grip tightened. “You okay?”
His breath was warm on her temple. She caught a whiff of his male scent, the salty tang of fresh sweat and the less sharp aroma of musk, earthy but strangely not repellent. Was there nothing about this man that was unattractive?
“Yes,” she said. “Thanks.”
They walked on, but now she was tongue-tied, intensely conscious of the hand that still circled her arm, the masculine bulk of Rogan’s body, the exact height of her head where it came to just above his shoulder.
She heard the intermittent slap of water on the seawall, its softer lapping about the anchored boats, the rhythmic splash and creak of someone rowing a dinghy back to their yacht. Music and the chatter of patrons at an outdoor café clearly carried on the night air. Nearby a bird chirruped sleepily, perhaps confused by the streetlights into thinking it was still day.
They reached the hotel and Rogan sighed, almost as if he were relieved. He released her arm and asked, “Would you like a drink? Brandy, maybe?”
Camille shook her head. “I need a shower.” She looked down at her stained shirt and shorts. “And then I’ll go to bed. I can get that box from your brother in the morning?”
“Sure. I’ll see you to your room.”
“You needn’t, really.”
But he steered her into the ancient elevator, and when it stopped he followed her out and padded down the corridor at her side, waiting while she unlocked the door.
“Thank you.” She turned to him. “I don’t know why he kept those things. They can’t have meant much to him.”
Rogan looked at her gravely. “They must have meant something.”
Camille lifted her chin, her skin cold. Stupid sentimentalism would get her nowhere. She was grown up now, in no need of a father. Or any other man. “I’ll go through them tomorrow,” she said, “and see if there’s anything that can’t be burned.”
Chapter 4
A line appeared between Rogan’s dark brows. When Camille made to go into the room he caught her arm again, searching her face as she instinctively raised it in inquiry.
Then he bent toward her, and for a split second she knew she could refuse his kiss but didn’t want to.
His mouth was gentle, questing but not demanding. He waited for her to reciprocate, and when her lips parted a fraction his arms slid about her, holding her close within them.
It was the nicest kiss Camille had ever had. But when he would have deepened it danger signals flared in her mind, and she made a little move of negation, pushing against his arms.
Reluctantly he let her go, and she looked up into a blaze of turquoise, returning his questioning, decidedly sexy smile with a small, shaky one of her own. “Good night, Rogan,” she said, trying to sound firm and in control, but afraid she only sounded breathless.
As she opened the door wider he kissed her temple, barely touching her skin with his lips, and she had to hold the knob in a tight grip to prevent herself turning back into his arms. She hadn’t been so affected by a man since…since she couldn’t remember.
“Good night,” he said, his gaze following her like a laser. He was still standing there with his hands thrust into the pockets of his stained and wrinkled khakis when she quietly closed the door.
Rogan had a quick shower, changed his clothes and, when Granger returned, pounced on his brother in the passageway.
“Does Camille want this tonight?” Granger asked, indicating the carton in his arms.
Rogan shook his head. “She said it’ll keep until tomorrow.” He followed as Granger entered his own room. “She also said she was going to burn most of it. At least, I think that’s what she meant.”
Granger shrugged. “Her prerogative.”
“Yeah, but…” Standing by as Granger slid the box onto a small table, Rogan thrust his hands into his pockets, broodingly regarding the carton.
“What?” Granger queried.
“Suppose there is something in that story about Dad and Taff finding their treasure ship?”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?” Granger scoffed.
“I guess not…” Rogan’s gaze returned to the box on the table. “I wonder if Taff made a will.”
“I doubt it,” Granger answered. “Anyway, that’s not our worry.”
Camille woke early while the water in the harbor was sheened with cool silvery light, the shallow wavelets on the beach making scarcely a sound.
She went for a short walk before breakfast, turning away from the wharves and heading in the other direction until the path petered out at a small park and the beach ended in a tumble of craggy rocks under a headland. For a while she watched the waves foaming against the rocks, and when the sun began to climb and shimmer on the water she started back to the town.
The seamen’s chapel was open and she went inside, finding it deserted. She sat in one of the pews, remembering Barney’s funeral, and wondering what kind of service, if any, her own father had been accorded.
Barney would have told her, but he’d never had the chance. She should feel sad. Instead she felt empty. How could she mourn a father she scarcely remembered?
When she returned to the hotel the staff was serving breakfast in the dining room and the Broderick brothers were seated at a table, Granger consulting the menu while Rogan gave the teenage waitress the benefit of his stunning eyes and rogue’s grin as he ordered bacon, sausages and eggs with hash browns.
As the waitress turned to his brother Rogan saw Camille in the doorway. Immediately he was on his feet and crossing the room. “Join us,” he said, reaching out a hand to take her arm. “It’s a bit better than hamburgers on the deck.”
He left her no choice unless she was to be unnecessarily rude. She took the chair he pulled out for her, and after saying good morning to Granger ordered orange juice, toast and marmalade.
Rogan said, “That’s not breakfast!”
“Maybe not for you. It’s plenty for me,” she retorted.
Granger said, “How are you feeling this morning?”
Camille turned to him with relief. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”
He gave her one of his restrained smiles. “I’d concur with that.”
Rogan shot him a look that was almost suspicious, and said rather loudly, “Granger’s got that box of your father’s things for you. When would you like to look through it?”
She glanced at him and then back at Granger. “Anytime it suits you.”
“Before I check out I’ll bring it along to your room—or send Rogan.” His fleeting glance at his brother held a hint of amusement.
“You’re leaving today?” Camille asked. Did that mean Rogan too?
“I’ve done all I can here, for now anyway.” He looked at Rogan. “You’ll take care of the ashes, then?”
Rogan nodded and Granger turned to Camille. “Can you get a copy of your birth certificate sent to my office? And of your parents’ marriage certificate too?”
The waitress brought their breakfasts. By the time Camille finished, Rogan had nearly demolished his meal and Granger was well on the way to disposing of his bacon, eggs and tomatoes.
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