Read The Pandora Box for Free Online Page A

was a thump and muffled curse from somewhere close by, and Dee jumped as if someone had pinched her. She hardly had time to turn around when a bare-chested man in a pair of cut-off jeans walked in from some sort of hallway behind her.
    “What’s the deal, lady—” he grumbled as he ran a hand through wavy, sun-bleached hair. “You ever heard of knocking?”
    “For heaven’s sake, who are you?” she asked as if he had been caught in her kitchen instead of the other way around.
    His hand stopped midway in the act of smoothing down an equally sun-bleached mustache, and he looked at her as if he hadn’t heard right. “Wayne Hawkins,” he finally replied. “What can I do for you?”
    “You can tell me what you’re doing on this boat, for one thing,” she suggested. “Do you...” Her attention was suddenly riveted on an elaborately-carved, built-in bookshelf behind the maroon-upholstered dining area he was standing next to.
    He sat down casually in front of it. “What are you? Some kind of private investigator?”
    “Maybe.” She looked him over carefully and tried to access his type
    Although she had obviously got him out of bed, he was not unkempt. His mustache was neatly trimmed and his hair, though curly, was not overly long. His hazel eyes looked peaceful and seemed to hold more curiosity than contempt. He also made no effort to conceal the fact that he was looking her over as equally as she was him.
    She better get straight to the point.
    “Have you ever heard of Nelson Peterson?” she asked. “Colonel Nelson Peterson?”
    There were a few moments silence. “I sure have,” he finally admitted. “He’s the guy who used to own this yacht.”
    “Excuse me,” she spoke the words with emphasis, closed her eyes for a moment, and tried to maintain some control. “I was under the impression that he still did.”
    “No one’s heard from him in years.” He crossed muscular arms across his tanned chest. “The only reason it’s still here is because it’s some relic left over from World War II. There’s a rumor it was used to entertain high up Nazi officials during the occupation of Europe. What was that famous guy’s name…Goering or something.”
    “So?”
    “So, two years ago the slip fees stopped getting paid and the port authorities finally had to put a lien on it. Couldn’t find Peterson anywhere. All the bills came back.”
    “You mean they just sold it?”
    “Not exactly. It’s going up for auction at the end of the month. I’ve been getting her ready. On account of, up until now, I’ve been the only one interested in making a bid.”
    “Oh.”
    “Did Peterson send you?”
    “In a way, yes.”
    “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
    The man had eyes one could not look into and lie at the same time. Not that Dee was the lying type. But she was certainly not ready to let go of the only leverage she had in the situation, either. Her connection with Peterson.
    “Do you know how much this boat is worth?” she parried.
    “A hundred thousand, if it’s worth a penny.” He seemed unruffled at the evasion. “If you count all the repairs and two years’ worth of unpaid dock fees.”
    “Is it…seaworthy?”
    “Very.”
    “But it’s over sixty years old. Doesn’t that make it less—”
    “ Pandora’s one of the finest Holland-made yachts ever built,” he insisted. “Outside of a little neglect, she’s as sound as ever. But before we get down to talking business, I need some coffee.”
    “What makes you think I have any intention of—”
    “Let’s quit all the cat and mouse stuff.” He got up from the table in a manner that made her feel like she had been pulling pranks in grade school and the principal just walked in. “You’re the new owner, obviously. Swooping down just in time to put a wrench in the works.”
    “And obviously”— Dee stepped out of his way as he moved past her — “you have more interest here than just restoring an old boat that isn’t even yours