanne's patience was at a flash point. It was too dark for her liking, despite the streetlight overhead. And now a group of men had gathered in front of what looked like the Mexican equivalent of a Dollar General, smoking, chatting, and drinking from a bottle in a paper bag. From time to time they stopped to stare, making Jeanne squirm in her seat.

Although Gabe had locked his door and hers was already locked, Jeanne prayed that the side door was also secure. But to turn around to check it might make the men think she was afraid or suspicious of them—and she was, but she didn't want them to know it.

What was keeping Gabe so long? She glanced at her watch. If he'd taken it upon himself to pitch her share to Milland . . .

The men burst into laughter, shoving one of their group toward the van. Jeanne's pulse jumped. If she got out now, she could walk across the street to where Gabe was before the man could do . . . whatever it was he had in mind. After all, she'd read about some pretty rough stuff that happened to unsuspecting tourists who traveled off the beaten path.

And this was definitely off the beaten path. She slid to the driver's side of the van and slipped out the door before the man was anywhere near. Head held high, she crossed the street in a brisk walk, trying to act nonchalant. The click of her heeled sandals snapped in concert with the bass tattoo of her heart with every step. At the cantina's open door, she saw from the corner of her eye that the man who'd made her feel threatened had passed the van and now walked into some sort of shop with shaded windows.

Feeling a little foolish for letting her imagination run away with her, Jeanne stepped into the cantina. The stench of cigarette and cigar smoke assailed her nostrils. A waitress with a tray of bottles bounced by as music played over hidden speakers, modern rock with trumpet flare and a Spanish beat.

There was no sign of Gabe at the bar, the most well-lit part of the place. Which meant he had to be sitting at one of the tables where the only light was a stub of a candle stuck in a beer bottle. None of the patrons sitting in the near-dark possessed Gabe's height or Romanesque profile. Maybe he was in a back room.

Summoning her nerve, she approached the bar.
“Perdón,”
she said, as the bartender approached, a bland expression on his round face.

“Sí, señorita?”

“Sí, sí, señorita,”
one of the men growled, closing her in at the bar. There was enough alcohol on his breath to make Jeanne dizzy, if she weren't so alarmed. What
had
she done? A lone
gringa
walking into a hole-in-the-wall bar . . .

“Dónde está
Gabriel Avery
, por favor?”
she asked.

The men exchanged a bemused look.

She tried again. “
Capitán
Gabe Avery?”

Recognition quirked on the bartender's otherwise bland face. He nodded slowly, but offered no information.

“Dónde está?”
she repeated. “Where is he?”

“I am in love,” the man behind crooned into her ear.

Jeanne jerked away from him as one of his companions rattled something off at him in Spanish too fast for her to fathom. From the tone, it was an admonishment. One that fell on deaf ears.

Instead of backing away, he seized her by the waist and pulled her to him with bare, snake-tattooed arms. “
Para bailar La Bamba
,” he sang out of sync with the song and key.

Jeanne shoved against his chest, shaking her head and speaking through a fixed smile so as not to antagonize the man.
“No baila,
gracias.
No dance.”

“Señorita linda”
—pretty miss—
“baila, baila, baila
—”

To Jeanne's dismay, she found herself dragged along the floor in a semblance of dance, trapped in the arms of the inebriated Romeo. She managed to wedge her arms between her chest and her partner's to avoid intimate contact, but his embrace was like steel about her waist. She couldn't break it.

“
Por favor, no baila
,” she repeated through clenched teeth. Why didn't one of the staring men at the bar do something? This guy was squeezing the breath from her. And where was Gabe?

Jeanne flinched and turned her head away as the Mexican tried to kiss her, his breath rank enough to wilt flowers. “Put me down,” she demanded, resorting to English in her growing panic as he spun her around. To emphasize her point, she kicked at his shins, but merely grazed his leg, making him spin her even faster.

Suddenly, Gabe materialized in the whir of scenery like a guardian angel and clamped a heavy hand on the drunken man's shoulders. “
Fácil
,
amigo
, easy . . . ”

To her horror, the man's hands left Jeanne's waist and came up fisted, one shooting straight for Gabe's jaw.

Jeanne winced at the impact of knuckle on jawbone.
Heavenly
Father,
she prayed, scrambling out of the way as Gabe recovered and caught Romeo's second blow with his hand. The movement was fast, but suddenly the man was on the floor with his arm twisted behind his back—and swearing a blue streak if the sound of his voice was anything to go by.

This was the last thing she wanted, and she'd caused it. “Come on, Gabe, let's go. He's drunk.”

“Basta, amigo?”
Gabe said, not the least rattled or in a hurry. “Enough?” The man continued to curse him, so he twisted the man's arm a little more. And his friends joined the fray.

Soon the crowd divided into watchers on the edge and participants in the middle. Gabe did not fight alone; some at the bar felt he'd been justified in taking the drunk down.

Backed against a wall next to the door, Jeanne watched in disbelief as a table cracked beneath a man Gabe tossed off his back just in time to block a punch from another.

Lord, please, do something. Just get us safely out of here with no
one hurt.

Her furtive prayer came to a halt as the biggest man Jeanne had ever seen rose behind Gabe like Mr. Clean on steroids. Head shaven, he brandished fists the size of hams. A massive dragon breathed fire from one of his bulging biceps as he slung a table out of the way to get to Gabe.

“Gabe!” Jeanne looked about, frantic for some way to help him. Uncertain what to do, she grabbed a chair and tossed it at the behemoth, who promptly caught it and smashed it over Gabe's head and shoulders.

Staggering away, Gabe dropped to one knee and grabbed a table to keep from going down. “Oh, right,” he said with grimace. “Give him a weapon, why don't you?”

Gabe's head thundered with alternating pain and pulse. Through the fog of his vision, he saw Jeanne point frantically behind him. Licking blood from a gash on his lip, he gripped the small round table with both hands and back-kicked for all he was worth. Big Juan, as his assailant was known locally, caught the blow in the solar plexus and reeled backward a few steps—enough to give Gabe a chance to mount a second offensive. Table in hand, he charged the oversized man, a diver with whom he'd lifted many a bottle on less violent occasions.

Having observed him in a fight once, Gabe realized that punching Big Juan was useless. The key was to stun the man, at least until Gabe could make the giant realize that he was on the wrong side. Plowing into Juan table first felt like running headlong into a mountain of granite. But the four legs protruding from the table stem struck Juan full in the chest and drove him against a wall, where he hit his head upon, and shattered, a flashing Corona Gold sign.