Enemy Waters Read online

  She heard a moan, low and soft.

  Realized it had risen from her. Felt vaguely like she should pull away, but nowhere could she find the strength—or the desire—to do it. The only desire she had was to stay right here, to savor his arms around her and to glory in this mouth on hers. She just might be going crazy, turning into that erratic woman her ex had accused her of being. Some still-functioning part of her mind was sounding a warning, but the heat building in her was unlike anything she’d ever felt. Once she would have said nothing on earth could ever make her throw caution to the winds again.

  Apparently, Cooper Grant could.

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  Dear Reader,

  I live in a world that practically revolves around boats. You can’t be near Puget Sound for long without it soaking into your bones. I was always a sailboat hound. I learned at a local Sea Scout base, in a thing called a Sabot. Boxy and maybe eight feet long, it had room for you and maybe a dog, if he wasn’t too excitable. It was perfect for a relaxing afternoon, you just ignored the seat and plopped crossways, your backside center bottom, feet hanging over one gunnel, head resting on the other, one hand on the rudder, the other full of lunch. As long as the wind stayed lazy, you were golden. But my husband, being a motor guy, was all about powerboats, the faster the better.

  Now, as I watch boats travel the Sound, I wonder about the stories they carry. The huge ones, the container ships, fishing boats and the cruise liners, are obvious. But it’s the small, private ones that wake up my muse. Where are those people headed? Just to enjoy a day on the water? Perhaps to show visiting guests or family the area? Or perhaps to avoid those visiting guests or family for a while?

  Or perhaps, there’s a whole different story….

  Justine Davis

  JUSTINE DAVIS

  Enemy Waters

  Books by Justine Davis

  Romantic Suspense

  *Lover Under Cover #698

  *Leader of the Pack #728

  *A Man to Trust #805

  *Gage Butler’s Reckoning #841

  *Badge of Honor #871

  *Clay Yeager’s Redemption #926

  The Return of Luke McGuire #1036

  **Just Another Day in Paradise #1141

  The Prince’s Wedding #1190

  **One of These Nights #1201

  **In His Sights #1318

  **Second-Chance Hero #1351

  **Dark Reunion #1452

  **Deadly Temptation #1493

  **Her Best Friend’s Husband #1525

  Backstreet Hero #1539

  Baby’s Watch #1544

  His Personal Mission #1573

  **The Best Revenge # 1597

  **Redstone Ever After #1619

  Deadly Valentine #1645

  “Her Un-Valentine”

  Always a Hero #1651

  Enemy Waters #1659

  Desire

  Private Reasons #833

  Errant Angel #924

  A Whole Lot of Love #1281

  **Midnight Seduction #1557

  Silhouette Bombshell

  Proof #2

  Flashback #86

  Silhouette Books

  Silhouette Summer

  Sizzlers 1994

  “The Raider”

  Fortune’s Children

  The Wrangler’s Bride

  JUSTINE DAVIS

  lives on Puget Sound in Washington. Her interests outside of writing are sailing, doing needlework, horseback riding and driving her restored 1967 Corvette roadster—top down, of course.

  Justine says that, years ago, during her career in law enforcement, a young man she worked with encouraged her to try for a promotion to a position that was at the time occupied only by men. “I succeeded, became wrapped up in my new job, and that man moved away, never, I thought, to be heard from again. Ten years later, he appeared out of the woods of Washington State, saying he’d never forgotten me and would I please marry him. With that history, how could I write anything but romance?”

  For my sweet, beloved, wonderful girl,

  the most perfect dog in all of the world.

  When my time comes, when the last golden days

  wind down, may I face it with one tenth the grace

  and spirit you have. I know by the time this sees light,

  you will likely have gone, and it breaks my heart.

  But never having had you would have been worse. We

  thought we were rescuing you, but indeed, it was you

  who saved us. Me especially, after the worst happened.

  He’ll be waiting for you when you get there,

  sweet girl, that man you loved so much

  and took care of so well.

  I love you, my beautiful, clever,

  whimsical Decoy Dawg. And as someone once said,

  if dogs don’t go to heaven, I want to go where they go.

  I’ll see you there, sunshine.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  She didn’t know he was watching her.

  Cooper Grant sipped at his coffee leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world. Which he did, as long as she was here. And since the little café had just opened for the day, and her shift had obviously just begun, she was going to be here for a while.

  The woman flicked a glance in his direction, but again it wasn’t as if she thought he was watching her. She didn’t seem aware of him in particular; she was keeping her eye on all the occupied tables. Which were numerous this time of day; the Waterfront was obviously the place to meet in the morning in tiny Port Murphy.

  Of course, he thought wryly, it was also the only place in town open at this hour, and darned near the only place in town at all.

  No, he didn’t think she knew he was watching her.

  But she acted like she was afraid someone was. Odd.

  He took another long sip, savored the rich flavor; the little town’s only full-time eatery had the coffee down right. And the food, too, if his nose was any judge; the smells wafting around were enough to make him wish he’d ordered a real breakfast instead of just toast and coffee. The place might be old and look a bit shabby, but the kitchen in the back corner was spotless, and the thin, wiry man with the poker face and the Navy tattoo on his forearm ran it with what Cooper guessed was military precision.

  In the moments when she was busy taking an order from a group of four who were seated at a corner table, he took another glance out the window. It was hard not to get lost in the postcard-worthy tableau. The picturesque little cove dotted with boats—one of them his own, on an offshore mooring—the rows of little houses, some brightly colored enough to stand out like gems scattered on the hillsides, and the already snow-capped mountains in the distance.

  Getting downright poetic, Grant, he thought. And turned his attention back to his quarry, the brunette with the pixie haircut, the heavy, d
ark-rimmed glasses, and the oversized T-shirt with the café logo. This was about the only time she was still, when taking an order. The rest of the time she flitted around like a hummingbird, always moving, never lingering, but keeping everything efficiently handled.

  As she turned to take the next order his gaze shot back to the right side of her face, and the small mole just in front of her ear. His mouth quirked. He didn’t really blame himself for needing the reassurance; she’d transformed herself so completely that if it wasn’t for that mole, he’d still be searching.

  But once he’d seen it, he’d compared the other things that didn’t change, the shape of that ear, the lines of the jaw, nose, mouth—and once he’d gotten close enough to see that despite the black-rimmed glasses she was wearing contact lenses, which would explain the brown eyes instead of blue—he’d known he’d found her.

  He took a sip of the excellent coffee, thinking about the phone call he was looking forward to making, to tell his client his wait was over. He pictured the reunion between Tristan Jones and his little sister, and felt the warmth of a satisfaction that was all too rare in his life.

  Although he did wonder about the transformation. A haircut was one thing, but the dye job, and above all the disguising contact lenses? What was that all about? He understood the need for change after tragedy and trauma—understood it all too well—but what did totally changing your appearance accomplish?

  It had to be a girl thing, he decided finally. And he’d given up trying to understand those.

  He watched as she turned in the order from the table in the corner, spoke briefly with the cook, checked to be sure no new diners had arrived, then picked up the pot of fresh coffee off the warmer. He actually enjoyed watching her. He appreciated efficiency, in whatever realm. She certainly didn’t act like a nut case, but what did he know?

  She started, as usual, with the table nearest the door. If she ran true to form, she would circle back to the counter after the tables, starting at the far end, which meant she would get to him last. Which was why, after three days of observing her, he’d chosen this seat near the door.

  Well, that and the fear that if she realized he was looking for her she might panic and run. He wasn’t sure why she was so edgy, but he couldn’t deny that she clearly was. No ordinary person on an ordinary day was so hyperaware of everything around her; the slightest movement outside, even a seagull landing on the railing, drew her eye. He wondered if she was having some kind of trouble that was making her so wary, but it seemed at odds with this place that appeared to be the epitome of peace and quiet.

  He watched as she refilled cup after cup. She was quick yet didn’t seem hurried, a nice knack in this job.

  You’d never guess that eight months ago she was seen more often in silk, satin and stiletto heels than jeans and baggy T-shirts, Cooper thought.

  And then she was there, pot in hand, giving him the practiced smile of a waitress as she gestured with the coffeepot.

  “Top it off for you?”

  He nodded, pushing the heavy mug toward her on the polished countertop. “Great coffee.”

  “It keeps people coming,” she said with that same, neutral smile.

  “I can see why. Not,” he said as he took the mug back, “that there’s much competition.”

  To her credit, the smile widened into something more genuine, less practiced. “There is that,” she agreed.

  In that moment an odd sensation swept through him. He felt the strongest urge to violate his client’s orders and tell her. To put an end to the hell she’d been through, was still living in. Maybe it was simply that that had made her so twitchy; things like that awful night affected different people in different ways. He was living proof of that.

  But Tristan Jones was calling the shots, and he kept silent. About that, anyway. Instead he went with a safe newcomer-to-local question that had the added advantage of being true.

  “Cooper Grant,” he said, holding out a hand. She gestured with the coffeepot, dodging the handshake. He let it pass; he was still feeling his way, carefully. “I’m looking for a place to dock my boat for a while. You’re a local, right? Any ideas?”

  She set down the pot. Her brow furrowed very slightly as she pondered the inquiry. In an unconscious gesture she reached up beneath the glasses and pushed at the skin around her right eye. Then she caught herself and stopped.

  Contacts are bothering her, he thought. And wondered again why she’d done it. If it hadn’t been for the glasses, he would have thought she just wanted a change, some women were that way, he guessed. But both? That spoke of disguise, and that stumped him.

  “There’s a couple of guest berths at the marina,” she said in answer to his question.

  “Checked. They’re full.”

  She nodded as if she’d expected as much. “How long?”

  “Forty-three.”

  To most people, that sounded fairly big. To someone used to the kind of yachts owned by the people Tanya and Jeremy Brown mingled with, it was a runabout. But her only reaction was to get more thoughtful.

  “Power? Sail?”

  This might actually work, he thought. He’d learned from the woman behind the register that she was renting a place by the water, so he’d risked it on the chance she knew somebody with a dock. And the way she was reacting made him think he was right. She had thought of something. Something that perhaps depended on the depth of his boat’s keel. Thankfully, his answer should resolve that.

  “Power.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “On the last mooring out in the cove. Not sure I trust it, either. Seems a bit loose. Last night I swear I drifted a few feet.”

  “You’re sleeping out there?”

  “For the most part I live aboard, go wherever I want.”

  He watched her face for a reaction; living aboard a boat tended to be something people saw the appeal of either immediately, or never. She appeared to fall into the first group, judging by the slight smile that curved her mouth. The mouth that was still cupid’s-bow perfect, even without the high sheen of fancy lipsticks or gloss that had been the norm in the pictures her brother had sent him.

  “Sounds nice,” she said.

  “No roots,” he pointed out, since that was the complaint most women had. Then wondered why he’d bothered.

  “No ties,” she answered, as if it were a good thing.

  Interesting, he thought. Most women thought that a negative. “Well, one,” he amended. “Every couple of months I go check on my mom.”

  He couldn’t believe he’d pulled that one out. True, it usually won him some points with whatever woman he was trying to impress, and it had the advantage of being fact. But this woman was just a job; he wasn’t trying to impress her. The woman in the photographs, maybe, but this quiet, plain little wren?

  God, I really am that shallow, he thought ruefully.

  And he’d lost track of one of his most basic rules; outward appearances rarely told the full story.

  “Where’s your mom?”

  “Over on the dry side,” he said. “Spokane.”

  “Hard to sail there from here.”

  “That’s what buses are for.”

  Something flickered in her expression, and he wondered if she was thinking of her own bus trip here. But whatever it was, she didn’t dwell on it.

  “How long do you need the berth for?”

  “Week, maybe two. I’ve got some maintenance and tuning to do. She’s overdue.”

  With luck, he’d be done here well before two weeks, probably closer to two days once he made that call, but he was toying with the idea of staying anyway. There was something immensely appealing—and soothing—about the little town and its peaceful, charming waterfront.

  “You know a place?” he prompted, when she didn’t go on.

  “Maybe. The guy’s pretty picky about who he lets hang around. He’d want to know about you first.”

  “Me? I’m harmless.”

  “He’s not
going to take your word for it.”

  “Then whose word will he take?”

  “Mine,” she said.

  Cooper leaned back. The bar stool at the counter put him nearly at eye level with her if he sat up straight, as his mother had always nagged him about. He lifted an elbow to rest it on the slatted back of the old-fashioned stool.

  “So he trusts you,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  Interesting, he thought. Who had she gotten to trust her that much in the less than six months she’d been here? He knew it was only that. He’d started in Seattle, had been afraid she’d vanished into the masses of the metro area, or become one of the half million or so in the city proper. But then a routine check of the city’s bus terminal, something he practically yawned through, had turned up a rather grandfatherly ticket seller who remembered her. She’d cut her hair by then, but she hadn’t yet dyed it or added the brown contacts, or she probably would have gone unnoticed and unrecognized.

  She’d bought a ticket to Port Angeles, but he hadn’t found any trace of her there. That had started him checking all the bus stops before that, with the nagging awareness that Port Angeles was the starting point for ferry service to Canada, which would open a whole new can of worms.

  Working on the assumption she wouldn’t have left the country, he’d spent a long three weeks checking small towns in the area. He’d hit the edge of his patience for the drudge work in the middle of that third week; only the knowledge that Jones was paying the freight—and in turn most of the bills that had made him take the job in the first place—kept him moving. Then three days ago he’d walked into the Waterfront Café and taken a second look, then a third, at the unassuming woman who had refilled his coffee mug.

  “Guess I’ll just have to get you to trust me, then,” he said, giving her his best smile, one he’d once been told could charm hornets.

  She seemed immune. In fact, her gaze narrowed with suspicion. His own brow furrowed slightly; she didn’t act like a woman in emotional turmoil. Oddly, the main sense he was getting from her wasn’t even the grief he would have expected, although it was there, visible even in the masked eyes. The main thing he was feeling from her was…fear.