At this moment he was, Jeanne hoped, in Vagabond’s dinghy, hidden six boats back. Philip was casually fishing from the dock a dozen yards behind her. Olly and Conrad Macklin, with binoculars, were seated in the park area “admiring the boats.” Neil had asked Frank to remain on board Vagabond, telling him that if Neil himself were killed, Frank had to be safe to take over leadership. He was to join them only after they’d succeeded.
As she neared the stern of the pirate yacht she saw no sign of life. Neil said they were certain there was at least one man aboard and Philip thought there were two, but whoever was aboard was below. Perhaps the hot wind from the distant hurricane had discouraged them. Or worse, perhaps Katya was there with them, and Lisa…
Timing things carefully, she waited until she was exactly opposite the open cockpit of Mollycoddle and then released her hold on her hat. It went flying off toward the yacht, Jeanne uttering a little scream. The hat sailed into the cockpit as planned, but then bounced on a seat cushion and flew out the other side, no, hit a metal strut and dropped back into the cockpit. She stared at it wide-eyed. In theory a guard was supposed to come out, rescue the hat, engage her in conversation, and ask her aboard. Nothing happened.
Glancing up and down the dock and trying to look upset and pathetic, Jeanne walked over to the edge of the dock and contemplated either hailing Mollycoddle or going aboard after her hat.
“Ahoy in there!” she said in as helplessly feminine a voice as she could muster, the rushing of the wind in the rigging of nearby sailboats effectively drowning her voice. No one responded. There was four feet of open water between the dock and the combing of Mollycoddle, an easy jump for Jeanne, if only the gun didn’t work loose. Steadying herself on the dock, gauging the distance carefully, she leapt into the yacht’s cockpit, letting herself fall forward with a crash onto her left side, screaming a good loud scream and lying there contorted and moaning.
In a few seconds the cabin door opened and a large, bare-chested man holding a pistol appeared, staring at her fiercely, then looking up along the dock.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked with a distinctly American accent.
“My hat,” said Jeanne, grimacing in pretended pain and pulling down her skirt and adjusting her legs so that her armament wouldn’t show. Then, sitting up, she gestured at the straw hat lying on the other side of the cockpit.
“And you jumped after it, huh?” the big man said, now grinning, his handlebar mustache flicking up at the ends.
Jeanne nodded, rubbing her left ankle, which she decided she had twisted. But not badly. She didn’t want to be carried.
“Need some help?” he asked, stuffing his pistol in between his belly and his shorts.
“No, no, I’m fine,” she said, holding up a hand to restrain him. “I’m just a little bit in shock, I guess.” She looked up at him and smiled wanly. He stared at her breasts.
“You want a drink or something?” he asked.
“Oh, no, I don’t want to bother you,” Jeanne said, standing awkwardly. “Although come to think of it, a drink would be nice.”
“Hey, Mike, can the lady have a drink?” the big man asked, and Jeanne saw a tall, slender man wearing a neat beige sport shirt and shorts standing in the cabin door. He was eyeing her coldly. She smiled at him. He smiled back.
“Certainly, Bart,” he said. “We wouldn’t want her to leave in pain. She might sue us.”
Jeanne laughed prettily.
“Come in, darling.”
“Said the spider to the fly,” said Jeanne as she limped past Bart and Michael and into the luxurious main saloon of the Hatteras. There was no one else there.
“Wow, this is something,” Jeanne said as she paused in the middle of the plush carpet and looked around, still half-hoping, half-fearing to discover signs of Lisa’s presence.
“What would you like to drink?” asked Michael. “Please sit down.”
“Thank you,” said Jeanne, sitting down in a leather chair and quickly crossing her legs. “Gin and tonic?”
He laughed. “How about some rum?” he asked.
“That’s fine too.”
“Bart?”
“Sure, Mike,” said Bart and went forward into the far part of the galley.
“I’m Michael Forester,” said Michael.
“I’m Jeannie Wilkins,” she said after an awkward hesitation.
“And what brings you tumbling into the Mollycoddle?”
“Stupidity, I guess. My hat blew onto your boat.”
“A likely story,” said Michael. “Are you sure it wasn’t because you noticed my handsome face in the street and followed me here out of uncontrollable lust?”
Jeanne smiled, again awkwardly. “If I’d seen you before, I might have!” she managed, smiling more broadly.
“Are you often overcome with uncontrollable lust?”
Jeanne felt a bit overwhelmed. At the rate this conversation was going, Michael would have her in the sack before Neil had paddled halfway here.
“Only on hot, stifling days when there’s no wind,” she answered.
“Ahh,” said Michael. “What disappointing weather then, no?”
Bart entered with the drinks, handed them around, and kept a bottle of beer for himself. He sat down on a second easy chair in the saloon.
“Cheers,” said Michael.
“Anyone aboard?” a loud voice came from the dock outside.
“See who it is, Bart” said Michael, frowning.
Jeanne tensed. This was the proverbial it. She uncrossed her legs and straightened in her chair. She wished she’d practiced drawing the gun. Bart arose, put his beer down, adjusted the gun in his belt, walked up the two steps, into the cockpit, and looked to his left.
“What is it?” she heard him say to Philip.
“Have you a gaff I can borrow?”
“You seem nervous, Jeannie,” she heard Michael say and saw him staring at her with a suspicious frown. “What’s the matter?”
“That man’s voice…” she said uncertainly.
“Yes? What about it?”
The yacht lurched as if a sudden new weight had been added. Michael and Jeanne both saw Bart standing in the center of the cockpit but facing away from the door now with his arms raised.
“Don’t shoot, buddy,” Bart said loudly.
Michael leapt up, rushed past Jeanne, and opened a drawer from which he drew a pistol. He then crouched behind her chair, facing the cabin entrance. Jeanne was stunned by such a piece of bad luck: Michael had chosen the one place where he would inevitably see her if she tried to draw her gun.
Neil and Philip appeared in the cockpit, Neil nudging Bart, who, with arms raised and empty-handed, was coming down into the cabin.
“He’s got a gun on me, Mike,” Bart said when he saw Michael’s pistol trained on them.
“All right, lady,” said Neil. “Get into the galley with your hands behind your head.”
“You move, lady,” hissed Michael, “and I’ll kill you.”
“Go ahead and kill her,” Neil said evenly. “She’s none of our business. Move, lady!”
Slowly Jeanne stood up and, appalled, terrified, walked slowly toward the galley area.
“What do you want?” Michael asked tensely.