Blue Moon (10 page)

“What do you think the problem is?” Jeanne asked at Stuart's elbow.

The worst of it was, Gabe felt perfectly miserable about it. He could almost see the disappointment in those eyes that were as guileless as a newborn's. Jeanne was smart and classy, but, as his father always said of Gabe's mom, she wore her heart on her sleeve. And in Gabe's zeal to protect her from a shark like Marshall Arnauld, he'd become one.

“Could be hardware or software.” Shoving his glasses up on his nose, Stuart began tapping at the keys, fingers blurring over them. “I'll recheck the config.”

Jeanne patted Stuart's shoulder. “Well, I'm sure that if anyone can work this out,
you
will.”

His hunched shoulders fell in relief, his expression bordering idolization. Without even trying, she could make a man want to dance for her with that fascinating, childlike innocence and enthusiasm. Gabe knew exactly how the young student felt.

From the moment that Gabe had thrown himself over the chart outside the cantina only to discover that Jeanne had beat him to the punch, he'd recognized in Jeanne a kindred spirit, someone he could work comfortably beside, someone who might—just might—bring a breath of inspiration back to his just-getting-by life. He'd seen a bit of himself in her, the man he was before he'd become jaded by the sea's fickle sense of fair play and the calculated avoidance of it by men like Arnauld.

“I have complete faith in every one of my crew,” she said, leaning over Stuart's shoulder as he worked his magic on the keyboard.

After this morning, Gabe somehow doubted that he was included in that statement. More confounding, it bothered him enough to curdle the brief but warm connection he'd felt with the undergrad. Why couldn't women simply take a warning at face value? Was it some kind of gene passed down from Eden that determined they had to swallow the whole apple because the details hadn't been explained? Not that Gabe equated himself with the Almighty, but he did know more than Jeanne about this business and the assorted miscreants that frequented it.

The gall he'd doused with antacids the night before rose again with the recollection of Arnauld's treachery. Like a video replaying in his mind, Gabe saw the stampede of a news crew forcing him out of the way as he'd made his way through the courthouse with proof that he'd found a seventeenth-century galleon off the coast of Florida. When he'd arrived at his destination, Marshall Arnauld—holding a large gold coin above his head—was announcing to the cameras and reporters that he had just secured the rights to dive for one of the biggest finds off the Florida coast since Mel Fisher's
Atocha.

“What's the name of the ship?” one of the reporters had shouted.

Gabe's stomach clenched the same way as it had when Arnauld looked straight through the crowd at him, like a cat that had just swallowed the canary—Gabe's canary. “The
Mariposa,
” Arnauld had replied, dashing Gabe's hope of recovering the money he'd invested in finding and documenting the Mariposa.

There was no way the artifact had come from the
Mariposa
site because Gabe had been working it, while Arnauld circled like a cat around the birdcage, looking for its opportunity to strike. But the first to provide an artifact—which proved a wreck had been found—won the excavation rights. And there was also no way that Gabe could show, without doubt, that Arnauld's artifact had come from another wreck. It would be the word of an all-but-bankrupt fortune hunter against that of an American billionaire. The authorities leaned toward the money.

“I'm going to break out Lupita's lunch,” Jeanne announced to no one in particular. “It's already after one.”

Stepping around Nemo, who lay curled by Gabe's feet, she braced herself against the motion of the vessel and headed for the companionway leading to the galley. But before she could reach it, the dog leapt from what appeared to be a sound sleep and beat her to the steps, where he paused, tail wagging.

“Don't tell me he knows the word
lunch
.” Her friendly smile washed over Gabe's guilt-clouded humor like a breath of sunshine.

It was the first time since their departure that she'd spared him more than obligatory attention. It wasn't that she'd been aloof, just busy. Now she faced him as though she'd forgotten the brutish display of anger and exasperation that had fouled his humor and, since, plagued his conscience.

“Not quite.”

She's for real
, he realized in wonder. There was not a hint of grudge anywhere in the transparency of her expression. Gabe took up a can of what was now flat soda from the cup hanger next to the wheel, glad that he had no tail to wag in betrayal of the sudden leap of elation in his chest. “He knows the galley is the source of food. Anyone who goes there is fair game.”

Fearful that her attention might reduce him to a Stuart-sized grin, he took a swig of the lukewarm soda.

Jeanne chuckled at his grimace. “Want a fresh one?”

“Please.”

“You got it,” she said, taking the companionway steps.

Returning the can back to the holder, Gabe couldn't resist observing her bouncy retreat. It wasn't until the can struck his instep and spilled soda into his deck shoe that he realized he'd missed the holder altogether. Jerking away with a hiss, Gabe snatched up the can and tossed it into plastic grocery bag that was hooked on a fire extinguisher.

“Checking out the bo-oss,” Stuart sang, jiving from the neck up to a tune in his head. “Checkin' out the boss.”

After dumping his shoe, Gabe scuffed his foot on the all-weather carpet and slipped it back into the damp Docksider. “Keep it up, lad, and you'll have more than one loose connection.”

The smug look on the boy's face faded. “Huh?”

Gabe reached across the charting table and moved a wire, revealing the connector that had been hidden under the readout printer, rather than in its proper slot. He'd seen it earlier but hadn't wanted to humiliate the kid in front of his superior. Now all bets were off.

Stuart gawked as color flooded his fair complexion. “How did
that
happen?” He made hasty work of plugging the wire in, locking it this time.

“This isn't a laboratory,” Gabe told him. “This is a moving, rolling, dipping, slamming ship. Anything not secured is at risk. But don't worry,” he added with a sly wink. “I won't tell
if you
won't
.”

The lunch of sandwich wraps and Gatorade on the stern deck became a celebration after Stuart announced he thought that he'd found the problem with the magnetometer. That it was as simple as a loose connection and not more serious was the answer to the prayer darts that Jeanne had been sending heavenward since the malfunction first showed itself.

Reveling afterward in the fresh salt air flowing through the open windows of the bridge, she watched the needles zigzag simultaneously on the monitor and the printer beside it.

“We're maggin' now! We catch 'em, you sketch 'em,” he told Pablo, who'd come to the bridge, leaving Remy to take over his station at the stern.

“That would be the
Mary Francis
,” Pablo announced, referring to the World War II merchantman that Gabe told them had sunk on the reef fifty-odd years before, “exactly where she shows on my chart.”

“Have you dived the site?” Stuart asked as Gabe throttled back and veered away from his parallel course to the reef.

Jeanne averted her eyes from their fascination with the pair of dolphins tattooed on Gabe's upper arm when he turned to answer the young man.

“I've dived just about every reef from the Caribbean to Bermuda,” Gabe informed him. “I helped Pablo document this one in his book . . . What was it called?”

“
Great Dives of Mexico.
” Having Stuart's full attention, Pablo continued. “Gabe and I go back many years to university in Florida. Which is how I knew to recommend him to Genesis.” The cartographer-diver slid off the charting stool. “And now, since everything is working, I think we can pull the fish out of the water, yes, Jeanne?”

Just as intrigued as the young technician, Jeanne nodded. Maybe she could find out more about Gabe through Pablo. Maybe if she understood the captain better, he wouldn't be as . . . She searched for the right word.
Disconcerting
came to mind, but that was an understatement. And she couldn't fully justify
infuriating
because she had, for reasons that still evaded her, taken the confrontation to an out-of-character personal level.
Frightening
wasn't it either. She'd been more frightened of the feelings he evoked in her than of the man himself, she realized, venturing another glance in the captain's direction.

A shiver of awareness rippled through her. How easily Gabe had reduced her to acknowledging herself as a woman, something she'd spent years suppressing in the male-dominated career she'd chosen.

The boat glided over the sparkling blue water as the engines were cut back to idle so that the sensor could be hoisted in and stowed. Jeanne and Stuart joined the others on the gently rocking back deck as Ann, Mara, and Manolo descended from the flying bridge.

“So, are we done for the day or what?” Ann asked, her nose white with sunblock.

Nick checked his watch, a massive chunk of technology designed to operate at depths of over a hundred feet. “Now that my man Stu has gotten everything working, how about a celebration dive?”

“Hey, that'd be cool,” the tech whiz chimed in.

“Actually, I have it on good authority that these are some of the world's most beautiful reefs.” Mara held up a copy of Pablo's book, causing the group to burst into laughter.

“Well, we
are
here,” Jeanne thought aloud, warming to the idea. Maybe a pleasure dive into the tranquil underwater world was exactly what they all needed to unwind after the chaos of arranging for and making the trip to Punta Azul. And heaven knew she could use a dose of tranquility after the day's roller-coaster ride.

“What about it, Captain?” Nick asked, making Jeanne aware that Gabe had joined them, leaving his deckhand at the wheel. “You game for a little diving?”

“I'm always game.” His answer was for Nick, but the wry tug at one corner of his mouth and his wicked wink were aimed straight at Jeanne.

Ann gave her a subtle jab, leaning in to whisper Jeanne's own thoughts. “Is he talking about diving or something else?”

Remy unwittingly spared Jeanne from acknowledging either Ann or Gabe.

“You were really on the top of your game last night,” the professor accused. “If you can call paranoia a game. By the way, our colleague Arnauld was delighted when I returned his copy of my book signed.”

Oh no, not this again.
Jeanne preempted Gabe's reply. “So, are you up for a dive, Remy? We can be partners.”

But Remy was not to be deterred. “
If
the captain doesn't think Arnauld will read our minds and snatch up the
Luna Azul
whilst we play in the water.”

“Shall I fetch your spanking
new
gear, professor?” Gabe shot back before Jeanne could think of something to end the increasingly barbed exchange.

Saving her from the task, the captain pivoted and leapt to the catwalk, light as its namesake on his feet. “I'll toss the anchor, Manolo,” he called to his mate with an authority that left no doubt who had triumphed in the brief exchange.

“Oaf,” Remy muttered, shooting visual daggers into Gabe's retreating back.

Jeanne heaved a sigh. No point in her holding a grudge against the captain when Remy, for whatever reason, had built one against Gabe big enough for the two of them.

Lord, I know all things are possible for You, but right now, instead
of pulling the crew together, I feel like I'm herding stray cats . . .
spatting ones.

CHAPTER NINE

A short while later, an already suited-up Gabe watched the others, particularly Dr. Remy Primston, as they donned and checked out each other's gear. Like it or not, Gabe was responsible for the safety of those on his boat, including this sanctimonious boor with the personality of a jellyfish. And people who had new, color-coordinated equipment tended to arouse a sneaking suspicion in Gabe's mind that their certification cards might be just as new. Teaching anthropology and nautical archaeology did not necessarily a competent diver make.

“Are you sure you're up to diving, Primston? You've been a little green around the gills,” Gabe said. “Don't want you chumming the snappers.”

“Now, there's a picture you don't wanna see,” Nick remarked under his breath.

That, along with Stuart's poorly disguised cough, sparked life in the dull look Primston cast upon the waters. “Thank you for your concern, Captain, but I'm fit as a fiddle. And even if I should run into problems, I'm sure my partner here”—he gave Jeanne a possessive pat on the back—“is quite able to help me out.”