Master of Paradise by Katherine O'Neal Page B

way to get off it was by ship. She glanced once
again at the dhow riding the swells in the harbor and felt a curl
of nervous excitement in her belly. Small and flat-bottomed, the
vessel was perfect for her plans. Someone had to own it, and she
had to find him quickly. It might take time to convince him of her
scheme. And time was something she had precious little of to
spare.
    The men looked the same here as they had in
the other establishments: mostly vagrants or men who worked the
waterfront. One or two freed slaves sat in the back, away from the
whites who disdained them. As she entered, a buxom whore eyed her
speculatively, set her tankards down on the nearest table, and
sashayed forth.
    “I’ve not seen you here before, cher, ”
she greeted in a French accent. Her dishwater hair spilled over her
shoulders, her fleshy hips moved toward Gabrielle’s. If she didn’t
stop her, the whore would get too close and uncover secrets that
were better left undisclosed.
    Thinking fast, Gabrielle took the whore’s
chin in her fist and with a flick of her wrist, shoved her back
like an arrogant rogue. “You move too fast, woman,” she said with
her best masculine swagger. “I attend to business first. Pleasure
comes with the dawn.”
    The whore licked her lips and ran her eyes
along the gentleman’s frame. “Then I’ll hope for a speedy
night.”
    Inwardly, Gabrielle laughed, feeling warmed
by the lack of suspicion in the whore’s eyes. So far, her deception
had played perfectly. Still, it was dangerous to remain. All the
whore had to do was slip up behind her and run her hands along what
she assumed was the gentleman’s chest, and she’d come in startled
contact with Gabrielle’s bound breasts. It wasn’t a chance she
relished taking.
    She moved from her, strutting as best she
could about the sandy floor strewn with dried palm leaves, making
sure her back was never turned to the whore, keeping one eye on her
as she surveyed the men.
    “Who among you lads owns that dhow out in the
harbor?” she asked, as she had in the last three taverns.
    The activity went on as before. Some spoke
French in quiet tones. Two Americans were flipping coins to see who
had first call with the whore. She felt the time ticking away as
the rain beat against the leafy roof and spattered in the sand
outside. Another false start. She’d have to look elsewhere, yet she
was running out of taverns. It was possible the owner was safe in
his bed, and she’d never find him.
    Then she heard a small voice. “I have that
honor.”
    She looked around but couldn’t spot the one
who’d spoken. Had she imagined it?
    There was a rustle from one of the tables and
a man half stood, wavering just a bit. He was short with a balding
head and florid face. As she approached, she could smell the fumes
of liquor as if he’d blasted them her way.
    “That’s your dhow?” she asked again, hoping
she’d heard wrong. This man, although English, looked neither
sturdy nor sober enough to navigate his way so far as the next
tavern, much less the impregnable reaches of Rodrigo’s
hideaway.
    “She is.”
    “And a fine one she is at that,” she
complimented him, although her knowledge of such things was
decidedly limited. All she knew was a smaller boat had a better
chance of navigating the dangerous reefs she’d have to sail through
in order to find Cullen.
    “Thank you, mate. Have a drink fer yer
pains.”
    Gabrielle sat down and accepted the tankard
of strong brew the whore slapped before her. She gave the whore a
wink and a pat and sent her safely on her way.
    “What do you do with such a fine skiff?” she
asked the seaman.
    “Oh, mostly ferry back and forth amongst the
islands.” He paused to gulp his drink, spilling suds down his chin.
These he wiped away with his shirtsleeve. “Mostly transporting
goods. You ain’t drinking.”
    She took a sip, grasping the tankard by its
bowl, the way the other men did.
    How best to handle this? she wondered.