Page 154 of Once an Angel
"Penfeld?"
The valet clicked his heels and gave him a snappy salute. "Aye, Cap'n, reporting for duty."
A rush of helpless affection blurred Justin's vision. God seemed to have dedicated himself to making amends for giving him Frank Connor for a father.
"Ah, Penfeld, I can't ask you to follow me halfway across the world, searching for a woman who may
not even want me to find her."
"Pish posh, sir, if I may be so bold as to say so. I've discovered civilization isn't to my taste. I've come
to believe a bit of adventure, like a cup of hot tea, warms the blood and keeps a man's heart thumping." He reached into the deep pocket of his coat. "Forgive my presumption, but I stopped at a shop on my way to the harbor. I thought you might have need of this."
Justin almost ducked as a long-barreled pistol came sailing at his head. He caught it between two fingers and ran his hands over the sleek metal. It was the first time he had held a pistol in his hands since he
had killed his best friend with one.
The valet's eyes sparkled with a determination to match his own. Justin gave him a roguish grin and tucked the pistol into his waistband.
He strode down the deck and threw an arm around Penfeld's shoulders. "Come on, you old tar, there'll
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
