Free Marked Masters by Ritter Ames Page A

shared.
That alone should have warned me about the man. Should warning
bells be sounding for Jack now, too? I knew it was wrong, but I
couldn't help generalizing about men and sailing. Well, any
experiences that reminded me of my father.
    No. A yacht is different. You can't vanish
alone on something that big.
    A brisk, damp wind whipped across the cold
water and slapped my hair against my face. I brushed the strands
from my eyes and looked around. Beyond the two boisterous boating
crews, the marina remained relatively quiet. The lap of the water
against the posts and planks even relaxed my jangled nerves a
little. The car pulled away. Jack and I made the boards thump as we
strode down the main deck. Strings of bulbs were laced above the
gangways we walked, and even more lights shone on all the boats
that bobbed in place with the evening tide. I smelled fish and sea
creatures in the brisk air. A couple of spectacular yachts sat at
the end of the far dock, but Jack kept us headed toward the end of
the main dock. There were some larger boats off in the deeper
water, and I asked Jack which one was ours.
    "Out there."
    Out there was a fairytale sight of the kind
of sinful extravagance that I truly loved. The kind that reminded
me of life before my grandfather passed away. A sleek vessel, all
black and brass and sensuous curves to reflect the light from the
harbor area. It appeared to be four-tier, but before I could
assimilate any more information, Jack halted at a cigarette boat
moored along the edge of the planks.
    "This will take us the last leg of our
journey," he said and offered a hand to help me step in, something
I was grateful for, given the gently bobbing gangway.
    Even before he started the engine, the
muscle of the forty-plus-foot missile spoke to me. I recognized the
Mercedes-Benz emblem and knew the boat operated in the neighborhood
of thirteen-hundred to fifteen-hundred horsepower. A lot of speed
for a simple shuttle ride. I wanted to grab the controls myself and
push the phantom thing to its limits. "Jack, could I—"
    "No, I'm doing all the driving this
time."
    I guess he still hadn't forgiven me for the
motorcycle ride through London during our previous adventure
together. No matter. It only took what seemed like seconds for us
to reach the yacht. As its strong steel masts grew closer, I was
able to focus between the two Jet Skis hanging at the stern to read
the lettering that gave the boat's name and home berth:
    Folly Roost
    Great Britain
    "Interesting name," I murmured as Jack held
my waist to help me mount the ladder.
    "Interesting owners," he replied.
    I took a moment to shoulder my purse a bit
higher so I could look down at him to ask, "Employers or
friends?"
    "Countrymen who were happy to extend an
invitation to someone working on Her Majesty's behalf."
    Oh, aren't we the noble-sounding one, Mr.
Jack Hawkes . I wanted to say it out loud but knew to hold my
tongue.
    I'd been to Florida many times, but this was
only the third time since college that I'd been out on the Gulf. My
father used to go deep-sea fishing, and I tagged along if
Granddad's yacht was involved. But with the loss of the family
boat, I'd lost my desire for Florida water sports and usually flew
in and out of the state on quick pickups and one-day events.
    It was a long climb, and when my foot
finally hit the deck, I knew why. I'd been on my share of yachts,
both personal and pleasure, but this was by far the biggest and
looked to be the most modern. Clever brass lanterns hung from
various posts on the main deck, obviously electrified but giving
that getting away from it all air as the yacht still offered
to take everything along too.
    From the nearest of several upper decks, a
small dingy hung ready, yet lashed securely, above my head. I took
note. One never knew when one would need to make a quick and
untimely escape. As Jack joined me on deck, I heard a radio crackle
and turned to see a man in a white uniform striding our way.
    "Morgan,