be no slackers among this crew. There's work to be done and bonnie fair maidens to be rescued."
* * *
Emily sat in a chair on the deck of the small steamer they had booked in Melbourne, watching Nicholas shave. He insisted on shaving outdoors, where the light was better. A white towel was slung around his neck and his shirt was half unbuttoned to reveal the smooth muscles of his chest. He leaned over the round mirror clipped to the railing and puckered his sensual lips.
Nicholas was talking. He was always talking. He talked incessantly, always about himself. She wondered why he'd bothered to rid himself of her father and Justin in such a clumsy manner. If they had remained his partners, it would have taken him only a few years to bore them to death. At least she'd been spared fending off any romantic advances. She understood now why he was satisfied with only chaste pecks on the cheek. No man that much in love with himself could have any desire for another. He seemed content to satisfy his own selfish pleasures with the mirror.
Her fingers dug pale cresents into the page of her book as she fought the temptation to plant her boot in the middle of his tight derriere and shove him over the side.
Perhaps he wouldn't be as fortunate with the sharks as Barney had been. She'd gladly cut off her entire hand and toss it after him if it would whet their appetites. She caught him watching her in the mirror's shiny surface and hoped her expression didn't reflect her bloodthirsty musings.
"What should I wear to dinner tonight, pet?" he asked. "The silk jacket or the paisley?"
"Oh, the silk," she said mildly. "It so complements your complexion."
He swore in Italian. "I'm not tanning, am I?" He tilted his chin for a critical perusal. "The sun always draws out the olive in my complexion." He slipped a tie around his neck and knotted it in crisp folds.
Emily fantasized about pulling the ends tight and drawing out the purple in his complexion.
A faint shudder raked him. "Too much sun is lethal for the skin. I should hate to look as old as Justin does."
Emily closed her eyes. Justin's bronze complexion floated in her memory. She imagined seeing the tiny lines around his eyes crinkle in laughter, tracing the chiseled grooves around his mouth with her tongue, running her fingers through the sun-streaked silver in his dark hair. A wave of longing, more potent than the sea, rushed over her.
She opened her eyes. "Don't fret, Nicky. Looking old is one thing you'll never have to worry about."
With that cryptic reassurance she buried her nose in her book and went back to basking in the warm
rays of the sun.
* * *
The clipper's sleek bow sliced through the jade-colored waves, scattering whitecaps in its path. Justin stood at the prow, his foot braced on a coil of hemp. He leaned forward as if his very posture could somehow hasten the magnificent ship's speed through the endless vista of sky and sea. Her sails rippled and snapped above his head, capturing the wind in billowing canvas clouds. The ship's navigator had assured him they were making excellent time and should reach the North Island by nightfall.
In the weeks they'd been at sea the sun had bronzed his skin and gilded his hair with a net of silver. He wore no shirt, and his worn dungarees hugged his hips and thighs like a second skin.
With the gold hoop once again dangling from one ear and the pistol wedged in his waistband, he knew
he looked like the worst sort of pirate.
The primitive spirit of adventure that had sent him to New Zealand the first time roared through his veins. It had taken Emily to bring it to life, to pull him out of the emotional coffin he'd buried himself in. He
had to find her. He'd promised David he'd take care of his daughter, and he intended to do just that, at the expense of his pride, or even his life.
All that mattered to him now was that she was still alive. He had tracked her and Nicky to Melbourne, where they'd switched steamers. He still had no idea why Nicky had veered off for the North Island instead of taking Emily to the palatial kingdom he'd built for himself on the South.
The balmy wind whipped his hair around his shoulders. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply, savoring
its salty tang. Its heat and scent had haunted him through the long, cold nights in London, nights softened only by that too-brief idyll when Emily had loved him.
As he opened his eyes, hope stirred within him like the faintest curl of a child's fingers reaching toward the sun.
* * *
The breaking waves slapped at the hull as Justin and Penfeld rowed the wooden dinghy toward the
shore. Justin's men had already boarded the modest steamer anchored off the western coast of the
North Island only to be told a man and woman had gone ashore at sunset.
They followed the curve of the shoreline, not wanting to warn anyone of their approach. Justin's restless gaze raked the shadowy forest. Was Emily there somewhere? Waiting for him?
He pressed a finger to his lips, silencing Penfeld's oars. The dinghy drifted around a narrow finger of sand. A chill touched him to see the familiar bluff and David's cross silhouetted against the violet sky. Penfeld removed his hat in a gesture of respect and clutched it to his chest.
The bottom of the boat scraped against land. In silent accord they climbed out and dragged it up the sandy slope, hiding it between two towering dunes. Penfeld reached around and drew his rifle from its sheath, handling it with surprising grace.
"Stay put," Justin commanded. "No matter what you hear, I want you to stay put. You've got to be
ready to take her away from here if something goes wrong. Do you understand?"
"But, sir-"
Justin shook a stern finger at him. "That's an order, Penfeld. Disobey it and I'll . . . I'll . . . dismiss you."
"Aye, sir," he replied with obvious reluctance. He settled down with his back against a dune and the rifle cradled in his folded arms.
Justin picked his way along the shadows of the dunes until he came to the rim of the open beach. He squatted in the sand, remembering another night, another beach. There was no sign of the natives now. The glittering carpet of beach rolled out before him. A primitive fear knotted his gut as he braced himself to step onto that shimmering stretch of sand and sea, naked to any eyes that might be watching from the forest.
Then he saw it, a light shining through the trees from the hut just as the light had once shone from David's tent. This time he would not be too late. His hesitation wouldn't cost him the life of someone he loved.
He burst from the cover of the dunes and pounded down the beach, sending chunks of wet sand flying
in his wake. Cold sea spray battered him. The beach unfurled in a sparkling ribbon, mocking him with
the serene beauty of the rising moon silvering the indigo swells.
A ghost stepped out from the shadows. Nicky, luminous in a white linen suit and a wide-brimmed panama hat. Justin stumbled to a halt.
He stared, mesmerized, at the graceful flick of Nicky's fingers as he struck a match and touched the flame to the end of his cigarette. The sickly sweet aroma of burning hemp filled the air, and Justin knew it wasn't tobacco he was smoking.