Page 36 of Undercover Star
"Yeah, yeah. Gale my foot. It's hardly a stiff breeze. I wouldn't have gone out if it was really bad. I certainly wouldn't have taken you. And you know what? The same goes for the fishing boat. I don't know the skipper, but nobody who does this for a living ignores the sea. You check the weather, you check the tides, and you know your boat."
"What if you're caught in a storm when you're out?"
"You find shelter." He waved at the maps stacked in a corner shelf, not taking his eyes off the two boats. He was closer now, coming up on the fishing boat.
"Why did they call you Dougie?" Josh asked him suddenly.
"Because that's my name? God, you're a jerk. You heard that I sing and dance for a living and decided I'm not even worth common courtesy?" Matisse had no idea why that simple question raised his hackles. Had he expected Josh to read up on him? Make an effort to keep in contact the way he'd tried to do? Or was he simply making a nuisance of himself, and Josh was too polite to tell him where to go?
Before his mouth could run away with his head, Josh settled his palm over the soft skin of Matisse's neck and leaned into his space. "You know that's not true. Neither your website nor your record sleeves mention your real name. Which is what, by the way?"
"Douglas Paterson," Matisse replied.
"Do you want to be called Dougie?"
"No." Douglas Paterson wasn't the man Josh knew. Josh had met Matisse Vervein, and Matisse was all he saw. And right now was not the time to try to change his perception.
The thief had given up trying to catch the line the cruiser was throwing. Instead, he hauled back in a windmill swing of arms a cricket bowler would have been proud of and—
"No!"
The packet soared through the air, clearly weighty given the way it flew almost straight despite the buffeting wind. It reached the apex of its trajectory and arched towards the cruiser's pitching deck, spinning, dropping ever lower.
"It's going in the water!"
Matisse's heart lurched when Josh rushed out of the wheelhouse, pulled himself up on the railing, and dove headfirst into the patch of churning water between the three boats.
"Idiot!" Matisse screamed his frustration. "Do you have a fucking death wish?" The only thing stopping him from losing it completely was the fact that Josh was wearing the life vest Matisse had thrown at him when they'd set out, and that McKinnoch's backup was arriving on the scene. A helicopter whirled overhead, and a Coast Guard cutter bore down on them, causing the cruiser to turn tail and run.
The skipper of the fishing boat didn't have the stomach for a confrontation. He cut the engine when ordered and let the cutter pull alongside.
Matisse left the Coast Guard to their work and heaved a lifebuoy over the side, dropping it almost on top of Josh.
––––––––
MATISSE, OR WHOEVERowned the boat, didn't keep a fully stocked wardrobe. It probably wasn't that kind of boat, despite having a cabin with a built-in bed and clothes storage, a tiny bathroom, and even a corner kitchen nook. How the designer had crammed so much functionality into the small space amazed Josh. There was almost enough room for someone to live here.
He tried to picture Matisse waking in the double bed, with sleep-dark eyes and blond hair frizzing into a halo from the ever-present damp. This wasn't a space for artfully ripped jeans, sturdy shit-kickers, and eyes turned into smouldering seduction with shadow and liner. But Matisse looked at home in the wheelhouse of the boat when Josh didn't have the first idea how to make the thing go. He moved with the economy of someone used to the space, and he knew how to navigate and communicate and... whatever else he'd been doing. Picturing him in the small cabin, rolling out of bed and making coffee, wasn't too far of a stretch. Even if Josh hadn't considered Matisse as anything but a star before.
He found a couple of large towels in a chest beside the bed, along with jogging bottoms that didn't quite reach his ankles and a small stack of T-shirts. He struggled into the biggest of those, glad for even that small bit of warmth, and shrugged his leather jacket over his shoulders, glad he'd had the presence of mind to leave it in the wheelhouse before he went over the railing and into the water. He rolled his wet clothes into the towel, but there was little he could do about his boots. Maybe they could find a shoe shop on the way home. He rammed his bare feet back into the sopping shoes and went looking for the oilskins Matisse had mentioned. He found them in a locker beside the stairs and gratefully added another layer.
He wanted to stay below, out of the wind and rain, but Matisse was up top, battling the weather on his own. Josh didn't feel it was fair.
Not that Matisse seemed to mind. He had a broad grin on his face when Josh joined him in the wheelhouse, and he handled the boat with a confidence Josh found very sexy.
The rain had stopped while Josh had been below. Or maybe the clouds had been blown elsewhere, because the wind hadn't lost its teeth. Instead of nothing but churning grey-green waves, real green bloomed in front of them. Acres of short grass rose from a small, natural harbour and, right in their path, Josh could make out a narrow slipway, with a wooden jetty alongside.
"Where are we? This isn't Kirkcudbright." He tried to pronounce it Kir-coo-bree like Matisse had to McKinnoch, and was almost proud of himself when Matisse wasn't moved to scoff at his attempt.
"The tide's out," Matisse said, as if that explained all, though it left Josh not much the wiser. "And your chattering teeth are scaring the wildlife. You need a hot bath and dry clothes."
Josh was too cold to be embarrassed by the almost obscene groan that bubbled up his throat. He was okay, sort of, on the clothes front, but the idea of hot water sounded heavenly, even if he had no idea where they were or where they were going. No other boats were moored along the jetty, and his immediate view held nothing but a wooden shack, short grass, and a rocky path leading up the hill.
Matisse guided the boat right up to the small slipway and the jetty. "Get out," he directed. "I'll tie us up."
"I'd have more fun tying you up," Josh grumbled as he ignored Matisse's order and fought to make his frozen fingers work the wet rope. "Where the fuck are we? And why are we here?"
"You'll see." Matisse turned off the engine and closed the door to the pilot house. He hopped onto the jetty, and checked that the boat was securely moored before he led the way to the low wooden building at the head of the pebble beach. "Come on, Inspector. Only a few more minutes."
