What plans? her mind scoffed. A lonely dinner in a discreet corner of the dining room or a snack in her own room, and a boring evening making research notes, talking to her tape recorder?
“Maybe some other time?” Rogan suggested.
“Maybe.” She gave him a thin smile and went along the passageway to her room, telling herself not to hurry, and not to look back to check if her sense that he was watching her was right or wrong. But when she heard a door close as she unlocked hers she couldn’t resist a covert glance.
The passage was empty.
“James,” she said into the phone a few minutes later, “thank you so much! It’s a gem.” She placed the little volume on the night table, running her fingers over the gold-embossed pattern on the leather cover and the gilt title on the spine: Journals and Letters of a Lady in New Zealand, 1835-7. “I’ll be sure to return it before I leave.”
“No need,” James Drummond’s light, creamy voice assured her. “It’s a gift. How was the funeral?”
“Oh, that’s very generous. Um…” she said, “…crowded. Mr. Broderick had a lot of friends.”
“And did any relatives turn up?”
Chatting over dinner, she’d told him she didn’t know if Barney had relatives. “Two sons.” One who makes my hormones go crazy. And one who should but doesn’t. “They were in the dining room last night but I didn’t know who they were.”
“Those two big guys?” he asked curiously. “Have you spoken to them?”
“Yes, we had quite a talk.”
“Really? What about?”
“Apparently I inherit part of the boat—the Sea-Rogue—through my father.”
“How…interesting.” He sounded genuinely intrigued. “Anything else?”
“Well, what’s inside it, and possibly some outstanding payments from my father’s last voyage.”
“I’d love to hear all about it. Have dinner with me at my house?”
“Tonight?”
“Do you like fish? One thing about this town, you can always get good fish. And my housekeeper is a very good cook. Or,” he added teasingly, “do you have a date with the brothers Broderick?”
She’d turned them down, but felt guilty about claiming other plans. Having dinner with James would validate that excuse. And he’d be an antidote to Rogan Broderick.
Cultured, intelligent, charming, with interests similar to hers and an obviously sympathetic nature, James was a total contrast to the bold-eyed pirate who was occupying far too much of her mind.
“No,” she said, “I don’t have a date.”
“I’ll pick you up at seven,” he said, even though she told him she had her own car. “No need to dress up for me.”
A quick sortie through her bag and she settled on light-blue cotton pants and a loose knitted top. James arrived on time, and whisked her away in a low-slung, polished white car that looked as though it had just driven off the advertising pages of a glossy magazine. It covered the winding uphill road to his house in barely five minutes.
Designed in colonial style but incorporating modern touches, the building soared three stories high, with broad verandas and big windows to take in the spectacular views.
Inside, real crystal chandeliers glowed on varnished timber walls and highlighted a breathtaking collection of antique furniture.
“Antiques are my business,” James replied smilingly to Camille’s admiring comment. “Wholesale prices.”
“Your shop is very well stocked for such a small town.”
“Overseas visitors find prices here reasonable, and quite a few yachties get stuff shipped home. It’s been worthwhile keeping the original store open for that reason, and for the retirees and newcomers who are building. But I have another store in Auckland, and a nice little apartment, so I divide my time between here and the city. Summers are pleasant in the north, and I do some entertaining here.”
Obviously the antique business was a lucrative one, or perhaps he’d inherited money as well.
She followed with a glass of wine in her hand while he showed her stunning examples of craftsmanship in furniture and fine porcelain, and equally impressive works of art, and a small collection of historic coins and thimbles in a glass-fronted cupboard. Surrounded by mementos of days past, she was enchanted.
Dinner was served by a gaunt middle-aged woman on a sheltered corner of the wide veranda, and when James brought up the subject, Camille felt sufficiently relaxed to talk about her unexpected inheritance.
His light eyes bright and interested, he said, “I’d like to see your boat.”
“It’s not mine. Well, only a part of it is. At the moment no one’s allowed on board. It was burgled and police detectives from Whangarei may want to look at it.”
James looked surprised and concerned. “Were there valuables on board that would have interested a burglar?”
“Rogan and Granger didn’t seem to think so.”
He leaned over to pour her some more wine, and glanced up at her face. “They should know. If so, they might be keeping it to themselves.” He sat back and lifted his glass, regarding her steadily over it. “You should keep an eye on your inheritance.”
“What do you mean?”
“Would you know if they’d removed anything?”
“I suppose not, but I don’t think—”
James said, “You’d be surprised what I see in my business. Families stripping furniture and valuables from a house before the body of their loved one is cold. How do the Brodericks feel about their father leaving a share to you?”
“They seem okay with it. One of them’s a bit reserved, but I think that’s just his nature.”
“Still, it pays not to be too trusting.” He raised his glass again. “Here’s to your good fortune.”
James deposited her at the hotel well before midnight. If she’d given him the right signals he might have invited her to stay the night, but when she said she must leave he didn’t demur beyond a polite expression of regret.
Although she had talked more than she’d meant to about the Sea-Rogue and the Brodericks, at least for part of the time she had managed to push Rogan Broderick and her astonishing reactions to him into the back of her mind.
When she went down for breakfast the following morning the brothers weren’t about, and afterward she avoided the wharves, instead making a pilgrimage uphill to the tiny Settlers and Seafarers Museum run by a dedicated group of volunteers in an old missionary church. The elderly woman taking money from a desultory trickle of visitors was happy to impart her historical knowledge of the town and its environs, and Camille spent a couple of hours there.
After detouring to take a closer look at the widow’s walk she’d seen from the hotel, and visit some obscure historic sites the museum volunteer had recommended, she returned to the hotel.
It was lunchtime. A bus occupied part of the hotel parking area, and the dining room was full of tourists chattering loudly in a dozen different languages.
Camille retreated, bought herself a sandwich and a paper cup of fresh orange juice, and found a park seat under a tree on the waterfront. She was on the second half of the sandwich when she became aware of someone standing before her, and looked up into Rogan’s brilliant eyes.
“Hi,”