“Why did you want to see me?” Camille asked.
She kept her attention on Granger while he explained the terms of Barney’s will.
He reached the bit about Taff’s descendants, and for a moment her delicious, tempting mouth fell softly open, making Rogan’s blood stir as he wondered how it would feel to close it with his own.
“You may be able to make a claim,” Granger was telling her, “if you have proof of your relationship.”
She blinked at him.
“For instance, is his name on your birth certificate? Even though your parents weren’t married—”
Her chin tilted. “My parents were married.”
Rogan interjected. “Taff was married?”
She glanced at him with a hint of scorn. “He seems to have forgotten it, but he was once.”
Granger said, “I’m sorry, I misunderstood.” He fished in his pocket. “In that case you’d inherit half the boat and its contents—plus half of any profit still outstanding from voyages Taff made with our father. As executor I need your address and phone number.” He handed her a card. “This is my office address. You’ll need to produce your birth certificate to prove your right to your inheritance, and—”
“I don’t want it.” The rose-pink lips went tight.
“Why not?” Rogan demanded, making her look at him.
But not for long. Her gaze skittered away again to Granger. “Can’t I just waive any rights I have?”
Granger looked at her curiously. “It would be simpler to let things take their course. Then you can dispose of your portion as you like. The boat might be worth quite a lot.”
She opened her mouth again, then closed it, her eyes glazing in thought. “How much?”
“The market for classic wooden craft is apparently pretty lively. There are huge variations depending on a number of factors, but some fetch prices in six figures.”
“Have you seen her?” Rogan asked Camille.
“I looked there for your father yesterday, but no one was on board. Someone from a fishing boat came over and told me what had happened.”
Barney had been found by a delivery driver on Monday morning, and it was Tuesday before the police had identified him and tracked down Granger.
“Why did he want to see you?” Rogan asked.
Her face went stiff, expressionless. “He wanted to give me some things he thought I should have. I suppose he meant my father’s…effects. He said he had to talk to me but he couldn’t leave his boat for long. I was due for annual leave and it quite suited me to come north.”
“Would you recognize your father’s belongings?”
Camille shook her head. Dryly she said, “I’d have been hard put to recognize my father.”
Granger asked, “Have the police talked to you?”
“No, why? I can’t tell them anything.”
“You should check in with them all the same. If you were supposed to be meeting Dad they’ll want to see you.” Granger pulled out a notebook. “Your contact details?”
She recited them stonily, and stood up. “Thank you for explaining the situation.”
“We’ll be in touch,” Granger promised, rising too.
By the time Rogan had put down his coffee cup and started getting up she’d already left them. He sank back, watching her walk away, until he realized Granger was watching him with amused tolerance.
“Get your eyes back in your head, little bro’,” Granger told him, “and your butt out of that chair, unless you plan to stay here.” Eyeing him critically, he added, “Mind you, a second cup of coffee wouldn’t do you any harm.”
Rogan glared at him, hoisting himself from the chair. All the time they’d been talking Camille had scarcely glanced his way, her eyes pretty much fixed on his brother throughout. And Granger hadn’t even seemed to notice. Did the man have ice water instead of good red Broderick blood in his veins?
Not fair, of course. Last night he’d shown a cursory appreciation, at least, of Camille’s spectacular beauty. On the surface she was very similar to the women who occasionally, briefly, graced Granger’s life—classy, polished, composed. Like him. Only better-looking.
Inexplicably, when he followed his brother into the lobby Rogan’s heart settled somewhere near his midriff, as if he’d swallowed one of his lead diving weights.
His father had just died. It was natural to feel depressed. He ought to be feeling this way.
None of Granger’s beloved laws said he had to like it.
Chapter 3
As Rogan and Granger crossed the lobby they were waylaid by a bunch of men erupting from the private bar. “Boys!” a solidly built man flushed with beer and bonhomie hailed them. He hooked an arm about Rogan’s shoulder. “Bloody good do, this. Barney’d be proud.”
The others milled around, one in an oversize suit asking peevishly where the effin’ can was until his fellows shoved him in the right direction. Propelled back into the thick of the wake and obliged to drink yet another toast or three to Good Ol’ Barney, it was some time before the brothers extricated themselves.
“What now?” Rogan asked.
“We could check over the Sea-Rogue,” Granger suggested. “Pack up Dad’s clothes, make sure there are no perishables on board. And decide how the boat’s going to be looked after until we sort out the estate.”
“Estate? He doesn’t…didn’t…own anything but the boat, did he?”
“It’s a legal term,” Granger said patiently. “You’re probably right, but a standard clause in the will covers anything not specified, like bank accounts, bonds or other assets. He could owe money, or have some owed to him.”
“Didn’t he buy salvage rights to a wreck years ago?”
Granger laughed. “I don’t suppose it’s worth anything. The Maiden’s Prayer. She disappeared in a storm in the 1850s with no survivors, carrying passengers returning from the Australian gold fields to America with the loot from their endeavors. There were chests full of gold on board—nuggets or bars—and several thousand dollars’ worth of gold and silver coins. Not counting what passengers had in their luggage.”
“A fortune,” Rogan commented.
“If it were ever found,” Granger said dryly. “The insurance company was happy to part with the salvage rights in return for a modest cut, particularly with the new laws about historic wrecks making recovery more difficult and expensive. Dad asked me to make sure his rights were solid and there’d be no counterclaims. The papers were with his will. But it’ll take more than a maiden’s prayer to pinpoint where she went down, with practically the whole of the Pacific to choose from.”
Camille had returned to her room feeling rather dazed at the idea she’d inherited a share in a boat worth thousands of dollars. And through the generosity of a man she didn’t remember even meeting.
Although he hadn’t really left it to her, but to her father. She wondered if Barney had discussed the bequest with his mate. And if so, whose idea it had been to provide for Thomas McIndoe’s family in the event of his death.
Staring