She had come a long way to find him, and despite her weariness, she barely paused long enough to check into a decent hotel before embarking upon her search. Inexperienced in practical matters, she considered how she would deal with this if it were a research problem. He had a boat, she knew that much. After some pondering, she decided the marina would be the best place to begin looking for him.
As she walked down to the docks, past the rickety awnings of a fishermen's café, past the scents of frying olive oil and evaporating Cuban coffee, past run-down bars where tough-looking men downed pitchers of beer and laughed loudly at undoubtedly risqué jokes, she fought the jangling of her nerves and the roiling protest of her stomach. She was responsible for this mess, so she would clean it up, even if she'd much rather be safely ensconced in some library with her schoolbooks right now.
When she reached Key West Bight, where the shrimping fleet bobbed in the water, she stopped at the office of the port authority. Two young, bearded men smiled congenially at her, but they were so busy it took her ten minutes to get their full attention. Of course, she wasn't very good at getting people's attention, which was probably part of the problem. Her sister Catherine would have had both men jumping to do her bidding in no time, just by lifting her chin or flicking her wrist.
"I'm Clowance Masterson." She tried to work a little worldliness into her voice. "I'm looking for Michael O'Grady."
The thin one frowned in puzzlement for a brief moment, then said, "Oh! You mean Shady."
"Shady?"
"Yeah, Shady O'Grady."
"Shady O'Grady?" she repeated dismally. The man was probably even more of a degenerate than she had feared. She cleared her throat. "Do you know him?"
The question produced a knowing grin and a few hearty chuckles from her audience of two. "Sure, everybody knows Shady."
"I see." She licked her lips. "Do you know where he is?"
The beefy one nodded and took her elbow. "Slip thirty-one." He pointed in the general direction of a few dozen boats and said, "See it?"
"I, uh--"
"He's there." The man chuckled again. "Could be there for quite a while, too."
"Could you please--" She turned back to him, only to find he had already slipped away from her. A warm breeze drifted off the Gulf of Mexico, carrying the scent of the sea to her nostrils as it lifted her cotton skirt and teased her hair from its clip.
As she walked across the wooden planks leading to Shady O'Grady and his boat, she realized that she hadn't expected to find him so quickly. Now that confrontation was imminent, she acknowledged that she hadn't really formed a plan of action. With a bachelor's degree and two master's degrees to her credit, she had spent most of her life pursuing her studies and, at the age of twenty-six, had little practical experience to draw from in a situation like this. She prayed for inspiration, for a flash of genius, for a touch of the masterful authority that the rest of her family members exuded with such ease.
She made her way past a few shrimping boats, several well-appointed yachts, and a beautiful sailboat before reaching the slip where Shady O'Grady's boat was moored. When she saw it, weathered and weary-looking, she stopped and stared at the man on deck. Her nerves, which had been tormenting her since she had made the decision to come here on her own, nearly overwhelmed her now with warning signals. She had only to look at this rugged adventurer to know she was hopelessly out of her depth.
This was clearly Michael O'Grady, the man whose computer-reproduced photograph, taken some five years earlier when he'd been arrested, lay in a file folder in her hotel room.
Now that she saw him in person, she was alarmed at her impetuosity in coming here alone. She had expected O'Grady to look disreputable, but not quite so dangerous. Or, she thought despondently, so attractive. Good-looking men usually rendered her distracted and clumsy.
He wore only cutoffs and a dark, bedraggled tank top. He didn't see her, since he was crouching on deck and concentrating fiercely on scattered pieces of machinery--parts of his boat's engine, apparently. He was powerfully built, with strong, broad shoulders, a thickly muscled chest, a hard, flat, belly, and long, whipcord muscles that rippled through his arms and legs with every movement. His skin was tanned to a rich, healthy, golden hue, and his longish, wavy blond hair had been bleached to a pale golden color by the sun. The overall effect was that of a wild, predatory animal whose body and senses had been honed in a wilderness that permitted only the fittest to survive.
Clowance realized that she'd forgotten to ask the port authorities if Shady O'Grady had an old man with him. Now that she saw this ruthless rogue in the flesh, she felt cowardly impulses take control of her muscles, urging her to run before he felt the heat of her stare and locked eyes with her, pinning her to the spot with his gaze while he moved in for the kill.
Slowly, as if fearing he would scent her like a wolf at any moment, she started to back away. She wondered what he muttered as he wrestled with an engine part, his face turned away from her, his sun-drenched hair gleaming in the late-afternoon sun while a Jimmy Buffett tape played softly in the background. She could always watch the boat from a safe distance, she reasoned as she retreated, and wait for the old man to appear. Then she would--
"Damn you, you harlot!" he snarled suddenly, his angry voice assaulting her ears.
Clowance gasped involuntarily and tripped on her heel. Shady O'Grady spun around and shot to his feet in one smooth, agile motion. Their eyes met over the railing of his boat. His were a shimmering blue that resembled the sea--fathlomless, dangerous, churning, full of sudden changes and fatal surprises. His jaw was long, his cheekbones high, his nose straight, his entire visage recklessly handsome. As Clowance stared in stunned silence, his gaze drifted down to her mouth, and she forgot to breathe, wondering what inspired that smoky speculative look that stole across his face. Dragging her gaze away from his, Clowance lowered her head and listened to the pounding of her heart.
"Sorry, miss, I was just, uh..." His voice wasn't unusually deep, but it was rich and resonant, and it made her senses tingle in anticipation of what he would say next. After an awkward silence, she glanced up uncertainly. He was still looking at her, a faint smile curving his lips. A moment later, it broadened into a slow, sheepish grin. He leaned over the rail and confided, "I spend so much time alone with her, I've started talking to her,"
Clowance frowned. "Her who?" Her voice sounded thin and breathless in her ears.
"My boat." He gestured to the hull, and Clowance finally noticed the boat's named emblazoned there in proud red letters: Scarlet Harlot.
"Oh." She blinked. Rather than gaze into those hypnotic blue eyes again, she looked around her.
Shady studied the young woman before him for another moment. She stood out on the docks. Her skin was so fair that he figured she must have only just arrived in Key West. She was tall and slender, with light brown, long, flyaway hair that was pulled back into a haphazard ponytail. He found the effect kind of sexy for some reason. She wore big glasses perched on her delicate nose, and they made her look very intellectual. The wide, gray eyes behind those glasses were strangely vulnerable and wondrous, like the eyes of a young child. She was pretty in a quiet way, and he wondered why she didn't show it off more. She wore no makeup, and her clothes--a long cotton skirt, a baggy Indian blouse, and an embroidered vest--draped across her body in a way designed to conceal rather than reveal her physical appeal. The breeze off the Gulf momentarily plastered her skirt to her thighs, giving Shady a brief hint of her charms.
Her fair skin flushed slightly as he stared, and she bit her lip nervously. The gesture stirred some vague protective instinct inside him, making him feel oddly responsible for this total stranger who stood rooted to the dock like a mangrove tree. He asked, "Are you looking for someone?" For some reason, that question made her clutch her straw purse in a white-knuckled grip and do a little side step.
"Yes, I'm looking for you," she said in a rush.
Shady tensed. He hated it when people looked for him. However, since she had found him, they might as well get right to the bad news. "How much?"
The question seemed to startle her. "What?"
"Come on, give it to me straight. Who wants money from me, and how much do they want?"
"I ... I don't know." She thought for a moment, then asked, "Do a lot of people want money from you?"
He decided to ignore that. "You're not here to collect money?" When she shook her head, he asked mildly, "Then what are you trying to sell?"
"Nothing. I don't sell anything. Well ... the family sells baking products, of course, but I personally don't..." She spread her hands helplessly.
He considered this. "All right, you're not buying and you're not selling. So who are you?"
"I'm Clowance Masterson." She studied him assessingly, then stepped closer to the Harlot, extending her right hand politely.
He smiled after a moment, surprised by her drawing-room manner, and leaned over to take her hand. "Shady O'Grady."
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