A Question of Honor Page 8

  Chapter Six

  It was Monday morning and time to go to work. Noah smiled to himself as Kit walked at his right shoulder down the long, concrete dock. At the end of it was the Osprey.

  “Excited?” Noah asked. The morning sky was bathed in colors of pale peach and flaming orange.

  Kit breathed in the salty air. “No, I’m worried about seasickness.” The sun was up, creating a glare across the quiet channel waters where the Coast Guard station sat near the Atlantic Ocean.

  “You’ve got that seasickness patch behind your ear?” Noah glanced down at her. Kit had worn her one-piece dark blue police uniform replete with revolver. He had relented and allowed her to wear the weapon. Sometimes orders could be bent. And because she was in uniform, the revolver seemed a natural addition. Nevertheless she looked feminine as hell, her unruly black hair emphasizing her dancing gray eyes. His mind wandered back over the weekend. There had been a truce of sorts. He had taken all the strain upon himself, making Kit feel she was an indispensable partner around his home. She had responded beautifully, and her laughter was all he’d needed as a reward.

  “Yes, it’s in place.” Kit pressed the small bandage hidden behind her left ear, hoping it would stop any seasickness. She looked at the SES that sat like an elegant steed at the end of the dock. Painted a medium gray color, the Osprey was huge. Crewmen were already on board, moving around on the decks, performing the jobs that would ready the Osprey for a day at sea.

  On the enclosed bridge of the vessel, Noah introduced Ensign Joe Edwards, his second-in-command, to Kit. The younger officer, who had just graduated from the academy, blushed deeply when he shook her hand. Joe was just as taken with Kit’s quiet demeanor and natural beauty as he was, Noah decided. If Kit noticed Joe’s blush, she didn’t react to it as she took a seat not far from the helm.

  “What’s on the hot sheet today?” Noah asked, taking his place at the large steel helm. He always guided the Osprey out of dock and into the channel that led to the ocean.

  Joe picked up the hot-sheet list. “The DEA has added two more vessels is all, Skipper.” He smiled over at Kit, handing her the clipboard. “You might as well take a look at this, ma’am. They list names of boats or ships that have been known to carry marijuana bales. Sometimes we run into the vessels out at sea, and we order them to drop anchor so we can make a search.”

  Noah ordered his crew to cast off. The morning was clear and cloudless, and he found himself happy that Kit was with them. Under his hand the Osprey moved away from her berth. The hull of the ship sliced cleanly through the waters of the channel. Up ahead was the greenish-blue expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. Once clear of the channel, Noah would let Edwards take over and they’d head south, moving around the tip of the Florida peninsula to begin their hunt for boats carrying drugs.

  Kit felt her stomach begin to roll the moment the Osprey moved out into the ocean. She swallowed hard, praying that her reaction was only temporary.

  After Noah turned over the Osprey to Edwards, he walked over to her. “You’re looking a little green,” he noted, taking in Kit’s once flushed features, which were now drawn with tension. He rested his hand on the back of the steel chair where she sat, aware how much easier he found it to deal with her professionally in the atmosphere of his boat and crew.

  “It’s nothing,” Kit murmured, swallowing hard. She forced a smile. “How about giving me the grand tour of this lady?”

  “Sure?” He looked intently into her trusting, soft gray eyes, and took a deep breath, controlling the surge of feelings she aroused in him.

  Slipping off the seat, Kit nodded. “Very sure.”

  Both bulkhead doors to the bridge were open, allowing the warm, humid ocean air to circulate. Noah stepped out onto the deck. The Osprey was barely moving up and down; the ocean was glassy smooth. If Kit was seasick now, would she handle the moderate sea that usually came up every afternoon when the winds picked up?

  Kit fought valiantly to ignore her roiling stomach as Noah led her around the deck. On the bow sat a fifty-caliber machine gun on a tripod, reminding her that the Coast Guard’s mission could turn ugly. And then she looked down at the revolver she carried at her waist. She hadn’t been in uniform since her graduation from the academy five years ago. It felt strange to be wearing the bulky black leather belt and holster around her waist. But it was necessary, she reminded herself. Still, the idea of a gun battle sickened her.

  “Below deck we have crew quarters, a small galley and the weapons area,” Noah said, gesturing for Kit to climb down the stairs. With each passing minute Kit looked worse, her face paler.

  “This is quite a ship,” Kit admitted once on the lower deck. The SES was immaculate. Noah Trayhern ran a tight vessel from what Kit could tell, and the men obviously respected him. He was a natural leader.

  Taking her by the elbow, Noah led her down one passage. “The Osprey is the new generation cutter designed for drug work. Her hull is built to take the waves without a lot of yawing or rolling.”

  “I feel like everything’s rolling.”

  “You’re looking worse. Do you want to lie down for a while?”

  Kit shook her head. “I’m sure it will pass, Noah.” They arrived amidships, where several rows of bunks were built into the hull.

  “These are the crew’s quarters. They’re cramped to say the least.”

  “Looks like a can of sardines if you ask me,” Kit joked. The Osprey rolled beneath them and instinctively she placed her hand on her stomach.

  The gesture wasn’t lost on Noah. “Let’s go to my cabin,” he suggested, leading her past the crew’s quarters. He pushed open a bulkhead door halfway down the narrow passageway, revealing a small room with a bed, a table and chair and a desk, all bolted to the floor. “Go on in.”

  Nausea stalked her and she didn’t try to argue. He led her to the bunk and sat her down. “Rest awhile. When people get seasick they either want to stay up in the fresh air or lie down.”

  The bunk was inviting. Kit gave him a sheepish glance. “I think I’ll lie down. I’m sorry, Noah.”

  He reached out, barely caressing her hair in a gesture meant to give her solace. Kit looked positively miserable. “Don’t be. Just take it easy. I doubt if there will be any action today, but if we need you, I’ll send one of the crew down to get you. Otherwise, rest.”

  Feeling as if she had disappointed him, Kit nodded. “Thanks.” After he left, Kit unbuckled the cumbersome belt and holster, placing them on the desk. Lying down did help to a degree, but the fact that even the most modern drug wasn’t going to help her was a big disappointment. She’d warned Noah she was strictly a landlubber.

  “Where’s Detective Anderson?” Joe asked when Noah reappeared on the bridge.

  “Lying down in my cabin.”

  Nodding his sandy-haired head, Joe said, “She doesn’t look very seaworthy, does she?”

  Sitting down, Noah picked up the hot-sheet list. “No, she doesn’t.”

  “Pretty, though.”

  “Very.”

  “For being from the police department, she’s got a nice way about her,” Edwards added, checking the compass and lightly turning the helm to keep the Osprey on course.

  Kit was nice in many unexpected ways, Noah grudgingly admitted. “Especially for having been an undercover cop for five years.”

  Edwards whistled, his blue eyes crinkling with surprise. “Her? An undercover agent? You gotta be kidding, Skipper.”

  “I wish I was. She’s not cut out for it.”

  “No kidding. Man, we’ve seen some hard agents, and Kit—I mean, Detective Anderson—just doesn’t fit that bill of goods.”

  Smiling to himself, Noah returned to the paperwork at hand. He noticed Joe had slipped and called her Kit. She had the same mesmerizing effect on everyone, it seemed, himself included. The rows of radios surrounding them on the bridge were fairly quiet. They would get noisy if a drug boat were spotted.

  “Don’t let her fool you, though
,” Noah warned him. “She’s survived five years in the trenches and is alive to tell about it.”

  “Yeah, but what’s it done to her, Skipper? We both know the undercover world is hell on an agent.”

  And Kit had gone over the edge, Noah wanted to add, but he didn’t. He had gotten permission to tell Edwards that his home was a safe house for Kit. But the rest of the crew would never know; as far as they were concerned, she was just another police officer interfacing with the Coast Guard. A well-kept secret would keep Kit safe. “Her health isn’t what it should be,” he said in answer to Joe’s question. That wasn’t a total lie, but it wasn’t really the full truth, either. Noah felt himself becoming even more protective of Kit, wanting to shield her in every way possible.

  “Well, she’s quite a lady in my book. I’m kind of glad she’s going to be with us during Operation Storm.”

  Placing the clipboard on the console, Noah watched his crewmen on deck for several moments before responding to Joe. “I don’t know if she’s going to be glad to be with us,” he finally said ruefully.

  Edwards chuckled. “Yeah, if she’s seasick even taking that drug, she might get to hate this assignment real fast.”

  The brilliant blue-green depths of the ocean were darkening, telling Noah they were moving away from the coast. The waves were barely two feet in height; it was a perfect day. “I’ll check on her around noon. Maybe she’ll be feeling better by then,” Noah said. He could send one of the crewmen to look in on Kit, but he wanted to do it himself. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was 8:30 a.m.

  In some respects, the day was going to drag because Kit wasn’t there at his side. Musing on how much Kit had already made herself a part of his life, Noah shook his head. What kind of magic did she wield? He felt as if his life were spinning completely out of his control. Yet he had to maintain a professionalism or jeopardize his career. He had enemies who wanted to embarrass him because of Morgan. No, somehow he had to walk that razor-fine line, help Kit back on her feet and carry out his duties in the meantime. He glanced at his watch one more time, restless and wanting to make sure Kit was all right.

  The bulkhead door opened, then closed. Kit stirred from sleep and drowsily opened her eyes. Noah stood nearby, his face etched with shadows.

  “Uh…” Kit struggled into a sitting position. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

  Noah sat down on the lone chair in the room, studying her intently. Kit’s eyes were still heavy with sleep, her mouth soft and inviting. The urge to reach out and brush the hair off her brow almost got the better of him. He kept his hands resting on his thighs. “When you get seasickness, sleep is the best thing. How are you feeling?”

  Groggily Kit took stock of herself. “My stomach’s more settled, thank God.”

  Smiling slightly, Noah nodded. “Good. It’s noon and we’re going to be dishing up chow pretty soon. Do you feel like joining us?”

  She didn’t, but Kit refused to allow her present condition to control her. “Sure. Just give me a minute to freshen up.” She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to tame it back into place.

  Rising, Noah opened the door. Kit still didn’t look too good. The walls she usually kept erected were gone. Maybe she was finally trusting him enough to be herself. “I’ll see you in the galley, then,” he said, his voice strained.

  The tension between them was broken. Kit watched him disappear out the door, shutting it quietly behind him. She hadn’t slept at all the night before, with dreams of Emilio Dante plaguing her. As she stood up and pressed her hand against her stomach, she wondered if some of her reaction to the ocean was really fatigue in disguise. Ever since she had found out Dante was loose and hunting for her, she barely slept at night. Kit ran her fingers through her hair one more time.

  The mirror image staring back at her wasn’t that of the Kit she used to know. Even in the dark blue uniform replete with silver badge and name plate, Kit didn’t feel very much like a police officer anymore. What was happening to her? Being around Noah was exposing all her soft and feminine emotions. She no longer felt strong and confident. Instead she had an urgent need for some gentleness and peace in her life. Noah gave her that. Touching her arched brow, Kit looked deeply into her shadowed eyes. The old Kit Anderson was dying. In her place was this new person, this new woman, who had a serenity the old Kit hadn’t felt in five years.

  Confused by the myriad changes within her, Kit turned around. She stared at the revolver in the holster. Her mind told her to put it on and wear it. The rest of her recoiled from the ugly-looking weapon that could take a life. Fingers trembling, Kit reached down and reluctantly strapped on the hardware. The belt and holster hung heavily around her waist like an anchor. Disturbed and not understanding why, Kit left the cabin, heading toward the galley.

  Four Osprey crewmen sat at one of three tables, eagerly consuming their noontime meal. Noah sat alone, his full tray in front of him. Kit nodded to the crew and made her way across the steel deck.

  Noah stood as she approached, noticing her shyness in front of his men. “Sit down, Kit. Freddy is our cook on board. He’s made—”

  “Please,” Kit protested quietly, “I don’t want any food, Noah.” She gave him an apologetic look as she sat down opposite him. “I can’t handle it right now.”

  “How about some fruit juice?” he suggested.

  Her stomach was beginning to roll once more. Was sleep the only way to spare herself this misery? When she saw Noah’s frown, she knew she’d have to eat or drink something in order to erase the worry she saw in his eyes. “I think I can get down some tomato juice.”

  Freddy, a red-haired, freckle-faced crewman, brought over a small glass with a slice of lemon for Kit. She thanked him and busied herself squeezing in the citrus juice. Noah began eating with relish. Swallowing hard, Kit cast about for some topic that would get her mind off her damnable stomach.

  “Spotted any drug boats yet?”

  “No, it’s quiet so far.”

  The tomato juice was cold and tasted good. Kit sipped it slowly. “How do you intercept these smugglers?”

  Noah smiled lightly. “Sheer luck, usually. No, that isn’t always so. Sometimes a Navy P3 subhunter airplane will be flying at high altitude and spot possible boats. They’ll call in the coordinates to us and we’ll head in that direction.”

  “And the rest of the time?”

  “We’re pretty familiar with the smugglers’ favorite sea lanes. So we ply those waters and wait around to intercept them.”

  “And you do this during the day?”

  Nodding, Noah buttered another roll. He offered it to Kit, but she shook her head. “Until about five in the afternoon. Then we head back to port. Why?”

  “I’ll be glad when five rolls around,” Kit confided huskily.

  “Don’t be hard on yourself,” Noah soothed. “Getting your sea legs could take several weeks.”

  With a pained look, Kit muttered, “What if I don’t get those sea legs? I don’t want to feel like this every day of the week for a year!”

  “It took Joe Edwards five months before he stopped getting seasick. People adjust to sea life at different rates, Kit.”

  The thought of five months of this kind of feeling left Kit devastated. “You’re kidding me.”

  “I’m not,” Noah promised.

  “Two weeks,” Kit muttered to herself, rubbing her eyes as she sat on the edge of Noah’s bunk aboard the Osprey after waking from her normal afternoon nap. Well, two weeks had passed and she was still miserable with seasickness every day. It was wearing badly on her. She got up shakily and put some cold water in the small basin, feeling a bit better after she’d washed her face.

  Patting her face dry with the towel, she reached into the purse she kept in the drawer of Noah’s desk and took out her makeup. Without it she looked positively ill. Well, wasn’t she? Applying it, she noted that the blusher gave her skin a rosiness, some liquid foundation beneath her eyes erased those ever-present shado
ws and the lipstick made her look halfway alive.

  Out of habit, Kit donned her holster and revolver. The first two weeks had been fairly routine, except for interdicting three drug-smuggling boats. Duty aboard the Osprey was deadly boring with intermittent moments of high tension whenever a druggie’s boat was apprehended.

  There was an urgent knock at the door and Kit opened it. Freddy stood there, struggling into the protective flak jacket they all wore when a boarding took place.

  “Detective Anderson, we’re preparing to board a ship. The skipper asked that you come to the bridge right away.”

  “I’ll be right there, Freddy.” Her heart began a slow pound, as it always did at these moments.

  “Yes, ma’am!” and he ran down the narrow passageway toward the stairs.

  Moments later Noah turned his attention toward the doorway. He saw the grim set of Kit’s mouth as she entered the bridge. “Get your flak jacket on,” he ordered. “We’ve got a hot-sheet yacht we’re pulling over to search.”

  Shrugging into the heavy jacket, Kit walked over to him. Joe Edwards and the helmsman, Carter, were also on the bridge. “That’s a big yacht,” she commented.

  “One of the biggest around. It’s the Sea Devil,” Noah said. “Do me a favor and take a look through the binoculars. See if you recognize any of the men aboard. We’ll be boarding the Sea Devil in about ten minutes.”

  Her mouth grew dry as she scrutinized the four crewmen up on deck of the yacht. None of them were very savory-looking characters. As she scanned the cockpit at the rear, a gasp escaped her.

  Noah frowned, focusing all his attention on Kit. She had paled considerably. “Kit?”

  “My God, that’s Brett Davis on board.”

  He watched as she placed the binoculars on the console, her eyes suddenly dark with real fear. “Davis? Who’s that?”

  Kit tried to control the iciness flowing through her. “Davis is a contract killer,” she croaked. “He works directly for Garcia. When I was at Garcia’s fortress posing as a buyer, I met him a couple of times.”