Blue Moon (26 page)

Anger blotted out the conversations going on around him. What made it worse was that he'd been outmaneuvered by a novice. Even so, he'd been willing to share the glory of the find. When his source explained Jeanne's predicament of having to excavate within the reef, Arnauld was ready to throw all his resources in with them for nothing but recognition. Except she hadn't taken him up on his gentlemanly offer.

Granted, it was likely Avery's idea, but sometimes one had to suffer the consequences of the company one kept . . . and the advice one accepted. Avery and the woman had forced his hand.

“Excuse me, sir,” one of the servants said, interrupting Arnauld's thoughts. “The call you've been expecting has come through.”

And soon it would be out of his hands. Without calling notice to himself, Arnauld slipped out of his chair and below to his private stateroom. The rich mahoganies of the bulkhead and trim were warm compared to his voice when he picked up the telephone receiver and spoke into it.

“You're late.”

“
Lo siento
,” the man on the other end of the line began, “
pero
—”

“In English. You know I hate that jibberjabber. Have they found anything yet?”

“A solid gold head—”

Solid gold
. Just the words flushed Arnauld with fever. But it was Avery's find, not his. His helplessness gnawed at Arnauld without relent.

“—and many silver coins, an astrolo . . .” The speaker struggled. “Astro—”

“Astrolabe, you idiot.” Arnauld took a deep breath. He had nothing but contempt for this element, but having been stopped at the legal level, the lower road was the only alternative left. “But did they find the treasure?”

“They are very close,
el lunes
. . . Monday, perhaps.”

“You are sure it's there then, in the lagoon.” Even beyond his reach, the lure of gold could seize his breath. Only those who knew it could understand. It made a civilized man do things he wouldn't think of doing under other circumstances.

“
Sí, de seguridad
. Of that, that dog of a
capitán
is very certain . . . with the same certainty that he is angry because he no have the
gasolina
until the week next.”

At least that one bribe worked. A fuel company scheduler with eight children could easily be persuaded to delay a delivery for a day or so. It was just an inconvenience, but it afforded Arnauld some satisfaction.

“So he celebrates with the pretty
señorita
at the festival on this night. There is singing and—”

Arnauld cut the man off. “I don't give a flying fig what Avery is doing away from the site. Will tomorrow give you enough time to do what you need to?”

“Already it is done,
Señor
Arnauld.”

Excellent. If he wasn't invited to the party, there wouldn't be one. Which is why he'd found Raul Goya. Word among the hoodlums along the waterfront was that nothing was beneath Raul, especially when it came to Gabe Avery.

“Naturally, you will be well rewarded,
Señor
Goya.” At the prolonged silence, Arnauld tapped on the phone receiver. “Goya, are you there?”

“I am here.”

The change in the man's voice sent a shiver creeping up Arnauld's spine. It was as though someone had used a voice distorter . . . set on evil. Arnauld licked his lips, his tongue suddenly dry. “I said you'd be well rewarded . . . and should we eventually get the gold, you will have a considerable share.”

“This is
my
pleasure,
señor
, of that I assure you. I have been waiting much time for to see Gabriel again. Go back to your party. We are finished.”

Unaccustomed to such a shift in authority, Arnauld attempted to recoup it. “No one is to get hurt. Remember that. I've only hired you to stop the mission . . . make them go bust. Is that clear?”

A click sounded in Arnauld's ear in response. He held on to the phone, listening, second thoughts stampeding through his mind. “Goya?”

Still nothing . . . then a dial tone. Arnauld placed the receiver on the handset and wiped his clammy hands on his silk trousers. What had he done? He stared at the phone as if it could tell him. When it didn't, he turned and walked away. He hadn't done anything, he told himself. If anything bad happened, it all went back to Avery and Madison. They'd made the decision, not him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“Well! Good morning, sunshine . . . or maybe I should say good afternoon,” Ann exclaimed the following day.

At least it looked like Ann through Jeanne's sleep-fogged eyes. And it should be Sunday. The time between leaving the fiesta and awakening at that moment was a blur of freezing chills and smothering sweats, interspersed by doses of medicines, blindly taken, and dreams, incredible dreams.

“You've had quite a night,” Ann told her, coming into focus as she leaned over the cot and felt Jeanne's forehead. “Damp, but cool as a cucumber, just the way I like it.”

“My ankle,” Jeanne thought aloud. She remembered Gabe's examining her foot. It had been all she could do to keep from giggling until he pushed in on the sore spot. Scowling, she shifted the offending appendage out from under the covers. “I thought I'd put enough antibiotic cream on it.”

“Obviously you didn't,” her friend responded. “When did it start bothering you?”

Jeanne tried to think. “It didn't really. I had a little headache. It went away and then it returned with a vengeance. The rest is kind of fuzzy.”

Ann perched on the bottom of the cot. “Well, let me fill you in,
sweet
.”

Jeanne couldn't help but smile at the use of Gabe's endearment. She was the only one he called
sweet
.

“When the rest of us returned after the fireworks were over, neither you nor Gabe were anywhere to be found.” At the surprised lift of Jeanne's brow, Ann went on. “Until Manolo told us that Gabe had taken you to the beach to try to get your fever down. And sure enough, we found him holding you in the water.”

So it wasn't a dream. Jeanne had thought she was diving, except that she'd seemed to be floating on the surface . . . in Gabe's arms. And he'd cooed the most tender words, gently washing her face with the seawater as he pressed her close to his chest, close enough to hear his heartbeat. Jeanne knitted her brow, trying to work out the logistics. Had she been in his lap?

“Some gals have all the luck,” Ann snorted, drawing Jeanne back to the present. “When I get sick, I wind up with an MD a breath short of retirement sticking a tongue depressor halfway to my appendix. Tall-dark-and-handsome stayed with you until I had you neatly tucked into a freshly made cot.” She glanced at her watch. “Time for meds. An antibiotic the size of a horse pill and two nonaspirin pain relievers for your headache.”

Jeanne blinked. “How do you know I have a headache?” She did. It was dull, but it was there. She threw the covers back and sat up, sending the room into a slow spin that stopped when she blinked. Her spare sleepshirt clung to her body, damp with perspiration. “Oh, man, I feel like I've been run over by a truck.”

Ann poured out a glass of Gatorade and handed it to her with the medication.

“Look at the bright side”—she broke off, as though trying to think of something to complete the thought—“you got to play doctor with Gabe Avery.”

“You are wicked,” Jeanne told her. “Gabe was a perfect gentleman.” She finished the drink and put the glass on the bedside table. “And a good doctor.”

After rocking a few times to gather momentum, Jeanne lurched to her feet on the third try. Once again the room swayed, but stilled quickly. It surprised her that her foot wasn't sore, but then it hadn't been yesterday. Upon seeing her image in the mirror over the dresser, Jeanne groaned. “Aw, look at my new do. It's stiff and icky with salt.”

“Is that the voice of the ill I hear?” Gabe's voice sounded from outside the open window.

“Wait,” Jeanne called out, jumping back in the cot and covering up to her neck with one hand while trying to make some order of her hair. The jolt hurt her head, but vanity knows no pain.

“I've brought some soup from Lupita's kitchen,” he announced.

“Honey,” Ann whispered, “you look a hundred percent better than you did when he and I tucked you in last night.” With an annoying smirk, she passed Jeanne and opened the door. “Yes, Gabe,” she said in a louder voice, “Sleeping Beauty is awake and ready to take nourishment.”

“I'll probably be back to normal by tomorrow,” Jeanne told Gabe as he ducked under the low doorway to enter.

“As if she was
ever
normal,” her friend quipped.

Jeanne pulled a face. “With friends like you, who needs enemies.” “Actually,” Gabe began, “I'd have been here sooner, but I was held up at church this morning.”

“What?” Had she heard him right? Gabe at church?

An impudent smile claimed his lips. “I went there to speak to the reverend. I thought if anyone knew of a nearby doctor, he would.”

Jeanne's elation collapsed. “So did you find one?”

“None in Punta Azul. The closest one is in Akumal. So I called the bloke, and he said if the infection did not respond to the antibiotic that I should bring you there on Monday.”

“You mean you'd postpone diving to take me to Akumal?” she asked, watching the slight jar of her suggestion on Gabe's features.

But he answered without hesitation . . . and with a wry twist of those incredibly tender lips. “Fortunately, there's no need for that, since you've declared that by tomorrow you will be normal . . . or some semblance thereof,” he added wryly as he handed Ann the thermos of soup.

It was all coming back to her now. Good heavens, Gabe had kissed her several times. Not the kind that burned with passion— she'd been burning with fever enough for them both—but with the most heart-melting tenderness.

Gabe placed a hand on Jeanne's forehead. “Hmm, still a little warm.” He checked his watch. “Has she had her antibiotic?”

“Hey,” Ann replied with mock indignation. “I can play nurse just as good as you can play doctor, Captain.”

With a quirk of the lips, Gabe turned from Nurse Ann to Jeanne. “Would the patient be so kind as to stick out her foot, so I can have a look at it?”

Jeanne complied, humiliated that Gabe could look so good: freshly shaven, wet dark hair bound at his neck with a band . . . just squeaky clean and—okay, she'd admit it
—hot,
while she lay wilted beneath the covers. She focused on the bronze-rose nail polish on her toes, her fingers and toes about all that was undefiled by the fever.

“It looks much better than it did last night, but I suggest you soak it in salt water again.”

“Well, well, what have we going on in here . . . a party?” Remy Primston poked his head inside the open window. “Word has it that our good captain has somehow acquired a degree in medicine whilst we were not looking.”

Gabe's congenial and concerned demeanor vanished. “This, from the king of the jacks?” He held Jeanne's foot as though he thought Remy might try to take it from him.

Remy in the window, Gabe kneeling by her bedside, Ann looking over her . . . it was surreal.
Shades of the wacky professor, Uncle Henry,
Aunty Em
, Jeanne thought, suppressing a giggle. Maybe if she clicked her heels together hard enough, she'd return to Punta Azul and some semblance of normalcy.

No wait. Gabe and Remy at each other's throats? That
was
normal.

Remy handed Ann a grocery bag through the window. “As soon as I learned of your illness this morning, I drove to Akumal and bought you some Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup and saltines.”

“I already brought soup, homemade,” Gabe replied. “But that was thoughtful, Prim. Late, but thoughtful.”

“I'll have one for lunch and the other for—”

Remy interrupted Jeanne's attempt at mediation with king-size indignation. “If that woman who deems herself a
cook
made it, I shudder to think what contamination might be in . . .”

Jeanne closed her eyes and shut out the rest of Remy's reply. Mediation was beyond her today.

On Monday morning Jeanne was better, if not totally well. Fortunately, the antibiotics had kicked in; the swelling had gone down considerably, and she hadn't run a fever during the night. After breakfast, she made her way down to the dock to the
Fallen
Angel
. Next to it, a smaller boat was pulling up. Tex, wearing his traditional jeans, checked shirt, and studded vest, stood on the dock and caught the lines tossed to him by a giant of a Mexican, whose shaved head glistened in the early morning sunlight.

Jeanne's heart skipped in recognition. It was the same behemoth who'd nearly taken Gabe's head off with a table in the fight at the cantina.
This
was the extra help? Bar brawlers?