Kylie Brant - Alias Smith And Jones

What was it about women that they had to belabor everything? He thought he’d been damn clear, and it was something more instinctive than diplomacy that had him refraining from pointing out that she didn’t look like a no-strings kind of woman. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“It’s because I don’t have big boobs, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Boobs.” Her tone was disgusted. “I’ve got brothers. I know a man’s brain cells drain away the moment his hormones kick in. If I had a pair of thirty-six D’s you’d be drooling all over me.”

He couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. “For your information, I never drool.”

“All men drool when their tongues are hanging out of their mouths, which seems to be a universal reaction of your gender when faced with a huge set of mammary glands.”

There was a dull throb beginning in his temple. “Look, I was trying to be polite, and you’re missing the point.”

“Oh, I got the point all right. If I was contemplating having wild tempestuous sex with you, you wouldn’t be interested. I got that loud and clear.”

How the hell she’d managed to make him feel guilty when she’d been the one to sneak into his bed was beyond him. “Okay, then. I’m glad we got that out of the way.”

“Did we ever,” she muttered, shoving past him and marching down the corridor.

He followed her, feeling at a loss. “You know, at your weight, if you had big b— If you were big busted, you’d probably topple over every time you got up.”

She was ascending the ladder in record time. “Yeah, yeah. I told you, I know what men like.”

“You don’t know me,” he said flatly, tearing his gaze away from the curvy hips preceding him. Because if she did, if she ever found out that he was developing an inexplicable interest in delicately made blondes with backsides shaped by an angel, well then God help them both.

As mortifying events went, it ranked right up there with the time Sally Ann Bunston had announced to the boys in their seventh-grade class that Analiese Tremaine stuffed her bra. But having to endure three straight years of taunts about whether she was “packing” each day paled in significance to the scene in Jones’s stateroom.

Staring out at the school of playful dolphins, she concentrated on deep breathing and vengeful thoughts. She wondered if there was a knife onboard sharp enough to carve Jones into shark bait. The other crew member could handle the ship, and hadn’t she heard once there was no law at sea?

She supposed she ought to be grateful. Just the thought had her grinding her teeth. After the impact of that wave had dumped her headfirst onto his bed, and she’d looked up to see him standing in the doorway, her mind had gone completely blank. He’d seemed suspicious enough the first time he’d walked in on her there. How in heaven’s name was she going to explain a second time?

Then he’d handed her a perfect explanation, at least one that his colossal ego had seemed to buy. She’d had no choice but to play along, even while she’d wanted to go for his throat. Was the man actually used to women hiding under his bedcovers in order to seduce him?

She threw a dark look in his direction. The answer, quite obviously, was yes. And why that should make her want to hunt for that carving knife again was a question she really didn’t want to face. Lord knew she had plenty of experience dealing with formidable male egos: she’d grown up with three brothers. The walls of their home had practically dripped testosterone.

It didn’t help, she thought glumly, as the dolphins faded from view, that her outrage over his “rejection” hadn’t been totally feigned. No woman wanted to hear that a man found her unattractive, and despite his protests to the contrary, she knew exactly what she lacked that would have snared his interest. She’d seen for herself the type he went for last night when he’d been pawing that waitress. He’d be the kind of guy who liked his women available, inventive and gone in the morning.

Based on the supply of condoms she’d found in his bottom desk drawer, he was either overly optimistic or very well prepared. It was probably the latter, which made his rejection smart even more. It didn’t matter that she didn’t want him, on any level. It was the principle of the thing.

Blowing out a breath, she reached into her purse for sun-screen. Smoothing a generous amount over her bare arms, she repeated the action on her legs. After rubbing a small amount of lotion on her face, she settled her sunglasses on her nose, dropped the bottle back into her purse and stretched out on the chair. The breeze kept her from being too warm in the sun, and she could feel a measure of tension seeping from her body. Until she thought of the disappointment Jones’s desk had yielded. Then her muscles tightened yet again.

She’d found a log in which he apparently kept track of his business dealings. The charter she’d set up with him hadn’t appeared in it yet, but two others had in the past month. The person’s name who’d scheduled the trip had appeared, along with the number of days, nature of the trip and payment. However, there had been no entry dated around the time Sam would have crossed to Laconos. Its absence would suggest that Jones and her brother had never hooked up at all. Except that another notebook had listings for dates of fuelings, the gallons and prices. And Jones had fueled up the ship more than once after the last documented charter.

Ana stretched out on the lounger watching the gulls wheel overhead, and wondered what the discrepancy meant. Did the man take the ship out himself when he didn’t have paying clients? It would seem reasonable to expect that he might. She found it equally reasonable to think that maybe he hadn’t logged Sam’s trip because her brother had asked him not to. Or that he knew the secretive nature of Sam’s job and realized it was best to leave no traces.

It was a long shot, she admitted silently, but Sterling knew that her brother had docked at Laconos, and that he’d arrived by ship. And although she had no more proof than before that she was retracing her brother’s steps, she remained convinced. She needed to start planning how to gather information once she hit the island. Sterling had been very definite about the parameters of her assignment. She, of course, had some ideas of her own.

A shadow fell across her chair. “You feel better now?”

Opening her eyes, Ana saw a blinding smile in a seamed, weathered face. The man standing above her was no more than her height, and she’d guess that he wasn’t much heavier. His friendly expression was a welcome contrast to the scowl Jones usually graced her with, and the lemonade he was holding was tantalizing.

She tipped her glasses down. “Yes, I’m feeling fine.”

The frosty glass was thrust into her hand. “For you. Good to drink liquids in sun.”

Ana took the lemonade and indicated a seat beside her. This, then, was Pappy, the crew member Jones had mentioned. He was obviously a native islander, and it was equally obvious that he had a much sunnier temperament than his boss. “Won’t you join me?”

“Cap’n say you go to beaches.” Pappy sat on the edge of a lounger next to her. “Lots beaches near, and Cap’n know them all. You be pleased.”

To save herself from answering, she raised the glass to her lips. Right now she’d be most pleased if the captain happened to fall overboard, preferably in shark-infested waters, but she hated to douse this man’s enthusiasm. “Have you worked for Jones a long time?”

At the man’s exuberant nod, she felt a measure of pity for him, followed by a nebulous idea. “So I guess you know him pretty well.”