Blue Moon (25 page)

“It
is
a magnificent moon,” he pointed out as they walked toward the dancers. Not quite full, the luminous orb seemed to rise slowly from a nest in the junglelike landscape beyond the western edge of the village. “Bright enough to dive by.”

Jeanne tilted her head up at him. “Still longing for Isla Codo, eh?”

“No, actually.” And that surprised him. He hadn't dwelt on the gold that surely lay just beyond where the digging had stopped since they'd left the church. Even then, it wasn't with longing, but with introspection. “I was thinking more of a moonlight swim on an isolated beach with a beautiful woman.”

He felt Jeanne tense on his arm. “Just so you know, my brothers warned me about the effects of the Mexican moon. Knocked the single socks off both of them.”

“Having lived here for quite a number of years now, I have to say that it's never tugged at
my
, um, single socks.” Until now. What he felt with Jeanne at his side—now, in the church, around the children, trying her textbook Spanish on the locals—was far more than simple and easily forgotten interest. He was intrigued, enchanted, and eager to feel more.

Far more than he should feel comfortable with . . . yet he did. It seemed natural. Gabe definitely wanted whatever he was feeling to last longer than the fiesta. Was this what Tex meant when he parted company earlier that afternoon? “Bit for sure,” he'd said, smiling.

Gabe let the thought go, blending into the large circle of dancers with Jeanne for the folk dance. Although he'd watched a number of these dances from the sidelines, the sequence of steps required his full attention. It reminded him of those awful dances from the etiquette classes his parents had enrolled him in as a boy—except Gabe had developed considerably more regard for his feminine partner.

And the couples in this dance did not touch: while the ladies kept time with their feet, the men danced double time around them, dashing past and dipping toward them, shoulder to shoulder, before pivoting and moving in the opposite direction. Then the women formed a pinwheel in the center, circling one way, while the men on the outside circled the other, hands clasped behind their backs until they were once again opposite their partners. Mistakes might happen, but going the wrong way was no problem—the amiable dancers were happy to spin the errant soul about and steer him or her in the right direction.

Just as Gabe thought the dance had ended, the mariachis continued smoothly into another tune . . . and then another. Not exactly the kind of dancing he'd have preferred with the sassy
señorita
. He'd rather have her in his arms, swaying to the beat of soft jazz on the bridge of the
Fallen Angel
. Looking ahead as the men circled the ladies once more, he picked her out, dipping and looking over her shoulder on each fourth step in sync with the other women.

But when her gaze finally found him, he knew instantly that something was wrong. She smiled, but her eyes didn't. They were over-wide and filled with . . . what? Fear? As she met him, he slipped his arm about her and pulled her from the dance, escorting her away through the crowd of onlookers. Beneath her tan, her complexion appeared waxen, at least in the light of the lanterns strung overhead from poles. “What's wrong?” he asked, making his way to a giant laurel tree, around which had been built a bench. “Are you ill?”

“I—I think I'm just winded. It felt like m-my legs were turning to mush.”

Crossing her arms as if she were chilled, she sat down on the painted white plank.

“Maybe you're a little dehydrated. We've been pushing ourselves to the limit, and it's been very hot today.”

Jeanne nodded. “Just let me catch my breath. I'll be fine.” The quaver in her voice wasn't very convincing.

He leaned down, looking into her eyes. They were bright, almost as if glazed with tears. “You stay here and I'll be right back with one

of those fruit sorbets. All right?” She forced a smile, more of a wince in Gabe's opinion. “Sounds good. Thanks.”

“Good, then. I'll be back in a flash.” He was no physician, but something was definitely wrong.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

It took Gabe longer than he thought it would to work his way to the side of the plaza where the vendors were set up. The air was filled with the smells of festival—mesquite barbecued and grilled meats and fish, roasting corn, and confections sweet enough to keep the village awake till next week. Most of the attendees now congregated in one spot in anticipation of the grand finale—the traditional fireworks
castillo
.

Gabe twitched his shoulders against the distinct feeling that he was being watched. As he passed a soda cart, he caught sight of a small, wiry man staring at him with such intensity that Gabe turned to take a closer look, only to have the man slip behind a large fan palm, as if to join his family.

The hairs on the back of his neck refused to lie flat, even after he found the sorbet vendor's cart and purchased two. “
Muchas gracias
,” he told the man, pocketing his change.

As he picked up some napkins, he casually surveyed the area to his left. Nothing. Taking up the sorbets again, Gabe pivoted abruptly to his right in time to note that the same man was still observing him. But between the first and second half of his heartbeat, the man lowered his head and once again blended into the crowd.

Perplexed, Gabe walked through the gathering at the same spot where the man had disappeared, but even with Gabe's extra height it was impossible to make the stranger out among the throng. There were dozens of similar hats scattered about, worn by short, wiry men in the traditional white shirt and
pantalones
.

Yet suspicion nagged him. Something about the man was familiar.

Or maybe he
was
becoming paranoid, Gabe thought, dismissing the incident. Besides, he needed to get to Jeanne before the sorbets melted. If he caught the guy lurking about again, he and the bad-humored fellow were going to have a little heart to heart.

Jeanne waited in the same spot where he'd left her, arms propped on her knees, head resting in her hands as though it were too heavy to allow her to sit upright. She massaged her temples gently with her fingers.

“Headache?” Gabe asked, taking a seat beside her.

“A brainbuster,” she answered, not looking up. “I've been keeping it at bay all day, rather than miss the fiesta. And I so wanted to participate in the dancing.”

“No worries, sweet. There'll be more tomorrow,” Gabe assured her. “I didn't know what flavor you liked so I bought pineapple and orange. Your pick.”

She sat up straight and reached for the orange, hand trembling. “Thanks.”

“And as soon as you finish that, we are heading back to the compound,” Gabe informed her. With an equal air of authority, he placed his hand over her forehead. Mild concern turned to alarm. It was hot to his touch . . . very hot. It was no blasted wonder she was shivering.

“For heaven's sake, Jeanne. You've got a fever.”

Jeanne spooned some of the sorbet into her mouth and let it melt, groaning. “I can't be sick. Not now.”

“You bloody well are, and—” Gabe broke off as a cell phone started ringing—to the tune of an electronic tango—somewhere on her person.

Putting her cup down, Jeanne dug into her knit bag slung across her shoulder and produced the culprit.

“Hello? Jeanne Madison here.”

Gabe watched, fascinated, as her face transformed from one of misery to one of total joy.

“Mark,
congratulations
!” She covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “I'm a new aunt . . .
again
. How is Corinne?” she asked, after removing her hand.

And so it went, hand on and hand off the phone as she relayed the information that her younger brother, Mark, and his wife, Corinne, had a new baby girl, eight pounds, two ounces, whose name was Marianna Grace Madison. Both mother and baby were doing fine, although the father was a bit weak-kneed after coaching his wife through the delivery.

“Everything here is fine,” Jeanne said. “Better than fine. Mark, we are so close—”

Gabe put his finger to his lips to shush the little liar. Jeanne was anything but fine.

“And that's all I'd better say, since I'm in the middle of a fiesta,” she said, catching on. “The palms have ears.”

With amazing resilience, Jeanne proceeded to tell her brother every detail of what she'd seen that day. The transformation was enough to make Gabe wonder if he'd been wrong. But no: the glaze over her eyes told him she had a significant fever, and her conversation led him to think she was a little light-headed from it— enough to chat into the beginning of the fireworks display about every member of the family and more.

“No, I'm fine,” she insisted when even her brother must have begun to question her random gab. “I'm just fired up about everything.”

“You're fired up all right,” Gabe quipped after she folded her cell phone and returned it to her bag. Even as he spoke, Jeanne's bubbly demeanor fell with her shoulders. “I need to get you into bed ASAP.” Catching her startled expression, he added, “Alone, naturally.”

By the time they made the walk back to the ecolodge, Jeanne's shivering had become more intense and she was burning to the touch. While fireworks burst in gay profusion over the village, Gabe stood outside the cottage, waiting while she changed into her sleep shirt, a task that seemed to take forever. Just as he was about to ask if she'd become sidetracked, Jeanne opened the door.

“O-okay. I'm decent.”

Decent and wrapped in every blanket and sheet she had. She looked like a feverish butterfly trapped in a cocoon.

“All right, did you take more of your aspirin or whatever you have?”

Jeanne nodded, two fingers emerging from the stole of bed linens.

“Good,” Gabe said, mustering a stern countenance. “Now let me examine your arms and legs for cuts. You've probably gotten an infection from working in the coral. It can be nasty stuff.”

Coral was a stronghold of bacteria, both good and bad. Gabe knew this well, not only from experience as a diver, but from his graduate studies as well. That had been the focus of his doctoral thesis—using a particular type of coral bacteria to produce a new strain of antibiotic.

Without so much as raising an eyebrow at his suggestion, Jeanne sat, obedient, on the edge of the cot and stuck out a bare leg. Ah, the irony that childlike innocence and trust lay just beneath that delectable surface, ready to emerge and lay a guilt trip on a fellow's primal instinct, before it was even primed. Exhaling with a silent whistle, Gabe knelt on the cool tile floor of the hut and began to examine its silken length, as well as her ankles and feet in particular, since they were not as protected by a wet suit.

Sure enough, along the back of her left ankle, he found a long, red, raised gash. The entire side of the ankle was inflamed and a little swollen. How in blazes had she even danced?

As he pressed on the cut, she gasped. “Ow! Take it easy or I'm hiring another d-doctor.”

Gabe was not amused. “How long have you had this?”

“I don't remember.” She narrowed her eyes. “I think I did it . . . on Monday.”

She
was
delirious. Gabe didn't have a thermometer and maybe it was a good thing. He was worried enough as it was.

“We've only been cutting the coral since Wednesday, sweet,” Gabe informed her. “Let me see your arms and hands.”

She exposed them to him one at a time through the folds of the blanket. “I put antibiotic cream on my c-cuts.”

Gabe nodded, his mind racing with options. She needed an antibiotic, which was no problem. Pablo had an assortment in the medicine kit on the
Angel
. But Gabe also needed to get her fever down and find a way to soak her ankle. There was only one option that he could think of that would do both.

The private dock off the coast of Akumal was aglow with lantern lights, lighting the way to the
Prospect
from the strip of luxurious villas along the beachfront. Surrounded by friends and business associates, Marshall Arnauld surveyed the lavish spread to which his guests helped themselves without really looking. It no more held his interest than the conversation, something about stocks, and friendly banter. The black and white world of business was no match for the adventurous one of treasure hunting.

The
Luna Azul
absorbed his thoughts, night and day, since he'd gotten wind of its existence. At first, all he knew was that Pablo Montoya and Gabe Avery were putting together an expedition off the coast. It piqued Arnauld's interest. Contacts inside the Mexican government and CEDAM soon narrowed the search down to Punta Azul and the
Luna Azul
. The plan had been to wait and watch until the pretty PhD and her crew revealed the ace card of their hand—the exact location of the wreck.

Ready to usurp the dive site the same as he'd done with the
Mariposa
, Arnauld waited, but this time the wheels hadn't turned exactly as planned. His attorneys and contacts were unable to rescind the grant for diving rights. Who'd have guessed that that motley crew would have flown to Mexico City on a Sunday to make the arrangements? There were no loopholes around it, no one in a high enough position of authority to take a bribe. Whoever this Dr. Madison knew had covered her bases from every angle. Arnauld's hand tightened on the arm of his captain's chair. He hated being beaten.