he was.
Impatiently, she towel-dried her hair, yanked on layers of merino wool and fleece, then slipped her feet into moc-boots. It was the way he’d kissed that threw her, she admitted to herself. She’d expected arrogance and selfishness. She’d expected him to be a taker.
Instead, he kissed as if he were a big old lonesome lion, who craved his own lioness to come home to, a cave of his own, the one place in a predator world where he could let down his hair.
As Cate climbed to the main deck, she almost let out a totally unfeminine snort. Harm in the role of romantic lion? Right. Annoyed the man was still entrenched in her thoughts, she was determined to concentrate on something else.
Like food. Food was always positive.
Ambling through the salon, the only sound she heard was the steady slop-slurping of water cradling the boat. As she passed through into the dining area, she found exactly the mess she’d expected-glasses and plates everywhere. She and Ivan had had a brouhaha before he hired her on. She was a chef, not a maid. Without a cabin boy, somebody was going to have to pick up the housekeeping duties. Eventually, they agreed-once he put more money in the kitty for her-that she’d clean up the dining room and galley 24/7. The rest of the boat was his problem.
She lifted the lid on the giant silver coffeepot-a treasure, old silver-and figured she’d grind Hawaiian beans today, add a touch of hazelnut…then scooped up a tray of glasses to cart into the galley.
She barely turned the corner before shock hit.
There was a long, bulky shadow on the floor. A body. A man’s body.
The tray careened on the counter in a noisy clatter of glasses and silverware. She fell to her knees, put her finger on the pulse of his neck, then felt another shiver of shock when she realized his eyes were open.
She knew CPR. She was damned good at CPR. Unfortunately, CPR was too darned late to do any good. She recognized Fiske even before she knelt down-who else had that classic Santa-Claus figure? But it seemed impossible that he was dead. She’d just
Confusion suddenly made her freeze. It was a darned real question. How could he have died just like that? Obviously, he must have been seeking something from the galley in the middle of the night. But what? And he was crumpled on the floor in the oddest position, his hands framed in a cupped position around his neck. Had he choked? But on what?
If he’d slipped and fallen in the tight space of the galley, he would undoubtedly have hit a hard surface-yet there was no sign of blood or physical injury. If he’d choked, there was no sign of food or whatever he could have choked on.
She gulped, then jumped to her feet and hit the lights. She wanted Harm. To tell him first, to be the one to deal with this. But that was just her heart’s instinct. Rationally, she knew her first responsibility was to contact Ivan. On a ship, the captain was the god, the law, and any other role that was stuck with bottom-line responsibility. She reached for the pager on the wall by the sink, her hands shaking as she hit the button for Ivan’s cabin.
“What?” Ivan’s voice was curt and groggy. No surprise, she’d wakened him.
“It’s me, Cate. I’m in the galley. Fiske is here. I don’t know what happened. But somehow…he’s dead. I just found him.”
Ivan muttered a curse, a sound of shock. Then, “I’ll be right there. Don’t do anything else until I get up there. Or…wait. Wake Connolly, would you? It’s his man. We should tell him before anyone else finds out. And I’ll be there as fast as I can get dressed.”
She hung up, took one last long look at Fiske, and then ran. Her mind felt like a shaken box of Scrabble pieces, unable to form coherent words, make coherent sense. She pelted through the silent boat, belowdecks, then rapped sharply on Harm’s door. He was undoubtedly sleeping. She’d probably have to rap more than once. Yet she hadn’t even lifted her hand for a second knock when the cabin door opened.
Cate didn’t panic. She never panicked. She wasn’t the shaky, panicky type, yet Harm took one look, said, “Easy there,” in a voice more gentle than silk. He pulled her in, pulled her close. “Bad news,” he said, not wasting time framing it as a question.
She nodded, because her chin seemed to be wobbling too much to get a clear word out. It was his fault she couldn’t keep it together. At least he didn’t sleep naked, but he was only wearing sweat bottoms tied low on his hips. Her cheek seemed to be pressed into the geography of blond hair on his chest, which covered a far more muscular torso than a desk man should have. It’s not that sex was on her mind. It wasn’t. Even remotely. It was just…
No one did that. Held her. Just pulled her in and held her. And because Harm was so clearly braced for trouble, to take care of trouble, she didn’t have to be.
“It’s Fiske, Harm.”
“Sick?”
“Worse. I found him dead on the galley floor. I paged Ivan right away, woke him up-he’s probably en route to the galley by now. He asked me to come get you.”
“Of course.” But he didn’t immediately release her, as if waiting to make sure she was steady again. He pulled back, blue eyes examining her face, shrewdly assessing how she was. “It’s frightening. Finding someone who died. Happened when I was in the military too damned often. I don’t care how tough you are. It’s hard.”
She took a big gulp, found the steadiness that had eluded her. Maybe she’d just needed him to say that she wasn’t a wuss. “It was awful,” she admitted, and then quickly turned around to face the door.
The instant Harm let go of her, he reached for the drawstring tie at his waist, obviously intent on dressing fast-whether she was there or not. “Could you tell what happened? How he died?”
She hesitated. “I’ve got some solid first-aid background, but I don’t have any doctor-type judgment or experience-”
“Cate. Could you tell how he died?”
From the quiet urgency in his voice, she realized what he was really asking-if Frisk had died a natural death or if he’d been murdered.
Shock numbed her throat. She understood that the problems in his company were grave, but not that Harm had been worried about something like foul play or violence being a possibility. Suddenly, everything she’d seen and heard took on extra dimension. Her voice seemed to come out full of gravel.
“I don’t know, Harm. There was no blood, so it didn’t look as if he fell and hit his head. I…” She just couldn’t force the picture back in her mind. “I can’t guess why he was in the galley. Whatever happened must have occurred after you and I went below deck, so the timing had to be in the really wee hours of the morning.” Her voice started to crack. “But I just don’t know what a heart attack or stroke looks like, so I-”
“Okay. Damn. Didn’t mean to make you feel put on the spot. The facts’ll come out, Cate. It’ll all get figured out. And I’m headed up right now.” But before charging ahead of her toward the companionway, he snugged a hand on her shoulder. It wasn’t a sexual touch-just a totally personal one. A gentle squeeze of support, an awareness of how upset she was, even if she didn’t show it. A gesture to let her know he was there.
Cate headed back on deck, thinking what a way to tick a girl off. She wasn’t used to anyone being there for her. She didn’t want anyone there, hadn’t depended on anyone since she could remember-and liked it that way.
She damn near fell in love with the man over that single stupid gesture.
Of course, she wasn’t herself. Finding a dead body was a mighty upsetting way to start a day.
If she wanted to wallow, though, there was no possible opportunity. Topside, Harm and Ivan took over the galley, locked in discussion.
Harm’s men seemed to smell the crisis, woke up early, popped on deck one after the other, each appearing shaken by the news of Fiske’s death. No one seemed to know what to do, what to say-and heaven knew, neither did she. But she just started pitching in, starting with making coffee, one pot, then another.
Even after Ivan and Harm headed for the pilothouse, no one wanted to be in the galley-not until some decision was made regarding Fiske. Cate couldn’t imagine anyone wanting the original fancy breakfast she’d planned, but she raided the storerooms and pantry, came through with plates of fresh fruit, breads and preserves. Everyone said they weren’t hungry, but both coffee and food disappeared every time she put out more.
Harm’s men sprawled in the salon. Harm and Ivan kept charging in and out of the pilothouse. No one quit talking when Cate brought coffee or took away empty plates, so she heard everything that was going on.
