But her diving and climbing skills were part of why Julien had been so insistent that she come to Scotland. They needed someone experienced, and according to Julien, the fact that she “looked like a model from that swimsuit magazine” made it even better. The cameras would love her. Annie didn’t like being reduced to a “pretty face,” but she was sure Julien hadn’t meant it the way it sounded. Subtlety could be lost in translation.
“Point taken,” she said with a self-deprecating smile. “Now, where is this boat?”
A moment later they were standing in front of the small wooden hut about the size of a phone booth. On the wall beside it was a chalk information board with ISLANDCHARTERSprinted across the top and hourly rental information down below with various dive and snorkeling packages.
Docked in front of the hut was one of the most dilapidated-looking boats not resting on its side on a beach that she’d ever seen. With its chipped red hull and white wheelhouse, the MVHebrideanappeared to be an old tugboat that had beenconverted for dive use. “Old” being the operative word. She’d guess vintage early ’60s.
She turned to Julien. “I hope that isn’t it. If it is, Jean Paul is being robbed. Two thousand pounds for a couple days in that pile of junk?”
She caught a movement out of the side of her eye and spun back toward the boat. A man stood from where he’d been kneeling over the port side of the boat on what appeared to be a metal diver lift.
One glance was enough to figure out what he’d been doing. Her mouth pressed into a tight line as she took in the greasy piece of machinery, still dripping with oil, in his hands. He’d obviously been cleaning it in the water.
She reacted viscerally, prickling with anger that she knew was out of proportion to the offense. But anyone who’d seen what she’d seen over the past eight years would understand. Oil didn’t wash away. Eventually it ended up on the bottom of the sea, where its decomposition rate slowed to almost nothing. And cumulatively it killed and destroyed.
She didn’t understand how anyone could look at something as beautiful as this water and treat it like a dump. Even before the spill, she’d been conscious of it. She’d never forget the visit to Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco when she was eight, and she’d seen the seal with a plastic six-pack holder around its neck, cutting into it like a knife. The raw wound, and the knowledge that the seal would never be able to get it off, had made her burst into tears.
It had broken her heart. It still did. She cared too much, her mother said. Maybe. But Annie didn’t understand how other people didn’t. How they could be so oblivious or ignorant like—
She stopped—and jolted—finally looking up into the familiar steely gaze.
It was him. The rude man from the night before, looking even more unfriendly and imposing in the daylight. He wore the same faded blue cap, but the bulky sweatshirt and vest had been replaced by a grease-stained once white T-shirt with ISLANDCHARTERSsilkscreened in red across the chest. It wasloose fitting, but unlike last night’s clothing, it didn’t hide the extremely muscular chest and arms.
The guy was built, all right. Like a longshoreman.
Why she was noticing, she had no idea. Big guys weren’t normally her thing. Not since high school, at least. A disastrous date with the captain of the football team had cured her of the primitive appeal. Since then, she’d stuck to intellectuals like Julien, who spent more time in the library developing their brains than in the gym developing their muscles. At five-eleven and a hundred and seventy-five pounds, Julien was tall, but not too tall, and lean without being overly defined. This guy, on the other hand, was at least a few inches over six feet and definitely defined, although “overly” wasn’t exactly the word coming to mind.
It took her a moment to realize that she was staring. Good Lord, what was wrong with her?
“Was there something you wanted?” He spoke to her, ignoring Julien.
From the sharpness of his tone, she wondered if he’d picked up on her anger and the reason for it. From his word choice, however, he’d definitely picked up on her staring, and she blushed.
“Yes, I—” She stopped, suddenly realizing something. He didn’t have an accent. She frowned. “You’re American.”
“Canadian,” he corrected, as if it wasn’t any of her business—which she supposed it wasn’t.
But there went the excuse she’d given him for his rudeness. It wasn’t because he was a local; it was just him.
Jeez. Weren’t Canadians known around the world for being nice? Clearly he hadn’t gotten the message.
Julien edged in front of her, apparently taking umbrage at the other man’s tone and attitude. He wore an expression she’d never seen before. It brought to mind a medieval nobleman haughtily looking down his nose at one of his serfs as if he were the lowly piss boy. “We’ve come to pay for the charter arranged by our friend. For Anne Henderson.”
Jean Paul had put the charter under her name? Annie supposed it was easier, as she would be the one ensuring that thetanks and diving equipment were up to snuff. Oddly, despite the disreputable appearance of the boat and its captain—if that was who he was—she suspected they were. This guy looked as if he didn’t mess around and knew what he was doing. Capable hard-ass came to mind. Grim, capable hard-ass. He looked like a man who hadn’t had anything to smile about in a long time. She couldn’t tell whether it was sadness or general grumpiness. Maybe a little of both.
The captain gave no indication that he’d noticed Julien’s condescension, but something told her little got by those steely eyes.
“Must be some mistake,” he said, as if he couldn’t care less. Customer service obviously wasn’t his strong point. “The boat isn’t available.”
The lie was so obvious Annie almost laughed. “Yes,” she said, her gaze sweeping the empty dock. “I can see how busy you are.”
His eyes turned slowly back to hers. There might have been the barest flicker of surprise at her response. Clearly he wasn’t used to people challenging him.
“It probably isn’t what you are looking for anyway,” he said with a long knowing stare.
He’d obviously heard her pile-of-junk comment. A comment that on closer inspection might have been premature. The deck and what she could see of the boat were spotless. The dive equipment and tanks arranged neatly on racks in the center of the deck appeared to be in good condition and looked after by someone who knew what they were doing. There was precision in the way the tanks were ordered and the masks and regulators placed. Even the fins were stuck upright in tight pairs, presumably by size. She’d been on too many boats where everything was just thrown in different plastic bins.
She studied the man before her with new, more appraising eyes.
