The new arrival shrugged. “I’m here now. Shall we get these t’ings loaded before the dawn is upon us?” The diver’s good looks and charming Irish accent did nothing to conceal the steel edge under his tone. Something in his gut told Charlie that this was a dangerous man. Of course, who else would you hire for illegal dumping?
Charlie’s two flunkies did most of the hard work of moving the unmarked canisters from the back of the van onto the dock, but the diver put them all onto the boat himself, swinging each large, unwieldy container effortlessly through the air and setting it down just so. Muscles rippled under the tight black tee shirt he wore, and he never lost his expression of mild amusement.
When they were done, and Charlie had handed him an envelope bulging with cash, the man flashed a grin as bright as the moon up above and jumped lightly back into the boat.
“A pleasure doin’ business with you, to be sure,” he said. Something cold lurked behind the sparkling eyes, making Charlie long to be back home, tucked safely in his bed.
“Yeah, you too,” Charlie said gruffly. “Same time next month?”
The man shrugged. “And why not, then? The money’s good and the work is easy.” His smile tilted sideways, giving him a sudden predatory look, like a barracuda who’d been masquerading as a tuna. “And like you say, the ocean is large. What harm could come of it?”
His laughter hung over the water long after the boat was gone from view.
* * *
BEKA STOOD AT the end of the harbor dock and took a moment to appreciate the view. Not the ocean, although its green-blue surface shone like glass under the early morning sky. Nor was she admiring the orderly row of boats, all preparing to set sail for a day of fishing, their decks swarming with purposeful men, the air filled with shouting and slightly blue with the coarse language they used freely in the company of their own.
No, Beka was taking in the unexpected magnificence and grace on the boat directly in front of her as Marcus Dermott methodically scrubbed the deck and fittings of the Wily Serpent. It was obvious that particular boat wasn’t heading out to sea this morning; Marcus was the only one to be seen on board, and the bustling activity of the other ships was notably absent on the Serpent.
Dressed in only a pair of denim cutoffs, Marcus looked even larger and more imposing than he had the previous day. Muscles formed by hard work rippled across his broad back as he faced away from her, and his large hands moved quickly and easily across the deck’s surface. Beka had a momentary flash of what those hands might feel like on her body and felt a blush heat her face. What was it about this man that pulled at her so?
He was attractive, yes, but not in a way that would grab your eye from across a room. It was more that he was somehow so self-contained within his skin—masculine and strong and real in a way that was rare in the world where Beka spent most of her time. No fun-seeking surfer or Renaissance fair reveler, this one. He was clearly a man who’d lived a hard life on his own terms, and he bore the scars to prove it. To Beka’s mind, they only added to the attraction.
Of course, the wavy brown hair, flashing hazel eyes, and strong chin didn’t hurt either.
Alas, she couldn’t stand there all day staring at him. Sooner or later, someone would notice and ask her what the hell she was doing. Besides, she was on a mission. Not one she had a lot of faith that she’d succeed at, but she had to try. Maybe he’d gotten over being mad about the net.
And maybe fish could fly.
Beka walked down to stand next to the boat and cleared her throat loudly. “Good morning,” she said in as cheerful a voice as she could muster. “Can I talk to you?”
Marcus straightened up and turned around, dropping his sponge into a bucket of water with a splash. “Oh, for the love of god,” he growled. “What are you doing here?”
Beka sighed. She’d known this wasn’t likely to be easy. “Nice to see you again too,” she said. “I came to hire you. Well, the boat. I can explain, if you’ll give me five minutes.”
Marcus crossed his arms over his lightly furred chest, an expression she couldn’t read lurking at the back of his eyes. “You have three,” he said. “I have work to do. Thanks to you, I have to mend a net before we can go back out.”
Beka had to resist the temptation to snap her fingers and fix the hole in the net herself. It wasn’t all that large, and she could have persuaded the fibers to grow back into one another in the time it took her to draw another breath. She might be the youngest, newest Baba Yaga in the States, but she was plenty powerful. A dangerous combination, her mentor always said. So Beka had learned to be cautious with her magic. But, oh, she was so tempted to see the look on his face when he went to repair a perfectly good net.