Operation: Monarch Page 8

  The transformation was astonishing. From one-step-up-from-the-streets scruffy, Garth now looked…regal was the only word springing to her mind.

  In place of his low-slung, faded denims, his legs looked longer than usual in tailored black pants. He'd teamed them with a deceptively plain open-necked white shirt. Judging from the way the fine material hugged his wide shoulders and skimmed his body everywhere else it touched, the shirt alone was worth the equivalent of a week or more of her salary.

  She would bet he'd never worn so much money on his back in his entire life, yet he did it with as much ease and style as any of the de Marigny princes. Except that she had never seen them wearing designer stubble or scuffed boots. The combination was lethally attractive.

  "There's no 'we' involved," she stated. She coughed to clear her throat. "I'll find the Pascales through the proper channels. You're staying right here."

  "Driving a computer and hunting for more useless information?"

  "It's hardly useless. If you hadn't stuck with the research, we wouldn't have found out so quickly that everyone connected with the birth of the royal baby has died one way or another."

  "A good research assistant could have given you the same information."

  "Be glad you're a good research assistant. 'They also serve' etcetera, etcetera."

  "If you think I'm going to stand and wait while you go after the Hand, you're in for a rude awakening," he stated.

  She'd had one the day she set eyes on him as a grown man, but she didn't tell him so. The royal villa was a big place but he managed to reduce it to a cottage for two. Every time she turned around he was there, crowding her personal space. Heaven help her if he knew he turned her on without even trying.

  "This isn't between you and the Hand," she insisted.

  "You said yourself there's a good chance he had my folks killed for his own ends."

  "I also said the law will take care of him."

  He planted his hands on his hips, his confronting stance challenging not just her authority, but her femaleness with his maleness. "You have to catch him first."

  She swallowed hard. "How will having you underfoot make that easier? I'd have to watch your back as well as my own."

  "I can watch my own back."

  She didn't doubt he could, but shook her head. "My orders from Prince Lorne don't include putting you in harm's way."

  "Or yourself."

  "It's my job. I've been doing it for a long time."

  Garth found he didn't like the idea one bit. "All the same, your choices are between taking me with you or handcuffing me to my bed here."

  "Now that's an idea."

  She would do it, too, Garth thought as he saw her jaw firm. With effort he steered his imagination away from the provocative fantasy of him cuffed to the bed and her leaning across him. "What do you have in mind?"

  "Matt Hayes is checking the Pascales' movements on the off chance the doctor went against character and changed his plans. If not—"

  She broke off as her phone beeped. "Cordeaux. Oh, hi, Matt, that was fast. What did you get?"

  Garth forced himself not to shift impatiently as she talked to her former partner. She didn't know it yet, but he was sticking to her like glue from now on. He no longer cared whether or not he was the heir to the throne. Plenty of time to deal with that when they got the test results back. He had a more immediate agenda. Ever since this started she'd been telling him it wasn't personal. If the Hand was behind his parents' death, it couldn't be anything else.

  Frank and Sylvia Remy might not have been ideal parents. They hadn't known how to be. Frank hadn't even known who his own family was. He'd been left on a church doorstep when he was two weeks old. His mother had never been traced.

  Sylvia had endured a succession of stepfathers and euphemistic uncles until her mother died when Sylvia was seventeen. Sylvia and Frank had made their own family together, sharing a love of the sea and diving. They'd loved Garth, in their own imperfect way. He'd thought it fitting that they'd died in the ocean together. Now that he knew it probably wasn't an accident, he was filled with violent fury and a determination to get answers.

  Serena ended the call and looked pointedly at his clenched fists. "Ease up. I have some news. The Pascales' driver took them to the harbor and put their bags onto the cruise ship. They said they were going for a walk around the waterfront before boarding and told him not to wait. They haven't been seen since."

  "How long ago?"

  "Three days. I know, the captain should have told someone they hadn't boarded, but apparently it happens, especially with VIPs. Something comes up and they write off the tickets. Nice if you can afford it." She lifted her shoulders. "Matt said Dr. Pascale drew the driver's attention to a yacht in the harbor, flying a flag he'd never seen before."

  "He noticed one yacht and one flag?"

  "Pascale is renowned for noticing details. The driver remembered the name, Cradle Rock. Odd name for a boat."

  Garth thought for a minute. "There's a Cradle Rock on the northern coast of Nuee. It's a well-known diving site. The owners could come from there, or they're keen divers. People name their boats all sorts of things. My folks called theirs Onalos."

  "Meaning?"

  "It's their home port, Solano, spelled backward. They thought it was hugely clever and original."

  "It is to me. I didn't think of that, but I was never good at word puzzles or cryptic crosswords." She touched his arm. Under her fingers his muscles felt rock hard. "Trust me, Garth. Whoever killed them will be brought to justice."

  He nodded tautly. "I may have seen the Cradle Rock near my folks' boat a short time before the explosion. There were a lot of yachts in the area, and I would have assumed it was taking part in a race."

  "Maybe it was."

  "And maybe it wasn't." He balled his hands into fists again, his arms like steel rods at his sides. "I was working on my boat in dry dock when I heard the explosion. I had to borrow a friend's dinghy to get out to the Onalos. I'm certain the Cradle Rock was one of the yachts in the area."

  "You saw nothing to tie them to the destruction?"

  "I was too worried about my parents to think of looking. By the time I reached them, their boat had sunk without trace. I dived after them but it was too late." His voice wavered. "They didn't stand a chance."

  "The police would have interviewed everyone in the vicinity."

  He nodded. "They must have covered their tracks well. Did your friend Matt tell you where the Cradle Rock is now?"

  She shook her head. "No, but if there is a connection, I think I know where to start looking."

  * * *

  Allora Harbor was better known for its beautiful Saphir Beach than as a boating paradise. The harbor itself was too hazardous and the currents too unpredictable for shipping, although a safe channel had been dredged to provide smaller vessels with access to moorings close to shore. A private marina occupied one of the deeper inlets a few miles past the beach but it was badly managed and struggling to survive. When Serena and Garth arrived, only a handful of boats were berthed beside the rickety boardwalks, like the last beads on a broken string.

  She'd given up trying to convince Garth to remain at the villa. Short of carrying out her threat and handcuffing him to the bed, there wasn't much more she could do. He wasn't under house arrest, and the only thing he was suspected of was being the country's monarch.

  He didn't look like one now, she thought. Aware that his resemblance to Prince Lorne would make him conspicuous, he'd borrowed her eye liner and filled in the stubble on his chin so it looked like a short beard, adding black-rimmed glasses borrowed from one of the footmen. From the villa's storerooms, he'd unearthed a black suit and a priest's white collar from among a collection of costumes left over from a masquerade party.

  During police training, she'd learned that the simplest disguises were the most effective. The small changes made Garth look like a different person. A biker who'd taken holy orders, say.

&n
bsp; Her floral dress and vinyl purse also came from the costume collection. She'd added a scarf over her hair and hidden her eyes behind red-framed sunglasses shaped like cats' eyes. Again, simple but effective. They could be a priest and a member of his flock taking a stroll around the marina.

  Unfortunately the dress was a little too roomy for her compact frame, and the bodice revealed an expanse of décolleté that was at odds with the matronly style. Stopping to scan the moored boats, she saw Garth fixate on her cleavage. "Much as I appreciate the attention, you're blowing your cover," she murmured.

  He gave a toothy smile, the whiteness of his teeth emphasized by the piratical beard. "Not if I'm an Anglican priest and you're my doting wife."

  She resisted the urge to slam the purse into his ribs. "I've never doted in my life."

  He tucked her arm through his. "I'll happily give you pointers."

  "In your dreams." As he pulled her against him, heat washed through her. She couldn't free herself without drawing attention to them. "Do Anglican priests wear dog collars?"

  He was unfazed. "I'm from the Church of New Ecumenism."

  With her arm through his, their bodies were uncomfortably close. Her nerves jangled. "More like New Eroticism?"

  "How do you think my doting wife and I came by our ten children?"

  "I knew I should have gone with the handcuffs."

  She knew she'd made a mistake when his eyes gleamed. "It might be a novel way to try for eleven."

  She tossed her head, the effect somewhat negated by the unflattering scarf. "Some man of the cloth you'd make."

  He patted her hand. "Charity, my dear, charity."

  She was about to tell him what he could do with his charity when she stilled. "There, at the end of the last boardwalk, it's the Cradle Rock."

  His arm muscles were corded with tension. He'd spotted it at the same moment. "No wonder Dr. Pascale questioned the flag. It belongs to Mingrelia, a principality in Georgia that was annexed by Russia two hundred years ago."

  She wondered if she looked as stunned as she felt. "You must come in handy at trivia nights."

  "Flags were a hobby of mine when I was a kid. Every time I came across a new one, I drew it into a scrapbook."

  And remembered them all this time. "So it's a flag of convenience in the literal sense."

  "Looks like it. I'll find out if anyone's onboard. Wait here."

  Before she could argue that it was her job to check out the boat and he could be walking into danger, he'd left her standing.

  He made it look good, she had to admit. By altering his walk and stooping his shoulders a touch, he managed to look like a goofy theologian who was fascinated by the boats. Following him slowly as if sightseeing herself, she saw him reach their target.

  The yacht was old but kept in better trim than it looked from a distance, she saw when she got closer. The little she could see of the wheelhouse looked state-of-the-art. But to a casual observer, other than the bizarre flag, there was nothing remarkable. It could have been the plaything of any reasonably well-to-do vintage-yacht enthusiast.

  A fit-looking Polynesian man appeared on the deck and she ducked into the shadow of another boat. She judged the man to be about six-two, weighing two hundred pounds of solid muscle.

  As if he wasn't outweighed by forty pounds, Garth continued his bumbling way forward then touched a finger to a nonexistent hat. "Good morning. Lovely day, isn't it?"

  "This is a private marina…ah, father."

  "So I see. I'm a big fan of vintage yachts. General Douglas MacArthur used one just like this on his tours of the South Pacific war zone. It couldn't be the same vessel, could it?"

  "No chance." She suspected the answer would have been the same no matter what Garth had asked.

  "Looks the same," he went on as if talking to himself. "Sixty-six feet overall. Copper-sheathed New Zealand Kauri over spotted gum ribs. Built about 1938. You don't mind if I take a closer look?"

  Before the nonplussed brute could open his mouth to object, Garth had swung himself onto the deck. She braced herself for an almighty splash as the brute threw him overboard. But he was buying it. He was fuming with frustration, but he was letting the daffy priest putter around the deck admiring bollards and davits, or whatever the shiny bits on yachts were called.

  She had to admire Garth's chutzpah. She would have crept around noting whatever was to be noted, but wouldn't have gone onboard without a warrant. There was something to be said for bad-boy tendencies. And even dressed in priestly garb, Garth still looked like a bad boy.

  The brute had positioned himself in front of the wheelhouse, confining Garth to the open deck aft. When Garth tried to move past him, the man reacted in a blur of movement. She heard a sound of something falling and a grunt of pain.

  Heart racing, she peered out, expecting to find Garth flat on his back. Braced to spring to his rescue, she heard him say, "I asked you a question. Where's the captain of this vessel?"

  "You're no priest," the brute said, sounding winded. She could only see his upturned feet sticking out of the wheelhouse.

  Garth's back was to her as he loomed over his victim. "I can give you proof, such as the last rites."

  "Who the devil are you?"

  "Right now, your worst nightmare."

  She winced. He really had been watching too much television. She got ready to intervene before he broke any more laws but froze, ice slithering down her spine, as he said, "If you want that American base stopped, you'll tell me where to find your skipper."

  Whose side was he on?

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  There was another grunt as of boot connecting with kidneys. She really had to stop this. She began to move, then checked herself. She was legally bound to identify herself and if the brute was armed, her arrival might give him an opportunity to shoot.

  A phantom ache in her right shoulder had her massaging it. She'd been shot just once as a cop, and the bullet had only grazed the fleshy part. But it was enough to remind her that it wasn't an experience she was anxious to repeat. Nor was she prepared to risk Garth. She stayed where she was and listened.

  "Okay, have it your way," the brute capitulated. "Just tell me who you are first. It's more than my life's worth."

  "I'm a member of Carramer First. My code name is First Prime," Garth said in a low voice. "I report directly to the Hand."

  "You're lying. Nobody does that except—" Catching himself, the brute struggled warily to his feet as if expecting Garth to knock him down again. When he didn't, the man straightened slowly, a hand clamped against his side, his breathing shallow. "If you're really First Prime, why didn't you say so instead of barging on board as if you were the law?"

  "Belonging to Carramer First isn't illegal," Garth said. "Why would you be scared of the law?"

  "I'm not," the man blustered. A lie if ever Serena heard one. "Since they announced the American president is coming, the cops have been harassing the group every chance they get."

  "Then it's time we gave them good reason. When is the skipper due back?"

  "Not until tonight. How did you find out about this boat?"

  Garth took a step toward the brute who backed up before he could stop himself. "Tell the skipper I'll be here at ten."

  She fought against anger. For the sake of Dr. Pascale and his wife, Garth was arranging to walk into what could be a deadly trap. He'd be great at playing good-cop, bad-cop, as long as he got to play the bad cop, she thought. Too bad she wasn't about to let him go through with it.

  He almost walked past her hiding place, swearing as she grabbed his arm and yanked him into the shadows. His hard body collided with hers. She was glad he couldn't see the flush that leaped to her skin. "What the hell do you think you're playing at?" she hissed, as angry with herself as with him.

  He glanced over his shoulder but the brute had retreated to the safety of the wheelhouse. "Getting information," he said calmly.

  "We have proper procedures for
that, not to mention a law against inflicting grievous bodily harm," she snapped, strongly tempted to inflict some of her own.

  He clamped his wrists together and held them out. "Cuff me, Officer. And yourself as an accessory, since you didn't stop me."

  "I didn't want to distract you, and give Tiny Tim the chance to pull a weapon."

  He gave a wolfish smile, his teeth gleaming in the shadows. "Worried about me, Serena?"

  She batted his hands down. "Only about the Pascales, and my job if I let anything happen to you."

  "Does sexual frustration count?"

  "Yours or mine?"

  She hadn't meant to blurt it out, regretting it when his interest sharpened. "We'll talk about this later, strictly in the interests of keeping your job," he said, his voice rich with a promise she didn't even want to think about. "Right now we'd better get out of here."

  They wouldn't talk about it ever, if she had anything to say about it. She had only mentioned her job as a distraction. Her main concerns were protecting Garth and finding the Pascales. The doctor and his wife had been guests at a police benefit and had charmed everyone there. She didn't like to think what might be happening to them now. Or to Garth if he insisted on investigating on his own.

  Using the boats for cover they started back. Serena's shoulder blades prickled, as if anticipating the slam of a bullet between them at any minute. But when she checked on Cradle Rock, she saw no one on deck, and the boardwalk between them was clear.

  As soon as they were safely in her car, Garth peeled off the white clerical collar and thrust it into his pocket. Clad all in black, he looked like a riverboat gambler from the Old West. Tall, dark and dangerous.

  Which reminded her.

  "You told Tiny Tim your Carramer First code name was First Prime."

  He watched her steadily. "So?"

  "First Prime means you were more than a rank-and-file member."

  "I was."

  She sucked in a breath. "You made it sound to me as if your membership was a youthful indiscretion."