Blue Moon (8 page)

“Completely understandable. But as we enjoy the evening,” he said changing the subject as he shot a glance at Gabe, “please do remember what the old song says about believing half of what you see and none of what you hear . . . unless what you've heard about me is good,” he added, giving her a mischievous wink. “In that case, it is all true.”

Jeanne couldn't help but chuckle. “Allow me to introduce my colleague and mentor, Dr. Remy Primston, whose reputation I'm sure you recognize more readily than mine.”

Hoping she hadn't come across as too aloof, Jeanne stepped through a sliding panel door into an enclosed salon where a long table had been elegantly set. Gabe had read them all the riot act about what a lowlife-in-luxury-clothing Arnauld was, but the captain wasn't exactly a choirboy. There were two sides to every story. Since Gabe hadn't offered to share his, the jury was still out in Jeanne's mind.

Arnauld shook Primston's hand. “Honored, simply, honored, sir. I have one of your books below on the preservation of antiquities, Dr. Primston. A masterpiece.”

“Well then”—Remy cleared his thoat—“I, too, am impressed. It feels wonderful in here,” he added, joining Jeanne in the temperature-controlled environment of the salon-turned-dining room.

Jeanne could see that the Prospect was a night-and-day comparison to the
Fallen Angel
, at least where creature comfort was concerned. The salon was furnished with new plush leather compared to Gabe's old tatty canvas. She imagined the galley and staterooms equally outclassed the
Angel
. But she didn't need frills, only competency.

“Perhaps you can autograph that book for our host, Primston,” Gabe told Remy, aiming the challenge at their host as he passed Arnauld without accepting his extended hand.

“Excellent suggestion, Gabe,” Arnauld replied equably. “If the professor doesn't mind.”

“Heavens no,” Remy exclaimed, drawling under his breath for Jeanne's ear alone, “Subtle, your captain.”

“Behave,” Jeanne mouthed silently to Gabe.

A tug at the corner of Gabe's mouth transformed it into a slow smile. “Seeing is believing, sweet,” he whispered, heading for the well-stocked foldaway bar behind the bridge.

“And
Señor
Montoya, delighted to see you again as well,” their host continued, greeting Pablo without missing a hospitable beat. “Imagine my surprise when we pulled in and I saw the
Fallen
Angel.
Last I heard, Gabe was taking charters out of Cancún, but if you are with him, Pablo, you must be looking for a different kind of fish.”

“Heaven knows there are any number to choose from in these waters,” Gabe remarked, helping himself to a handful of nuts. “Is that what brings you to Punta Azul?
Fishing
of the sunken kind?”

Jeanne exchanged a pained look with Remy.

“I only pray he doesn't get us thrown off before dinner,” the professor sniffed, eyelids closing in sensory rapture. “Whatever it is, it smells divine.”

“
Pleasure
brings us south of the border, Captain Avery,” Arnauld answered, “but a faulty engine brought us into Punta Azul. We were on our way to Belize when the starboard engine started acting up.”

“Right,” Gabe mouthed, sending Jeanne a cynical look as Arnauld greeted the dazzled students.

While Stuart and Nick drew their host to the well-equipped bridge beyond the bar, barraging him with awestruck praise and questions, Jeanne glanced through the back paneled doors leading to the open lower deck. State-of-the-art sports fishing chairs lined the stern. On the port side, she noted steel mountings sturdy enough to support a deployment arm, making the yacht easily converted from pleasure to work. That the equipment was not installed confirmed Arnauld's story.

“Now, what can my girls get you to drink?” Arnauld asked as two women emerged from the galley, a blonde and a redhead. Clad in short spandex dresses that looked painted on their shapely figures and three-inch heels that would ruin a good teak deck, they reduced the boys' tech enthusiasm to a hormone-infected stutter.

“This is Vivian,” Arnauld said, cozying the petite blonde under the crook of one arm. “And Pamela,” he added, corralling the tall redhead's waist with the other.

“Gabe, darling!” Pamela gushed, drawing Jeanne from a self-conscious consideration of her own attire—hastily ironed cotton capris, a boatneck knit top, and rubber-soled sandals. “How wonderful to see you again.” The redhead approached the captain with more sway than a porch swing and engaged him in a kiss that suggested they'd been more than casual acquaintances. “Cold beer straight from the bottle, right?”

“Perfect. But I insist on helping.”

Jeanne noted the blood rush to his neck and face beneath the bronze of his skin with more than mild curiosity as he knelt to open the stainless-steel refrigerator beneath the countertop before Pamela could dissuade him.

When the introductions were out of the way, and a mix of wine, beer, and sodas provided, Jeanne found herself seated next to their host at the head of the table, with Remy opposite her. Planted between them and the rest of the Genesis crew like room dividers, Pamela and Vivian zeroed their attention in on Gabe and Pablo, leaving the students to fend among themselves.

Yet despite Pamela's avid attention on his right, Gabe seemed determined to make the younger contingent a part of the general company—particularly the shy Mara—while Arnauld regaled the group with a story of how he'd lost a gambling bet with the ladies in Galveston and was paying up by taking them to Belize for some recreational diving in the waters there.

“But enough about us.” Arnauld backed away as a deckhand clad in black trousers and a white cotton shirt placed trays of hors d'oeuvres heaped with fried and grilled seafood tidbits at each end of the table. “What about you, Dr. Madison . . . or might I call you Jeanne?”

“I see no need for formalities in this setting,” Jeanne acquiesced.

“Jeanne it is, then . . . and you must call me Marshall.” Arnauld took up his drink, Napoleon brandy straight up, and peered over its rim, brown eyes twinkling. “So what is it, Jeanne? What's the name of the ship you're after?”

Her back grew ramrod straight with caution. “It's the
Luna
Azul
. . . if she exists,” she added with a hint of a smile.

Arnauld's gaze narrowed with interest. “The presence of
Señor
Montoya and Captain Avery suggests you have good reason to believe that she does . . . although I must admit, I've never heard of her.”

Jeanne sighed. She had to be careful, but refused to be rude. “Perhaps I should rephrase. The
Luna Azul
, or
Blue Moon
, definitely existed and likely there are some remains to be found. The question is
where
.”

“So,” Arnauld exclaimed, leaning back in satisfaction. “I've stumbled upon a treasure quest.”

“An archeological expedition,” Remy corrected his host.

“So you-all are professional treasure hunters like our Marsh?” As slow as her drawl, the redhead ran a manicured hand along Gabe's bicep. “And Gabe, of course.”

“Actually, madam,” Remy began with polite restraint, “we are marine archaeologists, not
treasure hunters.
In fact, I am documenting the expedition for a book—”

“Do not equate me with
Marsh,
Pamela,” Gabe interrupted, shifting a pointed look to their host. “And if he thinks to convince us that this visit is purely coincidental, he'll stop pumping us for information now. He can read the details later in Primston's book.”

A strained silence seized the room, broken only by a little moan of dismay from Remy and the tinkling of ice in Stuart's soda glass as he took a drink and put it down on the table. Frantic to dispel the tension, Jeanne reached for the tray of appetizers in front of her. “Remy, you've got to try some of the bacon-wrapped shrimp—”

The bottom of the tray pinged against the flange of Arnauld's water glass, knocking it over. The wash of ice water in his lap broke Arnauld free from the steel grip of Gabe's stare and sent the man shooting straight up from his chair.

“Oh, no,” Jeanne gasped as Remy rescued the plate of seafood delicacies. “I'm so sorry.”

Vaulting to her feet, she grabbed her dinner napkin, but before she could hand it to their host, a deckhand appeared and produced a hand towel from the bar. “Sir, dinner is ready to be served,” he announced, as unruffled by the mishap as his black, slicked-back hair. “Should we hold it until you've changed?”

Arnauld shook his head. “Don't be ridiculous. A little bit of water never hurt anyone.”

“I'm truly sorry, Mr. Arnauld, both for the captain's rudeness and my clumsiness. It seems like every time I talk about the
Luna Azul
I turn into a klutz.” Her cheeks felt hot as the pink hues of the sunset beyond the tree-lined shore. “It's my first expedition and—”

Arnauld put a finger to her lips. “Shush, shush, Jeanne. There's no need for embarrassment at all. It is I who owe the apology for poking my nose where it doesn't belong. As a fellow treasure hunter, I completely understand the need for secrecy in such things.” He held out her chair. “I meant only to make polite conversation. You are here on an archeological expedition. That is all I need to know.”

With a scathing look at Gabe, Jeanne allowed her gallant—not to mention forgiving—host to seat her. Not that the captain noticed. Pamela the Red was feeding him a bite of shrimp. “You have to try this sauce I made,” she cooed. “Lots of pepper, hot like you always liked it.”

Jeanne pressed her lips together. Shame she hadn't tipped the platter to the left instead of the right. Although if that dress shrank any more— “And for the captain's assurance,” Arnauld said, saving her from her feline thoughts, “come tomorrow, we will be on our way to Belize.” Opening his arms as though to embrace the lot of them, he continued. “So now, my friends, what do you say to glazed game hens with wild rice stuffing?”

“Air-conditioning
and
gourmet dining?” Remy placed a hand over his chest, ecstatic. “I, for one, say I have died and gone to heaven.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Jeanne rose early the following morning, eager for a test run of the equipment that they'd spent yesterday loading onto the
Fallen
Angel
. That they now had cots instead of hammocks to sleep on made everyone a little more chipper, especially Remy. He'd nabbed Ann first thing about setting up a motion-activated camera on the lagoon in front of the dining hall to catch footage of the tropical birds in their natural habitat.

Just when she thought she knew everything about the professor, he surprised her with yet another interest. Jeanne took a basket of lunch provisions from the lodge cook. “Thank you, Lupita.”

“I animate myself each morning to make fresh tortillas,” the cook boasted with pride. “If only
Don
Rudolfo would animate himself so. Lazy as a cow.”

At that moment, the screen door to the porch swung open, admitting Pablo Montoya and the young men.

“You must put the food back in refrigeration for a while,” Pablo told Jeanne. “Gabe says that we are not departing until the
Prospect
does.”

Jeanne frowned, glancing at her watch. Nine o'clock, already a late start. “We can't afford to simply sit around and wait for a mechanic to fix Arnauld's boat. That could take—”

Pablo threw up his hands in surrender. “I'm not the captain . . . although he has his reasons.”

“One has red hair,” Nick mumbled to no one in particular as he picked up a paddle from the Ping-Pong table at one end of the large room.

Jeanne forced a hot rise of indignation from her voice. “Well, whatever his reason or reasons, they'd better be good.”

Of course, that the redhead was involved didn't exactly come as a surprise, given the way Pamela had fawned over Gabe all night. But Jeanne would not stand for the complication of developing a personal interest or, for that matter, a nemesis to slow down the project.

Upon reaching the waterfront, she saw that Nick's assessment hadn't been off the mark. Looking like she'd just walked off a photo shoot, the tall redhead with the Texas drawl waved goodbye. Jeanne caught a glimpse of her lipstick, which was bright enough to paint road warnings with. White short shorts twisting with each click of her high acrylic-heeled sandals, the woman retreated to the luxury yacht.

Slowing, Jeanne paced her advance until Pamela the Red had disappeared beyond the tinted glass enclosing the
Prospect's
salon. Jeanne wanted the captain's full attention so that matters could be set straight from the get-go. She was in charge.

A sharp thudding noise followed by a bark preceded her arrival at the stern deck of the
Fallen Angel
, where Gabe, in jogging shorts and a matching sleeveless tank top, kicked back against the air compressor in a foldaway deck chair.