Though he glanced at the towel, he didn’t touch it.

“The wind, you know,” she said. The temperature was still in the low eighties even at night, but she was starting to shiver a bit from the breeze. “It gets chilly on the water.”

“Thanks,” he said. Then he lowered himself to the cockpit seat and peered up at the sky beyond the bimini cover. “Great night, eh?” He spoke with a note of something close to reverence in his voice.

“Yeah,” she said, and leaning far back to look out from under the bimini, she felt something in her gut loosen up a little. She sighed. “That moon is amazing.”  Riley thought about all the times she had seen this southern sea and sky and had no one to share it with. She’d almost forgotten what it felt like – that vibration of connecting with someone.

Okay, so he was a powerboat kind of guy who could appreciate the subtle beauties of a night sail, but that didn’t change the fact that he had lied to her.

“Are you going to tell me the truth about what you were doing swimming off the island yesterday?” she asked.

“Well,” he paused and looked back into the bay they had just left. “It’s complicated.”

She said nothing. She let her silence work on him.

“That guy back there, Spyder Brewster, he has a brother named Pinky.”

“Pinky Brewster? You’re kidding.”

He smiled again. “Yeah, I know. Not exactly the golden age of television. But, I guess they grew up with the TV as their baby sitter. That’s the only thing I have in common with these two. Pinky’s a nickname he got because of his skin disease. Vitiligo. He’s got patches of skin with no pigment and they look kind of pink.”

“Kids can be cruel.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a pretty creepy guy. Voice sounds like Peter Lorre, and he has these pale blue eyes that look dead. Like nobody’s home. Anyway, back to yesterday. I’d been diving, and I’d stripped to rinse off in a stream when these guys showed up. Not friendlies. I took off running and then swimming. I’d known I was being followed. I could feel it. Didn’t know it was them until yesterday. They’re definite bad guys – poachers – and they intend to get to the Surcouf before I do. Right now, I’ve got something they want.”

“What’s that?” she asked, but she already knew. She thought about the photo she had ripped out of Ponytail’s – or rather Spyder’s pocket. She wanted to see if he would tell her the truth. Before he could speak, she heard an explosive exhalation of air and a splash not more than five feet from the boat.

Cole straightened up and pointed. “Dolphins!” he said.

Two of them darted away and then came zooming back in alongside the boat trailing streaks of blueish white phosphorescence.

“Make a wish,” Cole said. “They’re a sign of good luck.”

“Yeah, right. Luck.”

“It’s true, I swear. Didn’t you ever watch Flipper? Dolphins grant wishes. But, whatever you do, you can’t tell anyone your wish. It’s just between you and the dolphins.”

Riley stared at him, his face aglow from the moonlight, the dolphins’ ephemeral trails, and the compass light.

“Make a wish,” he insisted.

 Damn. He was serious. Luck and wishes. “Fine,” she said. Just this once, she’d humor him. She thought about the coin and how good he was at dodging her questions. She squeezed her eyes shut and wished — but she sure as hell didn’t need to be told to keep it a secret.

When they made their turn easing out the big headsail, Cole steered them close by the trawler anchored out near the mouth of the bay. Riley was surprised at the relief she felt when the first mate stepped out of the wheelhouse, and she saw he was a tall, young, black man with scholarly-looking gold spectacles. He raised a slender arm and waved at them as most boaters do. It wasn’t until they sailed abeam that the mate recognized his captain, and he began shaking his head.

This time it was Riley who readied the anchor after showing Cole how to operate the furling gear for the headsail. When she’d let out sufficient scope for the anchor and rigged her snubber, she stood on the bow for a few minutes enjoying the night sounds of birds, insects and the lapping of the waters around her bow. The moonlight looked like a trail of glittery gems across the water. She picked out the Big Dipper, the only constellation she could find without a star chart, and she shivered in spite of the tropical night.

Last night, she’d been in tears, and now with the moonlit sail and the dolphins and this crazy man who believed in the gospel according to Flipper, here she was stargazing with a big grin on her face. She shook her head back and forth, not sure if she was losing her mind. One thing she was certain of, though, she wasn’t going to say a word about him to Hazel. Riley knew if she let slip one kind word about any guy to her best friend, Hazel would be making wedding plans.

She turned aft to see if Cole was going to join her, but there was no one in the cockpit. She tiptoed along the cabin and peered down into the hatch over the main salon. The light over the chart table was on, and Cole Thatcher’s bare back was bent in a curve, the hinged chart table top resting on his head as he dug around inside.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The Atlantic south of Bermuda

February 12, 1942

Michaut’s smile wilted as he began to take in the tableau before him: McKay’s tear-streaked face and bloody shirt, and the still body on the deck.

“Capitaine. Qu’est-ce qui se passe?”

Lamoreaux sighed, his eyes fixed on Woolsey. “Un accident,” he said.  Woolsey thought the captain was trying to convince himself.

“Fuck,” McKay said again and he walked as far as he could get from the other men. He slammed his palm flat against the bulkhead, then buried his face in his sleeve.

Henri Michaut stood frozen to the spot. The birthmark glowed red against his pale skin as he stared at Mullins’ still form. “Mon Dieu,” he said.

“Bloody hell,” Woolsey said when he again noticed the blood dripping down his hand from inside his sleeve. He reached over his right shoulder and hissed through his teeth when his fingers found the glass shard imbedded in his upper tricep. He pulled it free and threw it into a stack of crates.

The captain took the tray of food from the young signalman and, after crossing the hold to put distance between himself and the body, he set it on one of the cases of wine. He slid a couple more wine crates close to the tray, then said, “Come, let’s sit. Henri, join us, please?”

Without a word, Michaut crossed the hold. He lowered his body and perched on the edge of the crate. Woolsey, who had taken off his coat and was tearing his shirt to bandage his arm, thought the young man looked as though he was going to vomit.

“What are the men up to out there, Henri?” the captain asked in English.

The young man turned his head, looking over his shoulder at the corpse.

The captain grasped the signalman’s forearms. “Michaut!” he shouted.

Michaut turned back and looked at Lamoreaux. His eyes shone.

The captain spoke in a softer voice. “Ah, you worked with him in the radio room. You knew him well, non?”

Michaut nodded and lowered his eyes. A tear slid onto his cheek.

 Woolsey took the fabric in his teeth and pulled the bandage on his arm tight. As he eased his coat onto his wounded arm, he said, “What do you expect, man? This is a war, Kewpie. Men die. Now, let’s get on with it. We haven’t much time, you know.”

The captain glanced at McKay, the concern apparent in his wrinkled brow. The big man still had his face buried in his sleeve. Turning back, Lamoreaux said, “Lieutenant, you are not making this any easier. If not for you, we would not be in this trouble.”

“I’m the one who’s wounded, and now you’re saying your men’s mutiny was my fault?”