Death Echo

look. Even a lightweight aluminum rowboat had a mind of its own. The mass involved in a yacht Blackbird’s size was measured in tons. A lot of them.

The captain climbed down the steep fly-bridge stairs like a cat and vanished into the boat’s salon.

Swiftly Emma sorted through available strategies. She decided to stick with the IQ-lowering crop top. The lace inset between her breasts was a bigger tease than bare cleavage. The oldest approach in the world might be a hip-swinging cliche, but it was still around because it still worked. She tucked the left earpiece of her sunglasses into her cleavage, pulled out the colorful band that held her hair in a ponytail, shook her hair free, and sauntered forward.

Time to brighten the captain’s day-and get an invitation aboard.

4

DAY ONE

BELLTOWN MARINA

AFTERNOON

Mac stepped out of the cabin and walked to the stainless-steel fuel plate that was flush with the deck. He went down on one knee to open up for fueling. Two prongs of the metal tool he held fit into indentions in the flat, circular fuel plate. A hard twist loosened the big, stainless-steel screw. While he turned the plate on its threads, he glanced at the fuel dock.

The lithe woman strolling down the ramp was older than the bouncy little line catcher who’d been hired by the fuel dock as eye candy for the yachting set. The woman with the small backpack over one shoulder moved with easy confidence. He liked that in a person, male or female.

But he wondered if he’d like the reason why she was interested in Blackbird.

Stop being paranoid. Yachties love to look at what’s on the water. Just because her hair is the same color as the woman on the Zodiac, there’s no reason to be wary. Lots of women have dark hair long enough to be pulled back in a ponytail or left free to fall to her shoulders.

And nice breasts. Real nice, not a bra line in sight.

His neck hairs ignored sweet reason and kept on voting for paranoia.

“That’s one beautiful yacht,” the woman called out to him.

Mac looked at her. There was only appreciation in her voice and in her expression. No reason to get upset. Blackbird was indeed a fine boat.

And the female wasn’t bad, either. Not fat, not skinny, with a spring to her stride that came from some kind of athletic activity. She was probably a few years past thirty. Her eyes were clear, light, and direct. Everything he liked in a woman.

Too bad she’s the one from the Zodiac.

It was in the line of her jaw, the curve of her ear, the narrow nose and full mouth. Dark hair now ruffled by the wind. The lacy gap in her top should have been illegal.

He didn’t know the game, but she was one intriguing player. “Thanks,” Mac said, standing up. He braced his arms on the railing, looked down, and drawled, “She’s very responsive.”

Her head tilted up toward him. She could have been friendly. She could have been measuring him for a coffin. Her eyes were a green that reminded him of the color of big ocean waves in the midst of breaking over the bow. Clear. Light green. Powerful. A warning a smart man listened to.

Oh, I’m listening.

Looking, too.

Damn, she just might be worth the trouble.

And Mac knew she was trouble.

“You handle her well,” she said. “Have you had her long?”

Hell. She’s the wrong kind of trouble. She knows just how long I’ve been aboard this boat.

He glanced at the dock girl. She was waiting with a fat fuel hose. The nozzle was green.

“Diesel,” he said. Double-checking.

She nodded.

He took the nozzle and lifted the heavy fuel line aboard. The area around the deck’s fuel tank feed was protected by a white square of absorbent padding. He had cut a hole in the center to allow fueling. When the nozzle was in place, he looked at the dock girl.

“One hundred in each tank,” he said.

“One hundred diesel each,” she said, walking back to the pumps. “Fast or slow?”

“Fast.”

Emma watched the fueling process and chewed over the fact that she’d made a mistake. Obviously he’d seen her aboard the Zodiac, and taken a good enough look through binoculars to know her even without her ponytail and Mustang gear. His dark eyes had gone blank the instant she asked how long he’d owned Blackbird.

He enjoyed her crop top, but it didn’t affect his IQ. A hard man in every way that counted.

Time for Plan B: Honesty.

Yeah. Right.

“So much for light conversation,” she said clearly. “I’m Emma Cross and I’ve got a qualified buyer for Blackbird.”

“She’s not mine,” he said without looking up from the diesel nozzle. “I’m just delivering her.”

“So the owner is in Seattle.”

Mac didn’t answer.

“News flash,” Emma said crisply. “Being rude will just make me more pushy. I have a job to do and I’m going to do it, with or without your charming help.”

Mac almost smiled. “Charming, huh?”

“Yeah. Bet no one has ever accused you of that.”

This time Mac did smile. “No bet.”

Emma almost stepped back. The difference between this man with and without a smile was enough to make a woman think about doing whatever it took to keep the smile in place.

“Wow. You should try smiling more often, Mr. Whoever.”

He shook his head and decided he was going to find out just what kind of trouble this woman was. Give her enough rope and she might just tie herself up.

Now that was an intriguing thought. “MacKenzie Durand,” he said. “If you want me to answer, call me Mac.”

“One hundred!” called out the dockhand.

Mac loosened his grip on the nozzle, replaced the tank cover, and walked around the stern to the tank on the other side. The dockhand leaped forward to feed more hose aboard.

Emma looked at the thick hose, stepped behind the dockhand, lifted a few coils to help, and almost staggered.

Heavy. Who knew yachting was hard work?

Silently she revised her estimate of the captain’s physical strength. He was handling the stuff like it was garden hose. That rangy frame of his was deceptive.

“Hey, no need to get that cool top dirty,” the dockhand said. “I can handle it.”

“That’s what washing machines are for,” Emma said. “Do you do this all day?”

“Every day. The other dockhand quit. But I’m making a lot of money toward my degree.”

“In what?”

“Engineering.”

“That’s a lot of hose hauling,” Emma said.