Alias Smith And Jones. Kylie Brant

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СКАЧАТЬ The person’s name who’d scheduled the trip had appeared, along with the number of days, nature of the trip and payment. However, there had been no entry dated around the time Sam would have crossed to Laconos. Its absence would suggest that Jones and her brother had never hooked up at all. Except that another notebook had listings for dates of fuelings, the gallons and prices. And Jones had fueled up the ship more than once after the last documented charter.

      Ana stretched out on the lounger watching the gulls wheel overhead, and wondered what the discrepancy meant. Did the man take the ship out himself when he didn’t have paying clients? It would seem reasonable to expect that he might. She found it equally reasonable to think that maybe he hadn’t logged Sam’s trip because her brother had asked him not to. Or that he knew the secretive nature of Sam’s job and realized it was best to leave no traces.

      It was a long shot, she admitted silently, but Sterling knew that her brother had docked at Laconos, and that he’d arrived by ship. And although she had no more proof than before that she was retracing her brother’s steps, she remained convinced. She needed to start planning how to gather information once she hit the island. Sterling had been very definite about the parameters of her assignment. She, of course, had some ideas of her own.

      A shadow fell across her chair. “You feel better now?”

      Opening her eyes, Ana saw a blinding smile in a seamed, weathered face. The man standing above her was no more than her height, and she’d guess that he wasn’t much heavier. His friendly expression was a welcome contrast to the scowl Jones usually graced her with, and the lemonade he was holding was tantalizing.

      She tipped her glasses down. “Yes, I’m feeling fine.”

      The frosty glass was thrust into her hand. “For you. Good to drink liquids in sun.”

      Ana took the lemonade and indicated a seat beside her. This, then, was Pappy, the crew member Jones had mentioned. He was obviously a native islander, and it was equally obvious that he had a much sunnier temperament than his boss. “Won’t you join me?”

      “Cap’n say you go to beaches.” Pappy sat on the edge of a lounger next to her. “Lots beaches near, and Cap’n know them all. You be pleased.”

      To save herself from answering, she raised the glass to her lips. Right now she’d be most pleased if the captain happened to fall overboard, preferably in shark-infested waters, but she hated to douse this man’s enthusiasm. “Have you worked for Jones a long time?”

      At the man’s exuberant nod, she felt a measure of pity for him, followed by a nebulous idea. “So I guess you know him pretty well.”

      Pappy bobbed his head again. “Cap’n good man. Keep his ship in good shape. And—” his expression went sly “—ladies like Cap’n. Cap’n like ladies.”

      Some ladies. Analiese wanted to correct him. Women whose obvious charms were matched by looser morals. In that, he was much like most of the men in her acquaintance. It was plain to see where Pappy believed her interest lay. And she was willing to let him believe just that if it meant she could get him to divulge a bit more information about the mysterious Jones.

      “He said you did the cooking and helped navigate. Do you join him on all his trips?”

      The man squinted against the rays of sun. “All trips. Only small crew for some, but Cap’n, he need to eat.”

      “Have you been to Laconos lately?” she asked daringly. “Jones seemed worried about my safety there.”

      “Pretty miss be safe on beach. Cap’n make sure.” He shrugged. “No one want to drive away tourists. Bad for island.”

      Which still didn’t answer her question. She phrased the next one more pointedly. “When was last time you were on Laconos?”

      Pappy rubbed his jaw. “Me? Last month, mebbe. Most people, they like fishing. Many other beaches. Laconos not beautiful like Bontilla.”

      Which meant, Analiese thought, her stomach knotting, that if Jones had taken Sam to the island, the trip had been kept secret even from his trusted crew member. She manufactured a smile and drank again. Her throat had gone suddenly dry. “A ship this large must take a lot of fuel. How many gallons does it hold? Enough to get us to Laconos, I hope.”

      The man chortled. “Two big tanks, pretty miss, plenty to go to Laconos. Each tank hold two hundred gallon. Only take three hundred to get to island.” He rose, smiling widely. “I go make lunch. You need food, so you not get sick again.”

      She gave a vague smile in response, and he walked away, his stride adjusting automatically to the pitch of the ship. Reaching down, she opened her purse and took out the notebook she kept there. She’d taken some notes while thumbing through Jones’s logs, using a coded shorthand that no one but her would be able to make sense of. Checking them, she determined that Jones had refueled the ship three times in two days well after his last documented charter. Which would have readied the ship for the trip to Laconos, refueled it for the trip back, and then again to prepare it for the next charter. She added and subtracted gallons for several minutes, before she sat back, satisfied. Given the fueling history, this ship could have been the one to carry her brother to the island.

      It was thin, she acknowledged, amidst a growing sense of certainty. But it was something. And since she’d discovered that Pappy hadn’t accompanied them, the man would have no other information for her. Which meant, of course, that any other details would have to be pried from Jones himself.

      Despite the heat, her skin prickled. The thought of having to play along with his egotistical belief that she was hot for him, in return for stray tidbits she might glean, was about as appealing as having surgery without benefit of anesthesia. But finding Sam was worth the sacrifice, wasn’t it?

      Jones would be less likely to be suspicious of her questions if he thought she was using conversation as an excuse to get close to him. She scowled at the thought, but the truth of it couldn’t be denied. He’d handed her a perfect opportunity, and she’d be a fool not to use it.

      She could always, Ana thought, consolingly, consider the exercise as practice. God knew she needed the experience at flirting, and since Jones had said in so many words that he was immune, he was a safe enough target. And besides learning information about her brother’s disappearance, maybe before this trip was over, she’d have Jones eating his rejection of her, word by demoralizing word.

      She smiled, stretched more languorously on the deck chair and raised her face to the sun. The idea was one to relish.

      “Brought you something to eat,” Ana said, strolling toward Jones with a tray Pappy had prepared.

      His gaze flicked from her face to the food, then back again. “Is it poisoned?”

      “Do you trust your cook so little?”

      “It’s not Pappy I don’t trust.” His meaning wasn’t lost on her, but she chose to ignore it. Although earlier in the day she would have given a great deal to see him choke on a chicken bone, she was beyond those feelings now. Almost.

      “You were right, Pappy is a great cook. I already ate and it was wonderful.” And when she’d finished, she’d offered to relieve the crew member of the plate he’d prepared for Jones, uncaring of the conclusion Pappy had drawn. She was eager for an excuse to approach the other man. Just not for the reason that Pappy and Jones seemed to think.

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